Step One: Tywin kicks the bucket.
Step Two: Kevan names Tyrion Lord Paramount.
Step Three: Bannermen look at Tyrion, then look at the soon-to-be absolute monarch.
Step Four: All hail Lord Paramount Tyrion.
A song of blood and gold (ASOIAF/GOT SI)
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- Start date
Step One: Tywin kicks the bucket.
Step Two: Kevan names Tyrion Lord Paramount.
Step Three: Bannermen look at Tyrion, then look at the soon-to-be absolute monarch.
Step Four: All hail Lord Paramount Tyrion.
PKRudeboy
Gentleman Snarker
Kevan Lannister has never had a thought Tywin didn't have first. If Tywin expressed a desire that one of Cersei's children succeeded him, I have no doubt in my mind Kevan would see his will done. He'd feel bad about it, sure, but he'd carry out his brothers wishes anyway.
Well a certain king might name Tyrion Lord Paramount under certain conditions.
It doesn't.
The reasoning is:
-Having more money to play with in the event of a war
-focusing Ned on spending more time fixing the Kingdom's finances rather than visiting brothels and smithies
-making Ned think of him more like Robert's son
-appearing more childish/not quite as mature to Petyr, Varys and all the other plotters
-give Littlefinger plenty of stuff to do in the near future, make Ned more suspicious of him etc.
-focusing Ned on spending more time fixing the Kingdom's finances rather than visiting brothels and smithies
-making Ned think of him more like Robert's son
-appearing more childish/not quite as mature to Petyr, Varys and all the other plotters
-give Littlefinger plenty of stuff to do in the near future, make Ned more suspicious of him etc.
Unfortunately it isn't the only copy. That said being Master of Prints does allow for some judicious editing.
About a year than Jon Snow. More than a year older than Joffrey. I haven't fixed the exact date yet.
Year wise its either late 284 or early 285.
Edit: being a bit more precise he's 13 going on 14.
Last edited:
Oh I am slain!
Wynaut?
- Location
- Tatooine
Wait, I'm probably missing something. How does increasing the debt lead to having more money to use in the event of a war? If the Crown is racking up debt to the Lannisters by spending money, both the Crown and the Lannisters have less money to spend.
Cxjenious
The Young Lion
Yeah, you're missing something. You're focusing on the debt and forgetting about the loan. The Crown will have gold on hand for future expenditure, instead of just dusty coffers.
He could also just have Gendry assassinated.
Not all that money would be spent. What do Westerosi know about the cost of fireworks for example?
As such there will be a nice bit of money lying around in the crown coffers.
As such there will be a nice bit of money lying around in the crown coffers.
Eddard Baratheon said:
You're assuming Tywin would ever let anyone besides a Lannister take Casterly Rock.
11
-TYRION-
It was cold at top of the Wall, thought Tyrion rubbing his hands together as he watched the lands beyond stretch endlessly before him. The forest started spreading half a mile from the Wall, dark trees looming beyond the stretch of open ground constantly kept clear by the Night's Watch. Even from seven hundred feet up Tyrion couldn't see where the forest ended. It just stretched endlessly into the distance merging with the darkening sky at the horizon. As he stood there, chilly winds tugging insistently is clothes, looking at all that darkness with no fires burning anywhere, Tyrion Lannister felt as though he could almost believe the talk of the Others, the enemy in the night.
Shivering he turned away. He went back to half frozen black brothers that manned the creaking cage, back to firm ground where he was sheltered from the cutting wind, back inside to the heat of the fires and only then did Tyrion found heart to mock the old tales once again.
"Mayhaps Mance Rayder sang them about the warm lands south where a man doesn't freeze his balls off if he takes a piss at night or maybe they're being chased by grumpkins," he japed hours later as he lounged on the benches in Castle Black's common hall. The laughter of the men filled the room together with the croaking of the crows that nested in the rafters.
Ser Alliser Thorne was the only man at table who did not so much as crack a smile. "Lannister mocks us."
"Only you, Ser Alliser," Tyrion said, plucking a fresh crab leg. This time the laughter round the table had a nervous, uncertain quality to it.
Thorne's black eyes fixed on Tyrion with loathing. "You have a bold tongue for someone who is less than half a man. Perhaps you should make your japes with steel in your hand."
The half a dozen red clad men around the table tensed, hands going to their swords but Tyrion only looked pointedly at his right hand. "Why, I have steel in my hand, Ser Alliser, although it appears to be a crab fork. Shall we duel?"
He hopped up on his chair and began poking at Thorne's chest with the tiny fork. Roars of laughter filled the tower room. Bits of crab flew from the Lord Commander's mouth as he began to gasp and choke. Even his raven joined in, cawing loudly from above the window. "Duel! Duel! Duel!"
Ser Thorne walked out of the room so stiffly it seemed a spear had been stuck in his butt.
The Lord Commander recovered himself. "You are a wicked man, to provoke our Ser Alliser so," he scolded.
"If a man paints a target on his chest, he should expect that sooner or later someone will loose an arrow at him," said Tyrion taking a sip of wine. He shook his head. "Your Ser Alliser is better suited to mucking stables than training young warriors."
"The Watch has no shortage of stableboys," Lord Mormont grumbled. "That seems to be all they send us these days. Stableboys and sneak thieves and rapers."
Tyrion shrugged. "Well I'll be gone by the morrow and Ser Alliser shall be safe to grumble once again."
"Are you certain that you must leave us so soon?" the Lord Commander asked him a bit later after most of the Watch's officers had retired from the table.
"Past certain, Lord Mormont," Tyrion replied. "My brother Jaime will be wondering what has become of me. He may decide that you have convinced me to take the black."
"Would that I could." Mormont was looking straight into the fire. "You're a cunning man, Tyrion. We have need of men of your sort on the Wall."
Tyrion grinned. "My nephew might not be happy that you'd also want to take his uncle after he's been so generous with his gold and you might not want to upset him. He'll be king one day." That the day might come sooner rather than later Tyrion kept to himself. He knew his dear sister loathed her husband almost as much as she loved her son.
For his part the Old Bear just glared long and hard into the fire. "I'd rather have you and let whoever comes after me beg pardon once your nephew has the throne." The old man looked contrite. "You must think me terribly greedy. The prince and his royal father have given us a great gift for sure and any many of the Watch will thank both them and you for the for the fine steel and good meals that gold will buy yet steel means nothing without men to wield it. The Watch had ten thousand brothers when the dragon landed, many of them the sons or brothers of lords or famed warriors. Now? Less than a tenth that number mans the Wall and the less said about who they are the better. Thieves would rather be whipped bloody or lose a finger rather than take the black. I fear the Night's Watch has become an army of sullen boys and tired old men. Apart from the men at my table tonight, I have perhaps twenty others who can read and far fewer who can plan or lead or think."
He shook his head. "The Night's Watch is dying. Our strength is less than a thousand now. Six hundred here, two hundred in the Shadow Tower, even fewer at Eastwatch, and a scant third of those fighting men. The Wall is a hundred leagues long. Think on that. Should an attack come, I have three men to defend each mile of wall."
"Three and a third," Tyrion said with a yawn.
Mormont scarcely seemed to hear him. "If the Wildlings were more united or better at building ships they could take the Wall in a fortnight. As it is we still have some time though how much I don't know. Yohn Royce's son was lost in his first ranging. He was a young man, green as summer grass but smart and skilled with a sword. I sent him out with two men I deemed as good as any in the Watch. One of them deserted. They caught him near Winterfell, Lord Stark sent me his head. Of the other two there was no trace so I sent Benjen Stark along with the best men in the Watch to search after him and now he's lost. More fool I for sending him."
"Fool," croaked the raven. "Fool."
The Lord Commander took no notice of the irritating bird. "Now that Benjen's missing and I have no one to send after him. In two years I will be seventy. Too old and too weary for the burden I bear, yet if I set it down, who will pick it up? Once the Watch spent its summers building, and each Lord Commander raised the Wall higher than he found it. Now it is all we can do to stay alive."
He was in deadly earnest, Tyrion realized. He felt faintly embarrassed for the old man. Lord Mormont had spent a good part of his life on the Wall, and he needed to believe if those years were to have any meaning. "I promise you, the king will hear of your need," Tyrion said gravely, "and I will speak to my father and my brother Jaime as well as Prince Eddard." And he would. Tyrion Lannister was as good as his word. He left the rest unsaid; that King Robert would ignore him, Lord Tywin would ask if he had taken leave of his senses, and Jaime would only laugh. He was less certain of what Eddard would do. The boy had a tendency of surprising him. In any case his nephew was still young. Still until he took the throne he could only send the Watch more money- if he even bothered. Tyrion suspected the money the prince had sent was a sort of payment for the scrolls and tomes that he would take back to King's Landing to be copied.
"Winter is coming, I can feel it in my bones. Already the days grow shorter. There can be no mistake, Aemon has had letters from the Citadel, findings in accord with his own. The end of summer stares us in the face." Mormont reached out and clutched Tyrion tightly by the hand. "You must make them understand. I tell you, my lord, the darkness is coming. There are wild things in the woods, direwolves and mammoths and snow bears the size of aurochs, and I have seen darker shapes in my dreams."
"In your dreams," Tyrion echoed, thinking how badly he needed another strong drink.
"The fisherfolk near Eastwatch have glimpsed white walkers on the shore."
Tyrion snorted. "The fishefolk of Lannisport often glimpse merlings."
The Lord Commander didn't seem amused. "You do not believe it my lord. Neither would I when I first came to the Wall. Now..." The old man looked away. "There was an obsidian dagger and a scroll adressed to myself alongside the gold you brought me."
"A letter and a letter opener," Tyrion said. Mormont simply drew a piece of parchment from his pocket, unfolded it and placed it on the table. Tyrion could see Eddard's messy script sprawled across the paper. He grabbed it and read aloud.
"From Prince Eddard Baratheon to Lord Commander Jeor Mormont: Greetings! Obsidian will soon be better than steel, advised to buy while you can. Wildlings and others plan on going south of the Wall soon. Craster is not to be trusted. If corpses have blue eyes then place in chains and send to King's Landing. If corpses walk then place in chains and send to King's Landing if possible or burn if not. Keep remaining rare texts at Castle Black safe at all costs. Protect the realm if convenient. Samwell Tarly is to remain alive. Horn at the Fist of the First Men should be retrieved if possible. Remind Lord Rivers that it would be best both the dark sister and and the cold lion reach me in a timely manner. Be wary of snarks and grumpkins. Keep blood from freezing. Best of luck and may the gods help us all when winter comes."
Below the text lay the sigil used by small council members.
"Blood," quoted the Lord Commander's raven.
Tyrion read again, silently, and then again, for the third time, before placing the parchment down.
"My nephew is only thirteen," Tyrion spoke tiredly. "He might have made it up like children often do." Yet even he couldn't believe that. Eddard had to be the least childish boy in the Seven Kingdoms except perhaps for Lord Tywin in his youth. Was it all a jape? It seemed too much for one and yet the young prince was found of bizarre jests which only he could fully comprehend.
Jeor Mormont seemed to think otherwise. "Craster is a wildling who has often helped the Night's Watch in the past. Ser Royce's disappearance might mean he might not be as good of a friend as we have thought. I have just received a raven from Lord Tarly. He tells me that his oldest boy wants to take the black. Denys Mallister writes that the mountain people are moving south, slipping past the Shadow Tower in numbers greater than ever before, almost as if something is chasing them." The old man raised three fingers. "One or two of these I can dismiss as happenstance but three? I pray this will turn out to be a jest and dread that it isn't. Any rangers we send beyond the Wall will hold dragonglass daggers from this day forth but even if we arm the entire watch with Valyrian steel I fear we won't be able to hold against what's coming. "
"What's coming is a headache if I don't get any sleep tonight," Tyrion got to his feet, sleepy from wine and tired of doom. "I thank you for all the courtesies you have done me, Lord Mormont."
"Tell them, Tyrion. Tell them and make them believe. That is all the thanks I need." He whistled, raven flew to him and perched on his shoulder. Mormont smiled and gave the bird some corn from his pocket, and that was how Tyrion left him.
It was cold at top of the Wall, thought Tyrion rubbing his hands together as he watched the lands beyond stretch endlessly before him. The forest started spreading half a mile from the Wall, dark trees looming beyond the stretch of open ground constantly kept clear by the Night's Watch. Even from seven hundred feet up Tyrion couldn't see where the forest ended. It just stretched endlessly into the distance merging with the darkening sky at the horizon. As he stood there, chilly winds tugging insistently is clothes, looking at all that darkness with no fires burning anywhere, Tyrion Lannister felt as though he could almost believe the talk of the Others, the enemy in the night.
Shivering he turned away. He went back to half frozen black brothers that manned the creaking cage, back to firm ground where he was sheltered from the cutting wind, back inside to the heat of the fires and only then did Tyrion found heart to mock the old tales once again.
"Mayhaps Mance Rayder sang them about the warm lands south where a man doesn't freeze his balls off if he takes a piss at night or maybe they're being chased by grumpkins," he japed hours later as he lounged on the benches in Castle Black's common hall. The laughter of the men filled the room together with the croaking of the crows that nested in the rafters.
Ser Alliser Thorne was the only man at table who did not so much as crack a smile. "Lannister mocks us."
"Only you, Ser Alliser," Tyrion said, plucking a fresh crab leg. This time the laughter round the table had a nervous, uncertain quality to it.
Thorne's black eyes fixed on Tyrion with loathing. "You have a bold tongue for someone who is less than half a man. Perhaps you should make your japes with steel in your hand."
The half a dozen red clad men around the table tensed, hands going to their swords but Tyrion only looked pointedly at his right hand. "Why, I have steel in my hand, Ser Alliser, although it appears to be a crab fork. Shall we duel?"
He hopped up on his chair and began poking at Thorne's chest with the tiny fork. Roars of laughter filled the tower room. Bits of crab flew from the Lord Commander's mouth as he began to gasp and choke. Even his raven joined in, cawing loudly from above the window. "Duel! Duel! Duel!"
Ser Thorne walked out of the room so stiffly it seemed a spear had been stuck in his butt.
The Lord Commander recovered himself. "You are a wicked man, to provoke our Ser Alliser so," he scolded.
"If a man paints a target on his chest, he should expect that sooner or later someone will loose an arrow at him," said Tyrion taking a sip of wine. He shook his head. "Your Ser Alliser is better suited to mucking stables than training young warriors."
"The Watch has no shortage of stableboys," Lord Mormont grumbled. "That seems to be all they send us these days. Stableboys and sneak thieves and rapers."
Tyrion shrugged. "Well I'll be gone by the morrow and Ser Alliser shall be safe to grumble once again."
"Are you certain that you must leave us so soon?" the Lord Commander asked him a bit later after most of the Watch's officers had retired from the table.
"Past certain, Lord Mormont," Tyrion replied. "My brother Jaime will be wondering what has become of me. He may decide that you have convinced me to take the black."
"Would that I could." Mormont was looking straight into the fire. "You're a cunning man, Tyrion. We have need of men of your sort on the Wall."
Tyrion grinned. "My nephew might not be happy that you'd also want to take his uncle after he's been so generous with his gold and you might not want to upset him. He'll be king one day." That the day might come sooner rather than later Tyrion kept to himself. He knew his dear sister loathed her husband almost as much as she loved her son.
For his part the Old Bear just glared long and hard into the fire. "I'd rather have you and let whoever comes after me beg pardon once your nephew has the throne." The old man looked contrite. "You must think me terribly greedy. The prince and his royal father have given us a great gift for sure and any many of the Watch will thank both them and you for the for the fine steel and good meals that gold will buy yet steel means nothing without men to wield it. The Watch had ten thousand brothers when the dragon landed, many of them the sons or brothers of lords or famed warriors. Now? Less than a tenth that number mans the Wall and the less said about who they are the better. Thieves would rather be whipped bloody or lose a finger rather than take the black. I fear the Night's Watch has become an army of sullen boys and tired old men. Apart from the men at my table tonight, I have perhaps twenty others who can read and far fewer who can plan or lead or think."
He shook his head. "The Night's Watch is dying. Our strength is less than a thousand now. Six hundred here, two hundred in the Shadow Tower, even fewer at Eastwatch, and a scant third of those fighting men. The Wall is a hundred leagues long. Think on that. Should an attack come, I have three men to defend each mile of wall."
"Three and a third," Tyrion said with a yawn.
Mormont scarcely seemed to hear him. "If the Wildlings were more united or better at building ships they could take the Wall in a fortnight. As it is we still have some time though how much I don't know. Yohn Royce's son was lost in his first ranging. He was a young man, green as summer grass but smart and skilled with a sword. I sent him out with two men I deemed as good as any in the Watch. One of them deserted. They caught him near Winterfell, Lord Stark sent me his head. Of the other two there was no trace so I sent Benjen Stark along with the best men in the Watch to search after him and now he's lost. More fool I for sending him."
"Fool," croaked the raven. "Fool."
The Lord Commander took no notice of the irritating bird. "Now that Benjen's missing and I have no one to send after him. In two years I will be seventy. Too old and too weary for the burden I bear, yet if I set it down, who will pick it up? Once the Watch spent its summers building, and each Lord Commander raised the Wall higher than he found it. Now it is all we can do to stay alive."
He was in deadly earnest, Tyrion realized. He felt faintly embarrassed for the old man. Lord Mormont had spent a good part of his life on the Wall, and he needed to believe if those years were to have any meaning. "I promise you, the king will hear of your need," Tyrion said gravely, "and I will speak to my father and my brother Jaime as well as Prince Eddard." And he would. Tyrion Lannister was as good as his word. He left the rest unsaid; that King Robert would ignore him, Lord Tywin would ask if he had taken leave of his senses, and Jaime would only laugh. He was less certain of what Eddard would do. The boy had a tendency of surprising him. In any case his nephew was still young. Still until he took the throne he could only send the Watch more money- if he even bothered. Tyrion suspected the money the prince had sent was a sort of payment for the scrolls and tomes that he would take back to King's Landing to be copied.
"Winter is coming, I can feel it in my bones. Already the days grow shorter. There can be no mistake, Aemon has had letters from the Citadel, findings in accord with his own. The end of summer stares us in the face." Mormont reached out and clutched Tyrion tightly by the hand. "You must make them understand. I tell you, my lord, the darkness is coming. There are wild things in the woods, direwolves and mammoths and snow bears the size of aurochs, and I have seen darker shapes in my dreams."
"In your dreams," Tyrion echoed, thinking how badly he needed another strong drink.
"The fisherfolk near Eastwatch have glimpsed white walkers on the shore."
Tyrion snorted. "The fishefolk of Lannisport often glimpse merlings."
The Lord Commander didn't seem amused. "You do not believe it my lord. Neither would I when I first came to the Wall. Now..." The old man looked away. "There was an obsidian dagger and a scroll adressed to myself alongside the gold you brought me."
"A letter and a letter opener," Tyrion said. Mormont simply drew a piece of parchment from his pocket, unfolded it and placed it on the table. Tyrion could see Eddard's messy script sprawled across the paper. He grabbed it and read aloud.
"From Prince Eddard Baratheon to Lord Commander Jeor Mormont: Greetings! Obsidian will soon be better than steel, advised to buy while you can. Wildlings and others plan on going south of the Wall soon. Craster is not to be trusted. If corpses have blue eyes then place in chains and send to King's Landing. If corpses walk then place in chains and send to King's Landing if possible or burn if not. Keep remaining rare texts at Castle Black safe at all costs. Protect the realm if convenient. Samwell Tarly is to remain alive. Horn at the Fist of the First Men should be retrieved if possible. Remind Lord Rivers that it would be best both the dark sister and and the cold lion reach me in a timely manner. Be wary of snarks and grumpkins. Keep blood from freezing. Best of luck and may the gods help us all when winter comes."
Below the text lay the sigil used by small council members.
"Blood," quoted the Lord Commander's raven.
Tyrion read again, silently, and then again, for the third time, before placing the parchment down.
"My nephew is only thirteen," Tyrion spoke tiredly. "He might have made it up like children often do." Yet even he couldn't believe that. Eddard had to be the least childish boy in the Seven Kingdoms except perhaps for Lord Tywin in his youth. Was it all a jape? It seemed too much for one and yet the young prince was found of bizarre jests which only he could fully comprehend.
Jeor Mormont seemed to think otherwise. "Craster is a wildling who has often helped the Night's Watch in the past. Ser Royce's disappearance might mean he might not be as good of a friend as we have thought. I have just received a raven from Lord Tarly. He tells me that his oldest boy wants to take the black. Denys Mallister writes that the mountain people are moving south, slipping past the Shadow Tower in numbers greater than ever before, almost as if something is chasing them." The old man raised three fingers. "One or two of these I can dismiss as happenstance but three? I pray this will turn out to be a jest and dread that it isn't. Any rangers we send beyond the Wall will hold dragonglass daggers from this day forth but even if we arm the entire watch with Valyrian steel I fear we won't be able to hold against what's coming. "
"What's coming is a headache if I don't get any sleep tonight," Tyrion got to his feet, sleepy from wine and tired of doom. "I thank you for all the courtesies you have done me, Lord Mormont."
"Tell them, Tyrion. Tell them and make them believe. That is all the thanks I need." He whistled, raven flew to him and perched on his shoulder. Mormont smiled and gave the bird some corn from his pocket, and that was how Tyrion left him.
Excellent new chapter. I like how casual Ned Jr. was about the whole thing.
Kevin Mackey
Dea Imperator
- Location
- Holy of Holies
All the win here! That's a rather hilarious line. That said the SI could do himself a world of good by getting Gendry to join the NW and help the watch since they need a blacksmith, hell they always do. But I am curious about your to-do list a bit. The following, in no particular order, should be done soonish:
- If Stannis knows of incest, removal from court, on the grounds of abandoning his position perhaps, and death ASAP
- If Stannis doesn't know get close to him ASAP his duty will be to support your claim and everyone know of his love affair with duty
- Get betrothed to Margeary Tyrell, Mace wants his blood on the throne he'll accept easily
- Bring in Thoros of Myr, he is already a noted Drinking body of your not-father's
- Find a way to send Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch's heads to Dorne
- Find a way to commit matricide and frame Varys and/or Littlefinger for it. True, she likes you but she's an insane fuck up with delusions of adequacy
- Recruit Freefolk skinchangers if possible
- When the war comes, since it eventually will, be sure to recruit the Mountain Clans like Tyrion had in cannon
- Find a way to kill Lysa Arryn nee Tully if need be Robin too though he is young enough to be moldable
- Possibly suggest to Ned making Jon Snow the Lord of Skane, it'd be an empty title until he actually made something of the island and might make Ned further think you care for his family
12
-THE MASTER OF PRINTS-
"Nevermore," said I.
"Grapes," the raven quorked.
"Nevermore."
"Grapes."
I gave the big white bird my best glare, the glare that made brutal killers like Ser Amory Lorch and Vargo Hoat meekly obey. The raven merely preened, one intelligent black eye lazily peering in my direction.
"Pass the grapes Pate," I said in surrender after a few moments.
"Pate, Pate, Pate," crowed the white raven before plucking a grape right from my fingers. It was large even for its kind, being the size of a small eagle and smart, knowing not only some three dozen words but also how to get out of almost any cage. I ruffled the bird's feathers and scratched its back while looking at the young boy that was hurrying around carrying books and bowls of grapes like any good page. He was a little younger than Sansa, with light brown hair and a cheerful manner.
In truth Pate was merely the princely whipping boy, first for my younger self and then, since a whipping boy proved both utterly useless and unnecessary for one Eddard Baratheon, he'd taken the same role for Joffrey and Tommen.
Still Pate the Page had a much better ring to it than Pate the whipping boy. More accurate besides: for some reason tutors found it far easier to tolerate Tommen's rare episodes of throwing beets than lashings by the Hound and even implying that Joffrey did something wrong was more than most dared.
Finally finishing the last of the letters that had accumulated during the ride north, nearly an hour later was a almost a relief. The Maesters of the Citadel had embraced the idea of printing press after an almost surprisingly short burst of reluctance and proved to be a chatty lot. In hindsight it shouldn't have been unexpected that the keepers of the ravens were also their greatest users but the flood of letters was stunning. Archmaesters Norren, Perrestan and Ryam in particular had written small books. The one saving grace was Grand Maester Pycelle's meticulous knowledge of the more talented or important Maesters and their preferences and follies yet even so writing all the replies would take at least a week, I judged, raising from the seat. The raven cawed expectantly until I picked him up.
"Have those letters sent to my room," I instructed Pate before going out of the improvised office into the maze of the Red Keep.
It was as beautiful day as any that had graced King's Landing. The sun was shining, the air was kept pleasantly cool by a gentle breeze and even the distinctive odor of half a million unwashed men, women and children living in a city without proper sewers seemed less pungent than usual. That alone would have made King's Landing only marginally better than usual but after so many months on the road it seemed like paradise. Sleeping in a proper bed in the privacy of a spacious room was a pleasant change from cramped campaign bed in the chilly north or a small crowded chamber in the few inns.
I detachedly pitied the smallfolk toiling for their brief lives in terrible conditions for a short moment before turning that pity towards a far more deserving target: myself. "Being a prince in Westeros isn't all that easy, you know," I told the cawing raven as I stepped on rich carpets from Lys and Myr. Goldcloaks gave brief bows as I passed them while servants stood aside. "You have to deal with power plays, plots and a most distressing lack of proper plumbing. Yet still I endure for the good realm. And myself. Mostly myself, to be honest." The raven gently beaked me and said sympathetically: "Grapes. Grapes. Apples."
Another few steps and then I nearly bumped into Renly. The youngest of the King's brothers was clad in dark green velvet, with a dozen golden stags embroidered on his doublet. A cloth-of-gold half cape was draped casually across one shoulder, fastened with an emerald brooch. His long, dark hair was disheveled and I found myself idly wondering if he had found time for a tumble with Loras between the council meeting and now.
"Why are you carrying that raven?"
"He prefers not to walk," I replied, eyeing him with disfavor. Renly was an easy man to get along with, all charming and cheerful but utterly empty headed and frivolous. His fumbling attempts at getting Maergery Tyrell as Queen were bad enough but it was his utter disdain for books that rankled me the most. I gave him a wide smile imagining him pleading as he was strung up in the dungeons bellow the black cells. A pity Loras was so infatuated with him- the Knight of Flowers was both more intelligent and better looking. "What's your opinion on the press act?" I told him and received an uncomprehending look in return. For a moment the urge to slap him was almost overpowering but I controlled myself in time. Noblesse oblige and all that. "The papers I sent you, have you even looked through them?"
"No," he admitted cheerfully. "I thought they were just another book."
"A bit of reading wouldn't harm you, uncle."
Renly laughed. "I'd rather leave reading stuffy tomes to the maesters. If our Lord Hand likes your writings I won't speak against them."
"I haven't shown them to Lord Stark yet," I said, coldly. "I was hoping that the Master of Laws might have an opinion on them."
The young stag flashed gleaming white teeth and gave me a jovial slap on the shoulder, making the raven squak. "I'm of the opinion that you shouldn't be so serious and solemn all the time, dear nephew. Elsewise you might grow as grim and sour as Stannis and then I'll only have Littlefinger to talk to at Small Council meetings." He gave me another friendly slap and then went away, all boundless energy and cheer.
"I'm not turning into Stannis," I said at his retreating back, grinding my teeth.
Grand Maester Pycelle was in the rookery when I arrived, giving instructions to servants and builders. The new white ravens recently brought from the Citadel needed separate accommodations from the black ones or they'd quarrel. Usually cages sufficed but since the Citadel had been persuaded to finally spread the larger breed further than Oldtown the rookery itself needed to be extended.
"Grand Maester," I said gently. Pycelle turned towards me, two dozen chains clinking at his neck. Their links were forged of every metal known to man: black iron and red gold, bright copper and dull lead, steel and tin and pale silver, brass and bronze and platinum adorned with garnets and amethysts and even emeralds or rubies.
"My prince," he fondly greeted me in return, a kindly smile on his face. His forehand was bald but he had a truly magnificent beard which he liked to stroke while thinking. I grinned. Some of Eddard Baratheon's earliest memories involved tugging that beard. The Grand Maester had taken charge of the princely education and we'd formed a bound over love of books even before I truly became myself. Now he was the only other member of the Small Council whose loyalties lay in the right place. Probably. I had no illusions on how fast he'd fold if pressed hard enough in the right way. Thankfully if things went even remotely right the Grand Maester should stay safe and loyal. I had come to like the old codger, I mussed as we exchanged pleasantries and discussed recent happenings. Pycelle was both learned and clever even if he could get a bit irritating at times.
Like now.
"Marwyn is wholly unsuitable," said the Grand Maester.
"I've found his writings to be quite illuminating and Qyburn vouches for him."
Pycelle shook his head. The chains at his neck clung and jiggled. "I won't deny that he has much knowledge, Your Grace, yet that man is unsound. He frolics with whores and consorts with hedge wizards. The other archmaesters would look askance at granting him patronage."
"They didn't seem to mind Qyburn."
"The Citadel understands that sometimes one must make compromises for the greater good," the Grand Maester said. He cleared his throat. "Qyburn would have made a better archmaester than Marwyn, in truth, if only he'd been more discreet. Marwyn spits on the dignity of our order. He has no..."
"Gravitas?" I interjected, forestalling a rant. "I want him for his knowledge not his manners. The Conclave shall simply have to bear it."
Pycelle bowed slightly, conceding defeat. "As you say, my prince."
I looked through on of the narrow windows towards the ruins of the Dragon Pit. From the Red Keep they looked like the open ribcage of some gigantic creature stretched over the haphazard pile of guts and rubbish that was the rest of the city. Home, sweet home.
"Nevermore," said I.
"Grapes," the raven quorked.
"Nevermore."
"Grapes."
I gave the big white bird my best glare, the glare that made brutal killers like Ser Amory Lorch and Vargo Hoat meekly obey. The raven merely preened, one intelligent black eye lazily peering in my direction.
"Pass the grapes Pate," I said in surrender after a few moments.
"Pate, Pate, Pate," crowed the white raven before plucking a grape right from my fingers. It was large even for its kind, being the size of a small eagle and smart, knowing not only some three dozen words but also how to get out of almost any cage. I ruffled the bird's feathers and scratched its back while looking at the young boy that was hurrying around carrying books and bowls of grapes like any good page. He was a little younger than Sansa, with light brown hair and a cheerful manner.
In truth Pate was merely the princely whipping boy, first for my younger self and then, since a whipping boy proved both utterly useless and unnecessary for one Eddard Baratheon, he'd taken the same role for Joffrey and Tommen.
Still Pate the Page had a much better ring to it than Pate the whipping boy. More accurate besides: for some reason tutors found it far easier to tolerate Tommen's rare episodes of throwing beets than lashings by the Hound and even implying that Joffrey did something wrong was more than most dared.
Finally finishing the last of the letters that had accumulated during the ride north, nearly an hour later was a almost a relief. The Maesters of the Citadel had embraced the idea of printing press after an almost surprisingly short burst of reluctance and proved to be a chatty lot. In hindsight it shouldn't have been unexpected that the keepers of the ravens were also their greatest users but the flood of letters was stunning. Archmaesters Norren, Perrestan and Ryam in particular had written small books. The one saving grace was Grand Maester Pycelle's meticulous knowledge of the more talented or important Maesters and their preferences and follies yet even so writing all the replies would take at least a week, I judged, raising from the seat. The raven cawed expectantly until I picked him up.
"Have those letters sent to my room," I instructed Pate before going out of the improvised office into the maze of the Red Keep.
It was as beautiful day as any that had graced King's Landing. The sun was shining, the air was kept pleasantly cool by a gentle breeze and even the distinctive odor of half a million unwashed men, women and children living in a city without proper sewers seemed less pungent than usual. That alone would have made King's Landing only marginally better than usual but after so many months on the road it seemed like paradise. Sleeping in a proper bed in the privacy of a spacious room was a pleasant change from cramped campaign bed in the chilly north or a small crowded chamber in the few inns.
I detachedly pitied the smallfolk toiling for their brief lives in terrible conditions for a short moment before turning that pity towards a far more deserving target: myself. "Being a prince in Westeros isn't all that easy, you know," I told the cawing raven as I stepped on rich carpets from Lys and Myr. Goldcloaks gave brief bows as I passed them while servants stood aside. "You have to deal with power plays, plots and a most distressing lack of proper plumbing. Yet still I endure for the good realm. And myself. Mostly myself, to be honest." The raven gently beaked me and said sympathetically: "Grapes. Grapes. Apples."
Another few steps and then I nearly bumped into Renly. The youngest of the King's brothers was clad in dark green velvet, with a dozen golden stags embroidered on his doublet. A cloth-of-gold half cape was draped casually across one shoulder, fastened with an emerald brooch. His long, dark hair was disheveled and I found myself idly wondering if he had found time for a tumble with Loras between the council meeting and now.
"Why are you carrying that raven?"
"He prefers not to walk," I replied, eyeing him with disfavor. Renly was an easy man to get along with, all charming and cheerful but utterly empty headed and frivolous. His fumbling attempts at getting Maergery Tyrell as Queen were bad enough but it was his utter disdain for books that rankled me the most. I gave him a wide smile imagining him pleading as he was strung up in the dungeons bellow the black cells. A pity Loras was so infatuated with him- the Knight of Flowers was both more intelligent and better looking. "What's your opinion on the press act?" I told him and received an uncomprehending look in return. For a moment the urge to slap him was almost overpowering but I controlled myself in time. Noblesse oblige and all that. "The papers I sent you, have you even looked through them?"
"No," he admitted cheerfully. "I thought they were just another book."
"A bit of reading wouldn't harm you, uncle."
Renly laughed. "I'd rather leave reading stuffy tomes to the maesters. If our Lord Hand likes your writings I won't speak against them."
"I haven't shown them to Lord Stark yet," I said, coldly. "I was hoping that the Master of Laws might have an opinion on them."
The young stag flashed gleaming white teeth and gave me a jovial slap on the shoulder, making the raven squak. "I'm of the opinion that you shouldn't be so serious and solemn all the time, dear nephew. Elsewise you might grow as grim and sour as Stannis and then I'll only have Littlefinger to talk to at Small Council meetings." He gave me another friendly slap and then went away, all boundless energy and cheer.
"I'm not turning into Stannis," I said at his retreating back, grinding my teeth.
Grand Maester Pycelle was in the rookery when I arrived, giving instructions to servants and builders. The new white ravens recently brought from the Citadel needed separate accommodations from the black ones or they'd quarrel. Usually cages sufficed but since the Citadel had been persuaded to finally spread the larger breed further than Oldtown the rookery itself needed to be extended.
"Grand Maester," I said gently. Pycelle turned towards me, two dozen chains clinking at his neck. Their links were forged of every metal known to man: black iron and red gold, bright copper and dull lead, steel and tin and pale silver, brass and bronze and platinum adorned with garnets and amethysts and even emeralds or rubies.
"My prince," he fondly greeted me in return, a kindly smile on his face. His forehand was bald but he had a truly magnificent beard which he liked to stroke while thinking. I grinned. Some of Eddard Baratheon's earliest memories involved tugging that beard. The Grand Maester had taken charge of the princely education and we'd formed a bound over love of books even before I truly became myself. Now he was the only other member of the Small Council whose loyalties lay in the right place. Probably. I had no illusions on how fast he'd fold if pressed hard enough in the right way. Thankfully if things went even remotely right the Grand Maester should stay safe and loyal. I had come to like the old codger, I mussed as we exchanged pleasantries and discussed recent happenings. Pycelle was both learned and clever even if he could get a bit irritating at times.
Like now.
"Marwyn is wholly unsuitable," said the Grand Maester.
"I've found his writings to be quite illuminating and Qyburn vouches for him."
Pycelle shook his head. The chains at his neck clung and jiggled. "I won't deny that he has much knowledge, Your Grace, yet that man is unsound. He frolics with whores and consorts with hedge wizards. The other archmaesters would look askance at granting him patronage."
"They didn't seem to mind Qyburn."
"The Citadel understands that sometimes one must make compromises for the greater good," the Grand Maester said. He cleared his throat. "Qyburn would have made a better archmaester than Marwyn, in truth, if only he'd been more discreet. Marwyn spits on the dignity of our order. He has no..."
"Gravitas?" I interjected, forestalling a rant. "I want him for his knowledge not his manners. The Conclave shall simply have to bear it."
Pycelle bowed slightly, conceding defeat. "As you say, my prince."
I looked through on of the narrow windows towards the ruins of the Dragon Pit. From the Red Keep they looked like the open ribcage of some gigantic creature stretched over the haphazard pile of guts and rubbish that was the rest of the city. Home, sweet home.
Last edited:
Oh I am slain!
Wynaut?
- Location
- Tatooine
Made me giggle.
Duzzit
CSC 1st Multiversal Fleet Commander
- Location
- London, UK
I admit, I chuckled.
13
-JON-
The yard rang with the song of swords.
Jon watched as men and boys practiced from one of the balconies surrounding the yard. Here a group of squires were trading blows under the careful watch of Ser Aron Santgar, there two knights of the Kingsguard were duelling, swords shining brightly, elsewhere Sandor Clegane was shouting for sparing partners with little success. Few wanted to fight the Hound even two on one. Beyond the walls lay crowded King's Landing with its crowded streets filled with knights and sellswords, merchants and smallfolk. Jon felt apart from them all.
Ghost whined near him. Jon scratched the direwolf behind the ears. He remembered how he'd found the direwolf pup alone, crawling away from the others. Even his fur was white instead of the dark greys and black of the others. Ghost was an outsider- much like Jon himself. Winterfell or King's Landing, he still was Lord Stark's bastard, still the one that didn't quite fit. He missed his half brothers: little Rickon, bright eyes shining as he begged for a sweet; Robb, his rival and best friend and constant companion; Bran, stubborn and curious, always wanting to follow and join in whatever Jon and Robb were doing. Still he didn't mind leaving Theon behind and Lady Stark... her words still haunted his dreams. Jon remembered how Bran had looked after the fall, so small and fragile, eyes open but unseeing. Bran should have been here in King's Landing learning how to be a knight from Barristan the Bold. Instead he was North, struggling between life and death and Jon was here, in Bran's place, doing not much at all. Perhaps it should have been him, came a treacherous thought. Even Arya didn't spend that much time with him of late, not since her friend Mycah had been sent to the Night's Watch. He desperately wanted to go to her, wipe the tears from his face and tell her why he'd spoken so before the king but he'd promised prince Eddard he wouldn't say anything and Jon had honor even if he was a bastard.
The white direwolf placed his head on Jon's feet and looked at him with his big red eyes, drawing the boy out of his brooding. Jon hugged Ghost tightly, burying his face into the fluffy fur. Despite everything he didn't regret leaving the North. He could have never earned a place in Winterfell, never made a name for himself as long as he clung to his fathers side. Here he'd spared with famous fighters and Kingsguards, traded tales with squires and sellswords, saw new places and peoples and he'd found a companion, perhaps even a friend in Eddard. Prince Eddard, he corrected himself.
Jon turned to the aforementioned boy. His father's namesake stretched lazily on the wide railing, book in hand. The prince rarely was without a book, sometimes bringing hefty tomes at meals, eating with one hand and turning pages with the other. In some ways the heir to the Seven Kingdoms was just as alone as the bastard of Winterfell. There was one difference between them: Eddard Baratheon appeared to immensely relish the distance between himself and others, preferring books over company.
Jon continued to watch the prince turning pages for a minute, two, three and then he simply couldn't keep his questions to himself.
"Why do you read so much?"
"Many reasons," the prince said, gold flecked green eyes peering at Jon over the cover. "Look at me and tell me what am I."
"You're you. Prince Eddard Baratheon," said Jon wearily. He could feel there was a trap.
Eddard's mouth twitched slightly. "That's who I am. What I am is a man. Well, a boy," he amended with some dissatisfaction. "In any case human. Just like you are."
Quick as a cat, the prince jumped off the railing, landing close to Jon. Ghost backed away from him uncertainly, startled by the sudden motion.
"We're not as swift as stags nor mighty as lions," he continued, tracing the roaring lion and prancing stag on his doublet before leaning down to pet Ghost. "We do not have sharp claws and teeth to savage the enemy nor fur to keep us warm at night like our friend here does and yet it is men who rule the lands while stags are hunted and lions caged, falcons are tamed and fish eaten, direwolves huddle deep in the forests and even the dragons are gone. Why? Men aren't born stronger or longer living than many other creatures. We can't fly or breathe beneath water. What we have is the mind. It is the only thing that separates ourselves from mere animals. It can build wonders, tear down kingdoms, find facts, forge dreams, make truths and shape the world itself. The mind is both the most useful tool and the greatest weapon one can possess... and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge." The prince stopped his speech to pour himself clear water from an gleaming golden pitcher. His next words were a mumbled whisper, so much so that Jon had to had to strain to hear. "I am going to be king one day. My mind will have to be as sharp as possible if I am to keep my head attached to my body."
Jon blinked, taken aback by the words. "Why..." he started before being interrupted by the prince.
"Oh, I just don't think I could bear to have them separated." Eddard Baratheon suddenly quipped with a small, melancholic smile.
Jon glared at the younger boy. Eddard could get so very strange at times that it felt as if they were worlds apart.
"The realm is a peace," he began with an uncertain frown.
"You know nothing..."
"I know that you know something, something you're keeping hidden," countered Jon accusingly.
"I know many things and keep most of them hidden from others," spoke Eddard serenely. They spent a few moments in silence.
"I like books," the green eyed boy admitted after a while. "You can see new places, meet new people, learn new things without taking a single step and I've never had a book ask anything of me or pester. What better company can one have?"
"Friends," answered Jon.
"Friends?" The prince laughed as though Jon had said some great jape. "Hard to find for one like me."
Now it was Jon's turn to laugh in disbelief. "You're prince Eddard Baratheon."
"The heir to the Seven Kingdoms can have as many friends as he likes. Plenty of men like being friends princes and kings. Just Eddard on the other hand... Why do you think we all went to Winterfell to find a Hand?" The smaller boy trailed off, green eyes watching something far away.
Jon watched him in turn, feeling a strange sense of closeness to the other boy. Finally he said, "I could be your friend, if you don't mind having a bastard as one." He tried to make the last words a jape but there was a tightness in his gut as he waited to see what Eddard would do. The prince's face seemed to twist between satisfaction and regret for a long moment, before he smiled.
"I can be a bigger bastard than you, Snow," Eddard said, offering his hand. Jon's own hand clasped it in a firm grip.
That was how the messenger found them. The man clad in Baratheon livery was grasping a parchment which he presented respectfully. Ghost jumped up eagerly sniffing at the parchment while the servant struggled not to back away.
"Down Ghost," commanded Jon while the prince tore up the sigil.
"Its from Winterfell," said Eddard. For a moment Jon was too frightened to act. "Bran..." he half-whispered halfshouted. Without a word the prince handed him the letter.
Jon's finger traced the outline of the direwolf in the white wax of the broken seat. He recognized Robb's hand, but the letters seemed to blur and run as he tried to read them. He realized he was crying. And then, through the tears, he found the sense in the words, and raised his head. "He woke up," he said. "The gods gave him back."
He looked again at the words, but they didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Bran was going to live. "My brother is going to live," he told Eddard. Suddenly words weren't enough so he grabbed his new friend in a tight embrace and spun him around in joy as he whooped so loud that the men in the courtyard and the guards on the walls were startled:
"Bran's going to live!"
The yard rang with the song of swords.
Jon watched as men and boys practiced from one of the balconies surrounding the yard. Here a group of squires were trading blows under the careful watch of Ser Aron Santgar, there two knights of the Kingsguard were duelling, swords shining brightly, elsewhere Sandor Clegane was shouting for sparing partners with little success. Few wanted to fight the Hound even two on one. Beyond the walls lay crowded King's Landing with its crowded streets filled with knights and sellswords, merchants and smallfolk. Jon felt apart from them all.
Ghost whined near him. Jon scratched the direwolf behind the ears. He remembered how he'd found the direwolf pup alone, crawling away from the others. Even his fur was white instead of the dark greys and black of the others. Ghost was an outsider- much like Jon himself. Winterfell or King's Landing, he still was Lord Stark's bastard, still the one that didn't quite fit. He missed his half brothers: little Rickon, bright eyes shining as he begged for a sweet; Robb, his rival and best friend and constant companion; Bran, stubborn and curious, always wanting to follow and join in whatever Jon and Robb were doing. Still he didn't mind leaving Theon behind and Lady Stark... her words still haunted his dreams. Jon remembered how Bran had looked after the fall, so small and fragile, eyes open but unseeing. Bran should have been here in King's Landing learning how to be a knight from Barristan the Bold. Instead he was North, struggling between life and death and Jon was here, in Bran's place, doing not much at all. Perhaps it should have been him, came a treacherous thought. Even Arya didn't spend that much time with him of late, not since her friend Mycah had been sent to the Night's Watch. He desperately wanted to go to her, wipe the tears from his face and tell her why he'd spoken so before the king but he'd promised prince Eddard he wouldn't say anything and Jon had honor even if he was a bastard.
The white direwolf placed his head on Jon's feet and looked at him with his big red eyes, drawing the boy out of his brooding. Jon hugged Ghost tightly, burying his face into the fluffy fur. Despite everything he didn't regret leaving the North. He could have never earned a place in Winterfell, never made a name for himself as long as he clung to his fathers side. Here he'd spared with famous fighters and Kingsguards, traded tales with squires and sellswords, saw new places and peoples and he'd found a companion, perhaps even a friend in Eddard. Prince Eddard, he corrected himself.
Jon turned to the aforementioned boy. His father's namesake stretched lazily on the wide railing, book in hand. The prince rarely was without a book, sometimes bringing hefty tomes at meals, eating with one hand and turning pages with the other. In some ways the heir to the Seven Kingdoms was just as alone as the bastard of Winterfell. There was one difference between them: Eddard Baratheon appeared to immensely relish the distance between himself and others, preferring books over company.
Jon continued to watch the prince turning pages for a minute, two, three and then he simply couldn't keep his questions to himself.
"Why do you read so much?"
"Many reasons," the prince said, gold flecked green eyes peering at Jon over the cover. "Look at me and tell me what am I."
"You're you. Prince Eddard Baratheon," said Jon wearily. He could feel there was a trap.
Eddard's mouth twitched slightly. "That's who I am. What I am is a man. Well, a boy," he amended with some dissatisfaction. "In any case human. Just like you are."
Quick as a cat, the prince jumped off the railing, landing close to Jon. Ghost backed away from him uncertainly, startled by the sudden motion.
"We're not as swift as stags nor mighty as lions," he continued, tracing the roaring lion and prancing stag on his doublet before leaning down to pet Ghost. "We do not have sharp claws and teeth to savage the enemy nor fur to keep us warm at night like our friend here does and yet it is men who rule the lands while stags are hunted and lions caged, falcons are tamed and fish eaten, direwolves huddle deep in the forests and even the dragons are gone. Why? Men aren't born stronger or longer living than many other creatures. We can't fly or breathe beneath water. What we have is the mind. It is the only thing that separates ourselves from mere animals. It can build wonders, tear down kingdoms, find facts, forge dreams, make truths and shape the world itself. The mind is both the most useful tool and the greatest weapon one can possess... and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge." The prince stopped his speech to pour himself clear water from an gleaming golden pitcher. His next words were a mumbled whisper, so much so that Jon had to had to strain to hear. "I am going to be king one day. My mind will have to be as sharp as possible if I am to keep my head attached to my body."
Jon blinked, taken aback by the words. "Why..." he started before being interrupted by the prince.
"Oh, I just don't think I could bear to have them separated." Eddard Baratheon suddenly quipped with a small, melancholic smile.
Jon glared at the younger boy. Eddard could get so very strange at times that it felt as if they were worlds apart.
"The realm is a peace," he began with an uncertain frown.
"You know nothing..."
"I know that you know something, something you're keeping hidden," countered Jon accusingly.
"I know many things and keep most of them hidden from others," spoke Eddard serenely. They spent a few moments in silence.
"I like books," the green eyed boy admitted after a while. "You can see new places, meet new people, learn new things without taking a single step and I've never had a book ask anything of me or pester. What better company can one have?"
"Friends," answered Jon.
"Friends?" The prince laughed as though Jon had said some great jape. "Hard to find for one like me."
Now it was Jon's turn to laugh in disbelief. "You're prince Eddard Baratheon."
"The heir to the Seven Kingdoms can have as many friends as he likes. Plenty of men like being friends princes and kings. Just Eddard on the other hand... Why do you think we all went to Winterfell to find a Hand?" The smaller boy trailed off, green eyes watching something far away.
Jon watched him in turn, feeling a strange sense of closeness to the other boy. Finally he said, "I could be your friend, if you don't mind having a bastard as one." He tried to make the last words a jape but there was a tightness in his gut as he waited to see what Eddard would do. The prince's face seemed to twist between satisfaction and regret for a long moment, before he smiled.
"I can be a bigger bastard than you, Snow," Eddard said, offering his hand. Jon's own hand clasped it in a firm grip.
That was how the messenger found them. The man clad in Baratheon livery was grasping a parchment which he presented respectfully. Ghost jumped up eagerly sniffing at the parchment while the servant struggled not to back away.
"Down Ghost," commanded Jon while the prince tore up the sigil.
"Its from Winterfell," said Eddard. For a moment Jon was too frightened to act. "Bran..." he half-whispered halfshouted. Without a word the prince handed him the letter.
Jon's finger traced the outline of the direwolf in the white wax of the broken seat. He recognized Robb's hand, but the letters seemed to blur and run as he tried to read them. He realized he was crying. And then, through the tears, he found the sense in the words, and raised his head. "He woke up," he said. "The gods gave him back."
He looked again at the words, but they didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Bran was going to live. "My brother is going to live," he told Eddard. Suddenly words weren't enough so he grabbed his new friend in a tight embrace and spun him around in joy as he whooped so loud that the men in the courtyard and the guards on the walls were startled:
"Bran's going to live!"
Oh I am slain!
Wynaut?
- Location
- Tatooine
Hmm. Now to see what Eddard needs to do to keep Joffrey and Cersei from doing anything stupid, while also keeping Littlefinger in check.
And I guess there's always the question of how much Bran remembers. Those things seem like the most volatile factors currently.
And I guess there's always the question of how much Bran remembers. Those things seem like the most volatile factors currently.
sparring
wipe tears from her face?
sparred
the prince turn pages [informally, "turning" might be fine though]
repeated "had to"
is at peace
Missing word: friends with? friends of?
It's
half-whispered, half-shouted
14
-CERSEI-
Her sleep had been troubled of late. Just last night she dreamt she was in the Great Hall, the familiar mass of twisted, melted blades that was Iron Throne looming above her. Crimson banners bearing a crowned lion had replaced the hunting tapestries and the slim figure perched on the throne had golden hair and though couldn't make out his face, she knew who he was. Eddard, my beautiful, strong, clever Eddard. She wanted to call to him but couldn't. The room was filled with courtiers, great lords and ladies in fine silks and young knights in shining armor yet none seemed to recognize her or pay her any mind. It was as if she was a ghost, unseen and unheard. I am the queen, she wanted to shout yet the words wouldn't come. Instead all she could do was move closer, ever closer to the throne, pushing through the unmoving bodies. After an what felt like an eternity she reached the steps of the dais. Seven white cloaked knights stood there, visors closed. Jamie's golden plate was nowhere to be seen. Cersei tried to push her way past them when someone stepped from behind the Kingsguard. Her lord father barred her way, pale green eyes flecked with gold filled with disgust. "You have sullied the Lannister name," Lord Tywin stated, mailed hand pressed hard against her flesh. Only then did the queen realise that she was naked. She tried to cover herself with her hands. Suddenly the Kingsguard parted and even her father drew away and all that remained in the world was her golden boy watching her from the throne, his piercing green eyes filled with disappointment as he held her gaze.
She had woken then, shivering despite the heat. It had been a dream, only a dream.
Daylight drove away the dreams but not the worries. Not even Jaime could do that, not fully, not after that blunder at Winterfell.
Does he know? Does my son know who his real father is? The question gnawed at her. She couldn't be sure. Eddard oft showed Jaime's careless smile but he took more after his grandfather in truth, only his eyes showing his true thoughts. Even Cersei couldn't tell what he was thinking half the time. I have taught him well, she thought with pride.
Jaime had been of little use in this matter, simply laughing it off as he always did when it came to matters that he couldn't solve with his sword. Her brother was not only fully convinced that Eddard knew the truth but also happy about it. "He's too smart to let anything slip, dear sister," he'd told her just the night before as they lay together, naked in Robert's bed. "And if he does I'll just kill Robert for you and Ned will get to sit on the iron chair sooner rather than later," He had finished, utterly unworried, before he kissed her as they tumbled together, Jaime pleasuring her.
Cersei wasn't worried about Robert. Eddard was a true lion of Lannister and Lannisters never betrayed their family. Instead it was family that worried the queen. She still remembered her mother's reaction when a maid had tattled on her and Jaime. Lady Joanna had the maid sent away, moved Jaime's bedchamber to the other side of Casterly Rock, set a guard outside Cersei's, and told them that they must never do that again or she would have no choice but to tell their lord father. They hadn't been kept apart for long. Her mother had died birthing that wretched Imp and soon she and Jaime were back together as they were meant to be. Still even after all these years Cersei dreaded Lord Tywin's reaction. She didn't know how but Lord Tywin would find a way keep her and Jaime apart and Eddard was very close to his lord grandfather. She could almost swear that Lord Tywin had smiled at him last time they visited Casterly Rock.
Eddard will understand, he must understand, thought the queen furiously. He was her and Jaime's golden boy, her little lion and no other mother had ever cared for her children as much as she did. He'd never seemed disquieted or uncomfortable at the Targaryens marrying brother to sister, nor does he care for the superstitions of septons and he'd always been close to Jaime even if she had wanted to keep them apart for fear of discovery. He's more like be overjoyed to have a true man for a father instead of that useless, dumb drunkard. Cersei found much reassurance in that... That thought made the queen laugh joyfully as she sat in the solar, basking in the warm sun. It was then that the summons came.
"Your presence is requested, Your Grace," spoke Boros Blount, puffing in his white armor.
"What does Robert want?" She asked in displeasure. The oaf had gone hunting. She had hoped he would be away for more than just a couple of days but Robert lived to inconvenience her.
The Kingsguard shook his head in apology. "It's the prince, Your Grace."
Cersei's heartbeat quickened, in queer anticipation. She showed nothing of her thoughts as she followed Blount. Her children awaited her on the ramparts facing the sea, surrounded by soldiers and scribes and servants. Tommen ran to her babbling about kittens, dragons and sigils. He was a sweet boy and beautiful, as beautiful as Jaime had been at his age though not as fierce as his older brothers. Myrcella came after, moving daintily, her demeanor dignified and ladylike as befit a princess, her long golden swaying in the gentle wind.
"Mother," greeted Ned, green eyes shining, followed closely by Joff. Her younger children were learning history from the books she could see scattered across one of the short tables. The other was filled with platters bursting with fruits.
"Leave us," her eldest softly order the servants with steel in his voice, never turning from her before addressing Blount. "My thanks, Ser Boros."
"A pleasure, my prince," said the man, grinning from his place at the queen's right as the guards and attendants scurried away. The prince's smile twitched momentarily.
"I'm certain you have important duties to attend to. Don't let me detain you," he said far less warmly than before. Ser Boros finally took the hint, departing swiftly, leaving only tall Sandor Clegane and elderly Qyburn to keep them company. Cersei only spared a glance for Eddard's sworn sword, his familiar scarred face impassive instead appraising the former Maester closely. His robes were white instead of the maester's usual grey, with golden words in the language of the dragonlords decorating the hem. With crinkles at his eyes and a pleasant smile Qyburn looked like a wise, gentle grandfather. He had proven both wise and gentle in truth, mussed the queen, being a great favorite of Tommen and Myrcella and had even won Joffrey's grudging acceptance. He was also just as dangerous and merciless as the Hound in his own way, she knew, and almost as loyal to her eldest. Cersei had been to the fourth level of the dungeons only twice, once the same day Eddard had discovered the old rooms and tunnels after reading some old records at the Rock, while the second a few days later when Qyburn had started his work there. The queen wasn't squeamish but she'd had no desire to go down to the lowest level a third time.
"Could we go see Bounce, mother?" asked Tommen eagerly, referring to the shadowcat Eddard had captured at the Trident. He must have let Tommen named it.
"Not now," she said firmly.
"Mother and I have crown matters to discuss," added Eddard. "Why don't you all go for a ride and we'll join you later? Sandor, go with them."
The Hound tapped his armor and nodded as her younger children filled out. Qyburn followed them, dismissed with a nod and a smile and then they were alone but for the seagulls nested between the Red Keep's bricks. Eddard turned to gaze at the sea while Cersei looked at him fondly. The prince's golden hair looked like a crown as it turned in the wind.
"I know about you and Jaime," he said softly, without turning his eyes from the horizon. The words made no sense at first, just a jumble of meaningless sounds. Then their meaning came clear and despite expecting this Cersei found that she couldn't reply. It all felt like a dream, a strange dream from which she could wake at any moment.
"You know..." She finally asked hesitantly, caught between relief and disbelief. Eddard turned to face her, green-gold eyes unreadable and for a moment she was a young girl again waiting for her father's reaction to something particularly bold. Then he smiled and the illusion shattered. Tywin Lannister never smiled.
"Of course I do," her eldest boy said, his satisfaction at knowing so familiar that despite the situation Cersei couldn't stop herself from laughing.
"How long have you known?" she asked him, gently ruffling his golden hair.
"Years," came the answer. Eddard turned to look at the sea again for a long moment before adding almost as an afterthought. "When did it begin? It must have been some time before my birth..."
"You know, I can't remember. We have always been close, Jaime and I. We shared a womb together. Our old maester said that he came into this world holding my foot. One day we started touching. At first it was innocent. Then it was not so innocent." The queen paused, reminiscing dreamily. "You look so much like Jaime when he was younger."
"Quite," said Eddard, thickly.
Cersei continued with some heat. "The Targaryens wed brother to sister for three hundred years, to keep the bloodlines pure. Why shouldn't we Lannisters do the same?"
"No reason not to," agreed her firstborn reasonably.
The queen's relief was almost palpable. Cersei felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Of course Eddard had understood. "You will be the greatest King that ever sat on the Iron Throne," she told him. How could he not when he had both Jaime's charm and her cunning?
"Of course I will," the prince said, before pulling a crumpled piece of parchment. "And soon. This is part Grand Maester Malleon's Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children. A very interesting part." he explained.
Cersei read quickly, a frown marring her features. The paper was torn and tattered, the only legible passage describing the issue of Tya Lannister and Gowen Baratheon as a large and lusty lad born with a full head of black hair. Disgusting, thought the queen. Robert was large and lusty. She could just see it: a twisted creature with Robert's bloodshot eyes amd puffy face, it's body as twisted as the Imp's, drinking ale instead of milk amd trying to touch any maid that came near with grubby hands. Thankfully the child had died before his first namesday. Eddard's voice drew Cersei out of her reverie.The late Lord Arryn was reading this right before he died. His last words were 'The seed is strong.'"
The queen stiffened again. How could have the old man known? At least he had died before he could tell anyone she thought at first but his death was too convenient. She could feel Eddard's gaze on her, attentive, judging.
"I did not kill Jon Arryn... Perhaps Pycelle?"
"I know. Grand Maester Pycelle is not the sort man that takes action without orders."
A suspicion started to form in the queen's mind. She hoped it was true.
"Did you kill Jon Arryn?"
Her eldest snorted. "No. Too much work, too many risks." He paused to slowly sip water from a goblet as Cersei waited impatiently. "His own wife poured Tears of Lys in his drink."
"Lysa? That cow doesn't have the brains..," began the queen.
"She doesn't, but Petyr Baelish does and they've always been... close."
That did sound possible, conceded Cersei. Lysa had prefered Littlefinger's little finger to her octogenarian husband if her informants were to be believed. Still... "Why would Littlefinger risk killing the King's Hand? If he knew about us he'd be here right now begging for a reward."
"What reward? Money? He is the Master of Coin." Eddard leaned towards her, voice nearly a whisper. "Petyr wants power. The sort of power only a very desperate and deeply indebted king would give. The sort that hasn't been granted since Aegon the Conqueror."
Oh. Littlefinger daring to aim so high was almost amusing. The queen regarded her firstborn pensively. There were a lot of questions she wanted answered. She asked only one. "What should we do?"
"Arrange a coronation, swiftly and silently. Above all silently." Nimble hands ripped parchment. "And keep the Starks close. The brothers can be dealt with afterwards."
"And Baelish?"
Eddard grinned.
"Leave Baelish to me."
Her sleep had been troubled of late. Just last night she dreamt she was in the Great Hall, the familiar mass of twisted, melted blades that was Iron Throne looming above her. Crimson banners bearing a crowned lion had replaced the hunting tapestries and the slim figure perched on the throne had golden hair and though couldn't make out his face, she knew who he was. Eddard, my beautiful, strong, clever Eddard. She wanted to call to him but couldn't. The room was filled with courtiers, great lords and ladies in fine silks and young knights in shining armor yet none seemed to recognize her or pay her any mind. It was as if she was a ghost, unseen and unheard. I am the queen, she wanted to shout yet the words wouldn't come. Instead all she could do was move closer, ever closer to the throne, pushing through the unmoving bodies. After an what felt like an eternity she reached the steps of the dais. Seven white cloaked knights stood there, visors closed. Jamie's golden plate was nowhere to be seen. Cersei tried to push her way past them when someone stepped from behind the Kingsguard. Her lord father barred her way, pale green eyes flecked with gold filled with disgust. "You have sullied the Lannister name," Lord Tywin stated, mailed hand pressed hard against her flesh. Only then did the queen realise that she was naked. She tried to cover herself with her hands. Suddenly the Kingsguard parted and even her father drew away and all that remained in the world was her golden boy watching her from the throne, his piercing green eyes filled with disappointment as he held her gaze.
She had woken then, shivering despite the heat. It had been a dream, only a dream.
Daylight drove away the dreams but not the worries. Not even Jaime could do that, not fully, not after that blunder at Winterfell.
Does he know? Does my son know who his real father is? The question gnawed at her. She couldn't be sure. Eddard oft showed Jaime's careless smile but he took more after his grandfather in truth, only his eyes showing his true thoughts. Even Cersei couldn't tell what he was thinking half the time. I have taught him well, she thought with pride.
Jaime had been of little use in this matter, simply laughing it off as he always did when it came to matters that he couldn't solve with his sword. Her brother was not only fully convinced that Eddard knew the truth but also happy about it. "He's too smart to let anything slip, dear sister," he'd told her just the night before as they lay together, naked in Robert's bed. "And if he does I'll just kill Robert for you and Ned will get to sit on the iron chair sooner rather than later," He had finished, utterly unworried, before he kissed her as they tumbled together, Jaime pleasuring her.
Cersei wasn't worried about Robert. Eddard was a true lion of Lannister and Lannisters never betrayed their family. Instead it was family that worried the queen. She still remembered her mother's reaction when a maid had tattled on her and Jaime. Lady Joanna had the maid sent away, moved Jaime's bedchamber to the other side of Casterly Rock, set a guard outside Cersei's, and told them that they must never do that again or she would have no choice but to tell their lord father. They hadn't been kept apart for long. Her mother had died birthing that wretched Imp and soon she and Jaime were back together as they were meant to be. Still even after all these years Cersei dreaded Lord Tywin's reaction. She didn't know how but Lord Tywin would find a way keep her and Jaime apart and Eddard was very close to his lord grandfather. She could almost swear that Lord Tywin had smiled at him last time they visited Casterly Rock.
Eddard will understand, he must understand, thought the queen furiously. He was her and Jaime's golden boy, her little lion and no other mother had ever cared for her children as much as she did. He'd never seemed disquieted or uncomfortable at the Targaryens marrying brother to sister, nor does he care for the superstitions of septons and he'd always been close to Jaime even if she had wanted to keep them apart for fear of discovery. He's more like be overjoyed to have a true man for a father instead of that useless, dumb drunkard. Cersei found much reassurance in that... That thought made the queen laugh joyfully as she sat in the solar, basking in the warm sun. It was then that the summons came.
"Your presence is requested, Your Grace," spoke Boros Blount, puffing in his white armor.
"What does Robert want?" She asked in displeasure. The oaf had gone hunting. She had hoped he would be away for more than just a couple of days but Robert lived to inconvenience her.
The Kingsguard shook his head in apology. "It's the prince, Your Grace."
Cersei's heartbeat quickened, in queer anticipation. She showed nothing of her thoughts as she followed Blount. Her children awaited her on the ramparts facing the sea, surrounded by soldiers and scribes and servants. Tommen ran to her babbling about kittens, dragons and sigils. He was a sweet boy and beautiful, as beautiful as Jaime had been at his age though not as fierce as his older brothers. Myrcella came after, moving daintily, her demeanor dignified and ladylike as befit a princess, her long golden swaying in the gentle wind.
"Mother," greeted Ned, green eyes shining, followed closely by Joff. Her younger children were learning history from the books she could see scattered across one of the short tables. The other was filled with platters bursting with fruits.
"Leave us," her eldest softly order the servants with steel in his voice, never turning from her before addressing Blount. "My thanks, Ser Boros."
"A pleasure, my prince," said the man, grinning from his place at the queen's right as the guards and attendants scurried away. The prince's smile twitched momentarily.
"I'm certain you have important duties to attend to. Don't let me detain you," he said far less warmly than before. Ser Boros finally took the hint, departing swiftly, leaving only tall Sandor Clegane and elderly Qyburn to keep them company. Cersei only spared a glance for Eddard's sworn sword, his familiar scarred face impassive instead appraising the former Maester closely. His robes were white instead of the maester's usual grey, with golden words in the language of the dragonlords decorating the hem. With crinkles at his eyes and a pleasant smile Qyburn looked like a wise, gentle grandfather. He had proven both wise and gentle in truth, mussed the queen, being a great favorite of Tommen and Myrcella and had even won Joffrey's grudging acceptance. He was also just as dangerous and merciless as the Hound in his own way, she knew, and almost as loyal to her eldest. Cersei had been to the fourth level of the dungeons only twice, once the same day Eddard had discovered the old rooms and tunnels after reading some old records at the Rock, while the second a few days later when Qyburn had started his work there. The queen wasn't squeamish but she'd had no desire to go down to the lowest level a third time.
"Could we go see Bounce, mother?" asked Tommen eagerly, referring to the shadowcat Eddard had captured at the Trident. He must have let Tommen named it.
"Not now," she said firmly.
"Mother and I have crown matters to discuss," added Eddard. "Why don't you all go for a ride and we'll join you later? Sandor, go with them."
The Hound tapped his armor and nodded as her younger children filled out. Qyburn followed them, dismissed with a nod and a smile and then they were alone but for the seagulls nested between the Red Keep's bricks. Eddard turned to gaze at the sea while Cersei looked at him fondly. The prince's golden hair looked like a crown as it turned in the wind.
"I know about you and Jaime," he said softly, without turning his eyes from the horizon. The words made no sense at first, just a jumble of meaningless sounds. Then their meaning came clear and despite expecting this Cersei found that she couldn't reply. It all felt like a dream, a strange dream from which she could wake at any moment.
"You know..." She finally asked hesitantly, caught between relief and disbelief. Eddard turned to face her, green-gold eyes unreadable and for a moment she was a young girl again waiting for her father's reaction to something particularly bold. Then he smiled and the illusion shattered. Tywin Lannister never smiled.
"Of course I do," her eldest boy said, his satisfaction at knowing so familiar that despite the situation Cersei couldn't stop herself from laughing.
"How long have you known?" she asked him, gently ruffling his golden hair.
"Years," came the answer. Eddard turned to look at the sea again for a long moment before adding almost as an afterthought. "When did it begin? It must have been some time before my birth..."
"You know, I can't remember. We have always been close, Jaime and I. We shared a womb together. Our old maester said that he came into this world holding my foot. One day we started touching. At first it was innocent. Then it was not so innocent." The queen paused, reminiscing dreamily. "You look so much like Jaime when he was younger."
"Quite," said Eddard, thickly.
Cersei continued with some heat. "The Targaryens wed brother to sister for three hundred years, to keep the bloodlines pure. Why shouldn't we Lannisters do the same?"
"No reason not to," agreed her firstborn reasonably.
The queen's relief was almost palpable. Cersei felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Of course Eddard had understood. "You will be the greatest King that ever sat on the Iron Throne," she told him. How could he not when he had both Jaime's charm and her cunning?
"Of course I will," the prince said, before pulling a crumpled piece of parchment. "And soon. This is part Grand Maester Malleon's Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children. A very interesting part." he explained.
Cersei read quickly, a frown marring her features. The paper was torn and tattered, the only legible passage describing the issue of Tya Lannister and Gowen Baratheon as a large and lusty lad born with a full head of black hair. Disgusting, thought the queen. Robert was large and lusty. She could just see it: a twisted creature with Robert's bloodshot eyes amd puffy face, it's body as twisted as the Imp's, drinking ale instead of milk amd trying to touch any maid that came near with grubby hands. Thankfully the child had died before his first namesday. Eddard's voice drew Cersei out of her reverie.The late Lord Arryn was reading this right before he died. His last words were 'The seed is strong.'"
The queen stiffened again. How could have the old man known? At least he had died before he could tell anyone she thought at first but his death was too convenient. She could feel Eddard's gaze on her, attentive, judging.
"I did not kill Jon Arryn... Perhaps Pycelle?"
"I know. Grand Maester Pycelle is not the sort man that takes action without orders."
A suspicion started to form in the queen's mind. She hoped it was true.
"Did you kill Jon Arryn?"
Her eldest snorted. "No. Too much work, too many risks." He paused to slowly sip water from a goblet as Cersei waited impatiently. "His own wife poured Tears of Lys in his drink."
"Lysa? That cow doesn't have the brains..," began the queen.
"She doesn't, but Petyr Baelish does and they've always been... close."
That did sound possible, conceded Cersei. Lysa had prefered Littlefinger's little finger to her octogenarian husband if her informants were to be believed. Still... "Why would Littlefinger risk killing the King's Hand? If he knew about us he'd be here right now begging for a reward."
"What reward? Money? He is the Master of Coin." Eddard leaned towards her, voice nearly a whisper. "Petyr wants power. The sort of power only a very desperate and deeply indebted king would give. The sort that hasn't been granted since Aegon the Conqueror."
Oh. Littlefinger daring to aim so high was almost amusing. The queen regarded her firstborn pensively. There were a lot of questions she wanted answered. She asked only one. "What should we do?"
"Arrange a coronation, swiftly and silently. Above all silently." Nimble hands ripped parchment. "And keep the Starks close. The brothers can be dealt with afterwards."
"And Baelish?"
Eddard grinned.
"Leave Baelish to me."
Cersei is still a horrible human being but she will likely never become as bad as in canon because she will have neither the opportunity to wield power nor all the stresses implicit there to make her go insane.
Does little Ned actually feel sympathy towards her or is he faking? I could see it going either way. After all she is his mother and he does know she loves him unconditionally from his read of her character.
Does little Ned actually feel sympathy towards her or is he faking? I could see it going either way. After all she is his mother and he does know she loves him unconditionally from his read of her character.
A bit of both. She's both horrible and horribly entitled and rather stupid due to that feeling of entitlement. On the other hand being married to Robert is hardly ideal, having Tywin as a father even less so and she does love her children.
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