A Song of Ice and Glamour [ASOIAF/C:TL-nWoD]
Chapter 7: Illyrio 1
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Chapter 7: Illyrio
Illyrio Mopatis knew he could be a creature of habit, though he hoped it did not make him predictable. He loved his pleasures, his little comforts, he loved wine and music and song, and he ended each day the same way when he could. A hot bath, a good drink as singers or musicians played to him in the bath, scrubbed down with oils and perfumes, and then work at his desk for an hour or two before being carried into his vast bed.
Sometimes he thought of weeping for what he'd become, but as he turned in the huge bath, splashing an attendant with hastily-dyed black hair, he knew it was nothing more than folly. He had always had his appetites, always his desires for power, and now he'd achieved all of it. He wanted more, of course. But Illyrio didn't think that was a special thing, any more than having an appetite is.
He lusted for power and he hungered for food, and once there had been men to call him all sorts of things to his face. Once.
And what of his youth? What worth did it have? He wept and remembered the glorious battles, the desperate charges, but then he remembered sleeping in rat-infested shitholes, retreating from one lost battle after another. He'd run straight into Varys grasp, in fact, and the two had learned from each other.
They'd taught each other the ways of power, the ways to talk to people, to smile at them and steal their valuables behind their back. Varys was a man Illyrio admired, an old friend, and if it was said there was no friend that Illyrio would not sell out for the right price--and, as he heard the singing of a bard in the distance, sweet music to bath to, he admitted this was entirely true--it had to also be said that the price and worth of Varys was vast.
And Illyrio knew never to sell below the worth of the thing sold, not unless there was a trick, or gain to be had. He patted his belly, thinking on Varys.
He often did, trying to understand the man, because understanding Varys, and learning how best to use the eunuch, as the eunuch no doubt used him, was the secret to his fortune to begin with.
Of course, he'd doubled it, and doubled it again, and then once more since Varys had left, he'd pursued true love and found the drink as sweet as wine, and lost it too. He'd seen many things since he'd last seen Varys in person, and sometimes he wondered whether his friend liked it in Westeros.
The people were arrogant, they thought themselves the only in the world, and were hypocrites. They babbled on endlessly about the decadence of the Free Cities, its slavery and its open mores, at least in some of the Free Cities. They painted with a broad brush, and ignored that from what Varys had written, they were just as wasteful, they kept serfs in conditions even a slave would not envy, and practiced all sorts of acts while smiling piously and quoting inanities about the Seven.
Of course, hypocrisy didn't bother Illyrio at all, and as the slaves rubbed his body down with oils, he accepted in the way he accepted he was fat, that he might die earlier from his indulgence, that he too was a hypocrite.
Still, Westeros was a place he wasn't entirely looking forward to seeing, whether as Viserys' Master of Coin or not.
As he was dressed by his attendants and shuffled off into his vast bedroom, to laze on a chair encrusted with rubies and covered in thick silken pillows, and write a few things, read a few orders, begin to compose a letter, he wondered what Varys game was.
No, he wondered what Varys games were.
A servant brought him the paper. He paused, glancing at the servant, who looked familiar. Purple eyes looked back at him. Purple? Illyrio paused, shifting his bulk to get a closer look, but no, it was nothing. It was just a servant. "Slave?"
"Yes m'lord?" the servant asked, and the accent, it was just the accent one would expect a slave to have. And, well, the Targaryen's were arrogant, calling themselves dragons, yet in Lys there were plenty who looked as they did. Still, the moment of unease only slowly settled down.
Illyrio shook his head and began thinking. Varys knew that there wasn't just one game, there wasn't just one plan. So even as he pursued Viserys, he had asked Illyrio to keep his eye on Dany, and had carefully snared Jorah Mormont in his web. A spider had more than a single strand to their web, and if the time came, Jorah could perhaps be used.
It seemed a waste, if all of this work was ended for the sake of Varys appearing loyal to the throne. What else was there? Well, the Blackfyres, of course. The color of the dragon mattered little, and he was sure Varys had a few secrets of his own, a few carefully hidden pawns that he'd tell Illyrio about in time.
Or not. Illyrio admitted to himself this was possible. Varys could be playing him. Certainly, he'd gotten more than he bargained for in both the Beggar King and Daenerys. Viserys was far more cunning and unnerving than he'd expected, and he'd come with raised expectations since he'd heard from other merchants at the cunning way Viserys had managed to build a very small fortune without ever quite actually stooping to directly buying and selling things. For that, Illyrio had been told by Varys, would be beneath a Prince. So he'd begged and cheated and had people buy and sell and traded information and secrets, had hustled on the street.
Perhaps even, as a boy, stolen coins like a beggar, and no doubt told himself that he was only taking what he deserved. The boy, in other words, should have reminded him of some strange dark mirror of himself and Varys at that age.
Of course, Illyrio would no doubt dislike him if that was the case, but it'd be a clean, understandable dislike. One often dislikes the sort of man one was, and if he was placed face to face with his old self, he'd trust him not at all, and wouldn't be surprised when his young self tried to sell his current self down the river.
Yet from other sources, he'd gotten a picture of a scholar, almost. But a dark one, one who looked into the sorts of sources and areas that Varys hated. A learned young man who befriended Red Priests just to have access to their libraries, who went to dinner parties just to skip dinner and steal into their archives, and perhaps even steal something from the archives while he was at it. Who'd smile at a man and wring him dry of what he knew and then abandon them. A person with a mind twisted and cunning, searching for just the right knowledge to grant him what he wanted.
And what he wanted, and here was the one thing Illyrio knew everyone had said true, was Westeros. Everyone he'd asked, every spy, had communicated that same basic hunger, that same basic drive, as the center of Viserys Targaryen.
Despite that, part of him expected some foolish young lordling, hung up on his power and prestige and his blood.
Illyrio Mopatis had gotten all of that and more. He'd gotten, if Viserys became King, a 'Master' who could read five languages fluently and curse in them fluently as well, a man who was at once brilliant and erratic, the genius of the Targaryen line, yet erratic genius seemed not that far removed from madness to Illyrio. A young man who planned and schemed the same way he breathed. Not as skilled as him or Varys, not yet, and certainly not as experienced, but with a similar mindset. But with a driving focus on his one singular goal in life.
Viserys was more learned than most anyone his age Illyrio had ever seen, yet he used his learning the way he might a sword--for all that he was, at best, passing-fair with a sword, having trained himself into the bland and acceptable mediocrity that most young lords stopped at--as a tool, rather than the end itself.
He was no fool, and he knew people that Illyrio hadn't introduced him, guessed bits and pieces of the plans, and if he clearly had no experience in war, he had a ready mind, and he'd at least read all of the books there were. More importantly for Illyrio's purposes, he thought of the right things. Politics and not swordcraft. Tactics and not tales. Logistics and not glory. Strategy and sieges, not battles and vengeance.
Or rather, he held dark desires for vengeance that he seemed to understand that he'd have time to indulge once he was King. He didn't allow it to stop him from plotting to offer general amnesty, and then have Varys carefully aim at those whose amnesty he didn't accept once he was King.
Viserys was dangerous. He'd met with Jorah Mormont and wrung him dry of information while telling him a thousand lies about just what his plans were for Westeros, all about his vague ambitions, always cloaking it in the stupid folly of a boy too intelligent for his own good. Jorah's reports would be worse than useless. Did that mean Viserys suspected them? Yet he hadn't acted if so.
Viserys was also naive. He had schemes of his own, and some of them were no doubt ill-considered. While at times he pretended to be an idiot, a young lordling to snare Illyrio in soothing his ego with platitudes and lies, he also sometimes was surprisingly naive. He hadn't thought of alcohol rations for an army, didn't think of camp followers and how one would find or draw whores for the men, sometimes made assumptions about Westeros that clearly came out of books, and while it showed intelligence that he'd asked--Illyrio knew a stupider man would have just assumed--he'd had to have it explained twice to him that the Dothraki would consider Dany a gift, not a deal. They made deals in their own time and own way, but they exchanged gifts.
That Viserys would have to wait.
The boy had seemed almost stunned, eyes hot with anger, and yet he'd been convinced in the end.
And that, all of that and more, is what he told Varys. Wrote in a secret code to pass on to someone to pass on to someone, to carefully make its way by secret channels to Varys.
But what of Daenerys Targaryen? The stories spoke of a naive, trusting girl who loved her brother and was at least in some matters his closest confidante. Someone so sweet it tempted Illyrio, the way a pastry might. Someone who was smart, and was learning from Viserys' books all sorts of statecraft.
For while Viserys had the biases of many men against women learning, was in many cases quite typical, even though in others he was surprising, he seemed to have assumed a hand in teaching his sister refinement, for when they were back in Westeros.
Yet, that made no sense with what Viserys plans were.
And so, Illyrio had met this girl, and the girl had been exactly as he thought. Lovely, charming, a little strange. Maybe even clearly in love with her brother: incest was another strange custom of the Targaryen. Intelligent, yet clearly untested.
And then one night, a bitter, careful, cynical girl had seemed almost to replace her. A Dany who glanced at Viserys in fear instead of love, who flinched when Viserys raised his voice, yet whose words, when finally teased out, were cold and cruel and careful, the words of a woman who--
Illyrio massaged his chest. He found cynicism a lovely trait in a woman. Perhaps many men did, perhaps that was why whores were so popular. Her fear, her trapped look, the way she suddenly seemed to have huge gaps in her knowledge, and yet know things that she would have never thought about.
How could he write any of it?
And so he didn't. Dany was odd, Dany was different, and yet the reports *he* sent, the updates, spoke of her as if she were the woman he'd spoken of just a few weeks prior.
Each of them in different ways might yet be Queen material, yet the way she was acting now, it struck him as so bizarre. Even Viserys was baffled, and the one amusement Illyrio had had was watching Viserys act like a man his own age.
Like a young man who had somehow offended his lover and now was desperate to win back her trust and faith. Viserys had assured him that nothing had happened to have sullied Dany, though if he had admitted to it, Illyrio knew at least a dozen ways to cover it up. Pidgeon blood and other devices, certain combinations that women knew. And that Illyrio had had said women tell him, when he'd heard of the closeness of the two siblings.
It was amusing, yet also a little sad.
Illyrio groaned, blinking. He felt as if he'd almost gone to sleep, so warm were his clothes and the fire, and he picked up the letter, encoded, and then turned to the nearest slave. It was the dark haired, purple-eyed one.
Illyrio peered at his hair, and chided "Now, I like the look. Black and purple is quite lovely, but you should use a permanent dye." He could see the hints of blond peeking through. The boy's face was gaunt, but Illyrio thought that his servants had been clever in picking up such a slave. For there was a certain beauty and grace to him, the sort that drew male eyes, and female ones as well, and the dark hair created a lovely contrast from what one expected.
Ah, there was a scheme he should suggest to Varys. If all else failed, if all of the Targaryens died, just get a pretender from Lys to claim he had the blood, and was--what, a secret third cousin, or something.
Westerosi wouldn't know the difference.
"It's, it's not permanent, m'lord Mopatis?" the boy asked with dismay.
"No, not at all. It will wash out in no time at all."
"But I was told--" the boy responded, and he sounded so truly shocked that the dye was one-time.
"Lied to," Illyrio said, amused, "Now get. You know where to take it."
Later, later he'd wondered if he'd seen a smirk on that face as it turned to go. Much later he'd ask about a Lysian slave, having forgotten all about it, and get some rather confusing answers.
For now, though, he clapped his hands and other slaves entered, to usher him to his bed.
****
A/N: Aight.
Illyrio Mopatis knew he could be a creature of habit, though he hoped it did not make him predictable. He loved his pleasures, his little comforts, he loved wine and music and song, and he ended each day the same way when he could. A hot bath, a good drink as singers or musicians played to him in the bath, scrubbed down with oils and perfumes, and then work at his desk for an hour or two before being carried into his vast bed.
Sometimes he thought of weeping for what he'd become, but as he turned in the huge bath, splashing an attendant with hastily-dyed black hair, he knew it was nothing more than folly. He had always had his appetites, always his desires for power, and now he'd achieved all of it. He wanted more, of course. But Illyrio didn't think that was a special thing, any more than having an appetite is.
He lusted for power and he hungered for food, and once there had been men to call him all sorts of things to his face. Once.
And what of his youth? What worth did it have? He wept and remembered the glorious battles, the desperate charges, but then he remembered sleeping in rat-infested shitholes, retreating from one lost battle after another. He'd run straight into Varys grasp, in fact, and the two had learned from each other.
They'd taught each other the ways of power, the ways to talk to people, to smile at them and steal their valuables behind their back. Varys was a man Illyrio admired, an old friend, and if it was said there was no friend that Illyrio would not sell out for the right price--and, as he heard the singing of a bard in the distance, sweet music to bath to, he admitted this was entirely true--it had to also be said that the price and worth of Varys was vast.
And Illyrio knew never to sell below the worth of the thing sold, not unless there was a trick, or gain to be had. He patted his belly, thinking on Varys.
He often did, trying to understand the man, because understanding Varys, and learning how best to use the eunuch, as the eunuch no doubt used him, was the secret to his fortune to begin with.
Of course, he'd doubled it, and doubled it again, and then once more since Varys had left, he'd pursued true love and found the drink as sweet as wine, and lost it too. He'd seen many things since he'd last seen Varys in person, and sometimes he wondered whether his friend liked it in Westeros.
The people were arrogant, they thought themselves the only in the world, and were hypocrites. They babbled on endlessly about the decadence of the Free Cities, its slavery and its open mores, at least in some of the Free Cities. They painted with a broad brush, and ignored that from what Varys had written, they were just as wasteful, they kept serfs in conditions even a slave would not envy, and practiced all sorts of acts while smiling piously and quoting inanities about the Seven.
Of course, hypocrisy didn't bother Illyrio at all, and as the slaves rubbed his body down with oils, he accepted in the way he accepted he was fat, that he might die earlier from his indulgence, that he too was a hypocrite.
Still, Westeros was a place he wasn't entirely looking forward to seeing, whether as Viserys' Master of Coin or not.
As he was dressed by his attendants and shuffled off into his vast bedroom, to laze on a chair encrusted with rubies and covered in thick silken pillows, and write a few things, read a few orders, begin to compose a letter, he wondered what Varys game was.
No, he wondered what Varys games were.
A servant brought him the paper. He paused, glancing at the servant, who looked familiar. Purple eyes looked back at him. Purple? Illyrio paused, shifting his bulk to get a closer look, but no, it was nothing. It was just a servant. "Slave?"
"Yes m'lord?" the servant asked, and the accent, it was just the accent one would expect a slave to have. And, well, the Targaryen's were arrogant, calling themselves dragons, yet in Lys there were plenty who looked as they did. Still, the moment of unease only slowly settled down.
Illyrio shook his head and began thinking. Varys knew that there wasn't just one game, there wasn't just one plan. So even as he pursued Viserys, he had asked Illyrio to keep his eye on Dany, and had carefully snared Jorah Mormont in his web. A spider had more than a single strand to their web, and if the time came, Jorah could perhaps be used.
It seemed a waste, if all of this work was ended for the sake of Varys appearing loyal to the throne. What else was there? Well, the Blackfyres, of course. The color of the dragon mattered little, and he was sure Varys had a few secrets of his own, a few carefully hidden pawns that he'd tell Illyrio about in time.
Or not. Illyrio admitted to himself this was possible. Varys could be playing him. Certainly, he'd gotten more than he bargained for in both the Beggar King and Daenerys. Viserys was far more cunning and unnerving than he'd expected, and he'd come with raised expectations since he'd heard from other merchants at the cunning way Viserys had managed to build a very small fortune without ever quite actually stooping to directly buying and selling things. For that, Illyrio had been told by Varys, would be beneath a Prince. So he'd begged and cheated and had people buy and sell and traded information and secrets, had hustled on the street.
Perhaps even, as a boy, stolen coins like a beggar, and no doubt told himself that he was only taking what he deserved. The boy, in other words, should have reminded him of some strange dark mirror of himself and Varys at that age.
Of course, Illyrio would no doubt dislike him if that was the case, but it'd be a clean, understandable dislike. One often dislikes the sort of man one was, and if he was placed face to face with his old self, he'd trust him not at all, and wouldn't be surprised when his young self tried to sell his current self down the river.
Yet from other sources, he'd gotten a picture of a scholar, almost. But a dark one, one who looked into the sorts of sources and areas that Varys hated. A learned young man who befriended Red Priests just to have access to their libraries, who went to dinner parties just to skip dinner and steal into their archives, and perhaps even steal something from the archives while he was at it. Who'd smile at a man and wring him dry of what he knew and then abandon them. A person with a mind twisted and cunning, searching for just the right knowledge to grant him what he wanted.
And what he wanted, and here was the one thing Illyrio knew everyone had said true, was Westeros. Everyone he'd asked, every spy, had communicated that same basic hunger, that same basic drive, as the center of Viserys Targaryen.
Despite that, part of him expected some foolish young lordling, hung up on his power and prestige and his blood.
Illyrio Mopatis had gotten all of that and more. He'd gotten, if Viserys became King, a 'Master' who could read five languages fluently and curse in them fluently as well, a man who was at once brilliant and erratic, the genius of the Targaryen line, yet erratic genius seemed not that far removed from madness to Illyrio. A young man who planned and schemed the same way he breathed. Not as skilled as him or Varys, not yet, and certainly not as experienced, but with a similar mindset. But with a driving focus on his one singular goal in life.
Viserys was more learned than most anyone his age Illyrio had ever seen, yet he used his learning the way he might a sword--for all that he was, at best, passing-fair with a sword, having trained himself into the bland and acceptable mediocrity that most young lords stopped at--as a tool, rather than the end itself.
He was no fool, and he knew people that Illyrio hadn't introduced him, guessed bits and pieces of the plans, and if he clearly had no experience in war, he had a ready mind, and he'd at least read all of the books there were. More importantly for Illyrio's purposes, he thought of the right things. Politics and not swordcraft. Tactics and not tales. Logistics and not glory. Strategy and sieges, not battles and vengeance.
Or rather, he held dark desires for vengeance that he seemed to understand that he'd have time to indulge once he was King. He didn't allow it to stop him from plotting to offer general amnesty, and then have Varys carefully aim at those whose amnesty he didn't accept once he was King.
Viserys was dangerous. He'd met with Jorah Mormont and wrung him dry of information while telling him a thousand lies about just what his plans were for Westeros, all about his vague ambitions, always cloaking it in the stupid folly of a boy too intelligent for his own good. Jorah's reports would be worse than useless. Did that mean Viserys suspected them? Yet he hadn't acted if so.
Viserys was also naive. He had schemes of his own, and some of them were no doubt ill-considered. While at times he pretended to be an idiot, a young lordling to snare Illyrio in soothing his ego with platitudes and lies, he also sometimes was surprisingly naive. He hadn't thought of alcohol rations for an army, didn't think of camp followers and how one would find or draw whores for the men, sometimes made assumptions about Westeros that clearly came out of books, and while it showed intelligence that he'd asked--Illyrio knew a stupider man would have just assumed--he'd had to have it explained twice to him that the Dothraki would consider Dany a gift, not a deal. They made deals in their own time and own way, but they exchanged gifts.
That Viserys would have to wait.
The boy had seemed almost stunned, eyes hot with anger, and yet he'd been convinced in the end.
And that, all of that and more, is what he told Varys. Wrote in a secret code to pass on to someone to pass on to someone, to carefully make its way by secret channels to Varys.
But what of Daenerys Targaryen? The stories spoke of a naive, trusting girl who loved her brother and was at least in some matters his closest confidante. Someone so sweet it tempted Illyrio, the way a pastry might. Someone who was smart, and was learning from Viserys' books all sorts of statecraft.
For while Viserys had the biases of many men against women learning, was in many cases quite typical, even though in others he was surprising, he seemed to have assumed a hand in teaching his sister refinement, for when they were back in Westeros.
Yet, that made no sense with what Viserys plans were.
And so, Illyrio had met this girl, and the girl had been exactly as he thought. Lovely, charming, a little strange. Maybe even clearly in love with her brother: incest was another strange custom of the Targaryen. Intelligent, yet clearly untested.
And then one night, a bitter, careful, cynical girl had seemed almost to replace her. A Dany who glanced at Viserys in fear instead of love, who flinched when Viserys raised his voice, yet whose words, when finally teased out, were cold and cruel and careful, the words of a woman who--
Illyrio massaged his chest. He found cynicism a lovely trait in a woman. Perhaps many men did, perhaps that was why whores were so popular. Her fear, her trapped look, the way she suddenly seemed to have huge gaps in her knowledge, and yet know things that she would have never thought about.
How could he write any of it?
And so he didn't. Dany was odd, Dany was different, and yet the reports *he* sent, the updates, spoke of her as if she were the woman he'd spoken of just a few weeks prior.
Each of them in different ways might yet be Queen material, yet the way she was acting now, it struck him as so bizarre. Even Viserys was baffled, and the one amusement Illyrio had had was watching Viserys act like a man his own age.
Like a young man who had somehow offended his lover and now was desperate to win back her trust and faith. Viserys had assured him that nothing had happened to have sullied Dany, though if he had admitted to it, Illyrio knew at least a dozen ways to cover it up. Pidgeon blood and other devices, certain combinations that women knew. And that Illyrio had had said women tell him, when he'd heard of the closeness of the two siblings.
It was amusing, yet also a little sad.
Illyrio groaned, blinking. He felt as if he'd almost gone to sleep, so warm were his clothes and the fire, and he picked up the letter, encoded, and then turned to the nearest slave. It was the dark haired, purple-eyed one.
Illyrio peered at his hair, and chided "Now, I like the look. Black and purple is quite lovely, but you should use a permanent dye." He could see the hints of blond peeking through. The boy's face was gaunt, but Illyrio thought that his servants had been clever in picking up such a slave. For there was a certain beauty and grace to him, the sort that drew male eyes, and female ones as well, and the dark hair created a lovely contrast from what one expected.
Ah, there was a scheme he should suggest to Varys. If all else failed, if all of the Targaryens died, just get a pretender from Lys to claim he had the blood, and was--what, a secret third cousin, or something.
Westerosi wouldn't know the difference.
"It's, it's not permanent, m'lord Mopatis?" the boy asked with dismay.
"No, not at all. It will wash out in no time at all."
"But I was told--" the boy responded, and he sounded so truly shocked that the dye was one-time.
"Lied to," Illyrio said, amused, "Now get. You know where to take it."
Later, later he'd wondered if he'd seen a smirk on that face as it turned to go. Much later he'd ask about a Lysian slave, having forgotten all about it, and get some rather confusing answers.
For now, though, he clapped his hands and other slaves entered, to usher him to his bed.
****
A/N: Aight.
- Location
- Somewhere!
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Interesting. I wonder which of them got replaced?
A little on the nose here, Illyrio.
I do wonder what he was playing at with the dye, though.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Ilyrio, being from a place that doesn't have Kings, doesn't get how truly and deeply important it is to have a successor of the Royal Blood, and how that fixes everything forever.
Joffrey was a shit because he was a shit, not because his secret evil Lannister blood made him a shit.
I thought (royal) bastards were either insane, evil or both in ASOIAF.
Either way, this shouldn't be the same Joffrey. Different genetics, and even looking different (more like his father) should have a profound impact on him.
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No, the Westerosi have an extra-strong bias against bastards of high-ranking fathers because the Blackfyre Rebellion lasted four generations, but even there, the Great Bastards of Aegon IV were neither evil nor insane.
For example, Bloodraven comes closest with his proto-police state as well as his "pragmatic" polices, but barring the chance of future revelations, he still wins points for having turned himself into a tree-man to fight the Others. In contrast, if you believe the worst that was said about Daemon, the man was being led around the nose rather than genuinely ill-intentioned, whereas Bittersteel was an asshole, but very much an asshole of his time and culture as well as an asshole with understandable if not necessarily reasonable grievances against Daeron II and his supporters.
Canon!Joffrey was a disaster because of nurture as much as nature. It's possible that this Robert and this Cersei have become better parents because of changed circumstances, but without seeing proof, I'd bet against it.
Yeah, but I think even looking different could have an effect on him. Maybe make him get along with his father more than his mother.
True, his appearance is going to have an effect, though it's hard to guess exactly what kind of effect it will be when we know so little about how things have changed.
However, it's worth noting that Canon!Joffrey already idolized his father as shown by his contempt of Tywin, his opinion of women, as well as some of his beliefs regarding what a king should be like. As a result, I think it's the changes in Robert's character that will have the biggest role in deciding the extent of the changes in this Joffrey's character.
I was under the impression he was a Darkling. He's small by nature, and being a Wizened would've made him look even smaller. Not taller and more imposing.
It could possibly distance himself more from his mother.
Perhaps, though the more relevant factor is whether Cersei would permit him to distance himself from her.
The problem with Cersei is that Cersei is one of the less reliable narrators. In part, this is because Cersei is Cersei. However, it should also be noted that Cersei in AFFC and ADWD has lost her father, her lover, and her son in short succession, meaning that she's not in the best state of mind. In canon, Cersei seems to have latched onto Joffrey as a sort of surrogate for all of the things that were denied to her because of her sex, but it's unclear whether she would've done so if Joffrey had been Robert rather than Jaime's son by blood. Going by AFFC and ADWD, it seems improbable, but the opinion of Cersei with a lost father, a lost lover, and a lost son plus more than a decade's worth of rape and humiliation isn't necessarily the opinion of Cersei closer to the start of her marriage.
Of course, this Robert could override this Cersei in much the same manner as how Canon!Robert could have overridden Canon!Cersei, but unless he has changed a lot from his canon counterpart, he's not going to bother because he's going to take the easiest way out, which is to say, he's going to let the situation fester.
Chapter 8: Catelyn 2
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Chapter 8: Catelyn
Catelyn Stark stared at the table. It was a ritual of theirs, as much as anything else, this consultation, this table. The papers on it didn't matter today, nor did the books. What mattered more than anything was the ritual. Ned treated her as a partner. Not an equal, for what madness would that be, but he respected her, on everything except the matter of the bastard. He consulted her, he included her, and that was as warm, as heartening as the lovemaking.
Five children and no miscarriages, no babies dead at her breast, and even births whose pains seemed to ease into joy. Was it any wonder that she clung to her children more than any bastard, for all that the Seven-Pointed Star urged kindness unto bastards, the mad, and other unfortunates, cursed by the Seven that they were.
The room was like a womb, small and warm, and near their beds. Part of her wished Ned could unsay the words, return the world to one in which she could simply say, 'Why don't we just go to bed?'
But no, he consulted her, and they talked, sometimes deep in the night. Certainly, five children later, it could hardly be said that she did not do her duties in that respect either, and as her nursemaid had once said of cleaning, when you enjoyed a duty, it hardly felt like a duty at all.
Still, five could be six, and another son would yet strengthen the family. The rule of the North was to store for the coming winter. Three Stark sons, and one Stark daughter who had lived to adulthood, and half dead, the last up at the wall.
A thin branch upon which rested a great family.
She spoke before Ned could add his own conclusion, knowing she had to act, "You cannot refuse him. And, as much as I would not like it, the deal is all or nothing. If you refuse one part of it, let alone all of it, he will ask himself why. He will consider," Catelyn said, "Your reasons. He would be a fool not to."
"Robert is not like that. He'd bluster, and rage, but I know him, and in a week he'd be slapping my back and friends with me again," Ned said, stoically, though perhaps beneath it Catelyn, so honed for his every mood, detected doubt.
"That is the man he once was, but he is a King now--" Catelyn said.
"I think...I think that his management of the realm could be better, perhaps he does not think like one," Ned said, weakly.
"Then others will for him. They will say 'Ned Stark doesn't wish to marry into your family because he doesn't believe in you.' They will say," Catelyn said, voice catching, "That you saw Robert as he was and decided his dynasty, his rule, was nothing. And you don't wish to go South? Why?"
"The place is a dangerous snakepit. You yourself warned me of--well, I do not believe in signs. My brother did," Ned admitted, "Brandon. Would that he was here, and I could be a lord, assisting him. He was made for this, raised for this. If it wasn't for you, dear Catelyn, I'd be lost." Ned reached out a hand and stroked her hair.
Catelyn stared at him, compassion welling up. She wanted to kiss him, but she had words yet to say. "So you must accept. He has changed, he is a stranger, and down in that snakepit, poison will be whispered in his ear. It is a great honor, at least in theory. Though Joffrey--"
"What of him?" Ned asked.
Catelyn didn't want to say it, because she was sure it was cruel, cruel when Sansa had been talking about the prince all of these days before he'd come, was possibly head over heals with him before even having met him.
What should Catelyn worry about her daughter becoming a Queen? And yet she did.
"A maid went into the room of the wife of Ser Halden Norrey, you know, that pious knight from the Riverlands--"
Ned frowned, "He brought his wife because he loved her so and because she was from the southern part of the North and wished to visit family?" He'd met a great many people between talking to Robert and talking to Catelyn, she knew, and most of them were one flavor of outwardly pious or another.
"Yes. And she went in and began to clean it. She swears she didn't see anyone, but when she turned her head halfway through, she saw Joffrey standing there, plain as day, in a corner. Looking at her. Staring at her. When she asked what he wanted, as politely as she could," Catelyn said, "He told her to carry on, and that he merely wished to talk to Ser Norrey's lady wife, learn about the north. Then he asked if she needed help cleaning, and approached her and she excused herself, said she'd go get the wife, but when she got back, not three minutes later, he was gone."
Ned looked at her, "I have to refuse. That boy isn't right. Even his mother sees it, she seemed cold and distant at the feast. Kept on starting conversations with him only to stop and try to address Tommen."
"I was there," Catelyn said, "I don't know what to say. The boy's been skulking about, exploring every nook and cranny of the place as if he planned to besiege it."
"For her sake I have to. She's only eleven, and I won't marry my daughter to anyone I would not respect to treat her as he should," Ned said.
"He is a Prince. Mind your words. Yet refusing would be worse. A betrothal can be broken, and even a moment of play matters. Robert did not fully reject the idea that his namesake might be fostered here. We should make him," Catelyn urged, "Do more than not reject it, if he is to put us in this bind. Once Lysa and her son are here, we can get the truth out of them, find any danger there is. I can send word to you if needed. Urge his love of Lord Arryn. Talk about how just as the Baratheons and Starks would fuse, so too by being fostered, and Lysa will of course come as well, for a time at least," Catelyn was talking as fast as she could think, attempting to craft something.
She knew it was pretty cynical, to be imagining alliances. The Riverlands, the Vale, and the North together were the closest thing to a natural trio as imaginable. Neighbors of course meant they had disagreements in the past, yet still. And as a faction, as a block of Lord Protectors who would have to be heeded, they could make even King Robert, or, Seven forbid, King Joffrey pause.
The Ironborn, of course, were nobody's friends, at least as a group, though when she was a girl, Ironborn traders had plied the Riverlands as happy to sail on rivers trading goods as their fellows had been to sail the seas raiding innocents.
The Reach? Well, there were no ties between the nobles, but Ned had sent letters that far south before, discussing the nature farming politics. And Maester Lunwin had traded packets of seeds that far south, trying to improve the Glass Garden for the coming of winter. There were ties, however thin.
The Lannisters were enemies, the Stormlands loyal to Robert, which at the moment was a good thing. And Dorne? Who knew with those strange people.
"You're plotting, dear," Ned said with a smile, reaching down to tug at her frown as if that would turn it too into a smile.
"Maybe. But you have to accept, and then--once Lysa is here, we could," Catelyn began, which was when there was a knock on the door.
"Please come in," Ned said politely, and Maester Lunwin stepped in.
"I am sorry to interrupt any discussion, but I have been left a message," he said. The Maester was a tiny grey man with quick grey eyes, robes grey and white and trimmed with fur. He was the third of what Catelyn sometimes called the family council. Perhaps when he was older Robb would be part of that circle as well. Certainly, Lunwin was close with all the Starks, toys and games and books tumbling out of his long sleeves, out of hidden pockets, a twinkle in his eye. He knew something of secrecy, and something of craft.
He'd spoken to Catelyn about the progress of all the children before, many times, always adding Jon last to the list, and she'd nodded once when he'd said, not that long ago, that he might discuss becoming a Maester with Jon. That, that was fitting, since a Maester had no family name, could not marry, would not be a challenge. Yet he had not risen to the bait, and Catelyn knew that to do more than kindly offer the options would not yet get Ned's approval, so much did he love Jon, so much he must have loved his mother.
Unwilling and unable to share that of himself, when she would have given everything, shared everything, just for that one piece of him he kept back.
"Been left? By whom? I was told of no rider," Ned asked, temper briefly flaring over his calm.
"No rider, my lord," Lunwin said, "There was only a carved wooden box. It had been left on a table in my observatory while I was napping. Tyrion had dropped by earlier, but I doubt it was him, and my servants saw no one come but him. It must have been brought by someone in the king's party."
"And what was in the box?" Catelyn asked. She didn't trust Tyrion, any more than she did any of the Lannisters. Was this some plot of his? He was called the Imp, and perhaps he took dark fancies to unnerve people.
"There was a fine new lens for the observatory. Myrish, and so the best imaginable. For a moment I even thought it might have been Tyrion. They say Tyrion Lannister is an intelligent man who values learning. But then I thought: what do lenses mean?"
"What?" Ned asked, who had no head for puzzles.
"A lens helps one see the truth, what is really there," Catelyn said nervously, as Lunwin fingered his chain, no doubt thinking of all the truths he had seen by his standing in his order. All the links he'd forged.
"And what was there was beneath a false bottom when I dismantled the box that the lens had come in," Maester Lunwin said, drawing out a tightly rolled paper.
"Let me have it, then," Ned said.
"Pardon, my lord. But the message is not for you either. It is marked for the eyes of Lady Catelyn, and her alone," Maester Lunwin said.
Certainly, woman though she was, she was a noble, with all of the full rights. Even were Ned a boor, and he wasn't, he'd respect that there were some things for her and not him. She took it and opened it, glancing at the bit of blue wax, scanning it slowly, and then faster once she figured out just what it was. Her sister's message, under a code, under their childhood language.
It changed everything. Her hands were trembling by the end and she said, "It is from Lysa, and the contents. Darker than the words of any raven. An ill omen, Ned."
Ned looked at her, face grave, concern written on his face.
"It is written in our private language, and the words--we shall need all the counsel we have, and I must burn this." Catelyn stood, but her every step was heavy, as she slid the letter into the fire and watched it disappear. "Perhaps it would have been better to keep it, but the proof, when you find it, will be worth more than the accusation."
"When I find what?" Ned asked, standing and moving over to her, looming over her. "What was in the message?"
"A warning. Lysa says Jon Arryn was murdered," Catelyn said, feeling his grip tigthen, "By the Lannisters, the Queen."
Ned stared, "Gods, your sister is sick with grief, she cannot know--"
"She knows full well. She is impulsive, but she has planned this too much, risked her life and the life of Robert," Catelyn said, her own voice raising, "Do you think the Lannisters incapable, when they've raised such a boy as Joffrey, when they've done all that they have done? Do you think Cersei Lannister would not do so, if it appeased her vast ego, if she thought some gain for it. I would believe anything of that woman, and you would too--"
"I…" Ned nodded, "She was not the best match Robert could have had."
"You must go south, you must be his Hand, you must make sure that Lysa's son Robert never falls into Lannister hands. It is a risk, but it is one I can share with you, Ned," Catelyn urged.
"There is power in the Hand, my Lord," Lunwin said, plucking at his collar, "Power to find the truth, power to bring killers to justice, power to sway Robert away from his path, away from trust of the Lannisters if they are so guilty. Great power."
"In a nest of vipers, in a court I do not know," Ned said.
"It is a court you can come to know," Catelyn said, "I can help you with the ways of the south, we can help Robert, see that he is not steered towards evil, care for him as one might a brother--"
"The Others take both of you," Ned muttered, as Ned looked around the room, looked beyond it. Looked to all of the North, to all that he had struggled for. Now resting in the balance of his performance south. Catelyn wanted to hug him close, and never let go.
"This could end horribly," Ned said.
"All things could," Catelyn said, unable to resist saying, "Winter is coming. It always is."
"But Catelyn, you must stay in Winterfell," Ned said.
Catelyn stared for a moment, uncomprehending, "How will you, how will you navigate how…"
"You are needed here, to run Winterfell in my stead. Certainly, you have the skills, and Robb needs what support he can. Teach him, instruct him, show him by example what it is a Lord does, the things far more important than wielding a sword or writing a poem," Ned replied. "There must be a Stark of Winterfell, and he will have to rule should I die, should anything befall me."
"The Seven forbid that they should," Catelyn said, heart swelling as she knew that tonight she would not be in bed with him. Perhaps the night after, perhaps later, but for now she wished to pray, to pray with all she had to the Seven, that they might grant him safety.
"Maester Lunwin, I trust you as I would my very own blood. Yourself and my wife are to be his closest counsel. Teach him all he must know, no matter what," Ned said.
Catelyn didn't want to ask, didn't want to tear her heart out over what she knew what was coming, but she had to ask. "What of the other children?"
"Rickon," Ned said, and reached up to hug her close, "is very young. He can stay with you and Robb and Jon. The others I would take with me."
"I could not bear it, seeing Bran and the others gone, and I will not stand it," Catelyn said.
She wished by the Seven she could bear the kindness towards Jon, and at least a modicum of love, if only reflected by Ned's love. But she didn't, and now was not the time to mince words. "I will not stand having Jon here, he must go with you. I would not have Bran go with you, but if Bran must go, then so must Jon."
Ned stared at her for a long moment, then sighed, "Yet Robb and Jon were so close, and Jon could yet be his right arm, if anything should happen."
Catelyn did not think Jon was disloyal, or a monster, and yet her stomach clenched at the idea that if Ned died, that Jon would be at Robb's side, right there. The second oldest son of Eddard Stark. Bastards could be made legitimate, though it was a sin, and ambition could sprout like a weed even in seemingly barren soil.
"Sansa and Ayra going south, Bran and--Jon, Jon should go as well," Catelyn said, "Perhaps he can broaden his horizons, or he could continue going south, to become a Maester if the South appealed to him."
Arya, well, the girl certainly could learn some refinement in the south. And Sansa was needed, and perhaps Bran needed to learn, but. "But he's so young."
"I was not much older when I was sent to foster at the Eyrie," Ned said, "But I still do not think it is wise to send Jon South, you know how much harder on bastards they are."
Catelyn looked at him, long and steady. Men fathered bastards, it was what they did, and it was a woman's duty to accept it. But men didn't have to call them "son" weren't even supposed to, certainly weren't supposed to never mention who the mother was. The one time he'd gotten truly furious at her, it was over her asking about a rumor she'd heard as to the identity of the mother. She'd stared then, tears in her eyes, and known, in some deep down crevice, that as much as he might love her, it seemed clear he'd never love her as he loved that unknown woman.
Never love her with the passion she loved him, for all he respected her, for all he loved her. Catelyn could not accept Jon, would not. It was a step too far, too much to ask of her, too much to demand of her love.
"I do know," Catelyn said, and she knew she sounded cold, sounded cruel.
"He will be shunned, he will find no happiness," Ned said.
"Yet it is no kindness to keep him here, either for me, Ned, or for him," Catelyn aid.
Ned stared back at her, but his silent words did not reach her ears.
Maester Lunwin rattled his chains, quietly, and he spoke. Just in time, because Catelyn could see the beginning of the anger. Each time they talked on this, it always came back to it. That she was cruel to take out her feelings on him. And of course, she couldn't say, didn't say, that it was cruel of him to have brought Jon Snow here, to have kept him these fourteen years like this when truly what solution was there?
"Another solution presents itself, Lord Stark. Your brother Benjen came to me about Jon a few days ago. It seems the boy aspires to take the black."
Catelyn barely managed not to sigh with relief as the solution presented itself.
"He asked to join the Night's Watch?"
"It is an honorable service, pledging oneself to the Wall, my lord," Maester Lunwin said.
And a Sworn Brother would have no sons to contest Catelyn's line. And Benjen Stark was close to Jon, so it would even be better for him, happier for him. "And there is a chance to rise high in the Night's Watch, no matter your station," Catelyn urged. Here, at last, here after fourteen years, they came to kindness. Here at last, the ache in her heart could be soothed, and Jon Snow would get what he wanted, would serve the realm against whatever dark things lurked beyond the Wall. All would benefit.
"Yet Jon is a boy of fourteen," Ned said, troubled.
"And Sansa is only eleven. Bran is only seven. These are hard times," Catelyn said.
Ned turned, to glare at her, but Lunwin concurred, "It is no harder a path than that which you have to face, my lord, or anyone else. It is a hard life, and a hard sacrifice for a hard time."
Ned sighed, "I know when I am beaten, and I suppose it is for the best. I will speak to Ben."
The maester looked at Ned for a very long moment, then asked, "When shall we tell Jon?"
Ned sighed, and his eyes looked distant. Tonight would not be a night for lovemaking, even if there was no Sept to pray at. There was anger in that sigh, frustration at the world as it was, not as it should be. There were long ago memories of his own childhood. "I will tell him when I must, because we must prepare. It will be a fortnight, and perhaps more, before we are ready to depart. And I would sooner let Jon enjoy these last few days, for summer will end soon enough, as will childhood. When the time comes, I will tell him myself."
*****
A/N: Still technically Saturday.
Catelyn Stark stared at the table. It was a ritual of theirs, as much as anything else, this consultation, this table. The papers on it didn't matter today, nor did the books. What mattered more than anything was the ritual. Ned treated her as a partner. Not an equal, for what madness would that be, but he respected her, on everything except the matter of the bastard. He consulted her, he included her, and that was as warm, as heartening as the lovemaking.
Five children and no miscarriages, no babies dead at her breast, and even births whose pains seemed to ease into joy. Was it any wonder that she clung to her children more than any bastard, for all that the Seven-Pointed Star urged kindness unto bastards, the mad, and other unfortunates, cursed by the Seven that they were.
The room was like a womb, small and warm, and near their beds. Part of her wished Ned could unsay the words, return the world to one in which she could simply say, 'Why don't we just go to bed?'
But no, he consulted her, and they talked, sometimes deep in the night. Certainly, five children later, it could hardly be said that she did not do her duties in that respect either, and as her nursemaid had once said of cleaning, when you enjoyed a duty, it hardly felt like a duty at all.
Still, five could be six, and another son would yet strengthen the family. The rule of the North was to store for the coming winter. Three Stark sons, and one Stark daughter who had lived to adulthood, and half dead, the last up at the wall.
A thin branch upon which rested a great family.
She spoke before Ned could add his own conclusion, knowing she had to act, "You cannot refuse him. And, as much as I would not like it, the deal is all or nothing. If you refuse one part of it, let alone all of it, he will ask himself why. He will consider," Catelyn said, "Your reasons. He would be a fool not to."
"Robert is not like that. He'd bluster, and rage, but I know him, and in a week he'd be slapping my back and friends with me again," Ned said, stoically, though perhaps beneath it Catelyn, so honed for his every mood, detected doubt.
"That is the man he once was, but he is a King now--" Catelyn said.
"I think...I think that his management of the realm could be better, perhaps he does not think like one," Ned said, weakly.
"Then others will for him. They will say 'Ned Stark doesn't wish to marry into your family because he doesn't believe in you.' They will say," Catelyn said, voice catching, "That you saw Robert as he was and decided his dynasty, his rule, was nothing. And you don't wish to go South? Why?"
"The place is a dangerous snakepit. You yourself warned me of--well, I do not believe in signs. My brother did," Ned admitted, "Brandon. Would that he was here, and I could be a lord, assisting him. He was made for this, raised for this. If it wasn't for you, dear Catelyn, I'd be lost." Ned reached out a hand and stroked her hair.
Catelyn stared at him, compassion welling up. She wanted to kiss him, but she had words yet to say. "So you must accept. He has changed, he is a stranger, and down in that snakepit, poison will be whispered in his ear. It is a great honor, at least in theory. Though Joffrey--"
"What of him?" Ned asked.
Catelyn didn't want to say it, because she was sure it was cruel, cruel when Sansa had been talking about the prince all of these days before he'd come, was possibly head over heals with him before even having met him.
What should Catelyn worry about her daughter becoming a Queen? And yet she did.
"A maid went into the room of the wife of Ser Halden Norrey, you know, that pious knight from the Riverlands--"
Ned frowned, "He brought his wife because he loved her so and because she was from the southern part of the North and wished to visit family?" He'd met a great many people between talking to Robert and talking to Catelyn, she knew, and most of them were one flavor of outwardly pious or another.
"Yes. And she went in and began to clean it. She swears she didn't see anyone, but when she turned her head halfway through, she saw Joffrey standing there, plain as day, in a corner. Looking at her. Staring at her. When she asked what he wanted, as politely as she could," Catelyn said, "He told her to carry on, and that he merely wished to talk to Ser Norrey's lady wife, learn about the north. Then he asked if she needed help cleaning, and approached her and she excused herself, said she'd go get the wife, but when she got back, not three minutes later, he was gone."
Ned looked at her, "I have to refuse. That boy isn't right. Even his mother sees it, she seemed cold and distant at the feast. Kept on starting conversations with him only to stop and try to address Tommen."
"I was there," Catelyn said, "I don't know what to say. The boy's been skulking about, exploring every nook and cranny of the place as if he planned to besiege it."
"For her sake I have to. She's only eleven, and I won't marry my daughter to anyone I would not respect to treat her as he should," Ned said.
"He is a Prince. Mind your words. Yet refusing would be worse. A betrothal can be broken, and even a moment of play matters. Robert did not fully reject the idea that his namesake might be fostered here. We should make him," Catelyn urged, "Do more than not reject it, if he is to put us in this bind. Once Lysa and her son are here, we can get the truth out of them, find any danger there is. I can send word to you if needed. Urge his love of Lord Arryn. Talk about how just as the Baratheons and Starks would fuse, so too by being fostered, and Lysa will of course come as well, for a time at least," Catelyn was talking as fast as she could think, attempting to craft something.
She knew it was pretty cynical, to be imagining alliances. The Riverlands, the Vale, and the North together were the closest thing to a natural trio as imaginable. Neighbors of course meant they had disagreements in the past, yet still. And as a faction, as a block of Lord Protectors who would have to be heeded, they could make even King Robert, or, Seven forbid, King Joffrey pause.
The Ironborn, of course, were nobody's friends, at least as a group, though when she was a girl, Ironborn traders had plied the Riverlands as happy to sail on rivers trading goods as their fellows had been to sail the seas raiding innocents.
The Reach? Well, there were no ties between the nobles, but Ned had sent letters that far south before, discussing the nature farming politics. And Maester Lunwin had traded packets of seeds that far south, trying to improve the Glass Garden for the coming of winter. There were ties, however thin.
The Lannisters were enemies, the Stormlands loyal to Robert, which at the moment was a good thing. And Dorne? Who knew with those strange people.
"You're plotting, dear," Ned said with a smile, reaching down to tug at her frown as if that would turn it too into a smile.
"Maybe. But you have to accept, and then--once Lysa is here, we could," Catelyn began, which was when there was a knock on the door.
"Please come in," Ned said politely, and Maester Lunwin stepped in.
"I am sorry to interrupt any discussion, but I have been left a message," he said. The Maester was a tiny grey man with quick grey eyes, robes grey and white and trimmed with fur. He was the third of what Catelyn sometimes called the family council. Perhaps when he was older Robb would be part of that circle as well. Certainly, Lunwin was close with all the Starks, toys and games and books tumbling out of his long sleeves, out of hidden pockets, a twinkle in his eye. He knew something of secrecy, and something of craft.
He'd spoken to Catelyn about the progress of all the children before, many times, always adding Jon last to the list, and she'd nodded once when he'd said, not that long ago, that he might discuss becoming a Maester with Jon. That, that was fitting, since a Maester had no family name, could not marry, would not be a challenge. Yet he had not risen to the bait, and Catelyn knew that to do more than kindly offer the options would not yet get Ned's approval, so much did he love Jon, so much he must have loved his mother.
Unwilling and unable to share that of himself, when she would have given everything, shared everything, just for that one piece of him he kept back.
"Been left? By whom? I was told of no rider," Ned asked, temper briefly flaring over his calm.
"No rider, my lord," Lunwin said, "There was only a carved wooden box. It had been left on a table in my observatory while I was napping. Tyrion had dropped by earlier, but I doubt it was him, and my servants saw no one come but him. It must have been brought by someone in the king's party."
"And what was in the box?" Catelyn asked. She didn't trust Tyrion, any more than she did any of the Lannisters. Was this some plot of his? He was called the Imp, and perhaps he took dark fancies to unnerve people.
"There was a fine new lens for the observatory. Myrish, and so the best imaginable. For a moment I even thought it might have been Tyrion. They say Tyrion Lannister is an intelligent man who values learning. But then I thought: what do lenses mean?"
"What?" Ned asked, who had no head for puzzles.
"A lens helps one see the truth, what is really there," Catelyn said nervously, as Lunwin fingered his chain, no doubt thinking of all the truths he had seen by his standing in his order. All the links he'd forged.
"And what was there was beneath a false bottom when I dismantled the box that the lens had come in," Maester Lunwin said, drawing out a tightly rolled paper.
"Let me have it, then," Ned said.
"Pardon, my lord. But the message is not for you either. It is marked for the eyes of Lady Catelyn, and her alone," Maester Lunwin said.
Certainly, woman though she was, she was a noble, with all of the full rights. Even were Ned a boor, and he wasn't, he'd respect that there were some things for her and not him. She took it and opened it, glancing at the bit of blue wax, scanning it slowly, and then faster once she figured out just what it was. Her sister's message, under a code, under their childhood language.
It changed everything. Her hands were trembling by the end and she said, "It is from Lysa, and the contents. Darker than the words of any raven. An ill omen, Ned."
Ned looked at her, face grave, concern written on his face.
"It is written in our private language, and the words--we shall need all the counsel we have, and I must burn this." Catelyn stood, but her every step was heavy, as she slid the letter into the fire and watched it disappear. "Perhaps it would have been better to keep it, but the proof, when you find it, will be worth more than the accusation."
"When I find what?" Ned asked, standing and moving over to her, looming over her. "What was in the message?"
"A warning. Lysa says Jon Arryn was murdered," Catelyn said, feeling his grip tigthen, "By the Lannisters, the Queen."
Ned stared, "Gods, your sister is sick with grief, she cannot know--"
"She knows full well. She is impulsive, but she has planned this too much, risked her life and the life of Robert," Catelyn said, her own voice raising, "Do you think the Lannisters incapable, when they've raised such a boy as Joffrey, when they've done all that they have done? Do you think Cersei Lannister would not do so, if it appeased her vast ego, if she thought some gain for it. I would believe anything of that woman, and you would too--"
"I…" Ned nodded, "She was not the best match Robert could have had."
"You must go south, you must be his Hand, you must make sure that Lysa's son Robert never falls into Lannister hands. It is a risk, but it is one I can share with you, Ned," Catelyn urged.
"There is power in the Hand, my Lord," Lunwin said, plucking at his collar, "Power to find the truth, power to bring killers to justice, power to sway Robert away from his path, away from trust of the Lannisters if they are so guilty. Great power."
"In a nest of vipers, in a court I do not know," Ned said.
"It is a court you can come to know," Catelyn said, "I can help you with the ways of the south, we can help Robert, see that he is not steered towards evil, care for him as one might a brother--"
"The Others take both of you," Ned muttered, as Ned looked around the room, looked beyond it. Looked to all of the North, to all that he had struggled for. Now resting in the balance of his performance south. Catelyn wanted to hug him close, and never let go.
"This could end horribly," Ned said.
"All things could," Catelyn said, unable to resist saying, "Winter is coming. It always is."
"But Catelyn, you must stay in Winterfell," Ned said.
Catelyn stared for a moment, uncomprehending, "How will you, how will you navigate how…"
"You are needed here, to run Winterfell in my stead. Certainly, you have the skills, and Robb needs what support he can. Teach him, instruct him, show him by example what it is a Lord does, the things far more important than wielding a sword or writing a poem," Ned replied. "There must be a Stark of Winterfell, and he will have to rule should I die, should anything befall me."
"The Seven forbid that they should," Catelyn said, heart swelling as she knew that tonight she would not be in bed with him. Perhaps the night after, perhaps later, but for now she wished to pray, to pray with all she had to the Seven, that they might grant him safety.
"Maester Lunwin, I trust you as I would my very own blood. Yourself and my wife are to be his closest counsel. Teach him all he must know, no matter what," Ned said.
Catelyn didn't want to ask, didn't want to tear her heart out over what she knew what was coming, but she had to ask. "What of the other children?"
"Rickon," Ned said, and reached up to hug her close, "is very young. He can stay with you and Robb and Jon. The others I would take with me."
"I could not bear it, seeing Bran and the others gone, and I will not stand it," Catelyn said.
She wished by the Seven she could bear the kindness towards Jon, and at least a modicum of love, if only reflected by Ned's love. But she didn't, and now was not the time to mince words. "I will not stand having Jon here, he must go with you. I would not have Bran go with you, but if Bran must go, then so must Jon."
Ned stared at her for a long moment, then sighed, "Yet Robb and Jon were so close, and Jon could yet be his right arm, if anything should happen."
Catelyn did not think Jon was disloyal, or a monster, and yet her stomach clenched at the idea that if Ned died, that Jon would be at Robb's side, right there. The second oldest son of Eddard Stark. Bastards could be made legitimate, though it was a sin, and ambition could sprout like a weed even in seemingly barren soil.
"Sansa and Ayra going south, Bran and--Jon, Jon should go as well," Catelyn said, "Perhaps he can broaden his horizons, or he could continue going south, to become a Maester if the South appealed to him."
Arya, well, the girl certainly could learn some refinement in the south. And Sansa was needed, and perhaps Bran needed to learn, but. "But he's so young."
"I was not much older when I was sent to foster at the Eyrie," Ned said, "But I still do not think it is wise to send Jon South, you know how much harder on bastards they are."
Catelyn looked at him, long and steady. Men fathered bastards, it was what they did, and it was a woman's duty to accept it. But men didn't have to call them "son" weren't even supposed to, certainly weren't supposed to never mention who the mother was. The one time he'd gotten truly furious at her, it was over her asking about a rumor she'd heard as to the identity of the mother. She'd stared then, tears in her eyes, and known, in some deep down crevice, that as much as he might love her, it seemed clear he'd never love her as he loved that unknown woman.
Never love her with the passion she loved him, for all he respected her, for all he loved her. Catelyn could not accept Jon, would not. It was a step too far, too much to ask of her, too much to demand of her love.
"I do know," Catelyn said, and she knew she sounded cold, sounded cruel.
"He will be shunned, he will find no happiness," Ned said.
"Yet it is no kindness to keep him here, either for me, Ned, or for him," Catelyn aid.
Ned stared back at her, but his silent words did not reach her ears.
Maester Lunwin rattled his chains, quietly, and he spoke. Just in time, because Catelyn could see the beginning of the anger. Each time they talked on this, it always came back to it. That she was cruel to take out her feelings on him. And of course, she couldn't say, didn't say, that it was cruel of him to have brought Jon Snow here, to have kept him these fourteen years like this when truly what solution was there?
"Another solution presents itself, Lord Stark. Your brother Benjen came to me about Jon a few days ago. It seems the boy aspires to take the black."
Catelyn barely managed not to sigh with relief as the solution presented itself.
"He asked to join the Night's Watch?"
"It is an honorable service, pledging oneself to the Wall, my lord," Maester Lunwin said.
And a Sworn Brother would have no sons to contest Catelyn's line. And Benjen Stark was close to Jon, so it would even be better for him, happier for him. "And there is a chance to rise high in the Night's Watch, no matter your station," Catelyn urged. Here, at last, here after fourteen years, they came to kindness. Here at last, the ache in her heart could be soothed, and Jon Snow would get what he wanted, would serve the realm against whatever dark things lurked beyond the Wall. All would benefit.
"Yet Jon is a boy of fourteen," Ned said, troubled.
"And Sansa is only eleven. Bran is only seven. These are hard times," Catelyn said.
Ned turned, to glare at her, but Lunwin concurred, "It is no harder a path than that which you have to face, my lord, or anyone else. It is a hard life, and a hard sacrifice for a hard time."
Ned sighed, "I know when I am beaten, and I suppose it is for the best. I will speak to Ben."
The maester looked at Ned for a very long moment, then asked, "When shall we tell Jon?"
Ned sighed, and his eyes looked distant. Tonight would not be a night for lovemaking, even if there was no Sept to pray at. There was anger in that sigh, frustration at the world as it was, not as it should be. There were long ago memories of his own childhood. "I will tell him when I must, because we must prepare. It will be a fortnight, and perhaps more, before we are ready to depart. And I would sooner let Jon enjoy these last few days, for summer will end soon enough, as will childhood. When the time comes, I will tell him myself."
*****
A/N: Still technically Saturday.
This confuses me. I thought Arya was alive? And what's the bit mean at the end?
- Pronouns
- They/Them
It's talking about the previous generation. Basically, Ned's generation has, like...
He's it in terms of people who can have kids and keep things within the Starks.
Ah. It wasn't clear for me. Good chapter btw!
- Location
- Somewhere!
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Speculation on what's up with Joffrey? I can't make any sense of it. He's a lot less rude than he should be. And it seems like even his own family avoids him?
And I wonder how much Tommen has changed, if at all. Even just getting more attention would make him less shy maybe.
I'm not sure. We haven't even actually seen him, and I think we're still on the first day.
It seems quite likely that the real Joffrey has been taken by one of the Fae and replaced with a Fetch. Fetches are made from whatever refuse is on hand, magic, and a piece of the original's soul. Sometimes they are nearly perfect copies, but more often they are devoid of emotional personality or mentally unstable. They're typically less versatile in power than changelings but can learn to do some nasty stuff, worst of all summoning the Fae.
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- Pronouns
- They/Them
I will note that Fetches are actually *mostly* perfect copies or at most different in one way. The woman who would never lie grows a bit more manipulative, or the violent man grows less violent. The 'Fetches are emotionless psychopaths' is something the gameline specifically discourages it because it ruins any and all conflict. So yeah, the best way to recognize a Fetch is 'take a person and change one thing.' This one thing can make them a worse person, a better person, or a different person.