Repost from SB. Inspired by the You are the first born child of Cersei Lannister thread.
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A song of blood and gold (ASOIAF/GOT SI)
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Repost from SB. Inspired by the You are the first born child of Cersei Lannister thread.
Index:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Prelude.
Jon Arryn.
TBA
Index:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Prelude.
Jon Arryn.
TBA
-EDDARD STARK-
The royal procession was an impressive sight. Some three hundred men, knights and freeriders, bannermen and sellswords all clad in fine steel. Silver and gold poured through the castle gates like a torrent, dozens of banners showing the crowned stag of Baratheon and roaring Lannister lions fluttering in the wind.
Ned knew many of the riders. There was Jamie Lannister, with his golden armor and golden hair, Sandor Clegane, his terribly burnt face half hidden by a helm shaped like a snarling dog, a tall boy whose face was twisted in a dissatisfied pout, who could only be Robert's second boy. His brother, the crown prince and Eddard's namesake, rode at the head of the column: tall, lean and thin, too old to be a boy but not quite yet a man. Clad in gleaming golden plate that was half obscured by the black cloak draped upon his shoulders the prince cut an imposing figure yet it was his face that drew Ned's attention: somehow the prince seemed to look at once tired and alert, eyes studying the courtyard intently, lips quirked as though laughing from some private joke. Then their gazes met and for a moment Eddard Stark thought that he could see a strange flicker of recognition or perhaps familiarity but then the moment passed as the Lord of Winterfell turned to the man riding at Eddard Baratheon's right.
There was almost nothing familiar about the huge man flanked by knights in snow-white cloaks... until he vaulted off the back of his warhorse with a familiar roar, and crushed him in a bone-crunching hug. "Ned!" The king stepped back and looked him over top to bottom before concluding. "You've gone fat!" The court went suddenly silent at the king's proclamation before Robert suddenly laughed.
Fifteen years past, before they had waged war to win a throne Ned would have laughed as well but that was then. Robert was his king now, and not just a friend, so he only smiled and said "Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."
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"Tell me about Jon," said Ned as they were going back from the crypts where his brother and sister were buried.
Robert shook his head. "I have never seen a man sicken so quickly. We gave a tourney on my son's name day. If you had seen Jon then, you would have sworn he would live forever. A month later he was dead." He paused beside a pillar, before the tomb of a long-dead Stark. "I loved that old man. He taught me what was what." At Ned's incredulous gaze the king added with a rueful headshake. "Not his fault I didn't listen. Remember me when I was young?"
"Ah... He taught me, he taught you, I'd hoped he'd teach my children," continued Robert absentmindedly as they started back down between the pillars. "He was close to Eddard, my eldest. I've rarely seen Jon prouder than when he showed me Eddard's contraption."
"Contraption?" Ned began. Jon Arryn's last letter had spoken about something the Crown Prince had built. "Contraption! Press he calls it. Its a bit like a metal seal with letters on it, only you use a lot of 'em nailed together and then..." The king faltered momentarily before concluding. "It lets you copy pages and letters just as fast as putting a seal. Just ask the boy and he'll be happy to fill your head with it. There's times I'd swear he'd make a better Grand Maester than Pycelle," said the Robert, rubbing his bushy beard thoughtfully before placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Walk with me. You must have wondered why I finally came north to Winterfell, after so long."
"For the joy of my company, surely," Ned said lightly, trying to ignore the feeling of apprehension that suddenly gripped him.
"If only!" snorted Robert. "I have need of you, Ned. I have need of you down in King's Landing, not up here at the end of the world where you are no damned use to anybody." "Your Grace..." Ned tried to protest but Robert Baratheon wasn't an easy man to stop. "I'm surrounded Ned, surrounded by fools and flatterers. They lie and beg and cheat and fight over every scrap of power like dogs over a bone and I have to sit on that bloody iron chair listening to their ramblings until my ass is raw. Half of them the lack the guts to tell me the truth, and the other half lack the wits to find it. There are nights I wish we had lost at the Trident. Ah, no, not truly, but..."
"I understand," Ned said softly, almost despite himself. Robert looked at him and smiled. "Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King."
Ned dropped to one knee. He had expected that offer for what else could bring Robert up North but expecting it did little to lessen the blow. "Your Grace," he said. "I am not worthy of the honor."
Robert groaned with good-humored impatience. "If I wanted to honor you, I'd let you retire. I am planning to make you run the kingdom and fight the wars while I eat and drink and wench myself into an early grave." He slapped his gut and grinned. "You know the saying, about the king and his Hand?"
Ned knew the saying. "What the king dreams," he said, "the Hand builds."
"I bedded a fishmaid once who told me the lowborn have a choicer way to put it. The king eats, they say, and the Hand takes the shit." said Robert, laughing uproariously. Ned still kneeled in silence as the king's laughter echoed across the crypts. "Damn it, Ned," the king complained. "You might at least humor me with a smile."
"They say it grows so cold up here in winter that a man's laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death," Ned said evenly. "Perhaps that is why the Starks have so little humor."
"Then come south with me." the king said with feverish intensity. "We've always been closer than brothers. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. We'll join our houses."
"Sansa is young..." protested Ned. Robert waved an impatient hand. "Old enough for betrothal. The marriage can wait until they're both grown." The king smiled. "Now stand up and say yes, curse you."
The royal procession was an impressive sight. Some three hundred men, knights and freeriders, bannermen and sellswords all clad in fine steel. Silver and gold poured through the castle gates like a torrent, dozens of banners showing the crowned stag of Baratheon and roaring Lannister lions fluttering in the wind.
Ned knew many of the riders. There was Jamie Lannister, with his golden armor and golden hair, Sandor Clegane, his terribly burnt face half hidden by a helm shaped like a snarling dog, a tall boy whose face was twisted in a dissatisfied pout, who could only be Robert's second boy. His brother, the crown prince and Eddard's namesake, rode at the head of the column: tall, lean and thin, too old to be a boy but not quite yet a man. Clad in gleaming golden plate that was half obscured by the black cloak draped upon his shoulders the prince cut an imposing figure yet it was his face that drew Ned's attention: somehow the prince seemed to look at once tired and alert, eyes studying the courtyard intently, lips quirked as though laughing from some private joke. Then their gazes met and for a moment Eddard Stark thought that he could see a strange flicker of recognition or perhaps familiarity but then the moment passed as the Lord of Winterfell turned to the man riding at Eddard Baratheon's right.
There was almost nothing familiar about the huge man flanked by knights in snow-white cloaks... until he vaulted off the back of his warhorse with a familiar roar, and crushed him in a bone-crunching hug. "Ned!" The king stepped back and looked him over top to bottom before concluding. "You've gone fat!" The court went suddenly silent at the king's proclamation before Robert suddenly laughed.
Fifteen years past, before they had waged war to win a throne Ned would have laughed as well but that was then. Robert was his king now, and not just a friend, so he only smiled and said "Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."
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"Tell me about Jon," said Ned as they were going back from the crypts where his brother and sister were buried.
Robert shook his head. "I have never seen a man sicken so quickly. We gave a tourney on my son's name day. If you had seen Jon then, you would have sworn he would live forever. A month later he was dead." He paused beside a pillar, before the tomb of a long-dead Stark. "I loved that old man. He taught me what was what." At Ned's incredulous gaze the king added with a rueful headshake. "Not his fault I didn't listen. Remember me when I was young?"
"Ah... He taught me, he taught you, I'd hoped he'd teach my children," continued Robert absentmindedly as they started back down between the pillars. "He was close to Eddard, my eldest. I've rarely seen Jon prouder than when he showed me Eddard's contraption."
"Contraption?" Ned began. Jon Arryn's last letter had spoken about something the Crown Prince had built. "Contraption! Press he calls it. Its a bit like a metal seal with letters on it, only you use a lot of 'em nailed together and then..." The king faltered momentarily before concluding. "It lets you copy pages and letters just as fast as putting a seal. Just ask the boy and he'll be happy to fill your head with it. There's times I'd swear he'd make a better Grand Maester than Pycelle," said the Robert, rubbing his bushy beard thoughtfully before placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Walk with me. You must have wondered why I finally came north to Winterfell, after so long."
"For the joy of my company, surely," Ned said lightly, trying to ignore the feeling of apprehension that suddenly gripped him.
"If only!" snorted Robert. "I have need of you, Ned. I have need of you down in King's Landing, not up here at the end of the world where you are no damned use to anybody." "Your Grace..." Ned tried to protest but Robert Baratheon wasn't an easy man to stop. "I'm surrounded Ned, surrounded by fools and flatterers. They lie and beg and cheat and fight over every scrap of power like dogs over a bone and I have to sit on that bloody iron chair listening to their ramblings until my ass is raw. Half of them the lack the guts to tell me the truth, and the other half lack the wits to find it. There are nights I wish we had lost at the Trident. Ah, no, not truly, but..."
"I understand," Ned said softly, almost despite himself. Robert looked at him and smiled. "Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King."
Ned dropped to one knee. He had expected that offer for what else could bring Robert up North but expecting it did little to lessen the blow. "Your Grace," he said. "I am not worthy of the honor."
Robert groaned with good-humored impatience. "If I wanted to honor you, I'd let you retire. I am planning to make you run the kingdom and fight the wars while I eat and drink and wench myself into an early grave." He slapped his gut and grinned. "You know the saying, about the king and his Hand?"
Ned knew the saying. "What the king dreams," he said, "the Hand builds."
"I bedded a fishmaid once who told me the lowborn have a choicer way to put it. The king eats, they say, and the Hand takes the shit." said Robert, laughing uproariously. Ned still kneeled in silence as the king's laughter echoed across the crypts. "Damn it, Ned," the king complained. "You might at least humor me with a smile."
"They say it grows so cold up here in winter that a man's laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death," Ned said evenly. "Perhaps that is why the Starks have so little humor."
"Then come south with me." the king said with feverish intensity. "We've always been closer than brothers. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. We'll join our houses."
"Sansa is young..." protested Ned. Robert waved an impatient hand. "Old enough for betrothal. The marriage can wait until they're both grown." The king smiled. "Now stand up and say yes, curse you."
-JON-
Jon Snow was rarely glad that he was a bastard yet, as he drank even more summerwine, it struck that today would be one of those rare times. If he would have been trueborn he would have sat at the high table and while Lord Eddard Stark might permit his children a glass of wine down on the benches there was no one to stop Jon from drinking as much as he liked. Nor was the company lacking- the boisterous squires with their tales of battles and hunts were surely just as entertaining as the company at the head table.
The queen's with her thinly veiled disdain, hidden beneath a smile that was so obviously fake and the King, a fat, tired, drunk man who looked nothing like the Robert Baratheon of stories, the Robert Barathoen who won the Throne and the moniker of Demon of the Trident by smashing Rhaegar Targaryen's chest with his warhammer hardly seemed like good company. The royal princes were little better: the youngest a plump boy stumbling fourth much like Rickon despite being nearly twice his age while the middle's pouty lips, barely hidden sneer and obvious disdain with which he looked over the gathering as he stood at Arya's side made Jon dislike him from the start, especially as he saw how Arya glared daggers as she strived to keep pace. Next was the crown prince holding Sansa's arm. He looked far more princely than the other two, with his piercing green eyes, golden hair. His whispered words made Sansa laugh but something about his fixed half bored half amused half contemptuous expression had irked Jon. Finally there were the Queen's brothers- the tall and golden, with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife Ser Jamie Lannister, called the Lion of Lannister to his face and Kingslayer behind his back and the shorter, far uglier Tyrion Lannister, who was struggling to waddle at his brother's side. With his mismatched eyes, his face squashed and deformed beneath his brow and his small stature the Imp looked almost impossibly unlike his brother, with only his blond, near white hair hinting at him being a Lannister. After them came uncle Benjen and his father's ward Theon Greyjoy and then the feast started.
Jon had started drinking then, and he had not stopped.
Something rubbed against his leg beneath the table. Jon saw red eyes staring up at him. "Hungry again?" he asked. There was still half a honeyed chicken in the center of the table. Jon reached out to tear off a leg, then had a better idea. He knifed the bird whole and let the carcass slide to the floor between his legs. Ghost ripped into it in savage silence. His brothers and sisters had not been permitted to bring their wolves to the banquet, but there were more curs than Jon could count at this end of the hall, and no one had said a word about his pup. He told himself he was fortunate in that too.
His eyes stung. Jon rubbed at them savagely, cursing the smoke. He swallowed another gulp of wine and watched his direwolf devour the chicken.
"Is this one of the direwolves I've heard so much of?" a familiar voice asked close at hand.
Jon looked up happily as his uncle Ben put a hand on his head and ruffled his hair much as Jon had ruffled the wolf's. "Yes," he said. "His name is Ghost." One of the squires interrupted the bawdy story he'd been telling to make room at the table for their lord's brother. Benjen Stark straddled the bench with long legs and took the wine cup out of Jon's hand. "Summerwine," he said after a taste. "Nothing so sweet. How many cups have you had, Jon?" Jon smiled. Ben Stark laughed. "As I feared. Ah, well. I believe I was younger than you the first time I got truly and sincerely drunk." He snagged a roasted onion, dripping brown with gravy, from a nearby trencher and bit into it. It crunched.
His uncle was sharp-featured and gaunt as a mountain crag, but there was always a hint of laughter in his blue-grey eyes. He dressed in black, as befitted a man of the Night's Watch. Tonight it was rich black velvet, with high leather boots and a wide belt with a silver buckle. A heavy silver chain was looped round his neck. Benjen watched Ghost with amusement as he ate his onion. "A very quiet wolf," he observed. "He's not like the others," Jon said. "He never makes a sound. That's why I named him Ghost. That, and because he's white. The others are all dark, grey or black."
"There are still direwolves beyond the Wall. We hear them on our rangings." Benjen Stark gave Jon a long look. "Don't you usually eat at table with your brothers?"
"Most times," Jon answered in a flat voice. "But tonight Lady Stark thought it might give insult to the royal family to seat a bastard among them."
"And her own feelings have absolutely no bearing on the matter..." came a mocking voice from behind Jon, the suddenness of the remark causing him to turn around abruptly. The possessor of the mocking voice had messy golden hair and green eyes that glinted like emeralds. He stood tall, taller than him thought Jon with dismay, almost as tall as Benjen. He was dressed much like Benjen as well though he bore a rearing stag and a roaring lion, both golden, upon his chest and his buckler was made of gold instead of silver. Behind him towered a man with long black hair and burn scars over his face.
"Eddard Baratheon," said the Crown Prince in greeting, placing down the pitcher and the goblet he had been holding as he sat at the table, squires rushing to make way for him and the Hound.
"I know," said Jon stiffly.
"You're Jon Snow. Ned Stark's bastard." said the prince cheerily. Jon felt a coldness pass right through him as his cheeks grew hot. He almost let out an angry retort but Benjen's hand was suddenly on his shoulder. "Are you offended? Don't be." Eddard Baratheon continued in the same jovial manner, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "My ancestor Orys Baratheon was a bastard. He was also Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Hand of the King. His descendants were mighty warriors and great Lords all. One of them is King now, ruling over the Seven Kingdoms and it all started with a bastard. Addam Velaryon was a bastard and he rode a dragon in the Dance. Bloodraven, Bittersteel, Blackfyre, all bastards whose names are remembered across the ages and whose actions even now shape our world. So don't be offended... bastard."
Despite himself Jon felt the coldness in his guts receding only to be replaced by confusion. The small part of him that wanted to feel angry at being lectured by someone younger than him was waging war with the small part that was filled with gratitude towards the prince but he mostly felt too surprised to say or do anything. Something of that confusion might have showed on his face for Sandor Clegane laughed uproariously, his burnt scars grotesquely stretched by his grin. "Sure you don't want to be a maester?" japed the Hound towards his charge after he'd finished laughing.
"That would eventually leave the realm in Joffrey's tender care and I don't hate the people of Westeros enough to inflict my brother on them." said the prince with perfect seriousness before drawing a whole tray towards him and digging in with a gusto.
The conversation lulled momentarily as Jon struggled to regain his bearings. Benjen was the first to speak, the wearyness clear in his voice matching the one in Jon's mind. "May I ask what brings the Crown Prince amongst the squires? Her Grace doesn't look very happy."
"Neither does your brother." remarked the prince amongst mouthfuls. It was true. Lord Eddard Stark was observing all courtesies but there was a tightness in him like Jon has rarely seen before. He said little, looking out over the hall with hooded eyes, seeing nothing. "As for why I'm here- I'm the crown prince so I must strive to learn what I can from my royal father." said Eddard Baratheon, vaguely pointing with his knife at the head table. The king was drinking heavily, his broad face flushed behind his great black beard. He made many a toast, laughed loudly at every jest, and attacked each dish like a starving man. "And one of the best ways to learn is practice." continued the Baratheon heir as he poured wine into three cups from the pitcher he's brought before handing two of them to Benjen and Jon.
"Take care with it. It's Dornish and like all things Dornish it feels weak but it'll cut your legs out from under you at the worst possible moment." Jon drank deeply from his glass. It was quite different from anything he'd drank before. He noticed that despite his words the prince had only sipped from his drink before asking his uncle about the state of the Wall and the Night's Watch.
"The Wall's still standing as long as strong though we don't have enough good men to man it."
"A bit more than three men for each mile I hear though how many of them are good is an open question. Few good men join the Night's Watch willingly." admitted the prince easily. "Who would give up the comfort and freedom of his warm home to freeze standing guard at the wall?"
"I would." blurted Jon in a sudden rush. "I would if you'd take me with you when you go back to the Wall. Father will give me leave to go if you ask him, I know he will."
Jon had thought on it long and hard, lying abed at night.Robb would someday inherit Winterfell, would command great armies as the Warden of the North. Bran and Rickon would be Robb's bannermen and rule holdfasts in his name. His sisters Arya and Sansa would marry the heirs of other great houses and go south as mistress of castles of their own. But what place could a bastard hope to earn?
"You don't know what you're asking, Jon. The Night's Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor."
"A bastard can have honor too," Jon said. "I am ready to swear your oath."
"You aren't." spoke the prince.
Benjen nodded good naturedly. "The prince is right. You are a boy of fourteen, not a man, not yet. Until you have known a woman, you cannot understand what you would be giving up."
"I don't care about that!" Jon said hotly.
"You might, if you knew what it meant," Benjen said. "If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son."
Jon felt anger rise inside him. "I'm not your son!"
Benjen Stark stood up. "More's the pity." He put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Come back to me after you've fathered a few bastards of your own, and we'll see how you feel."
Jon trembled. "I will never father a bastard," he said carefully.
"Never!" He spat it out like venom.
Suddenly he realized that the table had fallen silent, and they were all looking at him. He felt the tears begin to well behind his eyes. He pushed himself to his feet.
"I must be excused," he said with the last of his dignity. He whirled and bolted before they could see him cry. He must have drunk more wine than he had realized. His feet got tangled under him as he tried to leave, and he lurched sideways, nearly stumbling into a serving girl before someone caught him. "Easy there little wolf." Clegane's gruff voice sounded amused. Jon felt hot tears on his cheeks. He tried to wrench free of their grip but the Hound wouldn't let go but instead led him towards the door and pushed him in the quiet, empty yard. Jon tripped, barely catching the wall to stay upright.
Someone cleared his throat behind him and he turned to see Eddard Baratheon's looking at him with polite interest, a smug smirk stretched over his face. "I can hardly understand why are you so willing to give away the one thing that you have more of than your brothers do."
Fresh tears sprung on his cheeks and for a brief moment he thought about wiping that annoying grin but he could barely stay upright. "What? What do I have that Lord Eddard Stark's trueborn children don't?"
"Freedom. You could travel the Seven Kingdom and beyond, see all the Wonders made by men, study at the Citadel, fight in the Disputed Lands, duel the water dancers of Braavos, become a knight and win fame and fortune with your lance and sword, or even win a Lordship through your skills or your wits. And the best part is that the Wall is still going to be there. Better still you take the oath as a proven warrior instead of Eddard Stark's bastard."
Jon raised his head, earlier dissapointment forgotten. He tried to sit very straight, to make himself seem taller. Still it sounded too simple, too much like a trap. "How...?"
His father's namesake gave a might sigh before cutting him off. "Why don't you come with me to Kings Landing? Join my service until you make up your mind. Lord Stark is going to be named Hand of the King. He, your sisters and one of your brothers are going to the capital. You could keep them and me company."
"I don't want your pity."
"And I'm not pitying you. I gain one of the best swordsmen in Winterfell in my service and someone a bit more cheerful than the Hound to talk with... and..." A thoughtful pause before the prince finished. "knowing what I know about you I suspect you'll make it worth my while."
With those words the Baratheon heir turned to go back inside. "What do you know about me?" called Jon after him.
Eddard Baratheon stopped and for a moment Jon thought that his question would go unanswered but then the prince turned, his emerald green eyes strangely bright despite the dark.
"Only that you know nothing Jon Snow."
Jon Snow was rarely glad that he was a bastard yet, as he drank even more summerwine, it struck that today would be one of those rare times. If he would have been trueborn he would have sat at the high table and while Lord Eddard Stark might permit his children a glass of wine down on the benches there was no one to stop Jon from drinking as much as he liked. Nor was the company lacking- the boisterous squires with their tales of battles and hunts were surely just as entertaining as the company at the head table.
The queen's with her thinly veiled disdain, hidden beneath a smile that was so obviously fake and the King, a fat, tired, drunk man who looked nothing like the Robert Baratheon of stories, the Robert Barathoen who won the Throne and the moniker of Demon of the Trident by smashing Rhaegar Targaryen's chest with his warhammer hardly seemed like good company. The royal princes were little better: the youngest a plump boy stumbling fourth much like Rickon despite being nearly twice his age while the middle's pouty lips, barely hidden sneer and obvious disdain with which he looked over the gathering as he stood at Arya's side made Jon dislike him from the start, especially as he saw how Arya glared daggers as she strived to keep pace. Next was the crown prince holding Sansa's arm. He looked far more princely than the other two, with his piercing green eyes, golden hair. His whispered words made Sansa laugh but something about his fixed half bored half amused half contemptuous expression had irked Jon. Finally there were the Queen's brothers- the tall and golden, with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife Ser Jamie Lannister, called the Lion of Lannister to his face and Kingslayer behind his back and the shorter, far uglier Tyrion Lannister, who was struggling to waddle at his brother's side. With his mismatched eyes, his face squashed and deformed beneath his brow and his small stature the Imp looked almost impossibly unlike his brother, with only his blond, near white hair hinting at him being a Lannister. After them came uncle Benjen and his father's ward Theon Greyjoy and then the feast started.
Jon had started drinking then, and he had not stopped.
Something rubbed against his leg beneath the table. Jon saw red eyes staring up at him. "Hungry again?" he asked. There was still half a honeyed chicken in the center of the table. Jon reached out to tear off a leg, then had a better idea. He knifed the bird whole and let the carcass slide to the floor between his legs. Ghost ripped into it in savage silence. His brothers and sisters had not been permitted to bring their wolves to the banquet, but there were more curs than Jon could count at this end of the hall, and no one had said a word about his pup. He told himself he was fortunate in that too.
His eyes stung. Jon rubbed at them savagely, cursing the smoke. He swallowed another gulp of wine and watched his direwolf devour the chicken.
"Is this one of the direwolves I've heard so much of?" a familiar voice asked close at hand.
Jon looked up happily as his uncle Ben put a hand on his head and ruffled his hair much as Jon had ruffled the wolf's. "Yes," he said. "His name is Ghost." One of the squires interrupted the bawdy story he'd been telling to make room at the table for their lord's brother. Benjen Stark straddled the bench with long legs and took the wine cup out of Jon's hand. "Summerwine," he said after a taste. "Nothing so sweet. How many cups have you had, Jon?" Jon smiled. Ben Stark laughed. "As I feared. Ah, well. I believe I was younger than you the first time I got truly and sincerely drunk." He snagged a roasted onion, dripping brown with gravy, from a nearby trencher and bit into it. It crunched.
His uncle was sharp-featured and gaunt as a mountain crag, but there was always a hint of laughter in his blue-grey eyes. He dressed in black, as befitted a man of the Night's Watch. Tonight it was rich black velvet, with high leather boots and a wide belt with a silver buckle. A heavy silver chain was looped round his neck. Benjen watched Ghost with amusement as he ate his onion. "A very quiet wolf," he observed. "He's not like the others," Jon said. "He never makes a sound. That's why I named him Ghost. That, and because he's white. The others are all dark, grey or black."
"There are still direwolves beyond the Wall. We hear them on our rangings." Benjen Stark gave Jon a long look. "Don't you usually eat at table with your brothers?"
"Most times," Jon answered in a flat voice. "But tonight Lady Stark thought it might give insult to the royal family to seat a bastard among them."
"And her own feelings have absolutely no bearing on the matter..." came a mocking voice from behind Jon, the suddenness of the remark causing him to turn around abruptly. The possessor of the mocking voice had messy golden hair and green eyes that glinted like emeralds. He stood tall, taller than him thought Jon with dismay, almost as tall as Benjen. He was dressed much like Benjen as well though he bore a rearing stag and a roaring lion, both golden, upon his chest and his buckler was made of gold instead of silver. Behind him towered a man with long black hair and burn scars over his face.
"Eddard Baratheon," said the Crown Prince in greeting, placing down the pitcher and the goblet he had been holding as he sat at the table, squires rushing to make way for him and the Hound.
"I know," said Jon stiffly.
"You're Jon Snow. Ned Stark's bastard." said the prince cheerily. Jon felt a coldness pass right through him as his cheeks grew hot. He almost let out an angry retort but Benjen's hand was suddenly on his shoulder. "Are you offended? Don't be." Eddard Baratheon continued in the same jovial manner, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "My ancestor Orys Baratheon was a bastard. He was also Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Hand of the King. His descendants were mighty warriors and great Lords all. One of them is King now, ruling over the Seven Kingdoms and it all started with a bastard. Addam Velaryon was a bastard and he rode a dragon in the Dance. Bloodraven, Bittersteel, Blackfyre, all bastards whose names are remembered across the ages and whose actions even now shape our world. So don't be offended... bastard."
Despite himself Jon felt the coldness in his guts receding only to be replaced by confusion. The small part of him that wanted to feel angry at being lectured by someone younger than him was waging war with the small part that was filled with gratitude towards the prince but he mostly felt too surprised to say or do anything. Something of that confusion might have showed on his face for Sandor Clegane laughed uproariously, his burnt scars grotesquely stretched by his grin. "Sure you don't want to be a maester?" japed the Hound towards his charge after he'd finished laughing.
"That would eventually leave the realm in Joffrey's tender care and I don't hate the people of Westeros enough to inflict my brother on them." said the prince with perfect seriousness before drawing a whole tray towards him and digging in with a gusto.
The conversation lulled momentarily as Jon struggled to regain his bearings. Benjen was the first to speak, the wearyness clear in his voice matching the one in Jon's mind. "May I ask what brings the Crown Prince amongst the squires? Her Grace doesn't look very happy."
"Neither does your brother." remarked the prince amongst mouthfuls. It was true. Lord Eddard Stark was observing all courtesies but there was a tightness in him like Jon has rarely seen before. He said little, looking out over the hall with hooded eyes, seeing nothing. "As for why I'm here- I'm the crown prince so I must strive to learn what I can from my royal father." said Eddard Baratheon, vaguely pointing with his knife at the head table. The king was drinking heavily, his broad face flushed behind his great black beard. He made many a toast, laughed loudly at every jest, and attacked each dish like a starving man. "And one of the best ways to learn is practice." continued the Baratheon heir as he poured wine into three cups from the pitcher he's brought before handing two of them to Benjen and Jon.
"Take care with it. It's Dornish and like all things Dornish it feels weak but it'll cut your legs out from under you at the worst possible moment." Jon drank deeply from his glass. It was quite different from anything he'd drank before. He noticed that despite his words the prince had only sipped from his drink before asking his uncle about the state of the Wall and the Night's Watch.
"The Wall's still standing as long as strong though we don't have enough good men to man it."
"A bit more than three men for each mile I hear though how many of them are good is an open question. Few good men join the Night's Watch willingly." admitted the prince easily. "Who would give up the comfort and freedom of his warm home to freeze standing guard at the wall?"
"I would." blurted Jon in a sudden rush. "I would if you'd take me with you when you go back to the Wall. Father will give me leave to go if you ask him, I know he will."
Jon had thought on it long and hard, lying abed at night.Robb would someday inherit Winterfell, would command great armies as the Warden of the North. Bran and Rickon would be Robb's bannermen and rule holdfasts in his name. His sisters Arya and Sansa would marry the heirs of other great houses and go south as mistress of castles of their own. But what place could a bastard hope to earn?
"You don't know what you're asking, Jon. The Night's Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor."
"A bastard can have honor too," Jon said. "I am ready to swear your oath."
"You aren't." spoke the prince.
Benjen nodded good naturedly. "The prince is right. You are a boy of fourteen, not a man, not yet. Until you have known a woman, you cannot understand what you would be giving up."
"I don't care about that!" Jon said hotly.
"You might, if you knew what it meant," Benjen said. "If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son."
Jon felt anger rise inside him. "I'm not your son!"
Benjen Stark stood up. "More's the pity." He put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Come back to me after you've fathered a few bastards of your own, and we'll see how you feel."
Jon trembled. "I will never father a bastard," he said carefully.
"Never!" He spat it out like venom.
Suddenly he realized that the table had fallen silent, and they were all looking at him. He felt the tears begin to well behind his eyes. He pushed himself to his feet.
"I must be excused," he said with the last of his dignity. He whirled and bolted before they could see him cry. He must have drunk more wine than he had realized. His feet got tangled under him as he tried to leave, and he lurched sideways, nearly stumbling into a serving girl before someone caught him. "Easy there little wolf." Clegane's gruff voice sounded amused. Jon felt hot tears on his cheeks. He tried to wrench free of their grip but the Hound wouldn't let go but instead led him towards the door and pushed him in the quiet, empty yard. Jon tripped, barely catching the wall to stay upright.
Someone cleared his throat behind him and he turned to see Eddard Baratheon's looking at him with polite interest, a smug smirk stretched over his face. "I can hardly understand why are you so willing to give away the one thing that you have more of than your brothers do."
Fresh tears sprung on his cheeks and for a brief moment he thought about wiping that annoying grin but he could barely stay upright. "What? What do I have that Lord Eddard Stark's trueborn children don't?"
"Freedom. You could travel the Seven Kingdom and beyond, see all the Wonders made by men, study at the Citadel, fight in the Disputed Lands, duel the water dancers of Braavos, become a knight and win fame and fortune with your lance and sword, or even win a Lordship through your skills or your wits. And the best part is that the Wall is still going to be there. Better still you take the oath as a proven warrior instead of Eddard Stark's bastard."
Jon raised his head, earlier dissapointment forgotten. He tried to sit very straight, to make himself seem taller. Still it sounded too simple, too much like a trap. "How...?"
His father's namesake gave a might sigh before cutting him off. "Why don't you come with me to Kings Landing? Join my service until you make up your mind. Lord Stark is going to be named Hand of the King. He, your sisters and one of your brothers are going to the capital. You could keep them and me company."
"I don't want your pity."
"And I'm not pitying you. I gain one of the best swordsmen in Winterfell in my service and someone a bit more cheerful than the Hound to talk with... and..." A thoughtful pause before the prince finished. "knowing what I know about you I suspect you'll make it worth my while."
With those words the Baratheon heir turned to go back inside. "What do you know about me?" called Jon after him.
Eddard Baratheon stopped and for a moment Jon thought that his question would go unanswered but then the prince turned, his emerald green eyes strangely bright despite the dark.
"Only that you know nothing Jon Snow."
-EDDARD BARATHEONME-
"Why me? Why here? Why now?"
The endless fields of the North made no reply. Eddard Baratheon, son of King Robert Baratheon and heir to the Iron Throne looked at them with something very much like loathing before turning to pace the battlements some more.
What a mess, I thought, absentmindedly tugging on a few strands of blond hair. Waking up on a different world in the body of someone younger by several years had been mildly disturbing though it was by far the least painful part of the transition. Indeed trading my old life for a more idilic one in a more advanced society would have been something I would have quite willingly done. The destination was the real clinch- instead of a futuristic near utopia or even somewhere less supremely pleasant by with plenty of possibilities for forging a personal paradise I landed in Westeros. Medieval, low magic, brutal, dirty, deadly Westeros. Even worse I landed in the middle of the greatest debacle since the Dance or even the Doom itself- the war of the far too many kings and the Other invasion. In all fairness it wasn't the worst place I could have landed in but certainly not the one I would have chosen for myself. The catchprase 'It's good to be the king' didn't quite take into account the inherent unpleasantness that a medieval society inflicted on everyone in it and unless I somehow got my hands on some dragons I'd have to actually work to keep being a king and keeping my head firmly attached to my shoulders.
On the flip side I could write my, well Eddard Baratheon's name across history... if I didn't die first. Still that did make the situation ever so slightly more bearable.
"The prince doesn't like being disturbed." Clegane's gruff voice made the crown prince smile slightly before turning. Most people wouldn't have thought that the horribly scarred, bitter and brutal Sandor Clegane could bring a smile on anyone's face but the Hound was both extremely competent and utterly loyal which made him worth more than his weight in gold to his charge.
"Do let Lord Stark pass. This is after all his castle." Moments of privacy were hard to find at Winterfell though even I found it hard to blame Lord Eddard Stark for this one. After all the offer to Jon Snow had been mine.
"Prince Eddard."
"Lord Eddard."
Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Hand of the King was a grim man. His dark hair was starting to grey in places and combined with his solemn features and cold eyes gave him the look of an old surly wolf, a survivor of a dozen winters and a hundred battles, tired yet ready to face as many more. In short Ned Stark was quite intimidating.
"I mean to talk to you about Jon." said he, dark eyes peering suspiciously. "He says you offered him a place in King's Landing."
"That I did." Faking nonchalance seemed to be right call for Ned looked momentarily taken aback.
"He's good company. Besides his sisters could use more familiar faces in the capital. After all they'll be gone from Winterfell for quite some time."
"Jon's almost a man grown. He can't spend his life keeping his sisters company." the Lord of Winterfell protested though he didn't seem quite so stern.
"He could train with the greatest knights of the realm or take a place at court. My uncles believe that he has the skills and wits for both. And he can always seek his fortune elsewhere when he grows tired of King's Landing."
"Her grace, the Queen isn't fond of... bastards." The word came out so reluctantly of Eddard Stark's mouth one would have thought it gave him physical pain to say it.
"That may be true, however my mother is very found of me Lord Stark. I can assure you she isn't going to complain about such triffles."
That seemed to momentarily end the discussion so we silently stood a long time on the walls of Winterfell before Ned spoke again in a gentler manner. "Lord Arryn wrote about you."
"Only good I hope."
"He said you are wise beyond your years."
"I'm sorry he died. He was a good man." And I was sorry, far more so than Ned Stark could have known. Jon Arryn's death would have been easy to prevent but the late Hand had known far too much already so he was dead and Petyr Baelish was still alive.
"That he was." Ned's face took a wistful, almost melancholic expression. "He was like second a father for me and Robert. He taught us, raised us and risked his life to defend us against the Mad King." Another uncomfortable silence. Eddard Stark stood upon the battlements looking somewhere far away, caught among childhood memories, uncaring about the cold, cutting winds while the his much younger namesake's body was trying desperately not to shiver visibly. Finally Ned turned his gaze away from the horizon:
"I must thank you for your kindness."
That was unexpected. So unexpected it took me several moments to figure out what he meant.
"You need not thank me Lord Stark. It was no trouble."
"Yet it means much to him." Eddard Stark said with a surprisingly soft smile. "and he is of my blood. Thus you have my thanks."
Being thanked by Ned Stark was surprisngly uncomfortable. The Lord of Winterfell was honorable, just and even kind in his own way and yet I fully realised that I wouldn't hesitate to put a knife in his back if I would benefit from it. Shivering I turned to face the icy winds of the North.
"Is it getting colder?"
"Aye. Winter is coming."
"Why me? Why here? Why now?"
The endless fields of the North made no reply. Eddard Baratheon, son of King Robert Baratheon and heir to the Iron Throne looked at them with something very much like loathing before turning to pace the battlements some more.
What a mess, I thought, absentmindedly tugging on a few strands of blond hair. Waking up on a different world in the body of someone younger by several years had been mildly disturbing though it was by far the least painful part of the transition. Indeed trading my old life for a more idilic one in a more advanced society would have been something I would have quite willingly done. The destination was the real clinch- instead of a futuristic near utopia or even somewhere less supremely pleasant by with plenty of possibilities for forging a personal paradise I landed in Westeros. Medieval, low magic, brutal, dirty, deadly Westeros. Even worse I landed in the middle of the greatest debacle since the Dance or even the Doom itself- the war of the far too many kings and the Other invasion. In all fairness it wasn't the worst place I could have landed in but certainly not the one I would have chosen for myself. The catchprase 'It's good to be the king' didn't quite take into account the inherent unpleasantness that a medieval society inflicted on everyone in it and unless I somehow got my hands on some dragons I'd have to actually work to keep being a king and keeping my head firmly attached to my shoulders.
On the flip side I could write my, well Eddard Baratheon's name across history... if I didn't die first. Still that did make the situation ever so slightly more bearable.
"The prince doesn't like being disturbed." Clegane's gruff voice made the crown prince smile slightly before turning. Most people wouldn't have thought that the horribly scarred, bitter and brutal Sandor Clegane could bring a smile on anyone's face but the Hound was both extremely competent and utterly loyal which made him worth more than his weight in gold to his charge.
"Do let Lord Stark pass. This is after all his castle." Moments of privacy were hard to find at Winterfell though even I found it hard to blame Lord Eddard Stark for this one. After all the offer to Jon Snow had been mine.
"Prince Eddard."
"Lord Eddard."
Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Hand of the King was a grim man. His dark hair was starting to grey in places and combined with his solemn features and cold eyes gave him the look of an old surly wolf, a survivor of a dozen winters and a hundred battles, tired yet ready to face as many more. In short Ned Stark was quite intimidating.
"I mean to talk to you about Jon." said he, dark eyes peering suspiciously. "He says you offered him a place in King's Landing."
"That I did." Faking nonchalance seemed to be right call for Ned looked momentarily taken aback.
"He's good company. Besides his sisters could use more familiar faces in the capital. After all they'll be gone from Winterfell for quite some time."
"Jon's almost a man grown. He can't spend his life keeping his sisters company." the Lord of Winterfell protested though he didn't seem quite so stern.
"He could train with the greatest knights of the realm or take a place at court. My uncles believe that he has the skills and wits for both. And he can always seek his fortune elsewhere when he grows tired of King's Landing."
"Her grace, the Queen isn't fond of... bastards." The word came out so reluctantly of Eddard Stark's mouth one would have thought it gave him physical pain to say it.
"That may be true, however my mother is very found of me Lord Stark. I can assure you she isn't going to complain about such triffles."
That seemed to momentarily end the discussion so we silently stood a long time on the walls of Winterfell before Ned spoke again in a gentler manner. "Lord Arryn wrote about you."
"Only good I hope."
"He said you are wise beyond your years."
"I'm sorry he died. He was a good man." And I was sorry, far more so than Ned Stark could have known. Jon Arryn's death would have been easy to prevent but the late Hand had known far too much already so he was dead and Petyr Baelish was still alive.
"That he was." Ned's face took a wistful, almost melancholic expression. "He was like second a father for me and Robert. He taught us, raised us and risked his life to defend us against the Mad King." Another uncomfortable silence. Eddard Stark stood upon the battlements looking somewhere far away, caught among childhood memories, uncaring about the cold, cutting winds while the his much younger namesake's body was trying desperately not to shiver visibly. Finally Ned turned his gaze away from the horizon:
"I must thank you for your kindness."
That was unexpected. So unexpected it took me several moments to figure out what he meant.
"You need not thank me Lord Stark. It was no trouble."
"Yet it means much to him." Eddard Stark said with a surprisingly soft smile. "and he is of my blood. Thus you have my thanks."
Being thanked by Ned Stark was surprisngly uncomfortable. The Lord of Winterfell was honorable, just and even kind in his own way and yet I fully realised that I wouldn't hesitate to put a knife in his back if I would benefit from it. Shivering I turned to face the icy winds of the North.
"Is it getting colder?"
"Aye. Winter is coming."
-ARYA-
Arya was running as fast as her feet could take her. It just wasn't fair she thought. Sansa was prettier- her rich auburn hair and high elegant cheekbones had always been more comely than Arya's long and solemn features. Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface and that hurt and yet if this would have been all then she wouldn't have minded all of it so much. However Sansa could also sing and dance, play the harp and the bells and write poetry- all of it so much better than her. Even her stitches were always neat and straight while Arya's were always crooked. "Arya has the hands of a blacksmith." Septa Mordane had once said after cooing over Sansa's delicate work. The only thing that Arya Horseface could do better than Sansa was riding and that was perhaps what hurt most of all.
And so Sansa had both the older princes paying her compliments at the feast while Arya was stuck with plump little Tommen, just as Sansa would have never been embarrassed by the Septa in front of Princess Myracella like Arya had been. At least Jon would be going with them to King's Landing. Sansa had said that Jon only came because the prince was very kind but Arya knew better: Jon could fight better than anyone but Jory and Ser Rodrik and he was smart too. They had always been close. Jon had their father's face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her. Making up her mind Arya ducked towards the stairs.
"Come Nymeria" the girl said. The direwolf followed faithfully as Arya moved towards the courtyard. Watching the boys practicing would be much better than having to apologize to Septa Mordane. She knew that would mean more trouble for later but at least she wouldn't have to face Princess Myracella. Jon would probably be there too and that made Arya smile. Talking to Jon always made things better.
Jon was there, she found as she entered the yard, along with all three princes, the oldest one talking to him while absentmindedly petting Ghost with the middle one shouting encouragement as his younger brother stumbled towards Bran. Robb was doing much the same for Bran while Theon Greyjoy sat beside him, his black doublet emblazoned with the golden kraken of his House, a look of wry contempt on his face. The combatants were staggering under their heavy padding as Ser Rodrik Cassel signaled the start of the fight while tugging on his whiskers. There were many other men in the yard a dozen Stark men at arms and at least as many Lannister ones including the Hound with his badly burned face. More surprising were the two older men that stood on the same bench with Jon and the prince. One of them was clearly a maester, though not one Arya had seen before, from the chain he was absentmindedly playing with. He was much younger than Maester Luwin, perhaps of the same age with her lordly father if not younger and rather short, with dark hair and dignified features. His companion was an taller, older man with a kind face, grey hair and crinkles around his eyes, dressed in immaculate white robes but with no other sign of office. He seemed to ignore the commotion altogether in favor of carefully peering at Ghost.
Nymeria stalked closer on wary feet as Ghost raised himself to meet her. "Nymeria." she hissed, not wanting to draw attention but it was too late as a number of eyes fell on her and Jon turned in surprise. "Shouldn't you be working on your stitches, little sister?"
"I wanted to see them fight." admitted Arya before making a face at him.
"Then come here." he said smiling an patting the bench. She hesitated but neither the prince nor the others seemed to mind her. On the field Bran and Prince Tommen were whacking at each other with their swords. It was hard to tell who was winning for both were so heavily padded they looked like they've been caught between two featherbeds.
"I could do just as good as Bran," she said. "He's only seven. I'm nine."
Jon looked her over with all his fourteen-year-old wisdom. "You're too skinny," he said. He took her arm to feel her muscle. Then he sighed and shook his head. "I doubt you could even lift a longsword, little sister, never mind swing one."
"Not a longsword then." muttered the golden haired boy next to him. Arya took a look at the prince. An ornate shield had been embroidered on his padded surcoat. No doubt the needlework was exquisite. The arms were divided down the middle; on one side was the crowned stag of the royal House, on the other the lion of Lannister. "Perhaps dancing would suit you better."
Arya felt her cheeks burn. She wanted to hit him but that would just get her and Jon into trouble. Still nothing could prevent her from shouting. "Just 'cause I'm a girl doesn't mean I can't fight!"
"Arya..." Jon said in warning as a few of the men in the courtyard turned to look at her but the prince didn't seem insulted. "The Water Dancers of Braavos fight just as well as anyone and better than most."
She blinked. Jon blinked. The Hound gave a grunt that could mean anything which prompted Eddard to continue. "They might not be as good as an armored knight or man at arms when it comes to charges or fighting in formation but at fighting alone or in small groups few in the Seven Kingdoms can match them."
"True." conceded Sandor Clegane. "Though I could take any Braavosi in a fight."
"There's very few people in the world you couldn't take in a fight." admitted the prince.
The Hound seemed pleased at the praise, his scarred face momentarily marked by a grin before giving another grunt and turning back to watch Tommen and Bran poking each other with their wooden swords.
Jon was grinning as well and he ruffled her hair. "We'll have to see about getting you a dancing master, little sister."
"Easily taken care of." Said her lordly father's namesake. "Maester Erreck. Would you be so kind as to send a message to one Syrio Forel, the former First Sword of Braavos, inviting him to King's Landing?"
The Maester gave a short nod in return. "Of course."
Arya wanted to cheer. Now there was no way she'd be refused, no matter what Septa Mordane said.
A shout went out from the courtyard. Prince Tommen was rolling in the dust, trying to get up and failing. All the padding made him look like a turtle on its back. Bran was standing over him with upraised wooden sword, ready to whack him again once he regained his feet. The men began to laugh. "Enough!" Ser Rodrik called out. He gave the prince a hand and yanked him back to his feet. "Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armor." He looked around. "Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round?"
"Gladly." spoke Robb, moving forward eagerly.
Joffrey moved into the sunlight in response to Rodrik's summons. His hair shone like spun gold. He looked bored. "This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik."
Theon Greyjoy gave a sudden bark of laughter. "You are children," he said derisively.
"Robb may be a child," Joffrey said. "I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword."
"You got more swats than you gave, Joff," Robb said.
"Are you afraid?" Prince Joffrey looked at him. "Oh, terrified," he said. "You're so much older." Some of the Lannister men laughed.
Prince Eddard gave a tired sigh. "My dear brother is always eager to show the full extent of his wits."
Somehow Arya didn't think the words were a praise.
Ser Rodrik tugged thoughtfully at his white whiskers. "What are you suggesting?" he asked the prince.
"Live steel."
"Done," Robb shot back. "You'll be sorry!"
The master-at-arms put a hand on Robb's shoulder to quiet him. "Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges."
The Hound spoke up. "Who are you to tell a prince he may not have an edge on his sword, ser?"
"Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it."
"Are you training women here?" Clegane said stepping forward. He was hugely tall and muscled like a bull.
"I am training knights," Ser Rodrik said pointedly. "They will have steel when they are ready. When they are of an age."
The crown prince chimed in. "Let them have it. I'm quite sure Qyburn can sew back whatever bits they manage to cut off."
"I can certainly try." Said the kindly elderly man wearing white robes jovially. He had a gentle soothing voice. Yet Joffrey suddenly seemed less certain, almost weary.
However the Hound would not relent. He looked at Robb. "How old are you, boy?"
"Fourteen," Robb said.
"I killed a man at twelve. You can be sure it was not with a blunt sword."
Arya could see Robb bristle. His pride was wounded. He turned on Ser Rodrik.
"Let me do it. I can beat him."
"Beat him with a tourney blade, then," Ser Rodrik said.
Joffrey shrugged. "Come and see me when you're older, Stark." There was laughter from the Lannister men and curses from Robb. Arya gasped. Ser Rodrik tugged his whiskers in dismay. Maester Erreck was tugging his chain sorrowfully. Prince Eddard was looking somewhere far away seemingly unaffected by the events. Sandor Clegane spat on the field.
Joffrey smirked and gave a mocking salute. "Until then..." He turned and left while Theon had to place a hand on Robb's shoulder to restrain him. More laughter rose from the red cloaked men.
Prince Eddard rose in a smooth motion. "Practice is done for the day." said he in a tone that brook no argument. The Lannister men stopped laughing.
Robb tried to move towards the eldest prince but Theon was still holding his arm so he had to limit himself to cursing.
Eddard spoke to ser Rodrik over Robb's shouts, ignoring him utterly. "Don't you teach how to master their tempers?"
The master at arms, face beet red with fury and embarrassment bodily dragged Robb towards him. "Enough! Remember yourself." but Robb only started cursing him instead before being pushed off the field by Theon while the two remaining princes left with their retainers.
Jon watched them leave, and Arya watched Jon. His face had grown as still as the pool at the heart of the godswood.
"The show is done," he said. He bent to scratch Ghost behind the ears. The white wolf rose and rubbed against him. "You had best run back to your room, little sister. Septa Mordane will surely be lurking. The longer you hide, the sterner the penance and you'll want to get in her good books if you want dancing lessons. Otherwise you'll be sewing all through winter. When the spring thaw comes, they will find your body with a needle still locked tight between your frozen fingers."
Arya didn't think it was funny. "I hate needlework!" she said with passion. "It's not fair!"
"Nothing is fair," Jon said. He messed up her hair again and walked away from her, Ghost moving silently beside him.
Reluctantly Arya moved up the stairs towards her room. It was worse than Jon had thought. It wasn't Septa Mordane waiting in her room. It was Septa Mordane and her mother.
Arya was running as fast as her feet could take her. It just wasn't fair she thought. Sansa was prettier- her rich auburn hair and high elegant cheekbones had always been more comely than Arya's long and solemn features. Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface and that hurt and yet if this would have been all then she wouldn't have minded all of it so much. However Sansa could also sing and dance, play the harp and the bells and write poetry- all of it so much better than her. Even her stitches were always neat and straight while Arya's were always crooked. "Arya has the hands of a blacksmith." Septa Mordane had once said after cooing over Sansa's delicate work. The only thing that Arya Horseface could do better than Sansa was riding and that was perhaps what hurt most of all.
And so Sansa had both the older princes paying her compliments at the feast while Arya was stuck with plump little Tommen, just as Sansa would have never been embarrassed by the Septa in front of Princess Myracella like Arya had been. At least Jon would be going with them to King's Landing. Sansa had said that Jon only came because the prince was very kind but Arya knew better: Jon could fight better than anyone but Jory and Ser Rodrik and he was smart too. They had always been close. Jon had their father's face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her. Making up her mind Arya ducked towards the stairs.
"Come Nymeria" the girl said. The direwolf followed faithfully as Arya moved towards the courtyard. Watching the boys practicing would be much better than having to apologize to Septa Mordane. She knew that would mean more trouble for later but at least she wouldn't have to face Princess Myracella. Jon would probably be there too and that made Arya smile. Talking to Jon always made things better.
Jon was there, she found as she entered the yard, along with all three princes, the oldest one talking to him while absentmindedly petting Ghost with the middle one shouting encouragement as his younger brother stumbled towards Bran. Robb was doing much the same for Bran while Theon Greyjoy sat beside him, his black doublet emblazoned with the golden kraken of his House, a look of wry contempt on his face. The combatants were staggering under their heavy padding as Ser Rodrik Cassel signaled the start of the fight while tugging on his whiskers. There were many other men in the yard a dozen Stark men at arms and at least as many Lannister ones including the Hound with his badly burned face. More surprising were the two older men that stood on the same bench with Jon and the prince. One of them was clearly a maester, though not one Arya had seen before, from the chain he was absentmindedly playing with. He was much younger than Maester Luwin, perhaps of the same age with her lordly father if not younger and rather short, with dark hair and dignified features. His companion was an taller, older man with a kind face, grey hair and crinkles around his eyes, dressed in immaculate white robes but with no other sign of office. He seemed to ignore the commotion altogether in favor of carefully peering at Ghost.
Nymeria stalked closer on wary feet as Ghost raised himself to meet her. "Nymeria." she hissed, not wanting to draw attention but it was too late as a number of eyes fell on her and Jon turned in surprise. "Shouldn't you be working on your stitches, little sister?"
"I wanted to see them fight." admitted Arya before making a face at him.
"Then come here." he said smiling an patting the bench. She hesitated but neither the prince nor the others seemed to mind her. On the field Bran and Prince Tommen were whacking at each other with their swords. It was hard to tell who was winning for both were so heavily padded they looked like they've been caught between two featherbeds.
"I could do just as good as Bran," she said. "He's only seven. I'm nine."
Jon looked her over with all his fourteen-year-old wisdom. "You're too skinny," he said. He took her arm to feel her muscle. Then he sighed and shook his head. "I doubt you could even lift a longsword, little sister, never mind swing one."
"Not a longsword then." muttered the golden haired boy next to him. Arya took a look at the prince. An ornate shield had been embroidered on his padded surcoat. No doubt the needlework was exquisite. The arms were divided down the middle; on one side was the crowned stag of the royal House, on the other the lion of Lannister. "Perhaps dancing would suit you better."
Arya felt her cheeks burn. She wanted to hit him but that would just get her and Jon into trouble. Still nothing could prevent her from shouting. "Just 'cause I'm a girl doesn't mean I can't fight!"
"Arya..." Jon said in warning as a few of the men in the courtyard turned to look at her but the prince didn't seem insulted. "The Water Dancers of Braavos fight just as well as anyone and better than most."
She blinked. Jon blinked. The Hound gave a grunt that could mean anything which prompted Eddard to continue. "They might not be as good as an armored knight or man at arms when it comes to charges or fighting in formation but at fighting alone or in small groups few in the Seven Kingdoms can match them."
"True." conceded Sandor Clegane. "Though I could take any Braavosi in a fight."
"There's very few people in the world you couldn't take in a fight." admitted the prince.
The Hound seemed pleased at the praise, his scarred face momentarily marked by a grin before giving another grunt and turning back to watch Tommen and Bran poking each other with their wooden swords.
Jon was grinning as well and he ruffled her hair. "We'll have to see about getting you a dancing master, little sister."
"Easily taken care of." Said her lordly father's namesake. "Maester Erreck. Would you be so kind as to send a message to one Syrio Forel, the former First Sword of Braavos, inviting him to King's Landing?"
The Maester gave a short nod in return. "Of course."
Arya wanted to cheer. Now there was no way she'd be refused, no matter what Septa Mordane said.
A shout went out from the courtyard. Prince Tommen was rolling in the dust, trying to get up and failing. All the padding made him look like a turtle on its back. Bran was standing over him with upraised wooden sword, ready to whack him again once he regained his feet. The men began to laugh. "Enough!" Ser Rodrik called out. He gave the prince a hand and yanked him back to his feet. "Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armor." He looked around. "Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round?"
"Gladly." spoke Robb, moving forward eagerly.
Joffrey moved into the sunlight in response to Rodrik's summons. His hair shone like spun gold. He looked bored. "This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik."
Theon Greyjoy gave a sudden bark of laughter. "You are children," he said derisively.
"Robb may be a child," Joffrey said. "I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword."
"You got more swats than you gave, Joff," Robb said.
"Are you afraid?" Prince Joffrey looked at him. "Oh, terrified," he said. "You're so much older." Some of the Lannister men laughed.
Prince Eddard gave a tired sigh. "My dear brother is always eager to show the full extent of his wits."
Somehow Arya didn't think the words were a praise.
Ser Rodrik tugged thoughtfully at his white whiskers. "What are you suggesting?" he asked the prince.
"Live steel."
"Done," Robb shot back. "You'll be sorry!"
The master-at-arms put a hand on Robb's shoulder to quiet him. "Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges."
The Hound spoke up. "Who are you to tell a prince he may not have an edge on his sword, ser?"
"Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it."
"Are you training women here?" Clegane said stepping forward. He was hugely tall and muscled like a bull.
"I am training knights," Ser Rodrik said pointedly. "They will have steel when they are ready. When they are of an age."
The crown prince chimed in. "Let them have it. I'm quite sure Qyburn can sew back whatever bits they manage to cut off."
"I can certainly try." Said the kindly elderly man wearing white robes jovially. He had a gentle soothing voice. Yet Joffrey suddenly seemed less certain, almost weary.
However the Hound would not relent. He looked at Robb. "How old are you, boy?"
"Fourteen," Robb said.
"I killed a man at twelve. You can be sure it was not with a blunt sword."
Arya could see Robb bristle. His pride was wounded. He turned on Ser Rodrik.
"Let me do it. I can beat him."
"Beat him with a tourney blade, then," Ser Rodrik said.
Joffrey shrugged. "Come and see me when you're older, Stark." There was laughter from the Lannister men and curses from Robb. Arya gasped. Ser Rodrik tugged his whiskers in dismay. Maester Erreck was tugging his chain sorrowfully. Prince Eddard was looking somewhere far away seemingly unaffected by the events. Sandor Clegane spat on the field.
Joffrey smirked and gave a mocking salute. "Until then..." He turned and left while Theon had to place a hand on Robb's shoulder to restrain him. More laughter rose from the red cloaked men.
Prince Eddard rose in a smooth motion. "Practice is done for the day." said he in a tone that brook no argument. The Lannister men stopped laughing.
Robb tried to move towards the eldest prince but Theon was still holding his arm so he had to limit himself to cursing.
Eddard spoke to ser Rodrik over Robb's shouts, ignoring him utterly. "Don't you teach how to master their tempers?"
The master at arms, face beet red with fury and embarrassment bodily dragged Robb towards him. "Enough! Remember yourself." but Robb only started cursing him instead before being pushed off the field by Theon while the two remaining princes left with their retainers.
Jon watched them leave, and Arya watched Jon. His face had grown as still as the pool at the heart of the godswood.
"The show is done," he said. He bent to scratch Ghost behind the ears. The white wolf rose and rubbed against him. "You had best run back to your room, little sister. Septa Mordane will surely be lurking. The longer you hide, the sterner the penance and you'll want to get in her good books if you want dancing lessons. Otherwise you'll be sewing all through winter. When the spring thaw comes, they will find your body with a needle still locked tight between your frozen fingers."
Arya didn't think it was funny. "I hate needlework!" she said with passion. "It's not fair!"
"Nothing is fair," Jon said. He messed up her hair again and walked away from her, Ghost moving silently beside him.
Reluctantly Arya moved up the stairs towards her room. It was worse than Jon had thought. It wasn't Septa Mordane waiting in her room. It was Septa Mordane and her mother.
-Tyrion-
The wolf's howling split the morning air. It was almost as tiring as the bickering of the maesters, Tyrion decided. There was something about the wolves that chilled the bones and made you feel vulnerable and cold but at least they didn't constantly disagree over every small thing. Maesters were sometimes called knights of the mind and these ones had engaged in furious combat for the past five days. Even now old, small maester Luwin was arguing in a hushed voice with Qyburn while a tired maester Erreck was dozing near the fireplace. The maester of Winterfell didn't trust Qyburn. In all fairness Tyrion wasn't sure he trusted the man himself despite his nephew's words- the Citadel had stripped Qyburn of his chains and there were dark rumors surrounding him. However nobody could doubt his effectiveness and he'd proven it yet again for after just two hours of his tending young Bran Stark's legs had twitched and the young boy had looked increasingly better since.
It would have been worse if his favorite nephew hadn't brought Qyburn to Winterfell and Tyrion's thoughts turned once again towards Eddard Baratheon. The boy was a mystery, one that he had no idea how to solve. Tall, lean, with golden hair and vibrant green eyes he looked very much like his mother or Jamie and yet he was clever and witty and thoughtful in a way neither of his siblings were. Eddard was always with a book in his hand or thinking about something, usually something new or unexpected. He takes more after me than after Cersei, at least in the more important matters, thought Tyrion, draining his cup of wine with a genuine smile.
Eddard usually lifted Tyrion's spirits. How could he not when he was probably the only boy or man in the Seven Kingdoms that didn't care that Tyrion was a dwarf? Even his brother Jamie, the only one to show him a measure of love and respect during the terribly long years of childhood cared if only out of pity or worry. Not so Eddard: in his company Tyrion did not feel short and stunted. The reclusive crown prince seemed to prefer his company more than most which was odd in itself. Yet even odder was his knowledge and the certainty with which he used it. Cersei liked to compare her eldest son with their lordly father but Tyrion thought differently. Tywin Lannister's knowledge was a matter of experience just as his certainty was a matter of confidence. Eddard Baratheron simply knew things he shouldn't, couldn't have known and his certainty was both out of knowledge and once again Tyrion wondered what his nephew knew and how.
The direwolf howled again. Tyrion covered a yawn with the back of his hand before closing the book in front of him with a snap. He had been at it all night, but that was nothing new. Tyrion Lannister was not much a one for sleeping. He slipped off the bench, legs numb from the hours of sitting. He massaged some life back into them while watching Maester Erreck, who had woken by the howls or perhaps the noise in the room nimbly pry a book that Septon Chayle had been using as a pillow. The young man jerked up, blinking, confused, the crystal of his order swinging wildly on its silver chain.
"I'm off to break my fast." Tyrion announced to the room before hurrying off to begin his descent of the steep stone steps that corkscrewed around the exterior of the library tower. It was slow going; the steps were cut high and narrow, while his legs were short and twisted. Qyburn passed him by; the man was more than twice his age yet his healthy legs easily allowed him to outpace Tyrion. The rising sun had not yet cleared the walls of Winterfell, but the men were already hard at it in the yard below. Sandor Clegane's raspy voice drifted up to him. "The boy is taking a long time dying."
"At least he dies quietly," young Joffrey replied. He looked rather tired. "It's the wolf that makes the noise. I could scarce sleep last night."
"I could silence the creature if it pleased you," said Clegane as he tested the weight of his longsword. The sound of steel meeting steel rang through the yard.
The prince brightened up at the notion. "With that beast dead I'll get some good sleep for once. Winterfell is so infested with wolves, the Starks would never miss one."
Tyrion hopped off the last step onto the yard. "I beg to differ, nephew," he said. "The Starks can count past six. Unlike some princes I might name."
Joffrey had the grace to at least blush. He was quite unlike his older brother, but then Jaime and Tyrion were somewhat less than peas in a pod themselves.
Sandor wasn't quite as easy to cow. "A voice from nowhere," he said, looking this way and that. "Spirits of the air!" The young prince laughed like he always did when the Hound japed.
Tyrion was used to it. "Thinking about taking up mummery Clegane?"
The tall man pretended to notice him. "My pardons, little lord. I did not see you standing there."
"Then pray no dwarf tries to threaten your charges or you'll wish you were a mummer once my dear sister is done with you." Tyrion turned to his nephew. "Joffrey, it is past time you called on Lord Eddard and his lady, to offer them your comfort."
Joffrey looked stubbornly petulant. "What good will my comfort do them?"
"None," Tyrion said. "Yet it is expected of you. Your absence has been noted."
"The Stark boy is nothing to me," Joffrey said. "Besides I asked Eddard to tell them I'm at the Sept if the Starks ask of me." The prince seemed inordinately pleased at the deception.
Tyrion gave a weary sigh. "That, dear nephew, was two days ago. The Starks have seen you walking about since then."
The golden hair boy pouted. "I'm a prince! Why should I care about the Starks?"
The slap was somehow louder than Tyrion expected: some of the nearby knights and retainers turned to look only to avert their eyes when they caught the Hound's gaze. Joffrey was looking at him in disbelief. His cheek was starting to redden.
"The Starks helped defeat the Mad King at the cost of thousands of their bannermen and smallfolk. They fought in two wars for King Robert. Without the Starks you wouldn't be a prince today so you will go to Lord and Lady Stark, and you fall to your knees in front of them, and you tell them how very sorry you are, and that you are at their service if there is the slightest thing you can do for them or theirs in this desperate hour, and that all your prayers go with them.
Joffrey's eyes bulged as he gaped lips moving silently. "Go," said Tyrion once more, firmly. The prince went, only stopping to cast a poisonous look over his shoulder.
"The prince will remember this, little lord," the Hound warned him.
"I pray he does," Tyrion Lannister replied. "He might even learn something for once." He glanced around the courtyard. "Do you know where I might find my brother?"
"Breaking fast with the queen."
"Ah," Tyrion said. He gave Sandor Clegane a perfunctory nod and walked away as briskly as his stunted legs would carry him, whistling.
The meal that had been laid out in the morning room of the Guest House was plentiful but cheerless. Jaime sat at table with Cersei and the rest of children, talking in low, hushed voices. Prince Eddard gave a curt nod and moved aside to make room before focusing back on the small mound of crisp bacon in front of him.
"Is Robert still abed?" Tyrion asked, taking his seat at the table.
His sister peered at him with the same expression of faint distaste she had worn since the day he was born. "The king has not slept at all. He is with Lord Eddard. He has taken their sorrow deeply to heart."
"He has a large heart, our Robert," Jaime said with a lazy smile. There was very little that Jaime took seriously.
Prince Eddard paused from his battle with the bacon and said just as lazily. "Not large enough to let Lord Stark linger in the North for much longer. We'll leave in two days."
"Will Bran wake by then?" asked prince Tommen, the youngest of Cersei's children.
"No." came the reply from his older brother. "A few weeks would be more likely." The younger boy looked hopefully at his brother but the crown prince had already turned back to his food.
It was his sister who continued. "If the boy wakes at all." Tyrion could feel something strange in Cersei's voice as she continued. "Perhaps it might be more merciful for the child to die than linger in such pain."
Princess Myracella's face dropped while Tommen looked about to cry at the words.
"The maesters say he'll wake," spoke Tyrion swiftly. He chewed some more bread. "though only the gods know when. I would swear that wolf of his is keeping the boy alive. The creature is outside his window day and night, howling. Every time they chase it away, it returns. The maester said they closed the window once, to shut out the noise, and Bran seemed to weaken. When they opened it again, his heart beat stronger."
"There are old tales of Starks being bound to direwolves." the oldest prince said jestingly.
Jamie laughed. The queen gave a thin smile of her own. "The northeners are a superstitious lot." she said indulgently.
"Well you'll be rid of them soon dear sister."
"Not near soon enough," Cersei said. Then she frowned. "Are we leaving?" she echoed. "What about you? Gods, don't tell me you are staying here?"
Tyrion shrugged. "Benjen Stark is returning to the Night's Watch. I have a mind to go with him and see this Wall we have all heard so much of."
Jaime smiled. "I hope you're not thinking of taking the black on us, sweet brother."
Tyrion laughed.
"What, me, celibate? The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. No, I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world."
Cersei stood abruptly. "The children don't need to hear this filth. Tommen, Myrcella, come." She strode briskly from the morning room, her train and her pups trailing behind her.
Eddard stayed in his place regarding Tyrion thoughtfully with his cool green eyes. "Perhaps you could deliver some letters for me uncle. I was thinking about asking Benjen Stark however since you're going to the Wall..."
"Letters?" said Tyrion questioningly.
"To a maester Aemon at Castle Black. Interesting fellow." The prince gave a sigh. "I'd have liked to see the Wall myself but that would mean missing Lord Stark's debut as Hand."
Jamie Lannister shook his head. "Stark will never consent to leave Winterfell with his son lingering in the shadow of death."
"He will if the King commands it." Eddard said. "There is nothing more he can do for Bran Stark in any case."
"He could end his torment," Jaime said. " It would be a mercy."
"I advise against putting that suggestion to Lord Eddard, sweet brother," Tyrion said. "He would not take it kindly."
"Even if the boy does live, he will be a cripple. Worse than a cripple. A grotesque. Give me a good clean death."
Tyrion replied with a shrug that accentuated the twist of his shoulders. "Speaking for the grotesques," he said, "I beg to differ. Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities."
Jaime smiled. "You are a perverse little imp, aren't you?"
"Oh, yes," Tyrion admitted. "I hope the boy does wake. I would be most interested to hear what he might have to say."
His brother's smile curdled like sour milk. His nephew's grin only widened as he raised himself to the table. "I doubt he'll say much. After such a blow to the head he'll be lucky to remember his own name."
Jamie gave a little start before smiling. Tyrion's mismatched eyes narrowed. What did his nephew know?
"Tyrion, my sweet brother," his brother said as they watched Eddard Baratheon's retreating back, "there are times when you give me cause to wonder whose side you are on."
Tyrion's mouth was full of bread and fish. He took a swallow of strong black beer to wash it all down, and grinned up wolfishly at Jaime, "Why, Jaime, my sweet brother," he said, "you wound me. You know how much I love my family."
The wolf's howling split the morning air. It was almost as tiring as the bickering of the maesters, Tyrion decided. There was something about the wolves that chilled the bones and made you feel vulnerable and cold but at least they didn't constantly disagree over every small thing. Maesters were sometimes called knights of the mind and these ones had engaged in furious combat for the past five days. Even now old, small maester Luwin was arguing in a hushed voice with Qyburn while a tired maester Erreck was dozing near the fireplace. The maester of Winterfell didn't trust Qyburn. In all fairness Tyrion wasn't sure he trusted the man himself despite his nephew's words- the Citadel had stripped Qyburn of his chains and there were dark rumors surrounding him. However nobody could doubt his effectiveness and he'd proven it yet again for after just two hours of his tending young Bran Stark's legs had twitched and the young boy had looked increasingly better since.
It would have been worse if his favorite nephew hadn't brought Qyburn to Winterfell and Tyrion's thoughts turned once again towards Eddard Baratheon. The boy was a mystery, one that he had no idea how to solve. Tall, lean, with golden hair and vibrant green eyes he looked very much like his mother or Jamie and yet he was clever and witty and thoughtful in a way neither of his siblings were. Eddard was always with a book in his hand or thinking about something, usually something new or unexpected. He takes more after me than after Cersei, at least in the more important matters, thought Tyrion, draining his cup of wine with a genuine smile.
Eddard usually lifted Tyrion's spirits. How could he not when he was probably the only boy or man in the Seven Kingdoms that didn't care that Tyrion was a dwarf? Even his brother Jamie, the only one to show him a measure of love and respect during the terribly long years of childhood cared if only out of pity or worry. Not so Eddard: in his company Tyrion did not feel short and stunted. The reclusive crown prince seemed to prefer his company more than most which was odd in itself. Yet even odder was his knowledge and the certainty with which he used it. Cersei liked to compare her eldest son with their lordly father but Tyrion thought differently. Tywin Lannister's knowledge was a matter of experience just as his certainty was a matter of confidence. Eddard Baratheron simply knew things he shouldn't, couldn't have known and his certainty was both out of knowledge and once again Tyrion wondered what his nephew knew and how.
The direwolf howled again. Tyrion covered a yawn with the back of his hand before closing the book in front of him with a snap. He had been at it all night, but that was nothing new. Tyrion Lannister was not much a one for sleeping. He slipped off the bench, legs numb from the hours of sitting. He massaged some life back into them while watching Maester Erreck, who had woken by the howls or perhaps the noise in the room nimbly pry a book that Septon Chayle had been using as a pillow. The young man jerked up, blinking, confused, the crystal of his order swinging wildly on its silver chain.
"I'm off to break my fast." Tyrion announced to the room before hurrying off to begin his descent of the steep stone steps that corkscrewed around the exterior of the library tower. It was slow going; the steps were cut high and narrow, while his legs were short and twisted. Qyburn passed him by; the man was more than twice his age yet his healthy legs easily allowed him to outpace Tyrion. The rising sun had not yet cleared the walls of Winterfell, but the men were already hard at it in the yard below. Sandor Clegane's raspy voice drifted up to him. "The boy is taking a long time dying."
"At least he dies quietly," young Joffrey replied. He looked rather tired. "It's the wolf that makes the noise. I could scarce sleep last night."
"I could silence the creature if it pleased you," said Clegane as he tested the weight of his longsword. The sound of steel meeting steel rang through the yard.
The prince brightened up at the notion. "With that beast dead I'll get some good sleep for once. Winterfell is so infested with wolves, the Starks would never miss one."
Tyrion hopped off the last step onto the yard. "I beg to differ, nephew," he said. "The Starks can count past six. Unlike some princes I might name."
Joffrey had the grace to at least blush. He was quite unlike his older brother, but then Jaime and Tyrion were somewhat less than peas in a pod themselves.
Sandor wasn't quite as easy to cow. "A voice from nowhere," he said, looking this way and that. "Spirits of the air!" The young prince laughed like he always did when the Hound japed.
Tyrion was used to it. "Thinking about taking up mummery Clegane?"
The tall man pretended to notice him. "My pardons, little lord. I did not see you standing there."
"Then pray no dwarf tries to threaten your charges or you'll wish you were a mummer once my dear sister is done with you." Tyrion turned to his nephew. "Joffrey, it is past time you called on Lord Eddard and his lady, to offer them your comfort."
Joffrey looked stubbornly petulant. "What good will my comfort do them?"
"None," Tyrion said. "Yet it is expected of you. Your absence has been noted."
"The Stark boy is nothing to me," Joffrey said. "Besides I asked Eddard to tell them I'm at the Sept if the Starks ask of me." The prince seemed inordinately pleased at the deception.
Tyrion gave a weary sigh. "That, dear nephew, was two days ago. The Starks have seen you walking about since then."
The golden hair boy pouted. "I'm a prince! Why should I care about the Starks?"
The slap was somehow louder than Tyrion expected: some of the nearby knights and retainers turned to look only to avert their eyes when they caught the Hound's gaze. Joffrey was looking at him in disbelief. His cheek was starting to redden.
"The Starks helped defeat the Mad King at the cost of thousands of their bannermen and smallfolk. They fought in two wars for King Robert. Without the Starks you wouldn't be a prince today so you will go to Lord and Lady Stark, and you fall to your knees in front of them, and you tell them how very sorry you are, and that you are at their service if there is the slightest thing you can do for them or theirs in this desperate hour, and that all your prayers go with them.
Joffrey's eyes bulged as he gaped lips moving silently. "Go," said Tyrion once more, firmly. The prince went, only stopping to cast a poisonous look over his shoulder.
"The prince will remember this, little lord," the Hound warned him.
"I pray he does," Tyrion Lannister replied. "He might even learn something for once." He glanced around the courtyard. "Do you know where I might find my brother?"
"Breaking fast with the queen."
"Ah," Tyrion said. He gave Sandor Clegane a perfunctory nod and walked away as briskly as his stunted legs would carry him, whistling.
The meal that had been laid out in the morning room of the Guest House was plentiful but cheerless. Jaime sat at table with Cersei and the rest of children, talking in low, hushed voices. Prince Eddard gave a curt nod and moved aside to make room before focusing back on the small mound of crisp bacon in front of him.
"Is Robert still abed?" Tyrion asked, taking his seat at the table.
His sister peered at him with the same expression of faint distaste she had worn since the day he was born. "The king has not slept at all. He is with Lord Eddard. He has taken their sorrow deeply to heart."
"He has a large heart, our Robert," Jaime said with a lazy smile. There was very little that Jaime took seriously.
Prince Eddard paused from his battle with the bacon and said just as lazily. "Not large enough to let Lord Stark linger in the North for much longer. We'll leave in two days."
"Will Bran wake by then?" asked prince Tommen, the youngest of Cersei's children.
"No." came the reply from his older brother. "A few weeks would be more likely." The younger boy looked hopefully at his brother but the crown prince had already turned back to his food.
It was his sister who continued. "If the boy wakes at all." Tyrion could feel something strange in Cersei's voice as she continued. "Perhaps it might be more merciful for the child to die than linger in such pain."
Princess Myracella's face dropped while Tommen looked about to cry at the words.
"The maesters say he'll wake," spoke Tyrion swiftly. He chewed some more bread. "though only the gods know when. I would swear that wolf of his is keeping the boy alive. The creature is outside his window day and night, howling. Every time they chase it away, it returns. The maester said they closed the window once, to shut out the noise, and Bran seemed to weaken. When they opened it again, his heart beat stronger."
"There are old tales of Starks being bound to direwolves." the oldest prince said jestingly.
Jamie laughed. The queen gave a thin smile of her own. "The northeners are a superstitious lot." she said indulgently.
"Well you'll be rid of them soon dear sister."
"Not near soon enough," Cersei said. Then she frowned. "Are we leaving?" she echoed. "What about you? Gods, don't tell me you are staying here?"
Tyrion shrugged. "Benjen Stark is returning to the Night's Watch. I have a mind to go with him and see this Wall we have all heard so much of."
Jaime smiled. "I hope you're not thinking of taking the black on us, sweet brother."
Tyrion laughed.
"What, me, celibate? The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. No, I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world."
Cersei stood abruptly. "The children don't need to hear this filth. Tommen, Myrcella, come." She strode briskly from the morning room, her train and her pups trailing behind her.
Eddard stayed in his place regarding Tyrion thoughtfully with his cool green eyes. "Perhaps you could deliver some letters for me uncle. I was thinking about asking Benjen Stark however since you're going to the Wall..."
"Letters?" said Tyrion questioningly.
"To a maester Aemon at Castle Black. Interesting fellow." The prince gave a sigh. "I'd have liked to see the Wall myself but that would mean missing Lord Stark's debut as Hand."
Jamie Lannister shook his head. "Stark will never consent to leave Winterfell with his son lingering in the shadow of death."
"He will if the King commands it." Eddard said. "There is nothing more he can do for Bran Stark in any case."
"He could end his torment," Jaime said. " It would be a mercy."
"I advise against putting that suggestion to Lord Eddard, sweet brother," Tyrion said. "He would not take it kindly."
"Even if the boy does live, he will be a cripple. Worse than a cripple. A grotesque. Give me a good clean death."
Tyrion replied with a shrug that accentuated the twist of his shoulders. "Speaking for the grotesques," he said, "I beg to differ. Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities."
Jaime smiled. "You are a perverse little imp, aren't you?"
"Oh, yes," Tyrion admitted. "I hope the boy does wake. I would be most interested to hear what he might have to say."
His brother's smile curdled like sour milk. His nephew's grin only widened as he raised himself to the table. "I doubt he'll say much. After such a blow to the head he'll be lucky to remember his own name."
Jamie gave a little start before smiling. Tyrion's mismatched eyes narrowed. What did his nephew know?
"Tyrion, my sweet brother," his brother said as they watched Eddard Baratheon's retreating back, "there are times when you give me cause to wonder whose side you are on."
Tyrion's mouth was full of bread and fish. He took a swallow of strong black beer to wash it all down, and grinned up wolfishly at Jaime, "Why, Jaime, my sweet brother," he said, "you wound me. You know how much I love my family."
TechnoMage
Hacking Reality is Fun
Man your SI is a bit cold blooded, I understand why he let things develop as they did.
Having the old hand die is one thing, letting the boy fall just to awaken his powers, thats cold man.
Still needs must I suppose and Bran is very important to combat the cold ones. And the hot ones as well?
Having the old hand die is one thing, letting the boy fall just to awaken his powers, thats cold man.
Still needs must I suppose and Bran is very important to combat the cold ones. And the hot ones as well?
I'm not entirely happy with this chapter and it doesn't contain everything it should contain so it will be slightly edited. However I felt the need to get it out in order to get out of the current writer's block and carry on with the story. So many apologies and feedback is as always much appreciated.
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-THE PRINCE-
Ayrmdon's Engines of War made for interesting reading. Its author had clearly been a gifted writer and a clever scholar, with the work itself earning it's fame as one of the few masterpieces that survived the Freehold's Fall. Unfortunately it was also hard to decipher in places and the scrolls upon which it was written were far too frail which would have usually made me to leave it alone save it for a quieter day where the risk of damaging the frail book would be smaller. However there wouldn't be any quieter days for the next two months: the time it took to travel between cold Winterfell and King's Landing, and postponing the lecture for so much time would be unacceptable even if I weren't such an avid, almost obsessive reader. The Engines of War was one of the rare books that treated the use of war engines alongside and against dragons and that knowledge could very well come in handy in the next couple of years.
Outside Bran's wolf howled for the hundredth time this morning.
"Where is Joff?" Cersei Lannister asked.
I frowned for a few moments before realizing that I didn't know which was quite the problem considering the circumstances. Finally I raised my gaze from the pages to meet her eyes. They were the same shade green like mine or rather prince Eddard Baratheon's. I still couldn't quite decide if I was or wasn't Eddard Baratheon but it seemed safer to refer of myself as Eddard even in my thoughts. It had been hard at the beginning but now I rarely even thought of my other name most days.
The frown deepened. That happened quite a lot these past few days. Bran's fall, the subsequent near constant howling produced by his direwolf, the mournful atmosphere that had enveloped Winterfell and the increasingly cold weather all piled on top of my existing problems had made perpetual frowning inevitable. The thought of having to spend weeks on horseback until my princely ass turned numb did very little to bring joyful thoughts. Reading while riding was practically impossible and even then the great library in the Red Keep usually kept only one copy of most books although that, at least, was changing. The alternative was spending time in the oversized carriage which seemed to hit each and every bump on what passed as a road in the Seven Kingdoms and then there was the challenge of camping in the cold northern weather. Still, perhaps a war could be prevented today. Or perhaps Joffrey had finally acquired some common sense for once.
"I'll find him," I told the queen. She answered with a warm, genuine, motherly smile and something made me reply with a smile of my own.
It would have been much easier in a way to dismiss Cersei Lannister as mad but she did love her children. Since I was masquerading as one of them that did make her ever so slightly harder to despise.
Raising myself, I ruffled Tommen's hair as I headed towards the door. The youngest prince had a cat in his arms- for some reason cats always seemed to somehow find their way to Tommen, who was rarely bereft of purring feline company.
Winterfell's maze of corridors seemed endless. Fortunately I had an inkling of where to start the search- the armory. Even better Sandor Clegane was there, drinking wine and grumbling. Unfortunately he was alone. Worse still, Joffrey was nowhere to be found. The only question left was:
"Do you have any idea where would Joffrey go if he was plotting to do something exceedingly stupid that needed to be kept secret?" I asked the Hound. We both stood there for a few moments thinking before the scarred man pointed towards the old, ruined tower visible in the distance.
And so we went to the oldest part of Winterfell, a boy and his dog moving through the ruins of a long gone people in search for their quarry.
___
I gave the door a mighty shove and it opened with a loud creaking noise. Joffrey was there talking with a small man in brown clothes. The prince's carefully combed, shining golden hair stood in stark contrast with the other man's dirty blond curls.
Both of them turned at the sound. Joffrey gave startled yelp and the unnamed man looked suddenly fearful, pale eyes darting around as if searching for a way to escape but that didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the dagger attached to the man's belt. Its hilt was unmistakably dragonbone and what little could be seen of the blade had the colour of smoke.
"Brother." Joffrey finally spoke shakily as he recovered from his fright It was not helping. I silenced him with a glare before going back to giving the blade a fixed stare. The small dirty man gave a quick bow and a muttered "M'' lord." before going back to looking fearfully at everything and nothing.
"Dragon bone and dragon steel." I said, gathering my wits. Everything seemed to be cold, colder than it should be. It was almost like a dream. "Give it here."
The catspaw obeyed, trembling hands fumbling with the dagger under the Hound's gaze. I took the knife. Its hilt felt strangely warm. The blade itself was a dark grey, the metal marked by ripples. It looked very much like a stormy sky. One could almost see the clouds colliding and twisting in the heavens. I turned towards the narrow window to better look at the blade.
"How much did my brother pay you to kill Brandon Stark?" I asked absentmindedly, twisting the dagger this way and that. Joffrey gaped. The unknown man gave yet another short, nervous bow and stuttered. His looks and demeanor made me think of a rat caught in a trap.
"M'lord...'m faithful... your royal brother... a mercy"
I ran a hand through my hair. A migraine was coming. "How much?"
"90 stags if it pleases you, M'Lord." A sort of desperate courage made its way into his pale features. "Said he'd give me 100 times that if I bring the dagger with the boy's blood on it." Then the burst of courage left him and the would be assassin shrank back once again. The spectacle was so hilariously pathetic I couldn't stop momentarily grinning before sobering. The man had agreed to kill a young boy for a paltry sum and for that he was going to die and I would be the one to give the order.
"So little? Such service should be rewarded more properly." said I causing the small man to perk up hopefully and murmur indistinguishable thanks. I felt a sudden burst of irrational irritation; the man was dead already, had been dead the moment Joffrey had told him to kill Brandon Stark - he just didn't know about it and that blissful ignorance felt... improper. At least Joffrey looked appropriately weary.
I resumed studying the knife. In the pale light I could see a pair of tired green eyes flecked with gold reflected in the blade. They were so familiar and yet not. My throat felt dry. Without taking my eyes off the blade I continued. "Perhaps I'll have the Hound knight you." From the corner of my eye I could see Joffrey taking a step backwards and away in uncertainty. I could hear the soft sounds of clanking armor and the thud of heavy boots hitting stone as Sandor Clegane moved forward just like I could feel him tensing, patiently waiting for my command to strike. The pale eyed man looked between me and the Hound in confusion. I opened my mouth. It would only take a word and yet...
Something stopped me. Words read long ago sprang into my mind. 'If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words.' Lord Eddard Stark had said. The Starks have always done their own killing. It felt wrong to order someone's death here in the oldest part of Winterfell. I wavered momentarily before deciding. The man was dead anyway and this was Westeros: I would have to shed blood sooner rather than later. A moment of hesitation might well cost my life and although watching Ilyn Payne at work had certainly made me less quesy I couldn't be quite certain of myself yet. Besides...
"When in Rome." I muttered turning. Pale eyes looked at me in incomprehension. My hand seemed to move of its own accord, burying the dagger deep into the man's guts. The motion felt easier than it should have. He didn't scream when the blade went in, instead just standing there with his mouth agape but he did give a pained shout as it went out leaving a deep gash in the brown clothing. The next stab was higher as the man doubled up in pain and hit something hard, forcing the blade up. A rib perhaps? Dirty hands grabbed my arms but their grip was poor and I was free with but a push. The dagger went out and darted back for the third time. The pointy end went in smoothly this time as I burried the blade up to the hilt where I thought the heart would be before twisting and yanking it back in a smooth motion. Something warm splattered on my hand. The man swayed for a long moment, his face frozen halfway between surprise and pain, unfocused eyes pleading for something before the light went out of them as he finally collapsed.
I felt tired. Killing was certainly messier than expected. Easier too in a certain way. Shivering slightly I composed myself. Calm, cool, collected- that was me. If I told myself long enough I might even believe it. Wether that would still be true after speaking with my dear brother was anyone's guess. Joffrey was watching the proceedings with an unreadable expression on his face.
"Let no one in." I told Sandor before turning towards the younger boy. The Hound at least seemed utterly unaffected by witnessing his young charge kill which was bizarrely comforting.
"Joffrey" I began spitting out every syllable. "What exactly were you thinking?"
"Thinking?" He parroted startled.
"You may be familiar with it as the brief pause before you do something stupid." I said savagely and was rewarded with a hurt look settling over Joffrey's face. "I assume you didn't simply feel like hiring a stable hand to murder Brandon Stark."
Joffrey mumbled uncomfortably, reddening like a tomato. "I only wanted to help!"
"Help dishonour our family by breaking guest right? Help shame the king by killing his best friend's son?"
Tears welled in Joffrey's green eyes and he flinched as if struck. "Father said it would be a mercy if the boy died."
I narrowed my eyes. "Was he drunk when he said that?"
"No." Joffrey said. I raised a skeptical eyebrow. The young boy seemed to wilt. "Only a little."
"What did I tell you about listening to father when he's drunk? Do you never listen?"
Tears now flowed unbidden on Joffrey's cheeks. He looked much younger and vulnerable now. I wished I'd feel less proud at making him cry.
"I'm sorry. I just wanted to..."
"Make him proud? Make mother proud? Make me proud?" I finished in Joffrey's stead, sighing heavily. If the path to hell was paved with good intentions then my 'brother' could pave all the Seven Hells and still have something left over for the Old Gods. At least he wasn't the pampered, arrogant crown prince but rather the far less spoiled second son. The younger prince was staring at his feet in embarrassment, tears dirtying his face, softly sobbing. I wrapped a brotherly arm around his shoulders, discreetly wiping the bloody dagger on his sleeve while doing so.
"Joffrey, you're my brother so think like my brother. Did I ever do something for no better reason than proving myself? Never do something you can't undo on a whim. Remember the kittens?"
Joffrey gave a shaky nod. I sketched a reassuring smile. We stood for a few moments in silence listening to the sounds in the courtyard. Sandor's voice could be clearly heard arguing with someone. In the distance Bran's wolf howled.
"Stannis held Storm's End for father during the war," my younger sibling began. "He and Renly are on the Council and they weren't even born Princes. Uncle Kevan helps Grandfather and he's only a knight."
I wouldn't have imagined I'd ever be offering comfort to Joffrey Baratheon and yet something about his red rimmed green eyes and stubborn expression made me waver. He had grown on me like some sort of mold. All my siblings had in a way but Joffrey's puppy like loyalty was the most surprising.
"Joff. You know you'll always be my brother."
"Then let me help you! All lions need to aid the pride." quoted Joffrey seriously. Normally I would have wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment. On the other hand the last time Joffrey had tried to help Fleabottom had nearly went up in flames.
"If you want to help you'll have to learn... not just from the maesters." I said, raising a hand to prevent interruptions. "You'll have to learn to think for yourself."
"Think twice, act once." Joffrey seriously said and it took a moment to realise that he was quoting me.
"Better still think thrice and tell me before you do something important." I stressed. Joffrey nodded enthusiastically and hugged me. I bemusedly ruffled the younger boy's hair with my clean hand.
"Now you'll go to mother straight away. If anyone asks what happened you'll tell them that that man tried to trick you in order steal this dagger and I caught him in the act. Understand?" I said pointing at the corpse. Joffrey gave a solemn nod and repeated the instructions earning an approving nod.
The younger boy rushed towards the door before stopping and turning around. "Brother,"said he solemnly "I swear I'll do better next time." And with that parting shot he rushed away leaving me alone in the great hall with the corpse.
"Next time..." I quizzically asked in dismay. "Next time?"
The dead man made no reply.
-----------------------------------------------------------
-THE PRINCE-
Ayrmdon's Engines of War made for interesting reading. Its author had clearly been a gifted writer and a clever scholar, with the work itself earning it's fame as one of the few masterpieces that survived the Freehold's Fall. Unfortunately it was also hard to decipher in places and the scrolls upon which it was written were far too frail which would have usually made me to leave it alone save it for a quieter day where the risk of damaging the frail book would be smaller. However there wouldn't be any quieter days for the next two months: the time it took to travel between cold Winterfell and King's Landing, and postponing the lecture for so much time would be unacceptable even if I weren't such an avid, almost obsessive reader. The Engines of War was one of the rare books that treated the use of war engines alongside and against dragons and that knowledge could very well come in handy in the next couple of years.
Outside Bran's wolf howled for the hundredth time this morning.
"Where is Joff?" Cersei Lannister asked.
I frowned for a few moments before realizing that I didn't know which was quite the problem considering the circumstances. Finally I raised my gaze from the pages to meet her eyes. They were the same shade green like mine or rather prince Eddard Baratheon's. I still couldn't quite decide if I was or wasn't Eddard Baratheon but it seemed safer to refer of myself as Eddard even in my thoughts. It had been hard at the beginning but now I rarely even thought of my other name most days.
The frown deepened. That happened quite a lot these past few days. Bran's fall, the subsequent near constant howling produced by his direwolf, the mournful atmosphere that had enveloped Winterfell and the increasingly cold weather all piled on top of my existing problems had made perpetual frowning inevitable. The thought of having to spend weeks on horseback until my princely ass turned numb did very little to bring joyful thoughts. Reading while riding was practically impossible and even then the great library in the Red Keep usually kept only one copy of most books although that, at least, was changing. The alternative was spending time in the oversized carriage which seemed to hit each and every bump on what passed as a road in the Seven Kingdoms and then there was the challenge of camping in the cold northern weather. Still, perhaps a war could be prevented today. Or perhaps Joffrey had finally acquired some common sense for once.
"I'll find him," I told the queen. She answered with a warm, genuine, motherly smile and something made me reply with a smile of my own.
It would have been much easier in a way to dismiss Cersei Lannister as mad but she did love her children. Since I was masquerading as one of them that did make her ever so slightly harder to despise.
Raising myself, I ruffled Tommen's hair as I headed towards the door. The youngest prince had a cat in his arms- for some reason cats always seemed to somehow find their way to Tommen, who was rarely bereft of purring feline company.
Winterfell's maze of corridors seemed endless. Fortunately I had an inkling of where to start the search- the armory. Even better Sandor Clegane was there, drinking wine and grumbling. Unfortunately he was alone. Worse still, Joffrey was nowhere to be found. The only question left was:
"Do you have any idea where would Joffrey go if he was plotting to do something exceedingly stupid that needed to be kept secret?" I asked the Hound. We both stood there for a few moments thinking before the scarred man pointed towards the old, ruined tower visible in the distance.
And so we went to the oldest part of Winterfell, a boy and his dog moving through the ruins of a long gone people in search for their quarry.
___
I gave the door a mighty shove and it opened with a loud creaking noise. Joffrey was there talking with a small man in brown clothes. The prince's carefully combed, shining golden hair stood in stark contrast with the other man's dirty blond curls.
Both of them turned at the sound. Joffrey gave startled yelp and the unnamed man looked suddenly fearful, pale eyes darting around as if searching for a way to escape but that didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the dagger attached to the man's belt. Its hilt was unmistakably dragonbone and what little could be seen of the blade had the colour of smoke.
"Brother." Joffrey finally spoke shakily as he recovered from his fright It was not helping. I silenced him with a glare before going back to giving the blade a fixed stare. The small dirty man gave a quick bow and a muttered "M'' lord." before going back to looking fearfully at everything and nothing.
"Dragon bone and dragon steel." I said, gathering my wits. Everything seemed to be cold, colder than it should be. It was almost like a dream. "Give it here."
The catspaw obeyed, trembling hands fumbling with the dagger under the Hound's gaze. I took the knife. Its hilt felt strangely warm. The blade itself was a dark grey, the metal marked by ripples. It looked very much like a stormy sky. One could almost see the clouds colliding and twisting in the heavens. I turned towards the narrow window to better look at the blade.
"How much did my brother pay you to kill Brandon Stark?" I asked absentmindedly, twisting the dagger this way and that. Joffrey gaped. The unknown man gave yet another short, nervous bow and stuttered. His looks and demeanor made me think of a rat caught in a trap.
"M'lord...'m faithful... your royal brother... a mercy"
I ran a hand through my hair. A migraine was coming. "How much?"
"90 stags if it pleases you, M'Lord." A sort of desperate courage made its way into his pale features. "Said he'd give me 100 times that if I bring the dagger with the boy's blood on it." Then the burst of courage left him and the would be assassin shrank back once again. The spectacle was so hilariously pathetic I couldn't stop momentarily grinning before sobering. The man had agreed to kill a young boy for a paltry sum and for that he was going to die and I would be the one to give the order.
"So little? Such service should be rewarded more properly." said I causing the small man to perk up hopefully and murmur indistinguishable thanks. I felt a sudden burst of irrational irritation; the man was dead already, had been dead the moment Joffrey had told him to kill Brandon Stark - he just didn't know about it and that blissful ignorance felt... improper. At least Joffrey looked appropriately weary.
I resumed studying the knife. In the pale light I could see a pair of tired green eyes flecked with gold reflected in the blade. They were so familiar and yet not. My throat felt dry. Without taking my eyes off the blade I continued. "Perhaps I'll have the Hound knight you." From the corner of my eye I could see Joffrey taking a step backwards and away in uncertainty. I could hear the soft sounds of clanking armor and the thud of heavy boots hitting stone as Sandor Clegane moved forward just like I could feel him tensing, patiently waiting for my command to strike. The pale eyed man looked between me and the Hound in confusion. I opened my mouth. It would only take a word and yet...
Something stopped me. Words read long ago sprang into my mind. 'If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words.' Lord Eddard Stark had said. The Starks have always done their own killing. It felt wrong to order someone's death here in the oldest part of Winterfell. I wavered momentarily before deciding. The man was dead anyway and this was Westeros: I would have to shed blood sooner rather than later. A moment of hesitation might well cost my life and although watching Ilyn Payne at work had certainly made me less quesy I couldn't be quite certain of myself yet. Besides...
"When in Rome." I muttered turning. Pale eyes looked at me in incomprehension. My hand seemed to move of its own accord, burying the dagger deep into the man's guts. The motion felt easier than it should have. He didn't scream when the blade went in, instead just standing there with his mouth agape but he did give a pained shout as it went out leaving a deep gash in the brown clothing. The next stab was higher as the man doubled up in pain and hit something hard, forcing the blade up. A rib perhaps? Dirty hands grabbed my arms but their grip was poor and I was free with but a push. The dagger went out and darted back for the third time. The pointy end went in smoothly this time as I burried the blade up to the hilt where I thought the heart would be before twisting and yanking it back in a smooth motion. Something warm splattered on my hand. The man swayed for a long moment, his face frozen halfway between surprise and pain, unfocused eyes pleading for something before the light went out of them as he finally collapsed.
I felt tired. Killing was certainly messier than expected. Easier too in a certain way. Shivering slightly I composed myself. Calm, cool, collected- that was me. If I told myself long enough I might even believe it. Wether that would still be true after speaking with my dear brother was anyone's guess. Joffrey was watching the proceedings with an unreadable expression on his face.
"Let no one in." I told Sandor before turning towards the younger boy. The Hound at least seemed utterly unaffected by witnessing his young charge kill which was bizarrely comforting.
"Joffrey" I began spitting out every syllable. "What exactly were you thinking?"
"Thinking?" He parroted startled.
"You may be familiar with it as the brief pause before you do something stupid." I said savagely and was rewarded with a hurt look settling over Joffrey's face. "I assume you didn't simply feel like hiring a stable hand to murder Brandon Stark."
Joffrey mumbled uncomfortably, reddening like a tomato. "I only wanted to help!"
"Help dishonour our family by breaking guest right? Help shame the king by killing his best friend's son?"
Tears welled in Joffrey's green eyes and he flinched as if struck. "Father said it would be a mercy if the boy died."
I narrowed my eyes. "Was he drunk when he said that?"
"No." Joffrey said. I raised a skeptical eyebrow. The young boy seemed to wilt. "Only a little."
"What did I tell you about listening to father when he's drunk? Do you never listen?"
Tears now flowed unbidden on Joffrey's cheeks. He looked much younger and vulnerable now. I wished I'd feel less proud at making him cry.
"I'm sorry. I just wanted to..."
"Make him proud? Make mother proud? Make me proud?" I finished in Joffrey's stead, sighing heavily. If the path to hell was paved with good intentions then my 'brother' could pave all the Seven Hells and still have something left over for the Old Gods. At least he wasn't the pampered, arrogant crown prince but rather the far less spoiled second son. The younger prince was staring at his feet in embarrassment, tears dirtying his face, softly sobbing. I wrapped a brotherly arm around his shoulders, discreetly wiping the bloody dagger on his sleeve while doing so.
"Joffrey, you're my brother so think like my brother. Did I ever do something for no better reason than proving myself? Never do something you can't undo on a whim. Remember the kittens?"
Joffrey gave a shaky nod. I sketched a reassuring smile. We stood for a few moments in silence listening to the sounds in the courtyard. Sandor's voice could be clearly heard arguing with someone. In the distance Bran's wolf howled.
"Stannis held Storm's End for father during the war," my younger sibling began. "He and Renly are on the Council and they weren't even born Princes. Uncle Kevan helps Grandfather and he's only a knight."
I wouldn't have imagined I'd ever be offering comfort to Joffrey Baratheon and yet something about his red rimmed green eyes and stubborn expression made me waver. He had grown on me like some sort of mold. All my siblings had in a way but Joffrey's puppy like loyalty was the most surprising.
"Joff. You know you'll always be my brother."
"Then let me help you! All lions need to aid the pride." quoted Joffrey seriously. Normally I would have wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment. On the other hand the last time Joffrey had tried to help Fleabottom had nearly went up in flames.
"If you want to help you'll have to learn... not just from the maesters." I said, raising a hand to prevent interruptions. "You'll have to learn to think for yourself."
"Think twice, act once." Joffrey seriously said and it took a moment to realise that he was quoting me.
"Better still think thrice and tell me before you do something important." I stressed. Joffrey nodded enthusiastically and hugged me. I bemusedly ruffled the younger boy's hair with my clean hand.
"Now you'll go to mother straight away. If anyone asks what happened you'll tell them that that man tried to trick you in order steal this dagger and I caught him in the act. Understand?" I said pointing at the corpse. Joffrey gave a solemn nod and repeated the instructions earning an approving nod.
The younger boy rushed towards the door before stopping and turning around. "Brother,"said he solemnly "I swear I'll do better next time." And with that parting shot he rushed away leaving me alone in the great hall with the corpse.
"Next time..." I quizzically asked in dismay. "Next time?"
The dead man made no reply.
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TechnoMage
Hacking Reality is Fun
No words, so im going to go with
Cxjenious
The Young Lion
I like this. The writing is solid. You have but a few rather small problems - punctuation, and too many adverbs.
You write this, "The ghost was scary." I said.
It should be, "The ghost was scary," I said.
It's a small issue, and doesn't really detract from the story, but I can't help but notice. Same with the numerous adverbs.
"Next time..." I quizzically asked in dismay.
"Brother,"said he solemnly
"Think twice, act once." Joffrey seriously said
"Then let me help you! All lions need to aid the pride." quoted Joffrey seriously.
Joffrey nodded enthusiastically and hugged me. I bemusedly...
"How much did my brother pay you to kill Brandon Stark?" I asked absentmindedly...
Those are just a few. Some are necessary, but most aren't. Alternatively, you can change them to mere verbs. Either way, I like the story.
You write this, "The ghost was scary." I said.
It should be, "The ghost was scary," I said.
It's a small issue, and doesn't really detract from the story, but I can't help but notice. Same with the numerous adverbs.
"Next time..." I quizzically asked in dismay.
"Brother,"said he solemnly
"Think twice, act once." Joffrey seriously said
"Then let me help you! All lions need to aid the pride." quoted Joffrey seriously.
Joffrey nodded enthusiastically and hugged me. I bemusedly...
"How much did my brother pay you to kill Brandon Stark?" I asked absentmindedly...
Those are just a few. Some are necessary, but most aren't. Alternatively, you can change them to mere verbs. Either way, I like the story.
You actually made me like (or at least not despise) Joffrey. That is quite a feat. The problems I had with the story have already been mentioned by Cxjenious, so I won't rehash them- but it's a good start, and I look forward to reading more.
-SANSA-
Her lordly father was out hunting again, Septa Mordane had said as they broke their fast. Sansa wasn't surprised. The king had gone hunting almost every day since leaving Winterfell with her father always accompanying him. This time they were hunting aurochs.
"We are all invited to ride with the queen and Princess Myrcella in the royal wheelhouse," the Septa said. "And we need to look our best. All of us." She finished sternly casting a meaningful glance at the green eyed girl eating next to her. Meera Reed looked back defiantly. She was a slim girl with brown hair who dressed so much like a boy that Sansa had mistakenly took her for her brother Jojen once the two arrived in camp. She had been in riding clothes and armored in a suit of bronze scales and carried a spear in one hand and a net in the other. Sansa knew that the Reeds were good friends of her family and that their father, Lord Howland Reed had once saved her father's life during the war so she'd done her best to be friendly to the two Cragonmen even if she had feared that Meera Reed would be as wild as Arya. However Meera had observed all courtesies and while she had worn her armor even when meeting the Queen, the bronze scales had been just as highly polished as the white enameled scales of the Kingsguard and she'd worn elegant silken clothes in Dornish fashion underneath.
"Of course," replied Sansa softly, answering for the both of them. She already looked her best. Her auburn hair had been brushed until it shone and she was dressed in impeccable blue silk. It was a great honor to ride with the queen and Prince Eddard might be there. Her prince. The thought brought a strange fluttering feeling inside for they were betrothed despite not being able to marry for many years yet. She had fell in love with him that day at Winterfell; how could she not when he was tall and strong and handsome with his golden hair? At first the prince had seemed cold and distant and she had cried at night, afraid that he didn't like her. However her fears were proven unfounded for he'd shown himself to be gallant, gentle and kind once they met more properly. The prince had arranged to take her half brother Jon with them to the capital just to keep her company and for Arya to receive dancing lessons once they reached King's Landing. It had been him that had brought Bran the day he fell and his men had made him better when even Maester Luwin had been at his wits end. He had also given Sansa a lovely golden necklace that she now wore more than any other jewelry together with many books about distant and wondrous lands and brave heroes and even had gleaming sliver collar made for Lady. Sansa treasured every chance to spend time with him, few as they were.
The only thing that worried her about today was Arya. Arya had a way of ruining everything. You never knew what she would do. She was so unruly even if all the Princes and the Queen had been so kind to her.
Septa Mordane seemed to think much the same. "Do tell Arya to dress properly this time. The grey velvet perhaps?"
"I'll tell her," Sansa said uncertainly, "but she'll dress the way she always does." She hoped it wouldn't be too embarrassing. "May I be excused?"
"You may," Septa Mordane helped herself to more bread and honey, and Sansa slid from the bench. Meera raised herself without comment. Lady followed at their heels as they ran from the inn's common room.
The outside was filled with shouts and curses as the men disassembled the camp and packed it into large wooden waggons. The inn was a big three storied structure of wood and stone and yet it could barely hold a third of the king's party which had grown to some 400 men after leaving Winterfell.
Meera Reed looked around in worry. "I'm going to find Jojen. I haven't seen him today." Sansa gave an understanding nod before turning to search for her sister.
She found Arya on the bank of the Trident, trying to hold Nymeria still while she brushed dried mud from her fur. The direwolf was not enjoying the process. Arya was wearing the same riding leathers she had worn yesterday and the day before.
"You better put on something pretty," Sansa told her. "Septa Mordane said so. We're traveling in the queen's wheelhouse with Princess Myrcella today."
"I'm not," Arya said, trying to brush a tangle out of Nymeria's matted grey fur. "Mycah and I are going to ride upstream and look for rubies at the ford."
"Rubies?" Sansa said lost. "What rubies?"
Arya gave her a look like she was so stupid. "Rhaegar's rubies. This is where King Robert killed him and won the crown."
Sansa regarded her scrawny little sister in disbelief. "You can't look for rubies, the princess is expecting us. The queen invited us both."
"I don't care," Arya said. "The wheelhouse doesn't even have windows, you can't see a thing."
"What could you want to see?" Sansa said, annoyed. She had been thrilled by the invitation, and her stupid sister was going to ruin everything, just as she'd feared. "It's all just fields and farms and holdfasts."
"It is not," Arya said stubbornly. "If you came with us sometimes, you'd see."
"I hate riding," Sansa said fervently. "All it does is get you soiled and dusty and sore."
Arya shrugged. "Hold still, " she snapped at Nymeria, "I'm not hurting you." Then to Sansa she said, "When we were crossing the Neck, I counted thirty-six flowers I never saw before, and Mycah showed me a lizard-lion."
Sansa shuddered. The crossing of the Neck had been the worst part of their journey, a twelve days march through the muddy swamp, its monotony broken only by the arrival of Jojen and Meera Reed. Arya hadn't minded though instead choosing to wade through mud in search of lizard-lions with the help of her friend Mycah, the butcher's boy, an unkempt and wild 13 year old whose mere sight made Sansa quesy. Once, her sister had picked up some poisonous purple flowers to give father and had gotten a rash. Even that did not dissuade Arya in the least for Lord Eddard had hugged her instead of delivering a just reprimand and Arya had treated the rash with foul smelling herbs brought by the Reeds.
Sansa decided to try one last time. "There'll be lemon cakes and tea," she said with all the maturity and patience she could muster. Lady brushed against her leg. Sansa scratched her ears the way she liked, and Lady sat beside her on her haunches, watching Arya chase Nymeria. "You can't tell me you'd rather ride a smelly old horse and get all sore and sweaty when you could recline on feather pillows and eat cakes with the queen?"
Arya's face got the stubborn look that meant she was going to do something willful. "Yes I can. I don't like the queen. She won't let me bring Nymeria."
Sansa sucked in her breath, shocked that even Arya would say such a thing. "Fine. I'll go by myself then. Lady and I will eat all the lemon cakes and just have the best time without you," said the girl before whirling around and departing. Arya shouted after her, "They won't let you bring Lady either." Sansa was too upset to care. She could only imagine what the queen would think. Why couldn't her sister be less willful and more gentle like princess Myracella?
Her distress was set aside as she reached the center of the camp, Lady padding quietly after her. The queen was sitting at the top of the wooden steps of her wheelhouse, smiling down on someone. Sansa heard her saying, "The council does us great honor, my good lords." Prince Joffrey could be seen standing one step below her while the young princess was peering from behind the queen. Ser Jamie Lannister was there too, two steps below his sister. There was no sign of the oldest and youngest of the princes.
Intrigued, Sansa pushed forwards through the crowd, Lady at her side. People moved aside hastily for the direwolf. In the front of the clearing two knights in splendid armor were kneeling before the queen. One of them was an old man clad in the pure white armor of the Kingsguard. His hair was as white as the cloak draped over his shoulders yet he seemed strong and graceful despite that. The second man was much younger, perhaps twenty years of age. He was very handsome, with black hair and green eyes. His armor was green and he carried a helm with golden antlers in his arms.
A third stranger was standing several paces behind the two. He was a gaunt, grim man with hollow cheeks. Unlike the others he wore well used chain mail over boiled leathers. The queen was saying something to the two knights who knelt before her, but Sansa could not take her eyes off the third man. He seemed to feel the weight of her gaze. Slowly he turned his head. Lady growled. A terror as overwhelming as anything Sansa Stark had ever felt filled her suddenly. She stepped backward and bumped into someone, which nearly made her jump in fright.
A strong hand grasped one of her shoulders, steadying her. Sansa turned slowly. Eddard Baratheon stood behind her, golden hair ruffled by the wind, black armor gleaming in the sun, protectively clutching a large tome in one hand and suddenly she wasn't so afraid anymore. Ghost trotted out from behind the golden haired boy as a small group approached: her half-brother Jon, the Hound with his burned face, kindly old Qyburn, the wise man who had helped Bran and was giving her lessons in Valyrian and a dark haired, dark eyed man which she didn't know.
"Did I frighten you?" Her prince asked with a reassuring smile. Sansa's answer was interrupted by the clinking of armor and the sound of steel on leather as swords were drawn. Something made her turn back towards the knights, who now stood with swords in their hands. Lady growled while Ghost stalked forward silently. She felt frightened and ashamed as she struggled not to cry in front of her prince.
"Sheathe your swords," the prince commanded. He didn't raise his voice but there was something in his tone that demanded obedience. The elderly Kingsguard swiftly obeyed, bowing his head slightly. Knights and free riders in the crowd took their hands of the pommels of their swords. Only the green knight didn't acknowledge the order instead stating in disbelief: "Seven hells, that's a direwolf."
Eddard Baratheon peered at Lady with exaggerated care. "Seven hells, it is a direwolf," he exclaimed in mock surprise. Here and there titters rose from the crowd and prince Joffrey laughed outright. Her prince continued in a gentle, almost soothing tone.
"You can sheathe your sword now uncle. You've scared away all the snarks and there's not a grumpkin in sight." The sporadic titters turned into general laughter, led by the young knight in green armor himself. Sansa joined in shyly, starting to feel comfortable.
The prince stepped besides her and started making the introductions.
"Ser Barristan Selmy. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, trusted advisor to the King and one of the greatest knights to have ever been born in the Seven Kingdoms."
"You are too kind Your Grace," Ser Barristan replied. "I am honoured to know you my lady, no matter how irregular the occasion of our meeting."
Sansa knew the name and remembered her courtesies. "The honor is mine, good knight. Even in the far north, the singers praise the deeds of Barristan the Bold."
The green knight laughed again. "Barristan the Old, you mean. Don't flatter him too sweetly, child, he thinks overmuch of himself already."
"Lord Renly of Storm's End, Master of Laws, brother to my royal father and by far the best dressed man in all the Kingdoms," her father's namesake continued.
That brought another round of laughter and merriment as Sansa complimented the young lord. Suddenly the third man made his way forward to stand before them unsmiling. Lady growled. Jon tried to move between the direwolf and the man.
"Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice," The prince announced and she had to struggle to say something courteous that wouldn't sound false.
"You look most fearsome ser," Sansa finally said. The man did not reply. Instead the queen answered for him as she descended from her wheelhouse. "As well he should. If the wicked do not fear the King's Justice, you have put the wrong man in the office."
"Then surely you have chosen the right one, Your Grace," Sansa said, and a gale of laughter erupted all around her. Still Ser Ilyn said nothing.
"I am sorry if I offended you, Ser Ilyn," she said. No answer came. The headsman merely looked at her, his pale colorless eyes seemed to strip the clothes away from her, and then the skin, leaving her soul naked before him. Still silent, he turned and walked away.
Sansa did not understand. She looked at her prince. "Did I say something wrong, Your Grace? Why will he not speak to me?"
"Ser Ilyn hasn't been very talkative since the Mad King had his tongue ripped out with hot pincers," said Eddard Baratheon with a careless smile.
"He speaks most eloquently with his sword, however," the queen said, "and his devotion to our realm is unquestioned." Then she smiled graciously and said, "Sansa, the good councillors and I must speak together until the king returns with your father. I fear we shall have to postpone your day with Myrcella. Please give your sweet sister my apologies. Eddard, perhaps you would be so kind as to entertain our guest today."
"It would be my pleasure, Mother," Eddard said formally, before turning to her. "What would you like to do?"
Be with you, Sansa thought, but she couldn't say that in front of all these people, so she merely replied, "Whatever you'd like to do, my prince."
"Let's visit the Trident then. Perhaps I might impose on Ser Barristan to guide us, if he doesn't mind." Ser Barristan didn't and the queen graciously gave her acquiescence. The firstborn prince took her by the arm and led her away from the wheelhouse, and Sansa's spirits took flight. A whole day with her prince! She gazed at him worshipfully. Her feelings must have shown for Jon was smirking in that infuriating way of his and the Hound barked in laughter but the crown prince didn't seem to care so Sansa ignored their antics as best she could as they went for the horses.
The unknown black haired man that had followed Eddard earlier suddenly cleared his throat. Sansa looked at him more carefully. He was a lean, hard man dressed in dark clothes. A stubble of beard framed his jaw. Eddard Baratheon didn't ignore the man as Sansa had expected but instead absentmindedly presented him.
"My lady, allow me to introduce Bronn. He's... my goat keeper."
Sansa didn't know what to say to that. After a few moments of struggle she blurted in surprise: "You have goats?" at the same time with her half brother's suspicious. "He looks more like a sellsword to me."
"Bronn is a sellsword. Quite good at it. He's just found that goat keeping is more profitable for the time being," The prince answered them in turn as Bronn gave an enigmatic smile. "And just one goat, called Hoat." Young prince Joffrey laughed uproariously at that. Sansa gave a polite smile, though she inwardly wanted to hit herself for not grasping the jape.
Yet soon they reached the horses and all talk of goats was forgotten. It was a beautiful day. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of flowers, and the woods here had a gentle beauty that Sansa had never seen in the north. They all rode on the banks of the Trident, enjoying the warm summer wind, Lady and Ghost leading the way. They went to the old battlegrounds first, noble Ser Barristan melancholically reminiscing about the battle. To Sansa it seemed almost unreal that so many famous knights and valiant warriors would fight on the quiet, sunny field that stretched before her. The party split up after another bit of riding as her prince took her to a nearby meadow near the river while the others went hunting or exploring. Her prince pulled out a book from the saddle, perched himself comfortably atop a tree stump and started reading. Sansa didn't mind sitting by him, playing with lady or just watching as her prince read. For some time only sounds in the clearing were the murmur of the river, the rustling of the leaves and the soft swish of paper being turned until the direwolf suddenly growled.
A black shape darted across the meadow, closely followed by a larger and more familiar white one. Ghost was bounding after a lean shadowcat, both of them gone in the blink of an eye. Eddard dropped the book, raised himself abruptly and then belatedly drew his sword from its sheath. The sound of steel on leather made Sansa tremble. "Ghost!" came Jon's voice from the woods. The direwolf returned sheepishly just as her half brother and the Hound came into view.
"What was that?" the prince asked and Sansa hastened to answer.
"A shadowcat."
"Young one," said Sandor Clegane from atop his black stallion. "Can't be older than those pups."
The golden haired boy tapped the rock with his sword absentmindedly, gleaming blue steel shining in the sun as the Jon dismounted and called Ghost. Lady returned to Sansa unbidden, licking her hand with a rough tongue. Finally Eddard Baratheon made up his mind.
"I want it."
The Hound shrugged. "I'll bring you its pelt."
"Alive and unspoiled," said the prince firmly, touching the gold lion on his breastplate.
And so they went again. They were all mounted Ser Barristan and Qyburn joining with them as they rode. They swiftly tracked the shadowcat to its lair, Ghost and Lady leading the way through the undergrowth so fast that the riders were hard pressed to keep with them. Sansa's could feel her heart pounding in excitement. She had never gone hunting like this before.
"Be careful!" she cried out as the men and boys dismounted.
"Have no worry sister," said Jon calmly. Her prince merely nodded and gave her a small smile before taking the heavy helm from the saddle, gleaming black metal with golden prancing stags and roaring lion shining in the sun as he placed it carefully on his head. The Hound and Ser Barristan were already helmeted and ready as they stood in front of the shallow cave where the shadowcat hid, hissing at the direwolves that guarded the entrance.
"I'll be right behind you," the prince said, moving forward and patting Sandor Clegane's armored shoulder. The Hound gave a gruff laugh before heading towards the hissing beast, Ser Barristan flanking him. The shadowcat stopped moving around as they got closer. It stood perfectly still until the closest of the men was merely a couple of feet away before bounding between them. Old Ser Barristan moved so swiftly that Sansa had to blink but the shadowcat was swifter still and dodged him before going straight for her prince. Sansa screamed. Eddard took a step back in surprise just as the shadowcat dodged between his feet- straight into the heavy golden cloak the prince wore. Both boy and beast went down, the shadowcat desperately trying to untangle itself from the fabric, the prince shouting unintelligible curses. Sansa slid of her mare just as Lady jumped forward adding her own body to the tangle and then the Hound was there. The tall muscled man grabbed both cloak and cat, separating them from the prince as he threw himself on his back.
The next minutes passed as a blur but soon the shadowcat was tied up and knocked unconscious by a few well placed pommel strikes and Sansa could check on her prince. Eddard Baratheon was uninjured, though his armor had fared worse as it was teeth and claws. The girl could see tiny scratches on the armor either from claws or rocks- the prancing stag's belly and throat and the roaring lion's claw and head were marred by tiny scrapes.
"A splendid specimen," pronounced Qyburn, as he carefully inspected the shadowcat.
"What would you wish to do with it, Your Grace?" asked Ser Barristan.
"Keep it," mussed the prince. "After all the Lannister sigil is a cat."
"A lion," remarked the Hound. The prince shrugged.
"Only a cat of a different coat," he quipped, bringing out laughter the Hound and Qyburn and Jon.
The trek back to the meadow was much slower. Sansa was starting to feel hungry. Fortunately the prince's sellsword awaited them with a ready meal and with Jojen and Meera Reed who had stumbled upon him. They dined on trout fresh from the river and hares that Jon and the Hound had caught in the morning. At the prince's encouragement Ser Barristan told tales from his youth and kindly Qyburn spoke of his trips to the Free Cities. The others traded tales as well, and Sansa drank more wine than she had ever drunk before.
"Perhaps we should be starting back, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said after a long while. Sansa looked around a bit dizzy from the wine. It had gotten late.
The prince raised himself, and said, stretching. "It was a pleasant day."
"It's not over yet," someone said and it took Sansa a moment to realise that the quiet, timid Jojen Reed had spoken.
"Truly," her prince remarked, frowning and Sansa felt something odd about his voice. She shook her head to clear it and raised herself. She shouldn't have drunk so much, she decided.
They went more slowly as they returned. The prince's men had been left behind to bring the spoils and Jojen and Meera had taken their place.
As they neared the inn a strange sight made them slow even further. A score of red clad men stood in a tight group off the side of the road by the inn with nearly as many bystanders gawking. In the middle of the group four guardsman stood guard with their swords drawn over a large, scruffy boy with red hair that was doubled over in the grass.
"Tregar," Eddard called to one of the guardsmen. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Your brother gave the orders, m'lord," said the guardsman.
"My brother..." started the prince and halted. Prince Joffrey had emerged from the inn followed by his mother, Ser Jamie and a bevy of others. His beautiful blond hair was dripping wet.
Sansa took in the scene confused. She turned to her prince. Eddard Baratheon's mouth opened and closed silently once, twice. Finally the prince turned towards Sansa, bright green eyes seemingly looking straight into her soul and imploringly uttered two words.
"Why me?"
Her lordly father was out hunting again, Septa Mordane had said as they broke their fast. Sansa wasn't surprised. The king had gone hunting almost every day since leaving Winterfell with her father always accompanying him. This time they were hunting aurochs.
"We are all invited to ride with the queen and Princess Myrcella in the royal wheelhouse," the Septa said. "And we need to look our best. All of us." She finished sternly casting a meaningful glance at the green eyed girl eating next to her. Meera Reed looked back defiantly. She was a slim girl with brown hair who dressed so much like a boy that Sansa had mistakenly took her for her brother Jojen once the two arrived in camp. She had been in riding clothes and armored in a suit of bronze scales and carried a spear in one hand and a net in the other. Sansa knew that the Reeds were good friends of her family and that their father, Lord Howland Reed had once saved her father's life during the war so she'd done her best to be friendly to the two Cragonmen even if she had feared that Meera Reed would be as wild as Arya. However Meera had observed all courtesies and while she had worn her armor even when meeting the Queen, the bronze scales had been just as highly polished as the white enameled scales of the Kingsguard and she'd worn elegant silken clothes in Dornish fashion underneath.
"Of course," replied Sansa softly, answering for the both of them. She already looked her best. Her auburn hair had been brushed until it shone and she was dressed in impeccable blue silk. It was a great honor to ride with the queen and Prince Eddard might be there. Her prince. The thought brought a strange fluttering feeling inside for they were betrothed despite not being able to marry for many years yet. She had fell in love with him that day at Winterfell; how could she not when he was tall and strong and handsome with his golden hair? At first the prince had seemed cold and distant and she had cried at night, afraid that he didn't like her. However her fears were proven unfounded for he'd shown himself to be gallant, gentle and kind once they met more properly. The prince had arranged to take her half brother Jon with them to the capital just to keep her company and for Arya to receive dancing lessons once they reached King's Landing. It had been him that had brought Bran the day he fell and his men had made him better when even Maester Luwin had been at his wits end. He had also given Sansa a lovely golden necklace that she now wore more than any other jewelry together with many books about distant and wondrous lands and brave heroes and even had gleaming sliver collar made for Lady. Sansa treasured every chance to spend time with him, few as they were.
The only thing that worried her about today was Arya. Arya had a way of ruining everything. You never knew what she would do. She was so unruly even if all the Princes and the Queen had been so kind to her.
Septa Mordane seemed to think much the same. "Do tell Arya to dress properly this time. The grey velvet perhaps?"
"I'll tell her," Sansa said uncertainly, "but she'll dress the way she always does." She hoped it wouldn't be too embarrassing. "May I be excused?"
"You may," Septa Mordane helped herself to more bread and honey, and Sansa slid from the bench. Meera raised herself without comment. Lady followed at their heels as they ran from the inn's common room.
The outside was filled with shouts and curses as the men disassembled the camp and packed it into large wooden waggons. The inn was a big three storied structure of wood and stone and yet it could barely hold a third of the king's party which had grown to some 400 men after leaving Winterfell.
Meera Reed looked around in worry. "I'm going to find Jojen. I haven't seen him today." Sansa gave an understanding nod before turning to search for her sister.
She found Arya on the bank of the Trident, trying to hold Nymeria still while she brushed dried mud from her fur. The direwolf was not enjoying the process. Arya was wearing the same riding leathers she had worn yesterday and the day before.
"You better put on something pretty," Sansa told her. "Septa Mordane said so. We're traveling in the queen's wheelhouse with Princess Myrcella today."
"I'm not," Arya said, trying to brush a tangle out of Nymeria's matted grey fur. "Mycah and I are going to ride upstream and look for rubies at the ford."
"Rubies?" Sansa said lost. "What rubies?"
Arya gave her a look like she was so stupid. "Rhaegar's rubies. This is where King Robert killed him and won the crown."
Sansa regarded her scrawny little sister in disbelief. "You can't look for rubies, the princess is expecting us. The queen invited us both."
"I don't care," Arya said. "The wheelhouse doesn't even have windows, you can't see a thing."
"What could you want to see?" Sansa said, annoyed. She had been thrilled by the invitation, and her stupid sister was going to ruin everything, just as she'd feared. "It's all just fields and farms and holdfasts."
"It is not," Arya said stubbornly. "If you came with us sometimes, you'd see."
"I hate riding," Sansa said fervently. "All it does is get you soiled and dusty and sore."
Arya shrugged. "Hold still, " she snapped at Nymeria, "I'm not hurting you." Then to Sansa she said, "When we were crossing the Neck, I counted thirty-six flowers I never saw before, and Mycah showed me a lizard-lion."
Sansa shuddered. The crossing of the Neck had been the worst part of their journey, a twelve days march through the muddy swamp, its monotony broken only by the arrival of Jojen and Meera Reed. Arya hadn't minded though instead choosing to wade through mud in search of lizard-lions with the help of her friend Mycah, the butcher's boy, an unkempt and wild 13 year old whose mere sight made Sansa quesy. Once, her sister had picked up some poisonous purple flowers to give father and had gotten a rash. Even that did not dissuade Arya in the least for Lord Eddard had hugged her instead of delivering a just reprimand and Arya had treated the rash with foul smelling herbs brought by the Reeds.
Sansa decided to try one last time. "There'll be lemon cakes and tea," she said with all the maturity and patience she could muster. Lady brushed against her leg. Sansa scratched her ears the way she liked, and Lady sat beside her on her haunches, watching Arya chase Nymeria. "You can't tell me you'd rather ride a smelly old horse and get all sore and sweaty when you could recline on feather pillows and eat cakes with the queen?"
Arya's face got the stubborn look that meant she was going to do something willful. "Yes I can. I don't like the queen. She won't let me bring Nymeria."
Sansa sucked in her breath, shocked that even Arya would say such a thing. "Fine. I'll go by myself then. Lady and I will eat all the lemon cakes and just have the best time without you," said the girl before whirling around and departing. Arya shouted after her, "They won't let you bring Lady either." Sansa was too upset to care. She could only imagine what the queen would think. Why couldn't her sister be less willful and more gentle like princess Myracella?
Her distress was set aside as she reached the center of the camp, Lady padding quietly after her. The queen was sitting at the top of the wooden steps of her wheelhouse, smiling down on someone. Sansa heard her saying, "The council does us great honor, my good lords." Prince Joffrey could be seen standing one step below her while the young princess was peering from behind the queen. Ser Jamie Lannister was there too, two steps below his sister. There was no sign of the oldest and youngest of the princes.
Intrigued, Sansa pushed forwards through the crowd, Lady at her side. People moved aside hastily for the direwolf. In the front of the clearing two knights in splendid armor were kneeling before the queen. One of them was an old man clad in the pure white armor of the Kingsguard. His hair was as white as the cloak draped over his shoulders yet he seemed strong and graceful despite that. The second man was much younger, perhaps twenty years of age. He was very handsome, with black hair and green eyes. His armor was green and he carried a helm with golden antlers in his arms.
A third stranger was standing several paces behind the two. He was a gaunt, grim man with hollow cheeks. Unlike the others he wore well used chain mail over boiled leathers. The queen was saying something to the two knights who knelt before her, but Sansa could not take her eyes off the third man. He seemed to feel the weight of her gaze. Slowly he turned his head. Lady growled. A terror as overwhelming as anything Sansa Stark had ever felt filled her suddenly. She stepped backward and bumped into someone, which nearly made her jump in fright.
A strong hand grasped one of her shoulders, steadying her. Sansa turned slowly. Eddard Baratheon stood behind her, golden hair ruffled by the wind, black armor gleaming in the sun, protectively clutching a large tome in one hand and suddenly she wasn't so afraid anymore. Ghost trotted out from behind the golden haired boy as a small group approached: her half-brother Jon, the Hound with his burned face, kindly old Qyburn, the wise man who had helped Bran and was giving her lessons in Valyrian and a dark haired, dark eyed man which she didn't know.
"Did I frighten you?" Her prince asked with a reassuring smile. Sansa's answer was interrupted by the clinking of armor and the sound of steel on leather as swords were drawn. Something made her turn back towards the knights, who now stood with swords in their hands. Lady growled while Ghost stalked forward silently. She felt frightened and ashamed as she struggled not to cry in front of her prince.
"Sheathe your swords," the prince commanded. He didn't raise his voice but there was something in his tone that demanded obedience. The elderly Kingsguard swiftly obeyed, bowing his head slightly. Knights and free riders in the crowd took their hands of the pommels of their swords. Only the green knight didn't acknowledge the order instead stating in disbelief: "Seven hells, that's a direwolf."
Eddard Baratheon peered at Lady with exaggerated care. "Seven hells, it is a direwolf," he exclaimed in mock surprise. Here and there titters rose from the crowd and prince Joffrey laughed outright. Her prince continued in a gentle, almost soothing tone.
"You can sheathe your sword now uncle. You've scared away all the snarks and there's not a grumpkin in sight." The sporadic titters turned into general laughter, led by the young knight in green armor himself. Sansa joined in shyly, starting to feel comfortable.
The prince stepped besides her and started making the introductions.
"Ser Barristan Selmy. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, trusted advisor to the King and one of the greatest knights to have ever been born in the Seven Kingdoms."
"You are too kind Your Grace," Ser Barristan replied. "I am honoured to know you my lady, no matter how irregular the occasion of our meeting."
Sansa knew the name and remembered her courtesies. "The honor is mine, good knight. Even in the far north, the singers praise the deeds of Barristan the Bold."
The green knight laughed again. "Barristan the Old, you mean. Don't flatter him too sweetly, child, he thinks overmuch of himself already."
"Lord Renly of Storm's End, Master of Laws, brother to my royal father and by far the best dressed man in all the Kingdoms," her father's namesake continued.
That brought another round of laughter and merriment as Sansa complimented the young lord. Suddenly the third man made his way forward to stand before them unsmiling. Lady growled. Jon tried to move between the direwolf and the man.
"Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice," The prince announced and she had to struggle to say something courteous that wouldn't sound false.
"You look most fearsome ser," Sansa finally said. The man did not reply. Instead the queen answered for him as she descended from her wheelhouse. "As well he should. If the wicked do not fear the King's Justice, you have put the wrong man in the office."
"Then surely you have chosen the right one, Your Grace," Sansa said, and a gale of laughter erupted all around her. Still Ser Ilyn said nothing.
"I am sorry if I offended you, Ser Ilyn," she said. No answer came. The headsman merely looked at her, his pale colorless eyes seemed to strip the clothes away from her, and then the skin, leaving her soul naked before him. Still silent, he turned and walked away.
Sansa did not understand. She looked at her prince. "Did I say something wrong, Your Grace? Why will he not speak to me?"
"Ser Ilyn hasn't been very talkative since the Mad King had his tongue ripped out with hot pincers," said Eddard Baratheon with a careless smile.
"He speaks most eloquently with his sword, however," the queen said, "and his devotion to our realm is unquestioned." Then she smiled graciously and said, "Sansa, the good councillors and I must speak together until the king returns with your father. I fear we shall have to postpone your day with Myrcella. Please give your sweet sister my apologies. Eddard, perhaps you would be so kind as to entertain our guest today."
"It would be my pleasure, Mother," Eddard said formally, before turning to her. "What would you like to do?"
Be with you, Sansa thought, but she couldn't say that in front of all these people, so she merely replied, "Whatever you'd like to do, my prince."
"Let's visit the Trident then. Perhaps I might impose on Ser Barristan to guide us, if he doesn't mind." Ser Barristan didn't and the queen graciously gave her acquiescence. The firstborn prince took her by the arm and led her away from the wheelhouse, and Sansa's spirits took flight. A whole day with her prince! She gazed at him worshipfully. Her feelings must have shown for Jon was smirking in that infuriating way of his and the Hound barked in laughter but the crown prince didn't seem to care so Sansa ignored their antics as best she could as they went for the horses.
The unknown black haired man that had followed Eddard earlier suddenly cleared his throat. Sansa looked at him more carefully. He was a lean, hard man dressed in dark clothes. A stubble of beard framed his jaw. Eddard Baratheon didn't ignore the man as Sansa had expected but instead absentmindedly presented him.
"My lady, allow me to introduce Bronn. He's... my goat keeper."
Sansa didn't know what to say to that. After a few moments of struggle she blurted in surprise: "You have goats?" at the same time with her half brother's suspicious. "He looks more like a sellsword to me."
"Bronn is a sellsword. Quite good at it. He's just found that goat keeping is more profitable for the time being," The prince answered them in turn as Bronn gave an enigmatic smile. "And just one goat, called Hoat." Young prince Joffrey laughed uproariously at that. Sansa gave a polite smile, though she inwardly wanted to hit herself for not grasping the jape.
Yet soon they reached the horses and all talk of goats was forgotten. It was a beautiful day. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of flowers, and the woods here had a gentle beauty that Sansa had never seen in the north. They all rode on the banks of the Trident, enjoying the warm summer wind, Lady and Ghost leading the way. They went to the old battlegrounds first, noble Ser Barristan melancholically reminiscing about the battle. To Sansa it seemed almost unreal that so many famous knights and valiant warriors would fight on the quiet, sunny field that stretched before her. The party split up after another bit of riding as her prince took her to a nearby meadow near the river while the others went hunting or exploring. Her prince pulled out a book from the saddle, perched himself comfortably atop a tree stump and started reading. Sansa didn't mind sitting by him, playing with lady or just watching as her prince read. For some time only sounds in the clearing were the murmur of the river, the rustling of the leaves and the soft swish of paper being turned until the direwolf suddenly growled.
A black shape darted across the meadow, closely followed by a larger and more familiar white one. Ghost was bounding after a lean shadowcat, both of them gone in the blink of an eye. Eddard dropped the book, raised himself abruptly and then belatedly drew his sword from its sheath. The sound of steel on leather made Sansa tremble. "Ghost!" came Jon's voice from the woods. The direwolf returned sheepishly just as her half brother and the Hound came into view.
"What was that?" the prince asked and Sansa hastened to answer.
"A shadowcat."
"Young one," said Sandor Clegane from atop his black stallion. "Can't be older than those pups."
The golden haired boy tapped the rock with his sword absentmindedly, gleaming blue steel shining in the sun as the Jon dismounted and called Ghost. Lady returned to Sansa unbidden, licking her hand with a rough tongue. Finally Eddard Baratheon made up his mind.
"I want it."
The Hound shrugged. "I'll bring you its pelt."
"Alive and unspoiled," said the prince firmly, touching the gold lion on his breastplate.
And so they went again. They were all mounted Ser Barristan and Qyburn joining with them as they rode. They swiftly tracked the shadowcat to its lair, Ghost and Lady leading the way through the undergrowth so fast that the riders were hard pressed to keep with them. Sansa's could feel her heart pounding in excitement. She had never gone hunting like this before.
"Be careful!" she cried out as the men and boys dismounted.
"Have no worry sister," said Jon calmly. Her prince merely nodded and gave her a small smile before taking the heavy helm from the saddle, gleaming black metal with golden prancing stags and roaring lion shining in the sun as he placed it carefully on his head. The Hound and Ser Barristan were already helmeted and ready as they stood in front of the shallow cave where the shadowcat hid, hissing at the direwolves that guarded the entrance.
"I'll be right behind you," the prince said, moving forward and patting Sandor Clegane's armored shoulder. The Hound gave a gruff laugh before heading towards the hissing beast, Ser Barristan flanking him. The shadowcat stopped moving around as they got closer. It stood perfectly still until the closest of the men was merely a couple of feet away before bounding between them. Old Ser Barristan moved so swiftly that Sansa had to blink but the shadowcat was swifter still and dodged him before going straight for her prince. Sansa screamed. Eddard took a step back in surprise just as the shadowcat dodged between his feet- straight into the heavy golden cloak the prince wore. Both boy and beast went down, the shadowcat desperately trying to untangle itself from the fabric, the prince shouting unintelligible curses. Sansa slid of her mare just as Lady jumped forward adding her own body to the tangle and then the Hound was there. The tall muscled man grabbed both cloak and cat, separating them from the prince as he threw himself on his back.
The next minutes passed as a blur but soon the shadowcat was tied up and knocked unconscious by a few well placed pommel strikes and Sansa could check on her prince. Eddard Baratheon was uninjured, though his armor had fared worse as it was teeth and claws. The girl could see tiny scratches on the armor either from claws or rocks- the prancing stag's belly and throat and the roaring lion's claw and head were marred by tiny scrapes.
"A splendid specimen," pronounced Qyburn, as he carefully inspected the shadowcat.
"What would you wish to do with it, Your Grace?" asked Ser Barristan.
"Keep it," mussed the prince. "After all the Lannister sigil is a cat."
"A lion," remarked the Hound. The prince shrugged.
"Only a cat of a different coat," he quipped, bringing out laughter the Hound and Qyburn and Jon.
The trek back to the meadow was much slower. Sansa was starting to feel hungry. Fortunately the prince's sellsword awaited them with a ready meal and with Jojen and Meera Reed who had stumbled upon him. They dined on trout fresh from the river and hares that Jon and the Hound had caught in the morning. At the prince's encouragement Ser Barristan told tales from his youth and kindly Qyburn spoke of his trips to the Free Cities. The others traded tales as well, and Sansa drank more wine than she had ever drunk before.
"Perhaps we should be starting back, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said after a long while. Sansa looked around a bit dizzy from the wine. It had gotten late.
The prince raised himself, and said, stretching. "It was a pleasant day."
"It's not over yet," someone said and it took Sansa a moment to realise that the quiet, timid Jojen Reed had spoken.
"Truly," her prince remarked, frowning and Sansa felt something odd about his voice. She shook her head to clear it and raised herself. She shouldn't have drunk so much, she decided.
They went more slowly as they returned. The prince's men had been left behind to bring the spoils and Jojen and Meera had taken their place.
As they neared the inn a strange sight made them slow even further. A score of red clad men stood in a tight group off the side of the road by the inn with nearly as many bystanders gawking. In the middle of the group four guardsman stood guard with their swords drawn over a large, scruffy boy with red hair that was doubled over in the grass.
"Tregar," Eddard called to one of the guardsmen. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Your brother gave the orders, m'lord," said the guardsman.
"My brother..." started the prince and halted. Prince Joffrey had emerged from the inn followed by his mother, Ser Jamie and a bevy of others. His beautiful blond hair was dripping wet.
Sansa took in the scene confused. She turned to her prince. Eddard Baratheon's mouth opened and closed silently once, twice. Finally the prince turned towards Sansa, bright green eyes seemingly looking straight into her soul and imploringly uttered two words.
"Why me?"
Last edited:
Kevin Mackey
Dea Imperator
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Oh good, glad you updated over here, too. This really is rather well done especially how you have managed Joffery into a somewhat sympathetic character.
Done. First time it I copy paste it from SV the paragraphs are eaten so just refresh after a minute or two after updates.
Thanks.
Really good, I like how Eddard has been "collecting" talents, and Joffrey's petty cruelness has suddenly become amusing when it's the big brother who has to clean his mess.
At least Arya and Nymeria don't seem to have been involved, which is good.
At least Arya and Nymeria don't seem to have been involved, which is good.
-EDDARD-
"The King requires your presence, Lord Stark."
Ned rose quickly. "Has my daughter been found?"
Ser Boros Blount huffed in clear disapproval at the question. Eddard Stark paid him no mind. His daughter had been missing for four days and he had scarcely slept an hour since her disappearance. Whatever else Robert wanted could wait.
"Yes," his steward Vayon Poole replied, from besides the Kingsguard. "She's not been harmed."
"Thank the gods," Ned said.
"She has been brought before the King and his council," the white clad knight pompously interjected. Ned frowned deeply at the man's self important bluster before striding towards the door. The knight was no more than a paper shield compared to the Kingsguard of old. Eddard descended the tower steps in a red rage. He had led searches himself for the first three days and this morning he had been so heartsick and weary that he could scarcely stand, but now his fury was on him, filling him with strength.
Men called out to him as he crossed the castle yard, but Ned ignored them in his haste. He would have run, but he was still the King's Hand, and a Hand must keep his dignity. He was aware of the eyes that followed him, of the muttered voices wondering what he would do. Ser Blount struggleed to follow him, hand on the hilt of his sword, armor clanking at every step.
A direwolf howled after him. Was if Ghost or Lady? Was it Nymeria? Ned increased his pace even more causing the Kingsguard to break into a run to catch up.
The king held court in the audience chamber of castle Darry, a modest holding a half day's ride south of the Trident. The royal party had made themselves the uninvited guests while the search for Arya went to the great displeasure of its lord, Ser Raymun Darry. House Darry had fought for the Mad King at the Trident and all three of Ser Raymun's brothers have died there, a truth neither Robert nor Ser Raymun had forgotten.
Ned entered the crowded chamber. Robert was slumped in Darry's high seat at the far end of the room. Cersei Lannister stood beside him with her second son besides her. Her brother, the Kingslayer, was two steps back from her while Ser Meryn Trant guarded the King. The eldest prince was standing to the one before a small table, loudly declaiming something but Ned paid him no mind.
Arya stood at the center of the room, being tended by a Maester as well as the prince's man, Qyburn. Jon kneeled beside her, comforting her.
"Arya," Ned called loudly. He went to her, his boots ringing on the stone floorasd the murmurs and shispers died out. Even his namesake abruptly stopped speaking. When she saw him, she cried out and began to sob.
Ned went to one knee and took her in his arms. She was shaking. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"I know," he said. She felt so tiny in his arms, nothing but a scrawny little girl. It was hard to see how she had caused so much trouble. "Are you hurt?"
"No." Her face was dirty, and her tears left pink tracks down her cheeks. "Hungry some. I ate some berries, but there was nothing else."
"We'll feed you soon enough," Ned promised. He rose to face the king. "What is the meaning of this?"
His eyes swept the room, looking for friendly faces. There were few enough. Robert's face was closed and sullen, the queen's haughty and cold. Ser Jamie Lannister bore the same easy, arrogant smile that he usually wore while his sworn brother's face was unreadable. Standing in the small group at the small table were Ser Barristan, his face grave, Lord Renly, whose half smile could mean anything, solemn looking Maester Erreck, Ser Raymun Darry, who showed nothing on his features while his eyes cast worried glances at the queen and her eldest son and an old man with weathered, sunburnt face half hidden by a cowl. At the head of the table was Sansa, her face flushed with worry. Jory stood behind her, nodding when their gazes met.
His namesake was leaning by the table looking perfectly bored while Sandor Clegane was slumped against a wall several paces behind his charge. All the other men were Lannister men except for Ser Boros Blount, who had loudly taken position to at his back. Ned wasn't reassured. A paper shield would be of no use in front of his king.
"Why was I not told that my daughter had been found?" Ned demanded, his voice ringing.
He spoke to Robert, but it was Cersei Lannister who answered. "How dare you speak to your king in that manner!"
At that, the king stirred. "Quiet, woman," he snapped. He straightened in his seat. "I am sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. It seemed best to bring her here and get the business done with quickly."
"And what business is that?" Ned put ice in his voice.
Prince Eddard stepped forward. "Why, the attack on her by one Mycah, a butcher's boy and his subsequent attempts to flee, who were only thwarted by my brother Joffrey's bravery and quick thinking."
"That's not true," Arya said loudly.
The prince looked positively smug. "It certainly is."
The Queen spoke. "She's clearly still frightened, the poor thing." Her voice was dripping concern but her eyes were cold. Ned could feel the satisfaction gleaming beneath them.
"I'm not," Arya protested defiantly.
"Arya..." Jon said pleadingly. The queen ignored them motioning towards her second son. "Joff tell them how it all happened."
Prince Joffrey went forward and began telling his tale. Ned noticed that he did not so much as glance at Arya as he spoke. He could feel his youngest daughter turning in more restless and as the prince recounted how the butcher's boy had attacked him with a knife she wiggled clear out of his arms, shouting. "Liar!"
The prince reddened. "Shut up," he snapped in clear anger. "You should be thankful..."
"Enough!" the king roared, rising from his seat, his voice thick with irritation. "Let her tell her part!" Silence fell. He glowered at Arya through his thick beard. "Now, child, you will tell me what happened. Tell it all, and tell it true. It is a great crime to lie to a king."
Arya began a very different version of events. When she was done talking, the king rose heavily from his seat, looking like a man who wanted to be anywhere but here. "What in all the seven hells am I supposed to make of this? He says one thing, she says another."
"The butcher boy admitted to the mideed," the Robert's eldest said. Straightening up, he cast a glance on the papers on the small table before continuing in a solemn tone. "He freely confessed attacking Arya Stark before multiple members of the Small Council, her own sister, Lord Darry, Maester Erreck of the Citadel and Septon Meribald of the Faith."
Ned hadn't been present at the confessions but his steward Vayon Poole had told him how the boy had been persuaded to make them. The boy had been dragged to the courtyard in chains and forced to watch as the King's Justice decapitated a pig. Afterwards Ser Ilyn had brought the sword, still dripping with blood, over the boy's neck. 'The boy hasn't been harmed.' the eldest prince said when Ned had brought this before the King. Robert had simply shrugged uncomfortably and turned away.
Much as he was wont to do just now if Ned stood silent. "At least hear what the boy has to say for yourself before you pass the sentence."
"Dam you, Ned," the King cursed softly. "Bring him in."
Half a dozen men armed with swords and crossbows brought the butcher's boy. The prince had insisted that the boy be guarded by both Lannister, Baratheon and Stark men until the hour of his trial but now the men that surrounded him bore only the golden lion on their armor. Ser Ilyn Payne followed behind them, long sword unsheathed and Ned felt a chill.
"Mycah!" Arya shouted and tried to go to him. Jon grabbed her gently and whispered something in her year. Mycah tried to look towards her but two of the guards roughly pushed him forward towards the king. He seemed dazed. Even from across the room Ned could see him crying and he went sprawling on his hands and knees when the guardsmen pushed him towards the king. Renly Baratheon laughed at the sight. Jamie Lannister's smile lazily widened. The king bristled. "I won't have this trial turned into a mummer's farce," he exclaimed before asking questions.
"If you dare lie to your king your tongue shall be ripped out," the queen had added from besides her husband.
The boy answered between great, dry sobs. When the questioning finished the queen was smiling.
"But that's not how it was," Arya whispered, tearfully. Ned put a hand on her shoulder. The king huffed.
"So what am I supposed to do with him?" he asked to the room at large.
The prince's maester answered. "The punishment for striking those of royal blood has been the loss of the limb that did the deed, Your Grace."
"He didn't strike me," protested prince Joffrey angrily. "I captured him without taking a single blow!"
"Quite," his older brother said while the maester bowed slightly. "Perhaps we could flay him instead."
"There has been no flaying in the North for a thousand years. I shall not have one done on my family's behalf," Ned stated firmly.
The queen regarded him coolly. "So you'd let this affront go unpunished?"
"Your Grace, the Night's Watch always has need of more men," came an unexpected voice from Ned's side. Jon had drawn himself to full height and was speaking with all the boldness of a boy on the cusp of manhood. Ned felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. He wished he could have left Jon north but he knew he couldn't protect him forever. He silently cursed the day Jon Arryn died and the day his oldest, best friend had named him Hand. The Lord of Winterfell had rarely felt so helpless.
The king watched silently for a moment before grunting in approval. "Ned's lad speaks sense," he said, turning to the kneeling boy before him. From the corner of his eye Ned saw his princely namesake give Jon a small nod of approval and a quick wink while Mycah the butcher's boy stammered his acceptance. Even the queen seemed somewhat satisfied. Only prince Joffrey wasn't content with the decision.
"He disobeyed me," the boy shouted. "I want him whipped."
The large septon seated at the table spoke for the first time, his voice surprisingly soft for such a big man. "The path to the Wall is long and hard even without a bloody back. I'll be glad to take a whipping in the boy's stead."
"No," the king said rising. "The boy will take the black and he'll freeze his ass in the North. There. Will. Be. No. Further. Punishment," spoke Robert firmly and for a moment he looked once more like the man that won the Rebellion and took Pike. Then Ned blinked and the moment passed as the king tiredly turned and walked away without as much as a word.
Behind him the room was as silent as a grave.
"The King requires your presence, Lord Stark."
Ned rose quickly. "Has my daughter been found?"
Ser Boros Blount huffed in clear disapproval at the question. Eddard Stark paid him no mind. His daughter had been missing for four days and he had scarcely slept an hour since her disappearance. Whatever else Robert wanted could wait.
"Yes," his steward Vayon Poole replied, from besides the Kingsguard. "She's not been harmed."
"Thank the gods," Ned said.
"She has been brought before the King and his council," the white clad knight pompously interjected. Ned frowned deeply at the man's self important bluster before striding towards the door. The knight was no more than a paper shield compared to the Kingsguard of old. Eddard descended the tower steps in a red rage. He had led searches himself for the first three days and this morning he had been so heartsick and weary that he could scarcely stand, but now his fury was on him, filling him with strength.
Men called out to him as he crossed the castle yard, but Ned ignored them in his haste. He would have run, but he was still the King's Hand, and a Hand must keep his dignity. He was aware of the eyes that followed him, of the muttered voices wondering what he would do. Ser Blount struggleed to follow him, hand on the hilt of his sword, armor clanking at every step.
A direwolf howled after him. Was if Ghost or Lady? Was it Nymeria? Ned increased his pace even more causing the Kingsguard to break into a run to catch up.
The king held court in the audience chamber of castle Darry, a modest holding a half day's ride south of the Trident. The royal party had made themselves the uninvited guests while the search for Arya went to the great displeasure of its lord, Ser Raymun Darry. House Darry had fought for the Mad King at the Trident and all three of Ser Raymun's brothers have died there, a truth neither Robert nor Ser Raymun had forgotten.
Ned entered the crowded chamber. Robert was slumped in Darry's high seat at the far end of the room. Cersei Lannister stood beside him with her second son besides her. Her brother, the Kingslayer, was two steps back from her while Ser Meryn Trant guarded the King. The eldest prince was standing to the one before a small table, loudly declaiming something but Ned paid him no mind.
Arya stood at the center of the room, being tended by a Maester as well as the prince's man, Qyburn. Jon kneeled beside her, comforting her.
"Arya," Ned called loudly. He went to her, his boots ringing on the stone floorasd the murmurs and shispers died out. Even his namesake abruptly stopped speaking. When she saw him, she cried out and began to sob.
Ned went to one knee and took her in his arms. She was shaking. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"I know," he said. She felt so tiny in his arms, nothing but a scrawny little girl. It was hard to see how she had caused so much trouble. "Are you hurt?"
"No." Her face was dirty, and her tears left pink tracks down her cheeks. "Hungry some. I ate some berries, but there was nothing else."
"We'll feed you soon enough," Ned promised. He rose to face the king. "What is the meaning of this?"
His eyes swept the room, looking for friendly faces. There were few enough. Robert's face was closed and sullen, the queen's haughty and cold. Ser Jamie Lannister bore the same easy, arrogant smile that he usually wore while his sworn brother's face was unreadable. Standing in the small group at the small table were Ser Barristan, his face grave, Lord Renly, whose half smile could mean anything, solemn looking Maester Erreck, Ser Raymun Darry, who showed nothing on his features while his eyes cast worried glances at the queen and her eldest son and an old man with weathered, sunburnt face half hidden by a cowl. At the head of the table was Sansa, her face flushed with worry. Jory stood behind her, nodding when their gazes met.
His namesake was leaning by the table looking perfectly bored while Sandor Clegane was slumped against a wall several paces behind his charge. All the other men were Lannister men except for Ser Boros Blount, who had loudly taken position to at his back. Ned wasn't reassured. A paper shield would be of no use in front of his king.
"Why was I not told that my daughter had been found?" Ned demanded, his voice ringing.
He spoke to Robert, but it was Cersei Lannister who answered. "How dare you speak to your king in that manner!"
At that, the king stirred. "Quiet, woman," he snapped. He straightened in his seat. "I am sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. It seemed best to bring her here and get the business done with quickly."
"And what business is that?" Ned put ice in his voice.
Prince Eddard stepped forward. "Why, the attack on her by one Mycah, a butcher's boy and his subsequent attempts to flee, who were only thwarted by my brother Joffrey's bravery and quick thinking."
"That's not true," Arya said loudly.
The prince looked positively smug. "It certainly is."
The Queen spoke. "She's clearly still frightened, the poor thing." Her voice was dripping concern but her eyes were cold. Ned could feel the satisfaction gleaming beneath them.
"I'm not," Arya protested defiantly.
"Arya..." Jon said pleadingly. The queen ignored them motioning towards her second son. "Joff tell them how it all happened."
Prince Joffrey went forward and began telling his tale. Ned noticed that he did not so much as glance at Arya as he spoke. He could feel his youngest daughter turning in more restless and as the prince recounted how the butcher's boy had attacked him with a knife she wiggled clear out of his arms, shouting. "Liar!"
The prince reddened. "Shut up," he snapped in clear anger. "You should be thankful..."
"Enough!" the king roared, rising from his seat, his voice thick with irritation. "Let her tell her part!" Silence fell. He glowered at Arya through his thick beard. "Now, child, you will tell me what happened. Tell it all, and tell it true. It is a great crime to lie to a king."
Arya began a very different version of events. When she was done talking, the king rose heavily from his seat, looking like a man who wanted to be anywhere but here. "What in all the seven hells am I supposed to make of this? He says one thing, she says another."
"The butcher boy admitted to the mideed," the Robert's eldest said. Straightening up, he cast a glance on the papers on the small table before continuing in a solemn tone. "He freely confessed attacking Arya Stark before multiple members of the Small Council, her own sister, Lord Darry, Maester Erreck of the Citadel and Septon Meribald of the Faith."
Ned hadn't been present at the confessions but his steward Vayon Poole had told him how the boy had been persuaded to make them. The boy had been dragged to the courtyard in chains and forced to watch as the King's Justice decapitated a pig. Afterwards Ser Ilyn had brought the sword, still dripping with blood, over the boy's neck. 'The boy hasn't been harmed.' the eldest prince said when Ned had brought this before the King. Robert had simply shrugged uncomfortably and turned away.
Much as he was wont to do just now if Ned stood silent. "At least hear what the boy has to say for yourself before you pass the sentence."
"Dam you, Ned," the King cursed softly. "Bring him in."
Half a dozen men armed with swords and crossbows brought the butcher's boy. The prince had insisted that the boy be guarded by both Lannister, Baratheon and Stark men until the hour of his trial but now the men that surrounded him bore only the golden lion on their armor. Ser Ilyn Payne followed behind them, long sword unsheathed and Ned felt a chill.
"Mycah!" Arya shouted and tried to go to him. Jon grabbed her gently and whispered something in her year. Mycah tried to look towards her but two of the guards roughly pushed him forward towards the king. He seemed dazed. Even from across the room Ned could see him crying and he went sprawling on his hands and knees when the guardsmen pushed him towards the king. Renly Baratheon laughed at the sight. Jamie Lannister's smile lazily widened. The king bristled. "I won't have this trial turned into a mummer's farce," he exclaimed before asking questions.
"If you dare lie to your king your tongue shall be ripped out," the queen had added from besides her husband.
The boy answered between great, dry sobs. When the questioning finished the queen was smiling.
"But that's not how it was," Arya whispered, tearfully. Ned put a hand on her shoulder. The king huffed.
"So what am I supposed to do with him?" he asked to the room at large.
The prince's maester answered. "The punishment for striking those of royal blood has been the loss of the limb that did the deed, Your Grace."
"He didn't strike me," protested prince Joffrey angrily. "I captured him without taking a single blow!"
"Quite," his older brother said while the maester bowed slightly. "Perhaps we could flay him instead."
"There has been no flaying in the North for a thousand years. I shall not have one done on my family's behalf," Ned stated firmly.
The queen regarded him coolly. "So you'd let this affront go unpunished?"
"Your Grace, the Night's Watch always has need of more men," came an unexpected voice from Ned's side. Jon had drawn himself to full height and was speaking with all the boldness of a boy on the cusp of manhood. Ned felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. He wished he could have left Jon north but he knew he couldn't protect him forever. He silently cursed the day Jon Arryn died and the day his oldest, best friend had named him Hand. The Lord of Winterfell had rarely felt so helpless.
The king watched silently for a moment before grunting in approval. "Ned's lad speaks sense," he said, turning to the kneeling boy before him. From the corner of his eye Ned saw his princely namesake give Jon a small nod of approval and a quick wink while Mycah the butcher's boy stammered his acceptance. Even the queen seemed somewhat satisfied. Only prince Joffrey wasn't content with the decision.
"He disobeyed me," the boy shouted. "I want him whipped."
The large septon seated at the table spoke for the first time, his voice surprisingly soft for such a big man. "The path to the Wall is long and hard even without a bloody back. I'll be glad to take a whipping in the boy's stead."
"No," the king said rising. "The boy will take the black and he'll freeze his ass in the North. There. Will. Be. No. Further. Punishment," spoke Robert firmly and for a moment he looked once more like the man that won the Rebellion and took Pike. Then Ned blinked and the moment passed as the king tiredly turned and walked away without as much as a word.
Behind him the room was as silent as a grave.
uh... is Eddard trying to be a dick here? Why is he pushing for punishment? And flaying? What. The. Fuck.
I think flaying was meant to provoke a response from Stark, since he knew how the Starks felt about it. Pushing for punishment was keeping up appearances. Better to play his part and nudge honorable Ned Stark to do his things rather than protest in vain, seem suspicious, and fail to save the kid.
Keeping what appearances and for what purpose? He's not posing as a bloodthirsty little brat, He won't win brownie points from Robert or anyone else by pushing for punishment or suggesting barbaric things like flaying; except maybe from Cersei and Joffrey, but the thing is, he doesn't really need it from either of them, Cersei already loves him to pièces, and Joffrey is devoted to him AND his little brother, so no threat here.
On the other hand he might just have significantly worsened his Relationship with Ned, the future hand, Arya, the future assassin, and cooled things off with anyone around the table who thinks flaying is not OK. Not Worth it, should have stayed silent and have Jon suggest the Night Watch like he seems to have done.