SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
I do not have an account on Spacebattles. I've been making to make one, but I don't have the time to do so. Maybe one of these days.
A Song of Moon and Gold (Elden Ring/A Song of Ice and Fire)
- Thread starter SkyRig
- Start date
- Crossover
IRL Stuff and Potential Hiatus
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
Hey everyone. I was debating whether to post this at all, but ah... Well, shit's gotten pretty bad, and I'm at the point to where I feel full disclosure is needed in case people are wondering where the hell I am and why I haven't updated anything.
So, a while ago, my grandmother (who has dementia) suddenly found it difficult to move around without looking like she was about to keel over. She just flat out lost the energy to do anything. At first we thought it was because her glucose levels were too low, so we tried to get them back up. Then we found out her blood pressure is way too low, and called the doctor. She spent close to a week at the hospital, and as you might expect, the news wasn't good.
We found out she has pancreatic cancer. Worse, her body is too weak and frail to go through surgery, and we've all agreed that she doesn't need to go through chemotherapy again. So, as it stands, we're going to make the best of what time she has left. Its been utter fucking hell on my mother, who's now stressing out because of the financial situation here at home and barely gets any good sleep these days because she's worried about my grandmother.
Meanwhile, here I am, writing for free and getting paid a hundred bucks a month cuz of you guys while struggling to find a job to help support my fam.
So...yeah, if I suddenly drop off the face of the earth, you know why.
I'll still continue writing, of course. Its one of the few things I enjoy anymore these days, now moreso.
Normally, I'd cap this off with some stupid shill about my book on amazon or my patreon, but I don't want to do that. Just enjoy the story. Chapter XI and XII are dropping in the next few minutes. Read it and tell me what you all think of the story so far.
So, a while ago, my grandmother (who has dementia) suddenly found it difficult to move around without looking like she was about to keel over. She just flat out lost the energy to do anything. At first we thought it was because her glucose levels were too low, so we tried to get them back up. Then we found out her blood pressure is way too low, and called the doctor. She spent close to a week at the hospital, and as you might expect, the news wasn't good.
We found out she has pancreatic cancer. Worse, her body is too weak and frail to go through surgery, and we've all agreed that she doesn't need to go through chemotherapy again. So, as it stands, we're going to make the best of what time she has left. Its been utter fucking hell on my mother, who's now stressing out because of the financial situation here at home and barely gets any good sleep these days because she's worried about my grandmother.
Meanwhile, here I am, writing for free and getting paid a hundred bucks a month cuz of you guys while struggling to find a job to help support my fam.
So...yeah, if I suddenly drop off the face of the earth, you know why.
I'll still continue writing, of course. Its one of the few things I enjoy anymore these days, now moreso.
Normally, I'd cap this off with some stupid shill about my book on amazon or my patreon, but I don't want to do that. Just enjoy the story. Chapter XI and XII are dropping in the next few minutes. Read it and tell me what you all think of the story so far.
Chapter XI
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
MELISANDRE
Months ago, the God of Light showed her a terrible vision, the likes of which sent chills down the Red Priestess' spine. Although many visions required interpretation and guess-work, Melisandre gleamed their meaning and purpose more often than not. Such was the problem with visions, rarely discernable in purpose and meaning. Others would express frustration and dismay with such vague and cryptic visions, yet for those of the red faith, such things were tests. The vision that spurned Melisandre to Westeros in search of Azor Ahai, who she seemingly found in the Master of Ships. Of course, whether he was indeed the one she searched for remained to be seen. Such was why she stayed by his side, offering counsel and the wisdom of R'hllor.
Earning Stannis' trust had not been easy. The man was slow to trust, and not without reason. He was a man of rigid principle, a staunch believer in law and judgment. It baffled Melisandre that such a man was tasked with managing a naval fleet and not handed the post of Master of Laws, but alas, the affairs and beliefs of King Robert I Baratheon were none of her concern.
The enemy grew in strength, and it would not be long before it made its move. Even now, the flames whispered tales of stirring ghosts and wights in the lands far beyond the Wall. The Others wouldn't return, not yet. They were still growing in strength.
Melisandre was confident her faith would see her through, but recent events as of late left her trembling in fear and anxiety. Her lord had not simply deigned to grant her visions of the Long Night's return. He showed her something else.
A woman with dusk-colored eyes standing amid a pyre of pitch-black flames, holding a newborn babe wrapped in a patchwork cloth made of stitched, discarded flesh.
A man with his back turned, arms spread in rapture as the world burned in a sickly yellow flame, surrounded by a cacophony of anguished cries of despair.
The two visions left her deeply disturbed, for she could not understand them. The first vision baffled her, having spent weeks deliberating and trying to understand what they could mean. Much of her concern laid with the black flames; the mere sight of them made her recoil in disgust and fear, as though simply gazing upon them would burn her. The second vision was more worrisome, for within that burning haze of things yet to come, nothing truly inspired dread than the whispers and painful cries.
"May chaos take the world," she repeated the whispers spoken with a sour expression.
Never before have such words inspired such ugly feelings. Melisandre tolerated many things, be it non-believers, heathens, and even fools so entrenched in their dogma that they could not think for themselves. Even the followers of R'hllor held themselves to a higher standard, taking liberal interpretation of their lord's will when performing acts in his name. And even then, there were some within their order who acted for their wanton desires and not the lord's. Yet the one thing that infuriated her beyond words were creatures who wished for nothing but madness and despair. What use was it to live as though there was no meaning to life? What purpose was there to drag others into nihilistic beliefs that amounted to nothing? Although she knew not what these sickly yellow flames promised, Melisandre knew they offered nothing but lies and promises of falsehood.
There had been a third vision, one that plagued her mind for weeks since receiving the visions from her lord. In it, she saw ghastly flames, pale and tinged with shadow. Translucent figures akin to will-o-wisps stood amid scorched ruins, accompanied by gaunt figures clad in armor of a make she did not recognize. A young man bearing the features of Eddard Stark kneeled before a warrior clad in pitch-black armor and a skull-faced helm, the warrior's flaming sword impaled through the young man's chest like a fleshy sheathe. Melisandre watched, befuddled and intrigued, as the flames wafted and flickered. The armored warrior and his entourage vanished, leaving the young man cradled in the arms of a fair maiden, hair scorched black, her right eye a milky gray and her left a familiar gloam.
It was not the fair maiden and the young man that entranced Melisandre so, but the two figures watching from afar. She could not see them, only able to make out vague descriptions; one dressed in white with a wide-brimmed hat, and the other wielded a sword glistening in cold moonlight.
Melisandre knew not the meaning of these dreams, but she endeavored to discover their purpose all the same.
Imagine her surprise that it was not only her who dreamed of such things.
A few days before the king and his royal entourage of great lords and ladies departed King's Landing aboard the Golden Celeste, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell approached her. She knew of the Northern Lord mostly from hearsay and what everyone else knew of him. His father and older brother were killed by the Mad King, prompting the North to join Robert Baratheon when he raised the banners of rebellion against House Targaryen, and before that, he fostered under the Lord Hand alongside the heir of the Stormlands. Evidently, he sought her out after learning of her from Lord Arryn, which roused her curiosity.
Lord Stark told her somewhat hesitantly of how his bastard son suffered strange dreams involving colored flames, frost-touched men with a burning hate toward anything with warm blood in their vains, dragons, and an unknown assailant burning Winterfell to the ground. What was more surprising was how Lord Stark's bastard's visions were different than hers, more clear in that it showed foreign lands involving a towering burnt tree and a ghostly counterpart.
If he had simply told her about the colored flames, Melisandre would've asked to see this bastard son of his when they returned from the Lands Between. The moment Lord Stark mentioned his son dreaming of dragons and wights, Melisandre knew a visit to the North was required. This was no coincidence; whether by fate or the will of her god, Lord Stark's bastard son had a role to play. The question was what sort of role fate the powers that be had in mind.
Unsurprisingly, Lord Stark was resistant to the idea. He was surprisingly protective of his bastard, which she could admire. It spoke a great deal of his character, but she wouldn't back down, either. In the end, Lord Stark begrudgingly agreed to allow her to meet with his bastard once they returned. When Melisandre relayed what transpired to Stannis, he approved the visit so long as she did not cause him any unwanted trouble in the North. While Stannis was not of the red faith, not yet at least, she was a known addition to his household, and thus her actions would reflect on him.
Politics truly were aggravating, but nonetheless, she knew how to navigate them all the same.
"F-father… I don't think I'm cut out for sea life."
"You'll earn your sea legs, Robb. Just be glad Lord Velaryon isn't here."
Melisandre turned her gaze, finding Lord Stark and his heir Robb near the railing. The latter's face was an ill-shade of green while Lord Stark gently rubbed his son's back. She repressed a small smile of amusement, noting how unpleasant her first experience across the sea had been.
The Golden Celeste was a roundship unfit for naval combat, though according to Stannis, that was the point. A roundship was not built for warfare, but for exploration. One such ship was built and sailed alongside Corlys the Sea Snake, one of the most notable Velaryons of the noble house who lived through the Dance of Dragons, though it was debatable whether it could ever hope to match the splendor of the ship that earned Corlys his moniker. It was a fine vessel otherwise, with capable hands manning its sails, wheel, and ropes. Including King Robert, two of his Kingsguard, and Melisandre herself, there were thirteen passengers in all. The rest were deckhands, all chosen by the Master of Ships Renly Baratheon. Some of the deckhands personally served alongside Renly and House Velaryon, and the latter was known for its history with seafaring.
Stannis opted to remain in King's Landing, intending to remain to serve in the Lord Hand's stead. The king and Tywin already gave him their seal of approval, meaning not even the brother-fucker could dismiss her lord without abuse of power. If she did, well, that would be yet another point in their favor. They couldn't remove her too quickly, however. They still needed time to prepare, time to amass the strength needed for Stannis to claim the Iron Throne. The visions R'hllor sent her were clear. Within the next year, King Robert I Baratheon, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, would die, preceded by the untimely death of Lord Jon Arryn and shortly followed by Lord Eddard Stark's execution. Deducing their deaths was easy enough to deduce; Jon Arryn would succumb to poison, Robert would die at the hands of a boar, and Stark would fall to treachery. How such events came to pass, however, was something she'd yet to discern.
Unless the grand tapestry of fate was altered, King Robert and Lord Stark would not die in the Lands Between. It was not their fate.
Melisandre pursed her lips, the mystery of the foreign land returning to the forefront of her mind.
Although the existence of the Lands Between was unveiled to Westeros some months ago, the truth was that it appeared nearly a year ago. Its sudden appearance had not gone unnoticed; all the Red Temples' braziers were lit aflame the likes of which had not been seen since the Age of Heroes. Through all of Essos and even Dorne, the red faith all received the same vision.
A land where magic still yet exists.
A land where the Age of Heroes never ended.
A land where gods walked amongst men.
A land that did not belong in this world, for only within its confines could one gaze upon its patron deity and guide. Not the burnt tree whose branches covered a third of the land, but rather the dark companion of the moon sitting in its shadow.
The reactions amid the followers of the Lord of Light were great and varied. The most common reactions were fear and excitement. Although the gifted among the priesthood were blessed with R'hllor's visions, even Melisandre knew the arcane arts were fading. As the years went on, she felt the power wax and wane, lulling with every passing year. Soon, there would come a time when magic fully vanished from the world. The "promised age" that R'hllor spoke of eons ago with his champion Azor Ahai, the world of men, would come to pass, and in that world, the red faith would no longer need the flames to guide their path. They would instead find their own way in the world.
The emergence of the Lands Between raised many questions, chief among them being where it came from and why it was here in the first place. Melisandre had a theory, but she did not want to spread misinformation. She needed to be sure, and the only way to confirm her theory was to venture into the unknown. Truth be told, she felt like a child for the first time in years, eager to see what sorts of ancient magic awaited them in the Lands Between.
The red priestess elected to wait on deck a while longer, enjoying the sea breeze while keeping her eyes affixed to the horizon. They would not arrive at their destination for another two months.
She could hardly wait.
(linebreak)
BARRISTON
"So tell me, Ser Barristan," the king asked him as he peered out the porthole with an excited grin plastered across his pig-like cheeks. "How does it feel, knowing we'll be visiting a land that showed up out of nowhere? Does it compare to when you went off to face Maelys the Monstrous?"
Barristan Selmy shrugged. "This and that are two different things, Your Grace. Though I confess, I would be lying if I claimed I did not wonder what we may find. Truthfully, I wish to speak with this Lady Nepheli Loux. What our scouts told us of her character intrigues me."
"You mean the fact she's got more balls than we menfolk do to ride with knights and put down some fucking dogs and footpads, or that she apparently dresses in hardly anything?"
It did not surprise the Kingsguard in the least to hear Robert say such things. By now, he was used to his king's wanton lusts, having heard him slaking his lust on a few of the maids in the Red Keep. He, of course, made sure the queen never learned the identity of the maids and ensured they were employed elsewhere. Although the queen held no love for Robert, she was a nightmare to any wench who had the misfortune of catching Robert's eye. Barristan suspected it was because she feared the maid would birth bastards; not an unreasonable fear to have, but he could not stomach to hear the thoughts and plans she espoused when in the privacy of her room. Even Ser Jaime shifted uncomfortably whenever he heard such talk, and he was Cersei's closest confidant.
The scouts reports of Nepheli Loux painted the picture of a woman told only in story books. Very rarely was a woman ever made the head of a noble house, and rarer still was to hear stories of a woman being as deft with a blade as a man. It reminded him of the stories of Visenya Targaryen, one of Aegon the Conqueror's sisters and wives, a comparison made stronger the further he read the reports. Her territory, Limgrave, was ruled by a brutal and monstrous man who employed criminals into his ranks, with said criminals allowed to run amok so long as they dealt with any "unwanted guests" or "Tarnished". From the sounds of it, the latter term was used to describe people of a 'rank' or 'culture', though the scouts weren't sure. All they knew was that the former lord of Limgrave would not suffer their presence and hunted them down with religious zeal.
When Nepheli Loux ascended to lordship, one of her first acts was to denounce the criminals and sellswords in service to her predecessor and hunt them down like wild dogs. The smallfolk claimed her hunts were brutal as they were a crusade, for Lady Loux and her knights did not rest until every last sellsword and brigand they found was put to the sword or hanged. The woman was very insistent on meting out justice for the crimes they committed against her smallfolk. Barristan smiled when he learned this, noting how she sounded like the ideal knightly lord he dreamed of serving in his youth.
The king Aerys could have been, had he not succumbed to the Targaryen madness and paranoia, Barristan thought with a grimace.
Although many denounced the late Aerys II Targaryen as a madman, so many were quick to forget he was not always like that. Granted, he'd been a bumbling lord when he took the throne, and terribly awkward in courtly matters, but he was charismatic with an air about him. Many in the realm had high hopes for him, including Barristan. In the end, however, the old adage about the Targaryens came true.
"When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin."
Unpleasant memories from his days under King Aerys II returned, memories he wanted to forget. He banished them from his mind, instead focusing on the present.
The purpose of meeting Lady Nepheli and her fellow lords was not something so simple as a 'meet and greet', as Lord Tyrion once put it. This was a meeting to determine Westeros' future cohabitation with the Lands Between, and whether they should prepare for war. They knew nothing about the land or its people. For all they knew, they would experience a second Conquering. Thus King Robert wished to make the first move, determine where the Lands between stood politically, then offer a hand in friendship. If the worse came to pass, then he and Ser Jaime would be there to defend them alongside the other lords. Having briefly seen Lord Stark's skill with a blade during the Greyjoy Rebellion, he was confident about their chances. If all went well, Westeros would have a new political ally to deal with in trade, something Lord Lannister was eager to delve into.
"Honestly, I don't believe half the shit I read," Robert scoffed. "Really! Winged beasts, bats the size of men, fucking giants? Next thing they'll tell me is that there are fucking dragons there, too!"
Barristan frowned. "Suppose there are dragons there," he said cautiously, careful not to mention the name 'Targaryen' lest he sour the king's mood into something ugly. "How should we handle it? Whatever loyalists remain might attempt to use them, and that is assuming they are anything like the ones we are familiar with."
Robert's face darkened for but a moment. Thankfully, the infamous Baratheon tempered cooled quickly and turned into something resembling contemplation. "Much as I hate Targs, I'd give an arm and a leg to see a dragon. It was every boy's dream growing up before the Dance and Aegon the Dragonbane happened. If nothing else, we could try our hand at dragon hunting."
"With all due respect, Your Grace, I do not fancy turning into a lump of coal. Neither would the Lord Hand if you suffered the same, I'd wager."
"Bah! Where's your sense of adventure, man?" The king shook his head, then slumped in his seat. The chair groaned from the shifting weight of fat atop it. "Now that I get to thinking about it, where's the Kingslayer and that twit Lancel?"
"Ser Jaime is speaking with the Lord Hand I believe," Barristan said. "I believe it was about who would safeguard the queen during our absence. He had some concerns regarding Ser Meryn and Ser Boros."
Concerns he himself shared. Ser Meryn was somewhat decent. Granted, Barristan was skeptical about his skill with a sword, but he overlooked it since he was granted the honor of bearing the white cloak. Ser Boros, on the other hand, made him question what in the Hells the king and queen were thinking when they made him part of the Kingsguard. While skilled with a sword, he'd since grown stout and pudge-faced, and even then, his skill with a sword was matched by his cowardice. That wasn't even going into the fact that Boros repeatedly broke his oaths of celibacy. His regular visits to the whorehouses in Flea Bottom were an open secret, much to his disgust.
"As for Lancel, I saw him engaged in conversation with Lady Olenna's granddaughter."
Robert barked out a laugh. "Well, fucking good for him! He needs a woman's touch to loosen up. That Margeary girl reminds me of the Sword of Morning's sister. You know, Ashara. You've met her before, right, Ser Barristan?"
He nodded. "I remember her, Your Grace. Her beauty was unsurpassed, both in the Crownlands and in Dorne."
"You'd better fucking believe it. She even had poor Ned swept off his feet from what I heard!" Robert laughed harder this time, causing his chair to grown and threaten to snap from under his weight. "Men were tripping over their feet, daring to test Ser Arthur Dayne's sword arm just by daring to ask her for a dance. She could have gotten herself any man she wanted, I wager. I would have dared to do the same, were I not…"
The king trailed off, his jovial tone gone in an instant. His smile disappeared as his lips hardened into a thin line and his eyes grew stormy. Barristan flinched when he saw Robert's hands curl into tight fists. The Kingsguard belatedly realized the king was thinking about Lady Lyanna Stark, the woman who had been betrothed to Robert once upon a time. Everyone knew the story and tragedy surrounding the poor girl and her role in starting Robert's Rebellion, but few if any in the Red Keep dared to speak her name. Queen Cersei forbid any mention of the Stark girl within her presence, threatening to tear out the tongues of any who she heard speaking Lyanna's name, and the brave souls who dared utter her name in the king's presence found themselves staring down a quiet, but angry stag. Barristan learned quickly that the only thing more dangerous than an angry Baratheon was a Baratheon who knew when to temper and control his anger, saving it for something he well and truly wished to kill with extreme prejudice.
He reckoned that was what killed Prince Rhaegar in the end.
Before the king's mounting temper reached a boiling point, Barristan wisely changed the subject. "Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Your Grace, but was it wise to leave Grand Maester Pycelle in King's Landing? I do not mean to dismiss Archmaster Forrester's skills, not when he came with such glowing recommendations, but we hardly know the man."
The change in topic dismissed some of the king's answer; not all of it, but enough to distract him from his thoughts. "I discussed it with Jon and Cersei beforehand. The old goat didn't mind, saying he would be of more use in King's Landing. Besides, he wanted to be there in case we don't return by the time Cersei gives birth."
Barristan's eyes widened. "The queen is with child again?"
"She might be," Robert shrugged. "She suffered the morning sickness the day before we left, so Pycelle wants to be sure. Hopefully whatever tyke pops out of her womb will look like a proper Baratheon." The king shook his head in distaste. "Three brats, and not a one that looks like me. Damn Lannister blood. You'd think they were ruling the Seven Kingdoms and not the Baratheons!"
Barristan wisely chose not to say anything. It'd always been a sore spot for him, how none of his children inherited his hair or eyes. Cersei's Lannister blood was strong it seemed, as the princes and princess all bore golden hair and green eyes and not the Baratheon's dark hair and blue eyes. It hadn't helped that the king found his children wanting, especially his eldest. Barristan and many others shared in Robert's chagrin; Prince Joffrey's attitude had always been a problem, and the rumors surrounding his "hunt" with Prince Tommen's cat were blatant enough to raise some concerns within many of the old guard.
Barristan served a Mad King before, and he would not suffer a second one.
A sharp knock at the door to the king's cabin ceased any further conversation between them. "Beg your pardon, Your Grace. It's captain Yemon, he wants to speak with you."
Robert raised a curious eyebrow and glanced at Barristan. He shrugged, unsure what to make of it himself before stepping closer to the king, his hand on the pommel of his sword. "Enter!" the king bellowed. The door opened, revealing Captain Yemon. He looked like a man of Tyrosh, with wavy blue hair and tanned skin. "What's the problem, captain?"
"We've found a stowaway, milord," Yemon told him. "Found a lad hiding below deck. Lad himself in a barrel of all things. Only reason we found him at all is because he was puking his guts out."
Robert laughed. "Poor lad must not have decent sea legs, then."
"What is the standard procedure regarding stowaways, captain?" Barristan inquired.
"Ordinarily, they would be tossed overboard or made to earn their keep," the captain replied before frowning. "Thing is… The whelp says he's Prince Joffrey, Your Grace."
Barristan stiffened, feeling his heart stutter in fear. He glanced at his king, once again finding that stormy glare consuming his eyes.
So, anyone care to place bets on how Joffrey may or may not die? While only I know his fate, I personally want the little shit to suffer death by Runebear.
No, seriously. FUCK RUNEBEARS.
Months ago, the God of Light showed her a terrible vision, the likes of which sent chills down the Red Priestess' spine. Although many visions required interpretation and guess-work, Melisandre gleamed their meaning and purpose more often than not. Such was the problem with visions, rarely discernable in purpose and meaning. Others would express frustration and dismay with such vague and cryptic visions, yet for those of the red faith, such things were tests. The vision that spurned Melisandre to Westeros in search of Azor Ahai, who she seemingly found in the Master of Ships. Of course, whether he was indeed the one she searched for remained to be seen. Such was why she stayed by his side, offering counsel and the wisdom of R'hllor.
Earning Stannis' trust had not been easy. The man was slow to trust, and not without reason. He was a man of rigid principle, a staunch believer in law and judgment. It baffled Melisandre that such a man was tasked with managing a naval fleet and not handed the post of Master of Laws, but alas, the affairs and beliefs of King Robert I Baratheon were none of her concern.
The enemy grew in strength, and it would not be long before it made its move. Even now, the flames whispered tales of stirring ghosts and wights in the lands far beyond the Wall. The Others wouldn't return, not yet. They were still growing in strength.
Melisandre was confident her faith would see her through, but recent events as of late left her trembling in fear and anxiety. Her lord had not simply deigned to grant her visions of the Long Night's return. He showed her something else.
A woman with dusk-colored eyes standing amid a pyre of pitch-black flames, holding a newborn babe wrapped in a patchwork cloth made of stitched, discarded flesh.
A man with his back turned, arms spread in rapture as the world burned in a sickly yellow flame, surrounded by a cacophony of anguished cries of despair.
The two visions left her deeply disturbed, for she could not understand them. The first vision baffled her, having spent weeks deliberating and trying to understand what they could mean. Much of her concern laid with the black flames; the mere sight of them made her recoil in disgust and fear, as though simply gazing upon them would burn her. The second vision was more worrisome, for within that burning haze of things yet to come, nothing truly inspired dread than the whispers and painful cries.
"May chaos take the world," she repeated the whispers spoken with a sour expression.
Never before have such words inspired such ugly feelings. Melisandre tolerated many things, be it non-believers, heathens, and even fools so entrenched in their dogma that they could not think for themselves. Even the followers of R'hllor held themselves to a higher standard, taking liberal interpretation of their lord's will when performing acts in his name. And even then, there were some within their order who acted for their wanton desires and not the lord's. Yet the one thing that infuriated her beyond words were creatures who wished for nothing but madness and despair. What use was it to live as though there was no meaning to life? What purpose was there to drag others into nihilistic beliefs that amounted to nothing? Although she knew not what these sickly yellow flames promised, Melisandre knew they offered nothing but lies and promises of falsehood.
There had been a third vision, one that plagued her mind for weeks since receiving the visions from her lord. In it, she saw ghastly flames, pale and tinged with shadow. Translucent figures akin to will-o-wisps stood amid scorched ruins, accompanied by gaunt figures clad in armor of a make she did not recognize. A young man bearing the features of Eddard Stark kneeled before a warrior clad in pitch-black armor and a skull-faced helm, the warrior's flaming sword impaled through the young man's chest like a fleshy sheathe. Melisandre watched, befuddled and intrigued, as the flames wafted and flickered. The armored warrior and his entourage vanished, leaving the young man cradled in the arms of a fair maiden, hair scorched black, her right eye a milky gray and her left a familiar gloam.
It was not the fair maiden and the young man that entranced Melisandre so, but the two figures watching from afar. She could not see them, only able to make out vague descriptions; one dressed in white with a wide-brimmed hat, and the other wielded a sword glistening in cold moonlight.
Melisandre knew not the meaning of these dreams, but she endeavored to discover their purpose all the same.
Imagine her surprise that it was not only her who dreamed of such things.
A few days before the king and his royal entourage of great lords and ladies departed King's Landing aboard the Golden Celeste, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell approached her. She knew of the Northern Lord mostly from hearsay and what everyone else knew of him. His father and older brother were killed by the Mad King, prompting the North to join Robert Baratheon when he raised the banners of rebellion against House Targaryen, and before that, he fostered under the Lord Hand alongside the heir of the Stormlands. Evidently, he sought her out after learning of her from Lord Arryn, which roused her curiosity.
Lord Stark told her somewhat hesitantly of how his bastard son suffered strange dreams involving colored flames, frost-touched men with a burning hate toward anything with warm blood in their vains, dragons, and an unknown assailant burning Winterfell to the ground. What was more surprising was how Lord Stark's bastard's visions were different than hers, more clear in that it showed foreign lands involving a towering burnt tree and a ghostly counterpart.
If he had simply told her about the colored flames, Melisandre would've asked to see this bastard son of his when they returned from the Lands Between. The moment Lord Stark mentioned his son dreaming of dragons and wights, Melisandre knew a visit to the North was required. This was no coincidence; whether by fate or the will of her god, Lord Stark's bastard son had a role to play. The question was what sort of role fate the powers that be had in mind.
Unsurprisingly, Lord Stark was resistant to the idea. He was surprisingly protective of his bastard, which she could admire. It spoke a great deal of his character, but she wouldn't back down, either. In the end, Lord Stark begrudgingly agreed to allow her to meet with his bastard once they returned. When Melisandre relayed what transpired to Stannis, he approved the visit so long as she did not cause him any unwanted trouble in the North. While Stannis was not of the red faith, not yet at least, she was a known addition to his household, and thus her actions would reflect on him.
Politics truly were aggravating, but nonetheless, she knew how to navigate them all the same.
"F-father… I don't think I'm cut out for sea life."
"You'll earn your sea legs, Robb. Just be glad Lord Velaryon isn't here."
Melisandre turned her gaze, finding Lord Stark and his heir Robb near the railing. The latter's face was an ill-shade of green while Lord Stark gently rubbed his son's back. She repressed a small smile of amusement, noting how unpleasant her first experience across the sea had been.
The Golden Celeste was a roundship unfit for naval combat, though according to Stannis, that was the point. A roundship was not built for warfare, but for exploration. One such ship was built and sailed alongside Corlys the Sea Snake, one of the most notable Velaryons of the noble house who lived through the Dance of Dragons, though it was debatable whether it could ever hope to match the splendor of the ship that earned Corlys his moniker. It was a fine vessel otherwise, with capable hands manning its sails, wheel, and ropes. Including King Robert, two of his Kingsguard, and Melisandre herself, there were thirteen passengers in all. The rest were deckhands, all chosen by the Master of Ships Renly Baratheon. Some of the deckhands personally served alongside Renly and House Velaryon, and the latter was known for its history with seafaring.
Stannis opted to remain in King's Landing, intending to remain to serve in the Lord Hand's stead. The king and Tywin already gave him their seal of approval, meaning not even the brother-fucker could dismiss her lord without abuse of power. If she did, well, that would be yet another point in their favor. They couldn't remove her too quickly, however. They still needed time to prepare, time to amass the strength needed for Stannis to claim the Iron Throne. The visions R'hllor sent her were clear. Within the next year, King Robert I Baratheon, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, would die, preceded by the untimely death of Lord Jon Arryn and shortly followed by Lord Eddard Stark's execution. Deducing their deaths was easy enough to deduce; Jon Arryn would succumb to poison, Robert would die at the hands of a boar, and Stark would fall to treachery. How such events came to pass, however, was something she'd yet to discern.
Unless the grand tapestry of fate was altered, King Robert and Lord Stark would not die in the Lands Between. It was not their fate.
Melisandre pursed her lips, the mystery of the foreign land returning to the forefront of her mind.
Although the existence of the Lands Between was unveiled to Westeros some months ago, the truth was that it appeared nearly a year ago. Its sudden appearance had not gone unnoticed; all the Red Temples' braziers were lit aflame the likes of which had not been seen since the Age of Heroes. Through all of Essos and even Dorne, the red faith all received the same vision.
A land where magic still yet exists.
A land where the Age of Heroes never ended.
A land where gods walked amongst men.
A land that did not belong in this world, for only within its confines could one gaze upon its patron deity and guide. Not the burnt tree whose branches covered a third of the land, but rather the dark companion of the moon sitting in its shadow.
The reactions amid the followers of the Lord of Light were great and varied. The most common reactions were fear and excitement. Although the gifted among the priesthood were blessed with R'hllor's visions, even Melisandre knew the arcane arts were fading. As the years went on, she felt the power wax and wane, lulling with every passing year. Soon, there would come a time when magic fully vanished from the world. The "promised age" that R'hllor spoke of eons ago with his champion Azor Ahai, the world of men, would come to pass, and in that world, the red faith would no longer need the flames to guide their path. They would instead find their own way in the world.
The emergence of the Lands Between raised many questions, chief among them being where it came from and why it was here in the first place. Melisandre had a theory, but she did not want to spread misinformation. She needed to be sure, and the only way to confirm her theory was to venture into the unknown. Truth be told, she felt like a child for the first time in years, eager to see what sorts of ancient magic awaited them in the Lands Between.
The red priestess elected to wait on deck a while longer, enjoying the sea breeze while keeping her eyes affixed to the horizon. They would not arrive at their destination for another two months.
She could hardly wait.
(linebreak)
BARRISTON
"So tell me, Ser Barristan," the king asked him as he peered out the porthole with an excited grin plastered across his pig-like cheeks. "How does it feel, knowing we'll be visiting a land that showed up out of nowhere? Does it compare to when you went off to face Maelys the Monstrous?"
Barristan Selmy shrugged. "This and that are two different things, Your Grace. Though I confess, I would be lying if I claimed I did not wonder what we may find. Truthfully, I wish to speak with this Lady Nepheli Loux. What our scouts told us of her character intrigues me."
"You mean the fact she's got more balls than we menfolk do to ride with knights and put down some fucking dogs and footpads, or that she apparently dresses in hardly anything?"
It did not surprise the Kingsguard in the least to hear Robert say such things. By now, he was used to his king's wanton lusts, having heard him slaking his lust on a few of the maids in the Red Keep. He, of course, made sure the queen never learned the identity of the maids and ensured they were employed elsewhere. Although the queen held no love for Robert, she was a nightmare to any wench who had the misfortune of catching Robert's eye. Barristan suspected it was because she feared the maid would birth bastards; not an unreasonable fear to have, but he could not stomach to hear the thoughts and plans she espoused when in the privacy of her room. Even Ser Jaime shifted uncomfortably whenever he heard such talk, and he was Cersei's closest confidant.
The scouts reports of Nepheli Loux painted the picture of a woman told only in story books. Very rarely was a woman ever made the head of a noble house, and rarer still was to hear stories of a woman being as deft with a blade as a man. It reminded him of the stories of Visenya Targaryen, one of Aegon the Conqueror's sisters and wives, a comparison made stronger the further he read the reports. Her territory, Limgrave, was ruled by a brutal and monstrous man who employed criminals into his ranks, with said criminals allowed to run amok so long as they dealt with any "unwanted guests" or "Tarnished". From the sounds of it, the latter term was used to describe people of a 'rank' or 'culture', though the scouts weren't sure. All they knew was that the former lord of Limgrave would not suffer their presence and hunted them down with religious zeal.
When Nepheli Loux ascended to lordship, one of her first acts was to denounce the criminals and sellswords in service to her predecessor and hunt them down like wild dogs. The smallfolk claimed her hunts were brutal as they were a crusade, for Lady Loux and her knights did not rest until every last sellsword and brigand they found was put to the sword or hanged. The woman was very insistent on meting out justice for the crimes they committed against her smallfolk. Barristan smiled when he learned this, noting how she sounded like the ideal knightly lord he dreamed of serving in his youth.
The king Aerys could have been, had he not succumbed to the Targaryen madness and paranoia, Barristan thought with a grimace.
Although many denounced the late Aerys II Targaryen as a madman, so many were quick to forget he was not always like that. Granted, he'd been a bumbling lord when he took the throne, and terribly awkward in courtly matters, but he was charismatic with an air about him. Many in the realm had high hopes for him, including Barristan. In the end, however, the old adage about the Targaryens came true.
"When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin."
Unpleasant memories from his days under King Aerys II returned, memories he wanted to forget. He banished them from his mind, instead focusing on the present.
The purpose of meeting Lady Nepheli and her fellow lords was not something so simple as a 'meet and greet', as Lord Tyrion once put it. This was a meeting to determine Westeros' future cohabitation with the Lands Between, and whether they should prepare for war. They knew nothing about the land or its people. For all they knew, they would experience a second Conquering. Thus King Robert wished to make the first move, determine where the Lands between stood politically, then offer a hand in friendship. If the worse came to pass, then he and Ser Jaime would be there to defend them alongside the other lords. Having briefly seen Lord Stark's skill with a blade during the Greyjoy Rebellion, he was confident about their chances. If all went well, Westeros would have a new political ally to deal with in trade, something Lord Lannister was eager to delve into.
"Honestly, I don't believe half the shit I read," Robert scoffed. "Really! Winged beasts, bats the size of men, fucking giants? Next thing they'll tell me is that there are fucking dragons there, too!"
Barristan frowned. "Suppose there are dragons there," he said cautiously, careful not to mention the name 'Targaryen' lest he sour the king's mood into something ugly. "How should we handle it? Whatever loyalists remain might attempt to use them, and that is assuming they are anything like the ones we are familiar with."
Robert's face darkened for but a moment. Thankfully, the infamous Baratheon tempered cooled quickly and turned into something resembling contemplation. "Much as I hate Targs, I'd give an arm and a leg to see a dragon. It was every boy's dream growing up before the Dance and Aegon the Dragonbane happened. If nothing else, we could try our hand at dragon hunting."
"With all due respect, Your Grace, I do not fancy turning into a lump of coal. Neither would the Lord Hand if you suffered the same, I'd wager."
"Bah! Where's your sense of adventure, man?" The king shook his head, then slumped in his seat. The chair groaned from the shifting weight of fat atop it. "Now that I get to thinking about it, where's the Kingslayer and that twit Lancel?"
"Ser Jaime is speaking with the Lord Hand I believe," Barristan said. "I believe it was about who would safeguard the queen during our absence. He had some concerns regarding Ser Meryn and Ser Boros."
Concerns he himself shared. Ser Meryn was somewhat decent. Granted, Barristan was skeptical about his skill with a sword, but he overlooked it since he was granted the honor of bearing the white cloak. Ser Boros, on the other hand, made him question what in the Hells the king and queen were thinking when they made him part of the Kingsguard. While skilled with a sword, he'd since grown stout and pudge-faced, and even then, his skill with a sword was matched by his cowardice. That wasn't even going into the fact that Boros repeatedly broke his oaths of celibacy. His regular visits to the whorehouses in Flea Bottom were an open secret, much to his disgust.
"As for Lancel, I saw him engaged in conversation with Lady Olenna's granddaughter."
Robert barked out a laugh. "Well, fucking good for him! He needs a woman's touch to loosen up. That Margeary girl reminds me of the Sword of Morning's sister. You know, Ashara. You've met her before, right, Ser Barristan?"
He nodded. "I remember her, Your Grace. Her beauty was unsurpassed, both in the Crownlands and in Dorne."
"You'd better fucking believe it. She even had poor Ned swept off his feet from what I heard!" Robert laughed harder this time, causing his chair to grown and threaten to snap from under his weight. "Men were tripping over their feet, daring to test Ser Arthur Dayne's sword arm just by daring to ask her for a dance. She could have gotten herself any man she wanted, I wager. I would have dared to do the same, were I not…"
The king trailed off, his jovial tone gone in an instant. His smile disappeared as his lips hardened into a thin line and his eyes grew stormy. Barristan flinched when he saw Robert's hands curl into tight fists. The Kingsguard belatedly realized the king was thinking about Lady Lyanna Stark, the woman who had been betrothed to Robert once upon a time. Everyone knew the story and tragedy surrounding the poor girl and her role in starting Robert's Rebellion, but few if any in the Red Keep dared to speak her name. Queen Cersei forbid any mention of the Stark girl within her presence, threatening to tear out the tongues of any who she heard speaking Lyanna's name, and the brave souls who dared utter her name in the king's presence found themselves staring down a quiet, but angry stag. Barristan learned quickly that the only thing more dangerous than an angry Baratheon was a Baratheon who knew when to temper and control his anger, saving it for something he well and truly wished to kill with extreme prejudice.
He reckoned that was what killed Prince Rhaegar in the end.
Before the king's mounting temper reached a boiling point, Barristan wisely changed the subject. "Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Your Grace, but was it wise to leave Grand Maester Pycelle in King's Landing? I do not mean to dismiss Archmaster Forrester's skills, not when he came with such glowing recommendations, but we hardly know the man."
The change in topic dismissed some of the king's answer; not all of it, but enough to distract him from his thoughts. "I discussed it with Jon and Cersei beforehand. The old goat didn't mind, saying he would be of more use in King's Landing. Besides, he wanted to be there in case we don't return by the time Cersei gives birth."
Barristan's eyes widened. "The queen is with child again?"
"She might be," Robert shrugged. "She suffered the morning sickness the day before we left, so Pycelle wants to be sure. Hopefully whatever tyke pops out of her womb will look like a proper Baratheon." The king shook his head in distaste. "Three brats, and not a one that looks like me. Damn Lannister blood. You'd think they were ruling the Seven Kingdoms and not the Baratheons!"
Barristan wisely chose not to say anything. It'd always been a sore spot for him, how none of his children inherited his hair or eyes. Cersei's Lannister blood was strong it seemed, as the princes and princess all bore golden hair and green eyes and not the Baratheon's dark hair and blue eyes. It hadn't helped that the king found his children wanting, especially his eldest. Barristan and many others shared in Robert's chagrin; Prince Joffrey's attitude had always been a problem, and the rumors surrounding his "hunt" with Prince Tommen's cat were blatant enough to raise some concerns within many of the old guard.
Barristan served a Mad King before, and he would not suffer a second one.
A sharp knock at the door to the king's cabin ceased any further conversation between them. "Beg your pardon, Your Grace. It's captain Yemon, he wants to speak with you."
Robert raised a curious eyebrow and glanced at Barristan. He shrugged, unsure what to make of it himself before stepping closer to the king, his hand on the pommel of his sword. "Enter!" the king bellowed. The door opened, revealing Captain Yemon. He looked like a man of Tyrosh, with wavy blue hair and tanned skin. "What's the problem, captain?"
"We've found a stowaway, milord," Yemon told him. "Found a lad hiding below deck. Lad himself in a barrel of all things. Only reason we found him at all is because he was puking his guts out."
Robert laughed. "Poor lad must not have decent sea legs, then."
"What is the standard procedure regarding stowaways, captain?" Barristan inquired.
"Ordinarily, they would be tossed overboard or made to earn their keep," the captain replied before frowning. "Thing is… The whelp says he's Prince Joffrey, Your Grace."
Barristan stiffened, feeling his heart stutter in fear. He glanced at his king, once again finding that stormy glare consuming his eyes.
So, anyone care to place bets on how Joffrey may or may not die? While only I know his fate, I personally want the little shit to suffer death by Runebear.
No, seriously. FUCK RUNEBEARS.
Chapter XII
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
NED
Robert's fury was a familiar sight. It was especially common during the days of House Targaryen's downfall, though somehow it paled to the admittedly difficult spectacle happening on the deck.
The king's face was as red as his strained tunic, his every word louder than warring thunder in a storm. With each word, Prince Joffrey flinched and shrank in on himself, visibly cowering while futilely looking for any means of escape. He would find none, for he was the sole focus of the king's wrath. He hadn't spoken a word of rebuttal, not since Robert slugged him clean across the cheek.
Ned bit the inside of his mouth, physically keeping himself in place. Beside him, Robb's shoulders and clenched fists trembled. The only thing keeping them restrained was the fact that Joffrey brought this upon himself. The king forbade the prince from coming along on the voyage to focus on his studies of lordship in King's Landing under the Grand Maester. Instead of obeying instruction, he disobeyed and followed after them, putting himself at risk in the process. The Lands Between was rife with unknown qualities and threats, and there was no guarantee they could protect him if the worse came to past.
Even so, the Northern Lord couldn't help but pity Joffrey. The boy was young, so a breach of conduct could be forgiven to an extent. Sadly, Robert was anything but forgiving.
"You'll stay in your cabin at all times unless myself or the Kingslayer call for you," Robert glowered. "I hear one word of disobedience from you, one peep, and I'll throw you overboard myself. Am I clear, boy?" When the prince didn't respond immediately, Robert took a step forward. Joffrey's face paled. "I said, am I clear?"
"Y-yes, Your Grace!"
Robert grunted. He gave his eldest son a final glare before turning on his heel. Jaime looked at his nephew, then back at the king. He gave Joffrey a pitying look before following after the king. Joffrey stood still, crestfallen and staring emptily at the deck floor. The onlookers moved on.
"I heard tale of the king's temper," Robb whispered. "But seeing it so close, and directed at the prince no less…"
Ned sighed.
"A word, Lord Stark?"
The last time Ned met the oathbreaker, it'd been at the rebellion's end. Back then, Jaime Lannister was a handsome man of Westerland features, sun-kissed gold hair and cat-green eyes. He seemed more kingly than Robert, though Ned's opinion of him soured years ago when he found him lounging on the Iron Throne, his white cloak and steel sword stained in the king's blood. Now, he looked much older; the beginnings of a thick beard blossomed across his face, dark rings of exhaustion sat under his eyes, and his hair was unkempt and partly groomed. There was a tiredness in his step, a weariness that clung to him.
Ned frowned. His last meeting with the young Kingsguard ended in barbed words and contempt on his party, his upbringing as a man of honor demanding he try and convince Robert that Jaime was to be punished. Loathsome as the Mad King was, the act of regicide at the hand of a sworn knight was beyond the pale. His words fell on deaf ears, and Jaime was allowed to keep his cloak and position, much to his chagrin.
Understandably wary what the former heir of House Lannister wanted, Ned chose his words carefully. "May I help you, Ser Jaime?"
"I was hoping you might speak with Robert," Jaime said, surprising him. "He's already two cups into his wine, and usually the only one he listens to when he gets like that is Lord Arryn."
"And Jon can't speak with him?"
"Maester Forrester is looking over him. He had another violent fit that nearly threw him to the floor."
Ned ignored the familiar pain in his chest. There was a reason the Kingslayer sought him out specifically. "You think he'd listen to me?"
"You know him best, and he likes you more than anybody else that isn't the Lord Hand," Jaime shrugged. "For the record, I'm not asking you to make him more lenient with Joffrey. I love my nephew, I do, but even I know he's gone and done something stupid this time."
"…very well."
Jaime nodded and walked away. Ned glanced at the hall leading to the king's lodgings, wondering what he could possibly say. He knew how Robert could get when deep in his cups, but that'd been when they fostered. He was a king now, and nearly two decades on the throne changed him. Who was to say the drunk within changed as well?
He thought about it a moment longer, then grimaced as he walked down the hall. His heavy footfalls echoed alongside the creaking boards of the ship. It was evening now, and the quiet air let him hear the waves crashing against the hull. He could scarcely remember the last time he set foot on a ship.
When he arrived at the cabin, he found Robert, cheeks rosy pink and drinking from his goblet. Worryingly, there was no cupbearer in sight. Worrisome still was the stench; even from the doorway, he could smell the wine.
I wonder if Ser Jaime meant he was two bottles deep and not two cups, Ned thought.
"I thought I told you I didn't want to be bothered," Robert snapped without looking up.
Ned took a breath. "Is my company unwanted?"
Robert looked up, blinking. "Ned?" He rubbed his eyes, as if making sure he wasn't seeing a phantom. "Fuck, I'm drunk."
"Really? I could scarcely tell," Ned said, dredging up feelings from the past. Serious as he was, he had his casual moments. Moments reserved for the closest friends.
Robert guffawed, sending ripples across his fat body. The Northman joined the king, taking a seat across from Robert's desk and observed his old friend's face. Beneath the drunken bluster and frustration, he could see a faint twinkle in his eye. It looked like…pride.
"…I shouldn't have hit him." Compared to his booming howls from earlier, Robert's voice was as quiet as the crypts. Gone was Baratheon temper. A father sat across from Ned. A man trying to be a father. "I'm fucking pissed he went and came aboard. We got no bloody idea what's waiting for us in the Lands Between. All we know is that the wildlife is fucking weird, the great lord in charge is a fucking woman, and fuck all else."
"But?"
A heavy sigh fell from Robert's lips. "…but I'm proud all the same. He's a right shit, but he's still my son. He listens to his mother more than he does me, and he can't swing a sword worth shit, but for once, he took charge and did something that reminded me of when I was his age. You remember the day I turned two-and-ten?"
"You scaled a tower," Ned recalled. "Scared the hell out of me and Jon."
"Got no idea what I was thinking back then. All I remember was how birds liked to sit themselves up there, watching us men muck around in the mud and dirt. Jon always talked about how we should get a lay of the land, or some tripe. I thought I could understand what he meant if I saw things from how the bloody things did from up on high."
Robert took a drink from his cup. Compared to the swig he took when Ned entered the room moments ago, it was little more than a sip. The memories and folly of youth dimmed the haze on Robert's mind, enough to slowly sober him. Not nearly enough to wipe away the foul smell.
"It made for a hell of a sight when I reached the top. No towns, no villages, no castles or keeps for miles. Just mud, grass, the mountains, and a starry night sky with the endless sea in the distance. You know what I thought at that moment, when I saw the water?"
Robert sank into his chair.
"I wanted to see my father."
Ned looked at the floorboards, his own thoughts turning to the ghosts haunting his every step. He never understood Robert's pain until the Mad King killed both his father and brother, though his pain paled to his friend's. Robert suffered that pain far longer than he did, losing his parents to the seas in an ill-fated journey across the seas between Westeros and Essos in search of a bride for Prince Rhaegar. Even now, the broken remains of the Windproud sat in Shipbreaker Bay.
A tense moment of silence fell upon them. Robert set his wine goblet down, the pink-red liquid sloshing, dripping down the silvery metal, and spilling onto the surface around the goblet's base. The king stared out the porthole, out at the night sky. Ned watched him, trying to ascertain his thoughts and what he could possibly say.
"…Joffrey isn't fit to be king."
Ned felt every muscle in his body go taut. He kept his face even, but his eyes told Robert everything. The fat lord seated on the Iron Throne was sober, and with it came a cold clarity. He finally bore the look of a king, yet there was a sadness, a fear Ned never knew existed.
"I dunno if it was me who fucked him up or it's because of Cersei coddling him like the rest of our children, but Joffrey ain't right in the head. He's…" He struggled to find the words. He didn't need to. Ned understood what his friend wished to convey. Suddenly, the unsavory rumors surrounding the crown prince bore an inkling of truth, born straight from the lips of the prince's sire. "He ain't right, Ned."
"If the queen coddles him, then why not send him away to foster?" Ned inquired curiously. "Tense as your relationship with Stannis is, he wouldn't dare refuse you. If he can't whip the boy into shape, I doubt anyone could."
"I tried. Stannis told me to fuck off." The Northman blinked in shock at the bluntness in Robert's words. His mind reeled in confusion. Stannis refused to foster Joffrey? The crown prince? Seeing the confusion on his face, Robert continued to speak with an annoyed huff. "I don't know what crawled up his ass and died, but Stannis likes Joff as much as I do these days. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he actually hates my son. Don't know why, but then again, who the fuck knows what goes on in Stannis' head these days."
Robert sighed. "I tried to get him to see reason. Hell, I even asked fuckin' Renly for help, and it did fuck all 'sides piss off Stannis even more."
"What of your bannermen? Surely, someone from the Stormlands would have fostered him. Unless I'm mistaken, Harold Hardyng is heir presumptive until Jon's son comes into majority."
"Tried that to, but Cersei and Lysa shut me down. It's the only time those two ever agreed to something, and half the time, they're glaring daggers at each other as if trying to see who can kill the other by staring," Robert groaned. "I wanted to send him off to you to foster, but half my own fucking small council all but rose up in arms!"
In hindsight, it may very well have been for the best. Although the North since accepted his decision to marry and solidify relations between his and Catelyn's Houses, there was still a fair amount of tension. Some like the more vocal Karstarks believed he was repeating the same mistakes as his father. He could only imagine what sort of opinions they would have if he fostered the crown prince.
"I got no fuckin' clue what to do with him anymore, Ned. All I know is, if I keep him in the Red Keep, he'll be no prince. And I'll be damned before I let another Aerys II Targaryen sit on the Iron Throne."
OBERYN
On a quiet night like tonight, Oberyn found himself lost in his memories.
The day before he left Sunspear, he spoke with his brother Doran. The sun set beyond the piercing peaks and left the sky matching the orange mountains and scorching earth in summer winds.
"This is an opportunity."
Ever since Elia's defilement and death, Prince Doran Nymeros Martell had changed. He was never sold on the idea of peace and reconciliation when Elia married Prince Rhaegar. Oberyn shared in his skepticism, if only out of worry. It'd been three years since the Defiance of Duskendale, and by that point, deaths at the stake were a too common sight. Many times had Oberyn sent letters of worry to her, and each time, she replied with sweet words of reassurance. When news came of Lyanna Stark's "kidnapping" and Robert Baratheon's declaration of rebellion, all of Dorne shared his feelings of anger and betrayal.
When Rhaegar came to Sunspear, asking for reinforcements, it'd taken godly effort not to strike the crown prince down where he stood. Oberyn's fantasies rampaged throughout the tense meeting, imagining the proud dragon on his knees, bloodied and defiled in ways that would make him unsightly. Yet for all the creative ways he imagined, they would never change or heal the insult the Targaryens dealt them. The Mad King's paranoia and suspicions hadn't helped.
Ever since the end of the rebellion nary twenty years ago, Dorne kept themselves out of Westerosi affairs unless they were needed. Although the Baratheons now ruled, relations remained tense, not helped by Robert Baratheon listening to the golden bastard and denying the Martells vengeance against Gregor Clegane. Doran espoused the belief Robert might even be a pawn or willing collaborator of House Lannister, and so the snakes sent vipers into the den of corruption and politics, into the heart of Westeros.
Oberyn didn't have much of an opinion about the new king, save that he was barely a step up from Aerys. His hate for House Targaryen was well-known as open knowledge as was his whoremongering, which made him easily manipulated. Admittedly, it made interacting with him a dangerous gamble, given their "alliance" with Viserys Targaryen. Truthfully, Oberyn had no hopes for the wayward lost prince and princess, but he went along with his brother's schemes.
Although Robert's Rebellion saw a change in the status quo, Westeros itself hardly changed. The Seven Kingdoms sat on a wildfire cache waiting to go off, and when it did, sides would be taken. Oberyn knew that day was coming, and soon.
Then waylaid sailors returned, bringing fanciful tales and trinkets of a foreign land that showed up out of nowhere.
"A bit early to say that, don't you think?" Oberyn said, lounging against the windowsill and gazing out at the orange-tinted sky above. "We hardly know anything about the Lands Between and its people."
"Perhaps," Doran agreed. "But the appearance an unknown contender has made an opening. King Robert intends to journey to the Lands Between, learn its customs and people in the hopes of building a rapport. The heads of the Great Houses barring the Greyjoys will be summoned."
Oberyn caught on to his brother's words almost immediately. "I hope you don't mean to have us kill the Lannisters by way of 'lost at sea'. That's too blatant, even for us."
The ruler of Dorne smiled strangely. "Tywin Lannister won't be coming along for the voyage." Oberyn raised an eyebrow, waiting for his brother to explain. "There was an incident at Casterly Rock. I know little of it, but the severity has forced him to send his youngest son Tyrion to travel in his place while he manages affairs in King's Landing."
Oberyn recalled vague memories of the so-called Imp. An ugly little thing, albeit one worthy of pity if the stories about what happened to his first wife held a grain of truth to them.
"A rift grows in House Lannister, and the Lands Between offers us an opportunity," Doran repeated with a toothy smile. "The question, dear brother, is who shall benefit from it."
The Red Viper closed his eyes and sighed, pulling himself back into reality and away from his memories. "I hope this doesn't come to bite you, brother," he muttered under his breath.
King's Landing would be a veritable hotbed during the king's absence. Cersei Lannister was a great many things, but a reputable lady, she was not. She was a coddling mother who treated her children more like dolls and toys than as persons. Gregor Clegane was a monster who abused his position and the protection the Lannisters afforded him in return for his service. The only stabilizing presence in King's Landing were the king's brothers, but their power could easily be overturned by the queen's royal authority. Not helping matters was Petyr Baelish, an unknown quality who enjoyed "the game" as it were. Oberyn spoke with him once, and he could hardly get a read on the man.
No doubt plans were being made in secret, plans for the Lannisters to begin securing their hold over the Red Keep and the Iron Throne. Other players were no doubt moving in the background. All the while, the Martells worked to claim vengeance. If there was anything Oberyn could criticize his older brother for, it was his obsession. He wanted justice for Elia as much as he did, but they also needed to think about Dorne's future. They had to focus on the bigger picture.
And so while Doran kept his eyes on the Red Keep, Oberyn looked to the future.
And just like his brother, he found an unexpected opportunity.
The meeting was by no means planned. Oberyn wanted to take a nightly walk when he happened to hear sobbing from a nearby cabin. The door was slightly ajar, giving him the barest glance of the occupant.
It was a gamble, he knew. There was every possibility this could go wrong. That the king might turn his hammer on him.
And what was Oberyn Martell, if not a betting man?
One quick error I should have brought up I made back in Chapter 1 of this story. I didn't realize or think about it at the time, but to my own stupidity, I forgot that the Starks didn't get direwolves until after Jon Arryn's death. Instead of removing this, I decided to own up to my mistake and incorporate it into the story. The direwolves are still a recent addition to the Stark household, so they're still young. Robb's direwolf didn't accompany him on the way to King's Land to prepare for the voyage because of story reasons.
Robert's fury was a familiar sight. It was especially common during the days of House Targaryen's downfall, though somehow it paled to the admittedly difficult spectacle happening on the deck.
The king's face was as red as his strained tunic, his every word louder than warring thunder in a storm. With each word, Prince Joffrey flinched and shrank in on himself, visibly cowering while futilely looking for any means of escape. He would find none, for he was the sole focus of the king's wrath. He hadn't spoken a word of rebuttal, not since Robert slugged him clean across the cheek.
Ned bit the inside of his mouth, physically keeping himself in place. Beside him, Robb's shoulders and clenched fists trembled. The only thing keeping them restrained was the fact that Joffrey brought this upon himself. The king forbade the prince from coming along on the voyage to focus on his studies of lordship in King's Landing under the Grand Maester. Instead of obeying instruction, he disobeyed and followed after them, putting himself at risk in the process. The Lands Between was rife with unknown qualities and threats, and there was no guarantee they could protect him if the worse came to past.
Even so, the Northern Lord couldn't help but pity Joffrey. The boy was young, so a breach of conduct could be forgiven to an extent. Sadly, Robert was anything but forgiving.
"You'll stay in your cabin at all times unless myself or the Kingslayer call for you," Robert glowered. "I hear one word of disobedience from you, one peep, and I'll throw you overboard myself. Am I clear, boy?" When the prince didn't respond immediately, Robert took a step forward. Joffrey's face paled. "I said, am I clear?"
"Y-yes, Your Grace!"
Robert grunted. He gave his eldest son a final glare before turning on his heel. Jaime looked at his nephew, then back at the king. He gave Joffrey a pitying look before following after the king. Joffrey stood still, crestfallen and staring emptily at the deck floor. The onlookers moved on.
"I heard tale of the king's temper," Robb whispered. "But seeing it so close, and directed at the prince no less…"
Ned sighed.
"A word, Lord Stark?"
The last time Ned met the oathbreaker, it'd been at the rebellion's end. Back then, Jaime Lannister was a handsome man of Westerland features, sun-kissed gold hair and cat-green eyes. He seemed more kingly than Robert, though Ned's opinion of him soured years ago when he found him lounging on the Iron Throne, his white cloak and steel sword stained in the king's blood. Now, he looked much older; the beginnings of a thick beard blossomed across his face, dark rings of exhaustion sat under his eyes, and his hair was unkempt and partly groomed. There was a tiredness in his step, a weariness that clung to him.
Ned frowned. His last meeting with the young Kingsguard ended in barbed words and contempt on his party, his upbringing as a man of honor demanding he try and convince Robert that Jaime was to be punished. Loathsome as the Mad King was, the act of regicide at the hand of a sworn knight was beyond the pale. His words fell on deaf ears, and Jaime was allowed to keep his cloak and position, much to his chagrin.
Understandably wary what the former heir of House Lannister wanted, Ned chose his words carefully. "May I help you, Ser Jaime?"
"I was hoping you might speak with Robert," Jaime said, surprising him. "He's already two cups into his wine, and usually the only one he listens to when he gets like that is Lord Arryn."
"And Jon can't speak with him?"
"Maester Forrester is looking over him. He had another violent fit that nearly threw him to the floor."
Ned ignored the familiar pain in his chest. There was a reason the Kingslayer sought him out specifically. "You think he'd listen to me?"
"You know him best, and he likes you more than anybody else that isn't the Lord Hand," Jaime shrugged. "For the record, I'm not asking you to make him more lenient with Joffrey. I love my nephew, I do, but even I know he's gone and done something stupid this time."
"…very well."
Jaime nodded and walked away. Ned glanced at the hall leading to the king's lodgings, wondering what he could possibly say. He knew how Robert could get when deep in his cups, but that'd been when they fostered. He was a king now, and nearly two decades on the throne changed him. Who was to say the drunk within changed as well?
He thought about it a moment longer, then grimaced as he walked down the hall. His heavy footfalls echoed alongside the creaking boards of the ship. It was evening now, and the quiet air let him hear the waves crashing against the hull. He could scarcely remember the last time he set foot on a ship.
When he arrived at the cabin, he found Robert, cheeks rosy pink and drinking from his goblet. Worryingly, there was no cupbearer in sight. Worrisome still was the stench; even from the doorway, he could smell the wine.
I wonder if Ser Jaime meant he was two bottles deep and not two cups, Ned thought.
"I thought I told you I didn't want to be bothered," Robert snapped without looking up.
Ned took a breath. "Is my company unwanted?"
Robert looked up, blinking. "Ned?" He rubbed his eyes, as if making sure he wasn't seeing a phantom. "Fuck, I'm drunk."
"Really? I could scarcely tell," Ned said, dredging up feelings from the past. Serious as he was, he had his casual moments. Moments reserved for the closest friends.
Robert guffawed, sending ripples across his fat body. The Northman joined the king, taking a seat across from Robert's desk and observed his old friend's face. Beneath the drunken bluster and frustration, he could see a faint twinkle in his eye. It looked like…pride.
"…I shouldn't have hit him." Compared to his booming howls from earlier, Robert's voice was as quiet as the crypts. Gone was Baratheon temper. A father sat across from Ned. A man trying to be a father. "I'm fucking pissed he went and came aboard. We got no bloody idea what's waiting for us in the Lands Between. All we know is that the wildlife is fucking weird, the great lord in charge is a fucking woman, and fuck all else."
"But?"
A heavy sigh fell from Robert's lips. "…but I'm proud all the same. He's a right shit, but he's still my son. He listens to his mother more than he does me, and he can't swing a sword worth shit, but for once, he took charge and did something that reminded me of when I was his age. You remember the day I turned two-and-ten?"
"You scaled a tower," Ned recalled. "Scared the hell out of me and Jon."
"Got no idea what I was thinking back then. All I remember was how birds liked to sit themselves up there, watching us men muck around in the mud and dirt. Jon always talked about how we should get a lay of the land, or some tripe. I thought I could understand what he meant if I saw things from how the bloody things did from up on high."
Robert took a drink from his cup. Compared to the swig he took when Ned entered the room moments ago, it was little more than a sip. The memories and folly of youth dimmed the haze on Robert's mind, enough to slowly sober him. Not nearly enough to wipe away the foul smell.
"It made for a hell of a sight when I reached the top. No towns, no villages, no castles or keeps for miles. Just mud, grass, the mountains, and a starry night sky with the endless sea in the distance. You know what I thought at that moment, when I saw the water?"
Robert sank into his chair.
"I wanted to see my father."
Ned looked at the floorboards, his own thoughts turning to the ghosts haunting his every step. He never understood Robert's pain until the Mad King killed both his father and brother, though his pain paled to his friend's. Robert suffered that pain far longer than he did, losing his parents to the seas in an ill-fated journey across the seas between Westeros and Essos in search of a bride for Prince Rhaegar. Even now, the broken remains of the Windproud sat in Shipbreaker Bay.
A tense moment of silence fell upon them. Robert set his wine goblet down, the pink-red liquid sloshing, dripping down the silvery metal, and spilling onto the surface around the goblet's base. The king stared out the porthole, out at the night sky. Ned watched him, trying to ascertain his thoughts and what he could possibly say.
"…Joffrey isn't fit to be king."
Ned felt every muscle in his body go taut. He kept his face even, but his eyes told Robert everything. The fat lord seated on the Iron Throne was sober, and with it came a cold clarity. He finally bore the look of a king, yet there was a sadness, a fear Ned never knew existed.
"I dunno if it was me who fucked him up or it's because of Cersei coddling him like the rest of our children, but Joffrey ain't right in the head. He's…" He struggled to find the words. He didn't need to. Ned understood what his friend wished to convey. Suddenly, the unsavory rumors surrounding the crown prince bore an inkling of truth, born straight from the lips of the prince's sire. "He ain't right, Ned."
"If the queen coddles him, then why not send him away to foster?" Ned inquired curiously. "Tense as your relationship with Stannis is, he wouldn't dare refuse you. If he can't whip the boy into shape, I doubt anyone could."
"I tried. Stannis told me to fuck off." The Northman blinked in shock at the bluntness in Robert's words. His mind reeled in confusion. Stannis refused to foster Joffrey? The crown prince? Seeing the confusion on his face, Robert continued to speak with an annoyed huff. "I don't know what crawled up his ass and died, but Stannis likes Joff as much as I do these days. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he actually hates my son. Don't know why, but then again, who the fuck knows what goes on in Stannis' head these days."
Robert sighed. "I tried to get him to see reason. Hell, I even asked fuckin' Renly for help, and it did fuck all 'sides piss off Stannis even more."
"What of your bannermen? Surely, someone from the Stormlands would have fostered him. Unless I'm mistaken, Harold Hardyng is heir presumptive until Jon's son comes into majority."
"Tried that to, but Cersei and Lysa shut me down. It's the only time those two ever agreed to something, and half the time, they're glaring daggers at each other as if trying to see who can kill the other by staring," Robert groaned. "I wanted to send him off to you to foster, but half my own fucking small council all but rose up in arms!"
In hindsight, it may very well have been for the best. Although the North since accepted his decision to marry and solidify relations between his and Catelyn's Houses, there was still a fair amount of tension. Some like the more vocal Karstarks believed he was repeating the same mistakes as his father. He could only imagine what sort of opinions they would have if he fostered the crown prince.
"I got no fuckin' clue what to do with him anymore, Ned. All I know is, if I keep him in the Red Keep, he'll be no prince. And I'll be damned before I let another Aerys II Targaryen sit on the Iron Throne."
OBERYN
On a quiet night like tonight, Oberyn found himself lost in his memories.
The day before he left Sunspear, he spoke with his brother Doran. The sun set beyond the piercing peaks and left the sky matching the orange mountains and scorching earth in summer winds.
"This is an opportunity."
Ever since Elia's defilement and death, Prince Doran Nymeros Martell had changed. He was never sold on the idea of peace and reconciliation when Elia married Prince Rhaegar. Oberyn shared in his skepticism, if only out of worry. It'd been three years since the Defiance of Duskendale, and by that point, deaths at the stake were a too common sight. Many times had Oberyn sent letters of worry to her, and each time, she replied with sweet words of reassurance. When news came of Lyanna Stark's "kidnapping" and Robert Baratheon's declaration of rebellion, all of Dorne shared his feelings of anger and betrayal.
When Rhaegar came to Sunspear, asking for reinforcements, it'd taken godly effort not to strike the crown prince down where he stood. Oberyn's fantasies rampaged throughout the tense meeting, imagining the proud dragon on his knees, bloodied and defiled in ways that would make him unsightly. Yet for all the creative ways he imagined, they would never change or heal the insult the Targaryens dealt them. The Mad King's paranoia and suspicions hadn't helped.
Ever since the end of the rebellion nary twenty years ago, Dorne kept themselves out of Westerosi affairs unless they were needed. Although the Baratheons now ruled, relations remained tense, not helped by Robert Baratheon listening to the golden bastard and denying the Martells vengeance against Gregor Clegane. Doran espoused the belief Robert might even be a pawn or willing collaborator of House Lannister, and so the snakes sent vipers into the den of corruption and politics, into the heart of Westeros.
Oberyn didn't have much of an opinion about the new king, save that he was barely a step up from Aerys. His hate for House Targaryen was well-known as open knowledge as was his whoremongering, which made him easily manipulated. Admittedly, it made interacting with him a dangerous gamble, given their "alliance" with Viserys Targaryen. Truthfully, Oberyn had no hopes for the wayward lost prince and princess, but he went along with his brother's schemes.
Although Robert's Rebellion saw a change in the status quo, Westeros itself hardly changed. The Seven Kingdoms sat on a wildfire cache waiting to go off, and when it did, sides would be taken. Oberyn knew that day was coming, and soon.
Then waylaid sailors returned, bringing fanciful tales and trinkets of a foreign land that showed up out of nowhere.
"A bit early to say that, don't you think?" Oberyn said, lounging against the windowsill and gazing out at the orange-tinted sky above. "We hardly know anything about the Lands Between and its people."
"Perhaps," Doran agreed. "But the appearance an unknown contender has made an opening. King Robert intends to journey to the Lands Between, learn its customs and people in the hopes of building a rapport. The heads of the Great Houses barring the Greyjoys will be summoned."
Oberyn caught on to his brother's words almost immediately. "I hope you don't mean to have us kill the Lannisters by way of 'lost at sea'. That's too blatant, even for us."
The ruler of Dorne smiled strangely. "Tywin Lannister won't be coming along for the voyage." Oberyn raised an eyebrow, waiting for his brother to explain. "There was an incident at Casterly Rock. I know little of it, but the severity has forced him to send his youngest son Tyrion to travel in his place while he manages affairs in King's Landing."
Oberyn recalled vague memories of the so-called Imp. An ugly little thing, albeit one worthy of pity if the stories about what happened to his first wife held a grain of truth to them.
"A rift grows in House Lannister, and the Lands Between offers us an opportunity," Doran repeated with a toothy smile. "The question, dear brother, is who shall benefit from it."
The Red Viper closed his eyes and sighed, pulling himself back into reality and away from his memories. "I hope this doesn't come to bite you, brother," he muttered under his breath.
King's Landing would be a veritable hotbed during the king's absence. Cersei Lannister was a great many things, but a reputable lady, she was not. She was a coddling mother who treated her children more like dolls and toys than as persons. Gregor Clegane was a monster who abused his position and the protection the Lannisters afforded him in return for his service. The only stabilizing presence in King's Landing were the king's brothers, but their power could easily be overturned by the queen's royal authority. Not helping matters was Petyr Baelish, an unknown quality who enjoyed "the game" as it were. Oberyn spoke with him once, and he could hardly get a read on the man.
No doubt plans were being made in secret, plans for the Lannisters to begin securing their hold over the Red Keep and the Iron Throne. Other players were no doubt moving in the background. All the while, the Martells worked to claim vengeance. If there was anything Oberyn could criticize his older brother for, it was his obsession. He wanted justice for Elia as much as he did, but they also needed to think about Dorne's future. They had to focus on the bigger picture.
And so while Doran kept his eyes on the Red Keep, Oberyn looked to the future.
And just like his brother, he found an unexpected opportunity.
The meeting was by no means planned. Oberyn wanted to take a nightly walk when he happened to hear sobbing from a nearby cabin. The door was slightly ajar, giving him the barest glance of the occupant.
It was a gamble, he knew. There was every possibility this could go wrong. That the king might turn his hammer on him.
And what was Oberyn Martell, if not a betting man?
One quick error I should have brought up I made back in Chapter 1 of this story. I didn't realize or think about it at the time, but to my own stupidity, I forgot that the Starks didn't get direwolves until after Jon Arryn's death. Instead of removing this, I decided to own up to my mistake and incorporate it into the story. The direwolves are still a recent addition to the Stark household, so they're still young. Robb's direwolf didn't accompany him on the way to King's Land to prepare for the voyage because of story reasons.
Chapter XIII
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
EDMURE
It'd been two months since they departed Westeros. The journey was thought to take that much time or longer, depending on whether the seas would cooperate. Whether by luck or the Seven taking pity on Lord Edmure Tully's tested patience with that cantankerous old witch of House Tyrell, the journey proved pleasant enough that on more than one occasion had he journeyed up to the deck to enjoy the sea breeze. It brought back some fond memories of his days during the Greyjoy Rebellion; not those of blood and steel, but of the sea breeze and waves. He could not help but remember the simpler days when he journeyed across the seas with his lord father on business trips to the Free Cities regarding matters of trade.
When word came that the lords of the Great Houses and the King himself would journey to foreign lands, Edmure felt excited. He wasn't particularly thrilled during his stay at the Red Keep, somewhat comforting as it had been. It have him ample opportunity to reconnect with his goodbrother Eddard and his nephew Robb. By that same token, however, it also reunited him with fucking Littlefinger, the roach who nearly sullied his sister's honor. It'd been years since the whole affair, but Edmure refused to forgive nor forgive Petyr Baelish for daring to ask his older sister for her hand in marriage, not when she'd already been promised to House Stark. It was especially galling to know the king declared him the Master of Coin.
He knew better than to waste his breath on the fop, and was content to ignore his presence unless interaction was unavoidable. When he didn't have to suffer in Littlefinger's presence, Edmure sought out his fellow lords to hear their thoughts and opinions, hoping that the voyage would give him ample time to form new ties. Riverrun was stable for the moment, but its position among the rest of the Seven Kingdoms was still shaky. He couldn't afford to let his father's hard work go to waste. Admittedly, it wasn't easy, but Olenna Tyrell was at least willing to bend the ear for him.
Edmure wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not, as he learned the stories involving her wit and tongue were not exaggerations. If anything, they undersold her.
"Gods old and new…" Edmure heard the Lord Hand utter as their destination came within view. In fact, most of their retinue was on the deck, gazing upon the sight with full attention.
When the waylaid sailors came to King's Landing with stories and trinkets, Edmure thought them mummers from the tales they told. They spoke of sights that could not be possible.
Seeing that ashen tree sitting in the distance, taller than even the Titan of Braavos, Edmure swore he would buy those sailors a drink if he ever happened upon them.
"How big is that bloody thing?" Prince Joffrey asked with wide-eyed wonder. "How did it even grow that big?"
"Unless I miss my guess?" Oberyn quipped. "Magic and an entire ocean's worth of water. I heard the sailors talk about it, but seeing it is another matter entirely."
"How long until we reach the shore?" King Robert asked Captain Yemon, eyes alight with naked hunger and awe.
"We should breach the shore within the next few hours. I understand we'll be met with one of your scouts upon our arrival?"
Lord Arryn nodded. "Aye. The commander is Donnal Waters, I believe. I recall meeting him once some odd years ago. A fine lad, though I doubt he's rid himself of that habit of biting his nails."
"I'm starting to feel nervous," Edmure's nephew murmured. "What will await us there, I wonder…?"
"I suppose we'll find our soon enough," he replied, clapping Robb on the shoulder before he retreated back below deck. Just as he reached the stairwell, he cast a glance at the Red Priestess, her expression as blank and empty as a white canvas. He could not understand what thoughts might be going through her head, and in truth, he did not wish to know.
While he was no devout follower of religion, he disliked the faithful of R'hllor. It was not their faith he disdained, but rather their practices. To sacrifice one to a pyre and receive their god's blessings was abhorrent and revolting. He knew not all followed the red faith's teachings so dogmatically, but he could not bring himself to trust any who willingly indulged in such horrid practices and shows of faith. Were it up to him, he would sooner throw the Red Priestess overboard and wash his hands of her. The only thing staying his hand was that she was Lord Stannis' confidant and ally.
It was not only Melisandre that worried him, however. The presence of Prince Joffrey was unexpected, and the king made it quite clear he was wroth with him. No doubt the poor boy would be belted when they made landfall and the Baratheons were behind closed doors. The Martells, however, clearly saw an opportunity as the infamous Red Viper wasted little time in worming his way into Prince Joffrey's good graces. He was not sure exactly what Oberyn said or did, save that Joffrey received his attention well.
Thankfully, it was not a sudden camaraderie. The prince was standoffish even at the best of times. He clearly took after his father with his hotheadedness. Just as the king demanded of him, Prince Joffrey worked alongside the deckhands in their work, be it moving crates and cargo to inspecting the knots and sails or even helping the chefs cook dinner. It was menial work expected from sailors and smallfolk, but for a prince, it was degrading and disgraceful. It was perhaps the best form of punishment to curb the boy's arrogance. Unfortunately, said arrogance and punishment made it difficult for the wards of Houses Stark and Tyrell to approach and form a rapport with him; Margeary's presence was entertained but ultimately rebuffed, and Robb often received a cold shoulder. Even the imp of Casterly Rock faired little better in trying to bond with his nephew.
With any luck, this voyage would temper the prince's attitude and arrogance. If not, then Edmure worried for the future of the Seven Kingdoms and of Riverrun if this was what he could expect from the next king.
By afternoon's reckoning, the ship made landfall and beached itself on the shores of the territory called Limgrave. The port was smaller than he expected, barely bigger than the average Crownlands smallfolk village. It was not the size of the port or the craftsmanship that elicited his attention, however. Rather, it was who came to greet them.
A scout bearing the colors of House Baratheon greeted them, kneeling on King Robert's approach. He was a comely man nearing somewhere close to twenty name days with dark hair and brown eyes. Beside him was a man near seven heads tall, if he even was a man. He was gaunt, skin leathery and clinging to bone with numerous horns curling around his face, some cut clean at the stump and others neatly trimmed and filed down. He bore an unruly mane of fiery red hair, brighter than even the hereditary hair of a Tully, and striking green eyes the color of vibrant gemstones.
"Your Grace," the scout greeted. "It's an honor to receive you. Scout Wyll, at your service."
The king's eyes flickered back and forth between Scout Wyll and the horned giant beside him. "Er, right…" He coughed awkwardly into his fist and narrowed his gaze onto the scout. "Well, what's the word here? There been any trouble since you lot settled in?"
"None, sir. Lady Loux has been most gracious and allowed us to establish lodgings near the port outskirts, even sent us some help as well," Wyll answered. He then gestured to the horned giant next to him. "This is sir Darrick. He's a scribe in service to Lord Haight. That is to say, one of Lady Loux's vassals. He's been most helpful in getting us up to speed here."
The scribe bowed his head. "Greetings, King Baratheon."
Bloody hells, he's a scribe? Look at the size of him and those horns of his! He could poke someone's eye out if he butted heads with them!
They had not even been in the Lands Between for an hour, and already Edmure knew the faith would be in a tizzy. He glanced at the seldom maester accompanying them, a man he scarcely saw throughout the two months spent journeying here.
Archmaester Thorren was a man within forty name days or so, with a thick beard and unkempt dirty blonde hair, dark rings under his light brown eyes. With his sullen and gloomy look, Edmure would have mistaken him for a man of House Stark with such countenance. In the few times he saw the man wandering the ship when he deigned to step outside his quarters, he wore the same disinterested face and kept his face buried in parchments and worn-out books.
Now, however, he looked less like a half-dead man and more like starved smallfolk standing before a feast. His eyes were so wide Edmure feared they might pop from their sockets.
"Er, pleasure…" King Robert said awkwardly. To see so giant a creature was surprising enough, but to hear it speak the common Andal tongue so fluently was another. He quickly gathered himself and shook his head, recomposing his thoughts. He turned back to Scout Wyll. "I assume you've lodgings for us? As much as I'd like to meet this Lady Loux, I'd rather spend some nights in a soft bed than a fucking hammock."
"They're not as prestigious or clean as the royal quarters, but I dare say they're decent enough for you and your entourage, Your Grace."
"And what of food?" Edmure couldn't help but ask. "I think I speak for everyone when I say I've had enough fish to last me a lifetime." Murmurs of agreement echoed around him.
"We've decent enough cooks," the scout replied easily, even smiling. "The local delicacies are a must-have, if you'll excuse my enthusiasm."
"Ah, don't worry 'bout it, lad," Robert waved him off with a smile. "I'm curious about their wine. Don't suppose you might be willing to share a bottle while your captain gives us his report?"
"Of course, Your Grace. Er, I should warn you, their Gold Arbor doesn't go down easily. Its worse than firewhiskey, if you ask me…"
Decent, Edmure recalled with befuddlement. They called this decent.
While the furniture and comfort was not up to par with the quarters typically found in castles and keeps, the lodgings provided to them did not belong to the standards of smallfolk. The beds were of a soft material and stuffing that made him feel as if he laid atop a cloud than a pile of straw and cotton. To say nothing of the pillows which were of similar quality. The food was curious to be expected; bread and salt were expected, but the meat was of a delectable taste and flavor that was equal parts curious and overwhelming. Fruits were unusually provided, but their sweetness and taste made him and many others crave more.
They feasted like starving men, and for a moment, Edmure feared this was a honey trap of some kind. Surely no one could provide such a wondrous meal and not hide some manner of poison. Minutes passed, yet none looked ill. The prince craved more, even attempting to demand seconds, only for the king to box his ear and reprimand him.
Dinner was not a casual affair, though. It served a purpose, to help them relax and get a glimpse of the exotic qualities the Lands Between had to offer. It made a good first impression, but that didn't dismiss their worries and concerns.
Commander Donnal Waters was a willow of a man with sunken cheeks and dark green eyes. He was an older man, nearing sixty name days judging by his graying thin hairs. Despite his thin physique, he carried himself in a manner reminiscent to the hunters Edmure partied with whenever his father was in the mood for game. In his hands was a thick stack of papers. The sight made him groan.
"Your Grace," Donnal bowed his head. "Welcome to Limgrave. I trust there were no complications?"
"Save my brat stowing away when he should be back home, no," Robert grunted. "And don't bother beating around the bush, Waters. We've waited two months for this. What are we dealing with?"
"This." The commander set the stack of documents down on the table, giving it an almost affectionate pat before looking at the gathered lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. "We've spent little over half a year here in the Lands Between, learning about its culture, its people, its politics. I could tell you of some of the absurd sights we've born witness to in that time, but I feel I should start with the most relevant. The sort that will likely infuriate the Faith of the Seven beyond measure."
Despite what many said about him, Edmure was not dull or dimwitted. He knew exactly what the commander was going to say and braced himself. Old stories his wet nurse used to tell him echoed in his ears, tales meant to frighten children into obedience.
"Magic is alive and well here. It thrives in ways I've only ever heard tale of from books and tall tales spoken by bards and mummers."
The heir of House Tully glanced around the table. All stared with rapt and varied expressions. Some like the king and Eddard were curious and interested, the latter perhaps the most tolerant of magic due to his being a Northman. Others like the Lord Hand wore pinched faces. The Arryns were believers of the faith, some more devout than others. The Faith of the Seven preached that magic was an abhorrent, dangerous practice. In the olden days before the decline of House Targaryen, before the bloody Targaryen civil war known as the Dance of Dragons, the supposed witches and warlocks were tolerated at best.
Edmure had no opinions of magic, save whether it could improve Riverrun.
"What manner of magic do they practice?" Maester Thorren inquired, stroking his beard. "Trueborn magic or parlor tricks done by street urchins and the like?"
"'tis no mummer's farce, maester. I've watched men in robes wave staves bearing glittering stones and creating arrows of light shooting from the tips. To say nothing of men throwing fistfuls of fire or conjuring rocks from thin air. Such sights must be seen to be believed."
"And has one such magician come to dazzle us?"
"Afraid not. They've made themselves at home in Stormveil Castle, the seat of Lady Nepheli Loux. They've been called to arms."
Lord Arryn narrowed his eyes sharply. "Is there some sort of conflicting brewing in Limgrave?"
Commander Donnal nodded gravely. "Aye, Lord Hand. Footpads who've taken to terrorizing the small folk. Call themselves the Black Hand. Lady Loux's been hounding them for the last few weeks. From what I've seen and gathered for myself, they're comparable to the Kingswood Brotherhood."
Ser Jaime chuckled wryly. "Well, if we happen upon them, I for one would be most interested to see a re-enactment of one of your greatest achievements, Ser Barristan."
Ser Barristan smiled dimly whilst giving a shrug. "Unless they've a Maelys in their midst, I doubt that," Robert chortled, unimpressed. "I'll assume, then, the kind Lady Loux is unable to receive us?"
"Likely not, Your Grace. The honorable Lord Kenneth Haight, Seneschal and Steward of Limgrave in Lady Loux's absence, is acting in her stead. He's as eager to spoke with you since he received word of your arrival."
"What sort of man is this Lord Haight?" Olenna Tyrell questioned. "And where in the ranks of nobility would he fall?"
The commander pursed his lips in thought. "If memory serves, the Haights were once a noble House of great repute until they did something to anger the Elden Lord. That is to say, the consort and spouse of the queen. The Lands Between has no qualms of gender in regards to rights of succession, it seems, though to my understanding there have only ever been two queens in the Lands Between."
"Two?" Bafflement rippled across the retinue. "From all that we heard, I assumed that the Lands Between existed for a few centuries at most."
"The previous queen's tenure lasted near a thousand years."
In a rare moment Edmure burned into his memory, the Queen of Thorn's face became like that of a fish. Beside her, Margeary gasped and held a hand over her mouth.
"Surely you jest," Lord Arryn wheezed. "Or is this yet another feat of sorcery at work?"
"I cannot say for certain. At the very least, the people revere and worshipped her as a god. Queen Marika the Eternal, they called her."
"Bloody hells. The more I hear about this, the more I wonder which is true and which is a mummer's tale," King Robert muttered.
Eddard frowned. "Hold a moment, Commander. You said the Lands Between has known two queens. Am I to assume, then, that a new ruler succeeded this Marika?"
"Aye. Her stepdaughter, Ranni of Caria. She was born to Queen Marika's second husband, Elden Lord Radagon. I've heard remarkably little of the man beyond that he was as devout a follower of the faith of the Golden Order, and that he was once married to Relanna, Queen of Caria and head of the Academy of Raya Lucaria."
Edmure and Eddard blinked in surprise. While it was not unheard of for a noble's extended family to assume lordship of their territory, it was another thing to hear of apparent foreign royalty, step-child or no. Such events were far and few in Westeros. To the best of Edmure's knowledge, rarely when House Targaryen marry outside its house did its extended family gain considerable power. Even Rhaenys Targaryen's marriage to Corlys the Sea Snake provided the latter any real power beyond the honor of becoming dragon riders.
Edmure did not ignore the other interesting piece of information Commander Donnal shared. Until now, they've heard remarkably little of the power structure within the Lands Between. All they had was scarce information of a woman who led a Great House, the unusual sights of wildlife, now-confirmed whispers of magic. Now they knew the Lands Between had its own faiths and religions as well as royalty.
They could not get to all of it immediately. The day waned on and sleep beckoned. They would continue and learn more of the Lands Between in-depth come the morning. Edmure found it difficult to sleep, his mind plagued by questions upon questions. Through the far and uncertainty of the unknown, there was excitement and wonder. It was as though he were a child once more, listening to the stories told by his late mother and his wet nurse.
In his futile attempts to quickly drift into slumber, Edmure remembered his father's words. Although the Riverlands enjoyed a new sense of security and partnership with House Stark, they were not strong enough. Lord Tully saw something his heir did not see, much to said heir's frustration. Something that made Hoster Tully fearful. When news came of the Lands Between's existence and the King called the Great and Noble Houses of Westeros to King's Landing, his lord father bade him to act in his stead and find a means for House Tully to grow stronger. Strong to weather the unseen storm that only he saw.
Frustrated and confused as he was about what sort of threat made his father so fearful, Edmure obeyed. He would do as he was told and secure a brighter future for House Tully.
The question now, was what sort of future he would carve out for House Tully in this strange land…
In full transparency, I totally forgot Edmure Tully existed. I dunno why, but even with such a huge cast, he's the one who almost always slips my mind somehow.
It'd been two months since they departed Westeros. The journey was thought to take that much time or longer, depending on whether the seas would cooperate. Whether by luck or the Seven taking pity on Lord Edmure Tully's tested patience with that cantankerous old witch of House Tyrell, the journey proved pleasant enough that on more than one occasion had he journeyed up to the deck to enjoy the sea breeze. It brought back some fond memories of his days during the Greyjoy Rebellion; not those of blood and steel, but of the sea breeze and waves. He could not help but remember the simpler days when he journeyed across the seas with his lord father on business trips to the Free Cities regarding matters of trade.
When word came that the lords of the Great Houses and the King himself would journey to foreign lands, Edmure felt excited. He wasn't particularly thrilled during his stay at the Red Keep, somewhat comforting as it had been. It have him ample opportunity to reconnect with his goodbrother Eddard and his nephew Robb. By that same token, however, it also reunited him with fucking Littlefinger, the roach who nearly sullied his sister's honor. It'd been years since the whole affair, but Edmure refused to forgive nor forgive Petyr Baelish for daring to ask his older sister for her hand in marriage, not when she'd already been promised to House Stark. It was especially galling to know the king declared him the Master of Coin.
He knew better than to waste his breath on the fop, and was content to ignore his presence unless interaction was unavoidable. When he didn't have to suffer in Littlefinger's presence, Edmure sought out his fellow lords to hear their thoughts and opinions, hoping that the voyage would give him ample time to form new ties. Riverrun was stable for the moment, but its position among the rest of the Seven Kingdoms was still shaky. He couldn't afford to let his father's hard work go to waste. Admittedly, it wasn't easy, but Olenna Tyrell was at least willing to bend the ear for him.
Edmure wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not, as he learned the stories involving her wit and tongue were not exaggerations. If anything, they undersold her.
"Gods old and new…" Edmure heard the Lord Hand utter as their destination came within view. In fact, most of their retinue was on the deck, gazing upon the sight with full attention.
When the waylaid sailors came to King's Landing with stories and trinkets, Edmure thought them mummers from the tales they told. They spoke of sights that could not be possible.
Seeing that ashen tree sitting in the distance, taller than even the Titan of Braavos, Edmure swore he would buy those sailors a drink if he ever happened upon them.
"How big is that bloody thing?" Prince Joffrey asked with wide-eyed wonder. "How did it even grow that big?"
"Unless I miss my guess?" Oberyn quipped. "Magic and an entire ocean's worth of water. I heard the sailors talk about it, but seeing it is another matter entirely."
"How long until we reach the shore?" King Robert asked Captain Yemon, eyes alight with naked hunger and awe.
"We should breach the shore within the next few hours. I understand we'll be met with one of your scouts upon our arrival?"
Lord Arryn nodded. "Aye. The commander is Donnal Waters, I believe. I recall meeting him once some odd years ago. A fine lad, though I doubt he's rid himself of that habit of biting his nails."
"I'm starting to feel nervous," Edmure's nephew murmured. "What will await us there, I wonder…?"
"I suppose we'll find our soon enough," he replied, clapping Robb on the shoulder before he retreated back below deck. Just as he reached the stairwell, he cast a glance at the Red Priestess, her expression as blank and empty as a white canvas. He could not understand what thoughts might be going through her head, and in truth, he did not wish to know.
While he was no devout follower of religion, he disliked the faithful of R'hllor. It was not their faith he disdained, but rather their practices. To sacrifice one to a pyre and receive their god's blessings was abhorrent and revolting. He knew not all followed the red faith's teachings so dogmatically, but he could not bring himself to trust any who willingly indulged in such horrid practices and shows of faith. Were it up to him, he would sooner throw the Red Priestess overboard and wash his hands of her. The only thing staying his hand was that she was Lord Stannis' confidant and ally.
It was not only Melisandre that worried him, however. The presence of Prince Joffrey was unexpected, and the king made it quite clear he was wroth with him. No doubt the poor boy would be belted when they made landfall and the Baratheons were behind closed doors. The Martells, however, clearly saw an opportunity as the infamous Red Viper wasted little time in worming his way into Prince Joffrey's good graces. He was not sure exactly what Oberyn said or did, save that Joffrey received his attention well.
Thankfully, it was not a sudden camaraderie. The prince was standoffish even at the best of times. He clearly took after his father with his hotheadedness. Just as the king demanded of him, Prince Joffrey worked alongside the deckhands in their work, be it moving crates and cargo to inspecting the knots and sails or even helping the chefs cook dinner. It was menial work expected from sailors and smallfolk, but for a prince, it was degrading and disgraceful. It was perhaps the best form of punishment to curb the boy's arrogance. Unfortunately, said arrogance and punishment made it difficult for the wards of Houses Stark and Tyrell to approach and form a rapport with him; Margeary's presence was entertained but ultimately rebuffed, and Robb often received a cold shoulder. Even the imp of Casterly Rock faired little better in trying to bond with his nephew.
With any luck, this voyage would temper the prince's attitude and arrogance. If not, then Edmure worried for the future of the Seven Kingdoms and of Riverrun if this was what he could expect from the next king.
By afternoon's reckoning, the ship made landfall and beached itself on the shores of the territory called Limgrave. The port was smaller than he expected, barely bigger than the average Crownlands smallfolk village. It was not the size of the port or the craftsmanship that elicited his attention, however. Rather, it was who came to greet them.
A scout bearing the colors of House Baratheon greeted them, kneeling on King Robert's approach. He was a comely man nearing somewhere close to twenty name days with dark hair and brown eyes. Beside him was a man near seven heads tall, if he even was a man. He was gaunt, skin leathery and clinging to bone with numerous horns curling around his face, some cut clean at the stump and others neatly trimmed and filed down. He bore an unruly mane of fiery red hair, brighter than even the hereditary hair of a Tully, and striking green eyes the color of vibrant gemstones.
"Your Grace," the scout greeted. "It's an honor to receive you. Scout Wyll, at your service."
The king's eyes flickered back and forth between Scout Wyll and the horned giant beside him. "Er, right…" He coughed awkwardly into his fist and narrowed his gaze onto the scout. "Well, what's the word here? There been any trouble since you lot settled in?"
"None, sir. Lady Loux has been most gracious and allowed us to establish lodgings near the port outskirts, even sent us some help as well," Wyll answered. He then gestured to the horned giant next to him. "This is sir Darrick. He's a scribe in service to Lord Haight. That is to say, one of Lady Loux's vassals. He's been most helpful in getting us up to speed here."
The scribe bowed his head. "Greetings, King Baratheon."
Bloody hells, he's a scribe? Look at the size of him and those horns of his! He could poke someone's eye out if he butted heads with them!
They had not even been in the Lands Between for an hour, and already Edmure knew the faith would be in a tizzy. He glanced at the seldom maester accompanying them, a man he scarcely saw throughout the two months spent journeying here.
Archmaester Thorren was a man within forty name days or so, with a thick beard and unkempt dirty blonde hair, dark rings under his light brown eyes. With his sullen and gloomy look, Edmure would have mistaken him for a man of House Stark with such countenance. In the few times he saw the man wandering the ship when he deigned to step outside his quarters, he wore the same disinterested face and kept his face buried in parchments and worn-out books.
Now, however, he looked less like a half-dead man and more like starved smallfolk standing before a feast. His eyes were so wide Edmure feared they might pop from their sockets.
"Er, pleasure…" King Robert said awkwardly. To see so giant a creature was surprising enough, but to hear it speak the common Andal tongue so fluently was another. He quickly gathered himself and shook his head, recomposing his thoughts. He turned back to Scout Wyll. "I assume you've lodgings for us? As much as I'd like to meet this Lady Loux, I'd rather spend some nights in a soft bed than a fucking hammock."
"They're not as prestigious or clean as the royal quarters, but I dare say they're decent enough for you and your entourage, Your Grace."
"And what of food?" Edmure couldn't help but ask. "I think I speak for everyone when I say I've had enough fish to last me a lifetime." Murmurs of agreement echoed around him.
"We've decent enough cooks," the scout replied easily, even smiling. "The local delicacies are a must-have, if you'll excuse my enthusiasm."
"Ah, don't worry 'bout it, lad," Robert waved him off with a smile. "I'm curious about their wine. Don't suppose you might be willing to share a bottle while your captain gives us his report?"
"Of course, Your Grace. Er, I should warn you, their Gold Arbor doesn't go down easily. Its worse than firewhiskey, if you ask me…"
Decent, Edmure recalled with befuddlement. They called this decent.
While the furniture and comfort was not up to par with the quarters typically found in castles and keeps, the lodgings provided to them did not belong to the standards of smallfolk. The beds were of a soft material and stuffing that made him feel as if he laid atop a cloud than a pile of straw and cotton. To say nothing of the pillows which were of similar quality. The food was curious to be expected; bread and salt were expected, but the meat was of a delectable taste and flavor that was equal parts curious and overwhelming. Fruits were unusually provided, but their sweetness and taste made him and many others crave more.
They feasted like starving men, and for a moment, Edmure feared this was a honey trap of some kind. Surely no one could provide such a wondrous meal and not hide some manner of poison. Minutes passed, yet none looked ill. The prince craved more, even attempting to demand seconds, only for the king to box his ear and reprimand him.
Dinner was not a casual affair, though. It served a purpose, to help them relax and get a glimpse of the exotic qualities the Lands Between had to offer. It made a good first impression, but that didn't dismiss their worries and concerns.
Commander Donnal Waters was a willow of a man with sunken cheeks and dark green eyes. He was an older man, nearing sixty name days judging by his graying thin hairs. Despite his thin physique, he carried himself in a manner reminiscent to the hunters Edmure partied with whenever his father was in the mood for game. In his hands was a thick stack of papers. The sight made him groan.
"Your Grace," Donnal bowed his head. "Welcome to Limgrave. I trust there were no complications?"
"Save my brat stowing away when he should be back home, no," Robert grunted. "And don't bother beating around the bush, Waters. We've waited two months for this. What are we dealing with?"
"This." The commander set the stack of documents down on the table, giving it an almost affectionate pat before looking at the gathered lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. "We've spent little over half a year here in the Lands Between, learning about its culture, its people, its politics. I could tell you of some of the absurd sights we've born witness to in that time, but I feel I should start with the most relevant. The sort that will likely infuriate the Faith of the Seven beyond measure."
Despite what many said about him, Edmure was not dull or dimwitted. He knew exactly what the commander was going to say and braced himself. Old stories his wet nurse used to tell him echoed in his ears, tales meant to frighten children into obedience.
"Magic is alive and well here. It thrives in ways I've only ever heard tale of from books and tall tales spoken by bards and mummers."
The heir of House Tully glanced around the table. All stared with rapt and varied expressions. Some like the king and Eddard were curious and interested, the latter perhaps the most tolerant of magic due to his being a Northman. Others like the Lord Hand wore pinched faces. The Arryns were believers of the faith, some more devout than others. The Faith of the Seven preached that magic was an abhorrent, dangerous practice. In the olden days before the decline of House Targaryen, before the bloody Targaryen civil war known as the Dance of Dragons, the supposed witches and warlocks were tolerated at best.
Edmure had no opinions of magic, save whether it could improve Riverrun.
"What manner of magic do they practice?" Maester Thorren inquired, stroking his beard. "Trueborn magic or parlor tricks done by street urchins and the like?"
"'tis no mummer's farce, maester. I've watched men in robes wave staves bearing glittering stones and creating arrows of light shooting from the tips. To say nothing of men throwing fistfuls of fire or conjuring rocks from thin air. Such sights must be seen to be believed."
"And has one such magician come to dazzle us?"
"Afraid not. They've made themselves at home in Stormveil Castle, the seat of Lady Nepheli Loux. They've been called to arms."
Lord Arryn narrowed his eyes sharply. "Is there some sort of conflicting brewing in Limgrave?"
Commander Donnal nodded gravely. "Aye, Lord Hand. Footpads who've taken to terrorizing the small folk. Call themselves the Black Hand. Lady Loux's been hounding them for the last few weeks. From what I've seen and gathered for myself, they're comparable to the Kingswood Brotherhood."
Ser Jaime chuckled wryly. "Well, if we happen upon them, I for one would be most interested to see a re-enactment of one of your greatest achievements, Ser Barristan."
Ser Barristan smiled dimly whilst giving a shrug. "Unless they've a Maelys in their midst, I doubt that," Robert chortled, unimpressed. "I'll assume, then, the kind Lady Loux is unable to receive us?"
"Likely not, Your Grace. The honorable Lord Kenneth Haight, Seneschal and Steward of Limgrave in Lady Loux's absence, is acting in her stead. He's as eager to spoke with you since he received word of your arrival."
"What sort of man is this Lord Haight?" Olenna Tyrell questioned. "And where in the ranks of nobility would he fall?"
The commander pursed his lips in thought. "If memory serves, the Haights were once a noble House of great repute until they did something to anger the Elden Lord. That is to say, the consort and spouse of the queen. The Lands Between has no qualms of gender in regards to rights of succession, it seems, though to my understanding there have only ever been two queens in the Lands Between."
"Two?" Bafflement rippled across the retinue. "From all that we heard, I assumed that the Lands Between existed for a few centuries at most."
"The previous queen's tenure lasted near a thousand years."
In a rare moment Edmure burned into his memory, the Queen of Thorn's face became like that of a fish. Beside her, Margeary gasped and held a hand over her mouth.
"Surely you jest," Lord Arryn wheezed. "Or is this yet another feat of sorcery at work?"
"I cannot say for certain. At the very least, the people revere and worshipped her as a god. Queen Marika the Eternal, they called her."
"Bloody hells. The more I hear about this, the more I wonder which is true and which is a mummer's tale," King Robert muttered.
Eddard frowned. "Hold a moment, Commander. You said the Lands Between has known two queens. Am I to assume, then, that a new ruler succeeded this Marika?"
"Aye. Her stepdaughter, Ranni of Caria. She was born to Queen Marika's second husband, Elden Lord Radagon. I've heard remarkably little of the man beyond that he was as devout a follower of the faith of the Golden Order, and that he was once married to Relanna, Queen of Caria and head of the Academy of Raya Lucaria."
Edmure and Eddard blinked in surprise. While it was not unheard of for a noble's extended family to assume lordship of their territory, it was another thing to hear of apparent foreign royalty, step-child or no. Such events were far and few in Westeros. To the best of Edmure's knowledge, rarely when House Targaryen marry outside its house did its extended family gain considerable power. Even Rhaenys Targaryen's marriage to Corlys the Sea Snake provided the latter any real power beyond the honor of becoming dragon riders.
Edmure did not ignore the other interesting piece of information Commander Donnal shared. Until now, they've heard remarkably little of the power structure within the Lands Between. All they had was scarce information of a woman who led a Great House, the unusual sights of wildlife, now-confirmed whispers of magic. Now they knew the Lands Between had its own faiths and religions as well as royalty.
They could not get to all of it immediately. The day waned on and sleep beckoned. They would continue and learn more of the Lands Between in-depth come the morning. Edmure found it difficult to sleep, his mind plagued by questions upon questions. Through the far and uncertainty of the unknown, there was excitement and wonder. It was as though he were a child once more, listening to the stories told by his late mother and his wet nurse.
In his futile attempts to quickly drift into slumber, Edmure remembered his father's words. Although the Riverlands enjoyed a new sense of security and partnership with House Stark, they were not strong enough. Lord Tully saw something his heir did not see, much to said heir's frustration. Something that made Hoster Tully fearful. When news came of the Lands Between's existence and the King called the Great and Noble Houses of Westeros to King's Landing, his lord father bade him to act in his stead and find a means for House Tully to grow stronger. Strong to weather the unseen storm that only he saw.
Frustrated and confused as he was about what sort of threat made his father so fearful, Edmure obeyed. He would do as he was told and secure a brighter future for House Tully.
The question now, was what sort of future he would carve out for House Tully in this strange land…
In full transparency, I totally forgot Edmure Tully existed. I dunno why, but even with such a huge cast, he's the one who almost always slips my mind somehow.
- Location
- Michigan
Great chapter. I'm excited to see culture clash!
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
Apparently, that's the story's biggest selling point right now XD
Chapter XIV
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
The new chapter up on patreon came out sooner than I expected, so we're getting the second chapter this week. We're still set for a chapter next week.
Usuall shills. If you guys like my work, consider joining my patreon or checking out my duology Chase Ryder and the City of Lost Memories on Amazon.
With that out of the way... Can I just say I love you guys? Like, seriously. The support for this story so far...it's fucking phenomenal.
MARGEARY
Margeary awoke in the early morning dew, stirred by faint sounds of creaking floorboards and activity on the floor below. A quick, painful glance toward the window showed her beams of dim sunlight. It was early morning. Rarely did she ever wake up at such hours, yet she knew the fault lay at her bed and her own exhaustion. The royal retinue retired early into the evening, exhausted from the long voyage and digesting all they learned from Commander Donnal Waters, and the bed was the most comfortable thing she ever experienced since her brief stay in the Red Keep.
Idly, she made a mental note to herself to inquire who created such soft bedding and fine sheets and acquire their services. For Highgarden's services, of course.
Tempted as Margeary was to return to blissful slumber, she forced herself out of bed. Her grandmother was already awake as the bed next to hers was empty. She had little doubt Olenna was dressed and inquiring on the state of affairs within the Lands Between. Although they'd yet to learn all there was to know, what information the commander shared was enough to mesmerize Margeary beyond words.
Countless tales and fables from the time of the First Men spoke of the forgotten wonders of magic. When the last dragon died after the Dance, people believed magic began to dwindle and fade away. There were stories told of those times, and even as a wee child sitting on her mother's knee, Margeary dreamed of living in some of those stories. Never in her wildest dreams did she believe she would see displays of magic, much less that it was alive and well in the Lands Between. Even her grandmother smiled toothily in great anticipation.
Not all took this news in stride, however.
Some hid their discomfort well, but as someone taught to recognize tells and the subtlest shifts in expression, Margeary recognized the wary suspicion in the eyes of some within the royal retinue. Among them, the Hand of the King was perhaps the most disturbed by this revelation. It was not unexpected, of course. Many houses of the Vale were pious, and House Arryn was no exception. A man did not need to be devout to be religious, and while Jon Arryn was no man of the Sept, he still believed in its teachings.
Another who seemed distasteful of magic was the infamous Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister. He wore his expression well, but she caught the way his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. It surprised her somewhat to learn that a man of the Kingsguard did not approve of the arcane arts.
As she removed her smallclothes and allowed her attendants to change her into something more presentable, Margeary recalled one of the more interesting events yesterday. She was eager to speak with the horned scribe called Darrick. She never met anyone so tell, and with such…exotic features. It still boggled her mind to know such a curious being was a scribe, but it was certainly not her place to judge. She needed to remind herself that she was a stranger in even stranger lands. It might even be accurate to say she stepped into another world.
Once she was properly dressed and her hair brushed to acceptable standards, Margeary departed downstairs. She saw Prince Oberyn at one of the tables placed near the corner of the room, a mug firmly in hand. Across from him was the infamous imp, Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf of Casterly Rock was a surprising addition to the retinue, but not someone she could complain about. Aside from a few crude jokes and raunchy remarks that made even her blush, he proved to be surprisingly welcome company. His surprising and quick friendship with Oberyn Martell was surprising, however. It was an open secret to all Southron Houses that the Martells had yet to forgive the Lannisters for the Sack of King's Landing, or more accurately, the deaths of Elia Martell and her children.
The gruesome tale of Princess Elia's death and defilement was one of the few things that made her grandmother's face sour in disappointment and disgust. She told her why Tywin Lannister ordered Elia and her children's deaths, but the manner of their deaths and what happened afterward was something she would never condone. "Pointless and vile", she remembered Olenna saying to Mace. "No other reason than to be a sadistic monster."
Perhaps Tyrion was but a means to an end, a way for Oberyn to find a "chink" in the Lord of Casterly Rock's defenses for the day he slid his poisoned blade into his neck. Or perhaps he simply desired companionship with the dwarf and overlooked his blood. Either way, it was of little concern for Margeary until it concerned the Hightowers.
"You're up early, my lady," a familiar voice called out from behind.
A rare smile blossomed its way across the young girl's face as she turned to greet Robb Stark. His face was flushed, caked with a thin layer of sweat and garbed in simple plainclothes with a sheathed blade dangling from a strap in his hand. Behind him approached Lord Eddard Stark, dressed in similar fashion with the heirloom of his house sheathed at his waist.
"Lord Robb, Lord Stark," she greeted and curtsied. "A good morning to you both."
"You as well, Lady Tyrell," Lord Stark said.
"Margeary, please. Lady Tyrell is my grandmother," Margeary insisted. "If you must refer to me as Lady, then 'Lady Margeary' shall suffice, Lord Stark."
The Northman nodded in acquiescence. "Very well, then."
In the two months spent journeying here to the Lands Between, Margeary took the opportunity to try and befriend the heir of House Stark as well as the crown prince. In the latter's case, she was raised and taught to one day become a suitable wife, and with any luck, a stabilizing influence on Prince Joffrey. Truthfully, Margeary hadn't put much stock in the rumors about the Baratheon heir's unsavory qualities, but the trip proved her naïve. He was as rude and entitled as she was led to believe, much to her chagrin. Still, she was used to boys like him before. Olenna was nothing if not an effective teacher. Such days were embarrassing to talk about, even if nothing inappropriate happened.
Her unexpected companionship with Robb Stark, however, was a welcome surprise. It was childish to think, but he was very much like the kind and chivalrous knight she read in story books, even admitting as much a month into the voyage. He smiled and told her she would get along very well with his sister Sansa, who she recalled briefly from when they first met. While her grandmother didn't disapprove of their friendship, Olenna warned her not to "give the Stark boy" any ideas.
What does she think I mean to do, court him? Margeary shook her head. They were no more than friends, much as she appreciated those cherry locks of his. Besides, she learned the king was working on potential marriage plans between Houses Baratheon and Stark, with a marriage contract between Robb Stark and Myrcella Baratheon being considered alongside a betrothal between Prince Joffrey and Robb's sister Sansa. Regardless of which marriage plan went through, House Stark would marry into the Iron Throne. So long as Prince Joffrey was unwed, Highgarden was unconcerned, so Margeary should be unconcerned.
Still, it was a shame. She couldn't help but think how Wilas would appreciate having Robb for a goodbrother. She doubted Robb would appreciate having Olenna for a goodmother, though. The Queen of Thorns was an acquired taste.
"Lord Stark!" Oberyn called out. "Lady Margeary! Come join us! The imp here has wondrous stories to tell!"
"Not so loud, damn you," Tyrion groaned. The pale parlour in his face and tired tone told Margeary enough. Not surprising, seeing as how the man was deep in his cups last night. "How in the weeping hells are you so fucking chipper this early? Is this a Dornish thing or is it a you thing?"
"Now that, my dear Tyrion, would be telling."
Margeary shared a glance with the Starks, an unspoken conversation held between the three of them before they came to a decision. They mingled well enough with the Red Viper to make his acquaintance, and he made decent company if nothing else.
They made to join the two men at the table, Margeary seating herself between the Starks. She did not like the smell wafting off the two. Judging by how Lord Stark scrunched his nose, he likely thought much the same.
"That smells…potent."
"Caelidan Ale," Obery said. "Old stock from a land west of here. Hard to swallow at first, but gods old and new does it kick. Were it not for how quickly ale sours in cooler rooms, I would have asked to take some back home with us. Doran might appreciate it, I think."
"He neglects to mention how it'll knock you flat two cups in," Tyrion grimaced. "I think I'll stick to what the Westerlands make, if you don't mind."
The Dornish man shrugged nonchalantly. "Suit yourself," he said, taking another drink of the wine. A dribble of scarlet red slides down the corner of his cheek before he sets the mug down and turns to Lord Stark. "On the subject of wine, Lord Stark, do you fancy yourself a drinking man of fine taste?"
"When the mood strikes me," Lord Stark replied stoically. "I prefer to keep myself sober, if you recall."
"Oh, I remember well. You hardly drank from your cup when we last spoke near twenty years ago," Oberyn chuckled. "A shame the same could not be said of your brother." His easy smile dimmed, replaced by something akin to regret with melancholy. "My condolences, Eddard. The pain of losing a beloved sibling… It's an awful thing to experience. I wish it upon no one."
"…my thanks, Prince Oberyn."
The Red Viper nodded solemnly. He cast a somber look at Lord Stark's son. "I pray you will never experience we have, Robb."
"I will defend my siblings with my life," Robb declared with words forged in steel. The tiniest of smiles tug at Margeary's face. "And any who dare threaten them will fall by my blade."
Oberyn's smile brightens, but the sadness within has yet to fade. "May you live to fulfill those words." He took another deep drink of his cup, longer than the last, before setting it back down. "Per chance, have you all taken a moment to speak with that horned fellow? The scribe, Darrick?"
"I have not," Margeary answered. "I have been meaning to. I would imagine he has a great many stories to tell us about the Lands Between, if not whatever Commander Donnal fails to mention when we speak again later."
"You'll likely be waiting a long while, Lady Margeary. The maester's been badgering him since first light, and likely still is."
"Not surprising," Robb shrugged. "If Maester Luwin is any indication, the men of chains are the sorts who pursue all manner of knowledge." He paused, scrunching his brows in thought. An uncertain expression flittered across his face as he leaned on the table. "Although, something about archmaester Thorren unsettles me. Last night, when Commander Donnal told us briefly about the Lands Between possessing magic, I believed he would question the commander all night. I've never known a man to look so obessive over knowledge, however wondrous."
"Some claim knowledge is powerful," Tyrion said. "In some cases, they're right. The more you know about your enemy, the less likely they are of catching you with your pants down. Father rarely taught me anything of note, but what he did teach me, I took to heart. From what I gather, the archmaester strikes me as the type who hounds all manner of knowledge, even things better left alone."
Margeary frowned. "They would allow such a man in the Citadel?"
"Knowledge is knowledge, and its pursuit is to be encouraged," Lord Stark answered in the Red Viper's stead. "Or so Luwin claims. That said, one should know better than to allow that pursuit to consume them. Lesser men have committed great follies in overreaching."
"A lesson we should all take to heart," Oberyn said.
Margeary pondered his words.
JON ARRYN
"Spit it out already, Jon. I know that damn look."
The Lord Hand stared at his lord, liege, son in all but name, and king. Robert stared back, nostrils flared indignantly and eyes glaring back in defiance. He was in yet another foul mood, born not from some foolish act by Joffrey, but from observing his faithful servant. Jon knew he could hide little from Robert, and what he could, he ensured they would forever remain out of his reach until he felt comfortable speaking the truth. That day felt further and further away, slowly growing out of reach. He could feel it, now more than ever.
The secret he kept buried in his chest may very well be one he'd take to the grave with him, and his work carried on by Stannis.
"It is not my place to question you, Your Grace."
Jon thought using placative words would ease Robert's temper. Instead, the king's glare burned hotter than the sun. His words came with restrained anger. "I'm not your fucking king, Jon. Right now, I'm the man you helped raise when mother and father sank to the bottom of Shipbreaker Bay. Now, out with it, damn you! What's your problem? Ever since Donnal told us magic's a common sight, you look as though someone shat and piss in your bed."
Of course it'd be that, Jon thought mirthlessly. He was used to such crass language by his former charge, and in any other instance, he would've felt some amusement if not chastised Robert for being so "uncouth". Instead, he felt tired. For but a moment, he considered lying to his king, but Robert's expectant and fiery look made him reconsider. After a moment of pondering, Jon realized there was little he could do to escape the situation. He grimaced and sighed, letting his weary body sag in the cloud-like bed.
"I am no man of the faith," he started. "I am no Septon, but I believe in the Seven Who Are One. What the gods represent, what they mean. This talk of magic, Robert…" He shook his head. "The Faith will not accept this, Robert. You know this."
Even before Commander Donnal told them, there'd been whispers of magic within the Lands Between. There was even talk of how the Lands Between itself was brought to the known world through magic, as there could be no other explanation behind its discovery after all this time. Even with the thick shroud of fog meant to hide it, surely there would be some record of its existence. There was not, making it seem as though the foreign land appeared from thin air.
The more prevalent and likely this theory became, the more unease grew within the Red Keep. Such talk eventually reached the ears of the septons, and before long, the court began receiving visits from the sept. At one point, even the High Septon himself came to speak against the Seven Kingdoms having anything to do with their new westward neighbor. That the fat one was now speaking against involving themselves in a land, then only suspected of being magical, only further raised concerns. The fat one was barely worth his station in Jon's eyes, and yet for as corrupt as he was, the man's office held a great deal of weight.
In recent years, tension brewed between the Iron Throne and the Faith of the Seven. It started with Aerys II Targaryen, his paranoia convincing him he could trust no one, not even the septons. So deep in his fears, jumping at shadows that weren't there, that he made many great disrespects toward the septs. It was only thanks to Tywin that he hadn't gone and brought a Red Priest into his court.
When Robert ascended the throne, Jon hoped bridges between the crown and Faith of the Seven would be mended. And they had, albeit for a while. As the years waned and Robert's drinking and whoremongering became an open secret, the sept once again grew discontent. Not helping matters was Varys' whispers claiming there was strife within the faith itself, of how the fat one's blatant corruption alienated a septon of surprising influence.
Jon hoped Robert might see reason, that he'd understand that they needed the faith's support. It was thanks to the septons the Targaryens were even recognized and held the power they did when Aegon the Conqueror arrived on the shores of Westeros. The aspirant look on the king's face told him otherwise. His next words made him feel the heavy weight of the chain around his neck.
"They'll accept whatever I damn say," he growled. "And I'll be damned if I have to listen to one more fucking thing that comes out of that fat pig's mouth."
"Robert…"
"Crone's saggy tits, Jon, do you not see the opportunity here? If even half of what Donnal told us is true, we'll never have an opportunity like this again! Imagine what we could do if we learned how to use their magic! Their smithing techniques!"
"For what purpose, Robert?"
He knew the answer well before Robert spoke. The dark look in his eyes, the coldness matched only by the harsh winds of the North at its coldest… He knew that expression very well. Every time he saw it, he thought it may become the only face Robert would wear.
The face of a man consumed by hate and rage. A man driven by grief he refused to relinquish.
"…you haven't given up on it, have you?" Jon mourned. "You haven't given up on the Targaryens."
"Until I see their heads on the ground, they'll haunt my dreams. You've heard what sort of man Viserys is, Jon. He thinks his father was the greatest man to walk the Earth, and would see all who turned their swords on his House sent to the pyre, just as the Mad King did years ago."
"They are children, Robert. They are neither Aerys nor Rhaegar. The ones who killed Lyanna are dead and gone. I will not ignore the claims he intends to reclaim the Iron Throne from you, but he's young. He can be made to see reason! If not him, then perhaps his sister…"
"They'll never make peace," Robert shot back heatedly. "Targaryens only know one thing, and care about one thing. Conquest. Taking from others what they can't have themselves. I don't know why that fuck took Lyanna from me. To this day, I still don't. And I. Don't. Care. What I care about is that so long as a single Targaryen lives, they'll come looking to take back their precious fucking throne!"
He drove his fist into the table beside him. To the craftsman's credit, it trembled beneath the blow but did not buckle or shudder.
"I don't care how long it takes me," King Baratheon growled. "One way or another, House Targaryen dies. I don't care how long it takes me."
Jon could say nothing, knowing his words would be no more than wind in his former ward's ears. All he could do was sit there miserably, staring at his greatest failure.
Hours later, a man would arrive at the Westerosi scout's outpost, carrying with him the sigil and crest of the Great House of Loux.
"Greetings," he spoke amicably and politely in the common Andal tongue, rough but concise enough to sound eligible to the trained ear. "I am Lord Kenneth Haight, steward and adviser to Nepheli Loux, stalwart lord and head of the Great House of Loux. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?"
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MARGEARY
Margeary awoke in the early morning dew, stirred by faint sounds of creaking floorboards and activity on the floor below. A quick, painful glance toward the window showed her beams of dim sunlight. It was early morning. Rarely did she ever wake up at such hours, yet she knew the fault lay at her bed and her own exhaustion. The royal retinue retired early into the evening, exhausted from the long voyage and digesting all they learned from Commander Donnal Waters, and the bed was the most comfortable thing she ever experienced since her brief stay in the Red Keep.
Idly, she made a mental note to herself to inquire who created such soft bedding and fine sheets and acquire their services. For Highgarden's services, of course.
Tempted as Margeary was to return to blissful slumber, she forced herself out of bed. Her grandmother was already awake as the bed next to hers was empty. She had little doubt Olenna was dressed and inquiring on the state of affairs within the Lands Between. Although they'd yet to learn all there was to know, what information the commander shared was enough to mesmerize Margeary beyond words.
Countless tales and fables from the time of the First Men spoke of the forgotten wonders of magic. When the last dragon died after the Dance, people believed magic began to dwindle and fade away. There were stories told of those times, and even as a wee child sitting on her mother's knee, Margeary dreamed of living in some of those stories. Never in her wildest dreams did she believe she would see displays of magic, much less that it was alive and well in the Lands Between. Even her grandmother smiled toothily in great anticipation.
Not all took this news in stride, however.
Some hid their discomfort well, but as someone taught to recognize tells and the subtlest shifts in expression, Margeary recognized the wary suspicion in the eyes of some within the royal retinue. Among them, the Hand of the King was perhaps the most disturbed by this revelation. It was not unexpected, of course. Many houses of the Vale were pious, and House Arryn was no exception. A man did not need to be devout to be religious, and while Jon Arryn was no man of the Sept, he still believed in its teachings.
Another who seemed distasteful of magic was the infamous Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister. He wore his expression well, but she caught the way his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. It surprised her somewhat to learn that a man of the Kingsguard did not approve of the arcane arts.
As she removed her smallclothes and allowed her attendants to change her into something more presentable, Margeary recalled one of the more interesting events yesterday. She was eager to speak with the horned scribe called Darrick. She never met anyone so tell, and with such…exotic features. It still boggled her mind to know such a curious being was a scribe, but it was certainly not her place to judge. She needed to remind herself that she was a stranger in even stranger lands. It might even be accurate to say she stepped into another world.
Once she was properly dressed and her hair brushed to acceptable standards, Margeary departed downstairs. She saw Prince Oberyn at one of the tables placed near the corner of the room, a mug firmly in hand. Across from him was the infamous imp, Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf of Casterly Rock was a surprising addition to the retinue, but not someone she could complain about. Aside from a few crude jokes and raunchy remarks that made even her blush, he proved to be surprisingly welcome company. His surprising and quick friendship with Oberyn Martell was surprising, however. It was an open secret to all Southron Houses that the Martells had yet to forgive the Lannisters for the Sack of King's Landing, or more accurately, the deaths of Elia Martell and her children.
The gruesome tale of Princess Elia's death and defilement was one of the few things that made her grandmother's face sour in disappointment and disgust. She told her why Tywin Lannister ordered Elia and her children's deaths, but the manner of their deaths and what happened afterward was something she would never condone. "Pointless and vile", she remembered Olenna saying to Mace. "No other reason than to be a sadistic monster."
Perhaps Tyrion was but a means to an end, a way for Oberyn to find a "chink" in the Lord of Casterly Rock's defenses for the day he slid his poisoned blade into his neck. Or perhaps he simply desired companionship with the dwarf and overlooked his blood. Either way, it was of little concern for Margeary until it concerned the Hightowers.
"You're up early, my lady," a familiar voice called out from behind.
A rare smile blossomed its way across the young girl's face as she turned to greet Robb Stark. His face was flushed, caked with a thin layer of sweat and garbed in simple plainclothes with a sheathed blade dangling from a strap in his hand. Behind him approached Lord Eddard Stark, dressed in similar fashion with the heirloom of his house sheathed at his waist.
"Lord Robb, Lord Stark," she greeted and curtsied. "A good morning to you both."
"You as well, Lady Tyrell," Lord Stark said.
"Margeary, please. Lady Tyrell is my grandmother," Margeary insisted. "If you must refer to me as Lady, then 'Lady Margeary' shall suffice, Lord Stark."
The Northman nodded in acquiescence. "Very well, then."
In the two months spent journeying here to the Lands Between, Margeary took the opportunity to try and befriend the heir of House Stark as well as the crown prince. In the latter's case, she was raised and taught to one day become a suitable wife, and with any luck, a stabilizing influence on Prince Joffrey. Truthfully, Margeary hadn't put much stock in the rumors about the Baratheon heir's unsavory qualities, but the trip proved her naïve. He was as rude and entitled as she was led to believe, much to her chagrin. Still, she was used to boys like him before. Olenna was nothing if not an effective teacher. Such days were embarrassing to talk about, even if nothing inappropriate happened.
Her unexpected companionship with Robb Stark, however, was a welcome surprise. It was childish to think, but he was very much like the kind and chivalrous knight she read in story books, even admitting as much a month into the voyage. He smiled and told her she would get along very well with his sister Sansa, who she recalled briefly from when they first met. While her grandmother didn't disapprove of their friendship, Olenna warned her not to "give the Stark boy" any ideas.
What does she think I mean to do, court him? Margeary shook her head. They were no more than friends, much as she appreciated those cherry locks of his. Besides, she learned the king was working on potential marriage plans between Houses Baratheon and Stark, with a marriage contract between Robb Stark and Myrcella Baratheon being considered alongside a betrothal between Prince Joffrey and Robb's sister Sansa. Regardless of which marriage plan went through, House Stark would marry into the Iron Throne. So long as Prince Joffrey was unwed, Highgarden was unconcerned, so Margeary should be unconcerned.
Still, it was a shame. She couldn't help but think how Wilas would appreciate having Robb for a goodbrother. She doubted Robb would appreciate having Olenna for a goodmother, though. The Queen of Thorns was an acquired taste.
"Lord Stark!" Oberyn called out. "Lady Margeary! Come join us! The imp here has wondrous stories to tell!"
"Not so loud, damn you," Tyrion groaned. The pale parlour in his face and tired tone told Margeary enough. Not surprising, seeing as how the man was deep in his cups last night. "How in the weeping hells are you so fucking chipper this early? Is this a Dornish thing or is it a you thing?"
"Now that, my dear Tyrion, would be telling."
Margeary shared a glance with the Starks, an unspoken conversation held between the three of them before they came to a decision. They mingled well enough with the Red Viper to make his acquaintance, and he made decent company if nothing else.
They made to join the two men at the table, Margeary seating herself between the Starks. She did not like the smell wafting off the two. Judging by how Lord Stark scrunched his nose, he likely thought much the same.
"That smells…potent."
"Caelidan Ale," Obery said. "Old stock from a land west of here. Hard to swallow at first, but gods old and new does it kick. Were it not for how quickly ale sours in cooler rooms, I would have asked to take some back home with us. Doran might appreciate it, I think."
"He neglects to mention how it'll knock you flat two cups in," Tyrion grimaced. "I think I'll stick to what the Westerlands make, if you don't mind."
The Dornish man shrugged nonchalantly. "Suit yourself," he said, taking another drink of the wine. A dribble of scarlet red slides down the corner of his cheek before he sets the mug down and turns to Lord Stark. "On the subject of wine, Lord Stark, do you fancy yourself a drinking man of fine taste?"
"When the mood strikes me," Lord Stark replied stoically. "I prefer to keep myself sober, if you recall."
"Oh, I remember well. You hardly drank from your cup when we last spoke near twenty years ago," Oberyn chuckled. "A shame the same could not be said of your brother." His easy smile dimmed, replaced by something akin to regret with melancholy. "My condolences, Eddard. The pain of losing a beloved sibling… It's an awful thing to experience. I wish it upon no one."
"…my thanks, Prince Oberyn."
The Red Viper nodded solemnly. He cast a somber look at Lord Stark's son. "I pray you will never experience we have, Robb."
"I will defend my siblings with my life," Robb declared with words forged in steel. The tiniest of smiles tug at Margeary's face. "And any who dare threaten them will fall by my blade."
Oberyn's smile brightens, but the sadness within has yet to fade. "May you live to fulfill those words." He took another deep drink of his cup, longer than the last, before setting it back down. "Per chance, have you all taken a moment to speak with that horned fellow? The scribe, Darrick?"
"I have not," Margeary answered. "I have been meaning to. I would imagine he has a great many stories to tell us about the Lands Between, if not whatever Commander Donnal fails to mention when we speak again later."
"You'll likely be waiting a long while, Lady Margeary. The maester's been badgering him since first light, and likely still is."
"Not surprising," Robb shrugged. "If Maester Luwin is any indication, the men of chains are the sorts who pursue all manner of knowledge." He paused, scrunching his brows in thought. An uncertain expression flittered across his face as he leaned on the table. "Although, something about archmaester Thorren unsettles me. Last night, when Commander Donnal told us briefly about the Lands Between possessing magic, I believed he would question the commander all night. I've never known a man to look so obessive over knowledge, however wondrous."
"Some claim knowledge is powerful," Tyrion said. "In some cases, they're right. The more you know about your enemy, the less likely they are of catching you with your pants down. Father rarely taught me anything of note, but what he did teach me, I took to heart. From what I gather, the archmaester strikes me as the type who hounds all manner of knowledge, even things better left alone."
Margeary frowned. "They would allow such a man in the Citadel?"
"Knowledge is knowledge, and its pursuit is to be encouraged," Lord Stark answered in the Red Viper's stead. "Or so Luwin claims. That said, one should know better than to allow that pursuit to consume them. Lesser men have committed great follies in overreaching."
"A lesson we should all take to heart," Oberyn said.
Margeary pondered his words.
JON ARRYN
"Spit it out already, Jon. I know that damn look."
The Lord Hand stared at his lord, liege, son in all but name, and king. Robert stared back, nostrils flared indignantly and eyes glaring back in defiance. He was in yet another foul mood, born not from some foolish act by Joffrey, but from observing his faithful servant. Jon knew he could hide little from Robert, and what he could, he ensured they would forever remain out of his reach until he felt comfortable speaking the truth. That day felt further and further away, slowly growing out of reach. He could feel it, now more than ever.
The secret he kept buried in his chest may very well be one he'd take to the grave with him, and his work carried on by Stannis.
"It is not my place to question you, Your Grace."
Jon thought using placative words would ease Robert's temper. Instead, the king's glare burned hotter than the sun. His words came with restrained anger. "I'm not your fucking king, Jon. Right now, I'm the man you helped raise when mother and father sank to the bottom of Shipbreaker Bay. Now, out with it, damn you! What's your problem? Ever since Donnal told us magic's a common sight, you look as though someone shat and piss in your bed."
Of course it'd be that, Jon thought mirthlessly. He was used to such crass language by his former charge, and in any other instance, he would've felt some amusement if not chastised Robert for being so "uncouth". Instead, he felt tired. For but a moment, he considered lying to his king, but Robert's expectant and fiery look made him reconsider. After a moment of pondering, Jon realized there was little he could do to escape the situation. He grimaced and sighed, letting his weary body sag in the cloud-like bed.
"I am no man of the faith," he started. "I am no Septon, but I believe in the Seven Who Are One. What the gods represent, what they mean. This talk of magic, Robert…" He shook his head. "The Faith will not accept this, Robert. You know this."
Even before Commander Donnal told them, there'd been whispers of magic within the Lands Between. There was even talk of how the Lands Between itself was brought to the known world through magic, as there could be no other explanation behind its discovery after all this time. Even with the thick shroud of fog meant to hide it, surely there would be some record of its existence. There was not, making it seem as though the foreign land appeared from thin air.
The more prevalent and likely this theory became, the more unease grew within the Red Keep. Such talk eventually reached the ears of the septons, and before long, the court began receiving visits from the sept. At one point, even the High Septon himself came to speak against the Seven Kingdoms having anything to do with their new westward neighbor. That the fat one was now speaking against involving themselves in a land, then only suspected of being magical, only further raised concerns. The fat one was barely worth his station in Jon's eyes, and yet for as corrupt as he was, the man's office held a great deal of weight.
In recent years, tension brewed between the Iron Throne and the Faith of the Seven. It started with Aerys II Targaryen, his paranoia convincing him he could trust no one, not even the septons. So deep in his fears, jumping at shadows that weren't there, that he made many great disrespects toward the septs. It was only thanks to Tywin that he hadn't gone and brought a Red Priest into his court.
When Robert ascended the throne, Jon hoped bridges between the crown and Faith of the Seven would be mended. And they had, albeit for a while. As the years waned and Robert's drinking and whoremongering became an open secret, the sept once again grew discontent. Not helping matters was Varys' whispers claiming there was strife within the faith itself, of how the fat one's blatant corruption alienated a septon of surprising influence.
Jon hoped Robert might see reason, that he'd understand that they needed the faith's support. It was thanks to the septons the Targaryens were even recognized and held the power they did when Aegon the Conqueror arrived on the shores of Westeros. The aspirant look on the king's face told him otherwise. His next words made him feel the heavy weight of the chain around his neck.
"They'll accept whatever I damn say," he growled. "And I'll be damned if I have to listen to one more fucking thing that comes out of that fat pig's mouth."
"Robert…"
"Crone's saggy tits, Jon, do you not see the opportunity here? If even half of what Donnal told us is true, we'll never have an opportunity like this again! Imagine what we could do if we learned how to use their magic! Their smithing techniques!"
"For what purpose, Robert?"
He knew the answer well before Robert spoke. The dark look in his eyes, the coldness matched only by the harsh winds of the North at its coldest… He knew that expression very well. Every time he saw it, he thought it may become the only face Robert would wear.
The face of a man consumed by hate and rage. A man driven by grief he refused to relinquish.
"…you haven't given up on it, have you?" Jon mourned. "You haven't given up on the Targaryens."
"Until I see their heads on the ground, they'll haunt my dreams. You've heard what sort of man Viserys is, Jon. He thinks his father was the greatest man to walk the Earth, and would see all who turned their swords on his House sent to the pyre, just as the Mad King did years ago."
"They are children, Robert. They are neither Aerys nor Rhaegar. The ones who killed Lyanna are dead and gone. I will not ignore the claims he intends to reclaim the Iron Throne from you, but he's young. He can be made to see reason! If not him, then perhaps his sister…"
"They'll never make peace," Robert shot back heatedly. "Targaryens only know one thing, and care about one thing. Conquest. Taking from others what they can't have themselves. I don't know why that fuck took Lyanna from me. To this day, I still don't. And I. Don't. Care. What I care about is that so long as a single Targaryen lives, they'll come looking to take back their precious fucking throne!"
He drove his fist into the table beside him. To the craftsman's credit, it trembled beneath the blow but did not buckle or shudder.
"I don't care how long it takes me," King Baratheon growled. "One way or another, House Targaryen dies. I don't care how long it takes me."
Jon could say nothing, knowing his words would be no more than wind in his former ward's ears. All he could do was sit there miserably, staring at his greatest failure.
Hours later, a man would arrive at the Westerosi scout's outpost, carrying with him the sigil and crest of the Great House of Loux.
"Greetings," he spoke amicably and politely in the common Andal tongue, rough but concise enough to sound eligible to the trained ear. "I am Lord Kenneth Haight, steward and adviser to Nepheli Loux, stalwart lord and head of the Great House of Loux. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?"
Chapter XV
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
Hey everyone, SkyRig here. Two things to do before we get into the chapter.
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Second, back in September, I posted a poll on my patreon asking people which story they'd like to see from me next. The poll closed three days ago, and by popular vote, the people have chosen Elven Overlord, a fanfiction of the Overlord Light Novel series. When the story will be published, I do not know.
In any case, check out the chapter. Or should I say chapters. Today's a double whammy!
DAENERYS
First came the dreadful calm, then came the howling storm. Fire rained down upon the port, bombarding Pentos' docks and killing hundreds in an instant. It came so suddenly, so quickly, the young Targaryen princess did not understand what was happening until Young Griff grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away, heedless of her cry of pain. She would have voiced her protest were it not for the growing stench of smoke and chorus of horror echoing around her.
"W-what's happening?" she shouted above all the noise and chaos. "What's going on?!"
The sellsword Valryian did not respond, more focused on getting them as far away from the carnage as possible. As fire continued to rain down upon the port and the smell of smoke grew thick, Daenerys heard the rumbling of storms. She looked above and saw angry black clouds, flashing bright red. The sight beggared belief, and for a moment she doubted her eyes. It was a clear sky moments ago, and she knew nothing of red thunder.
C-c-crack!
A violent, angry cry of thunder boomed. Daenerys yelped, feeling her eardrums shudder and shake from the clap and something catching her foot mid-run. She nearly hit the ground, grabbing onto Young Griff's tunic like a lifeline. He stumbled, nearly tripping and falling to the ground with her in tow. The moment was enough for them to stop and turn, in time to see something that made their breaths stop.
In her dreams, Daenerys saw dragons. She saw them as mighty winged beasts, just as they were described by Viserys and in what few tomes they were able to bring from the Red Keep before House Baratheon usurped them from King's Landing. She envisioned flying on one's back when she was naught but seven name days, feeling the bright sun washing across her skin and the winds rushing all over her body. In those dreams, she thought of better days, when Viserys was a kind brother. He'd ride beside her, on a dragon as large as Balerion the Black Dread.
For a moment, the exiled princess wondered if she was dreaming. Beneath the stormy clouds and cracking thunder, she saw it amid smoke and fire.
A pale white-scaled beast, four wings of glittering gold, and glowing red horns.
"Dragon," she breathed.
LANSSEAX
When foul Bayle enacted a great betrayal to his kin, the Dragonlord made a decision. A gamble, depending on who you asked.
In those days, when the dragonsworn had yet to earn the name of Drake Warrior, they were untested. They fought dragons before, some having managed to slay their enemy, but they never fought the likes of a trueborn like Lansseax or her lord brother. The drakes, their lesser kin, children of that vile usurper, were weaker, cumbersome. It was a common sight to see the drakes fall and die, felled by the dragonsworn or even at their own hands, hoping to claim greater strength and rise to the same heights as the Dread. Some worried that the dragonsworn would grow overconfident once the true empowering nature of communion became clear to their allies. Ambition was emboldening as it was dangerous.
As the drake hunts grew, so too did the dragonsworn. Fighting trueborn children of the Dragonlord gave them experience, which they used to fell countless drakes. Some desired to fulfill the wishes of the Dragonlord and slay Bayle the Dread. Others had their own aspirations, propelled by ambition. The truly foolish wished to achieve apotheosis, to transcend mortality and become as those they swore themselves to.
Lansseax did not know whether to feel grief or scorn, witnessing many would-be Drake Warriors become flightless wyrms with no real thought or reason. Instead of ascending, they became pale imitations. No better than the drakes. For a time, she lost faith.
Then she met a Drake Warrior beyond peer. The man she believed would become Elden Lord.
And then she lost him to the Frenzied Flame, to grief and madness. Even in this Age of Stars, with a future uncertain, when the man she yearned for was long gone, she still thought of sweet Vyke. He showed her things she ignored or didn't want to see, that there was more to life in the Lands Between. It was his memory that spurned her to see what lay beyond the scarred land she once called home, to see what sort of world the Lunar Queen brought them to.
She never expected to learn that one of the most accomplished Drake Warriors of the olden days come to Pentos.
Lansseax met her only but once, during the final days of the Shattering. Like the Tarnished of No Renown who scarred her scales nary a year ago, the one called Kuroshi hailed from the blood-soaked Land of Reeds. The warriors from that land were a rare breed, versed in the art of war with a code of honor. They fared well in the Lands Between, but it hadn't been long before they discovered their codes were useless. They needed to adapt to survive, refine their killing techniques further. Of the lot, Kuroshi proved the most adept.
The dragon came across Kuroshi in the aftermath of a drake hunt. Three of Bayle's progeny laid dead at the Reedlander's feet, her sword caked in their blood. She was wounded, but alive with a glint in her eyes, the gleam of victory and desire. At first, Lansseax thought she might be one of the few who may prove capable of slaying the Dread once and for all, yet whenever she thought back to that meeting, when she remembered the look on her face when she descended down to greet the new Drake Warrior…
Now, the uncertain, ugly feeling returned, this time with validation.
Lansseax struck first, bringing down her thunderous glaives down upon the ship. A translucent blue barrier repelled her, clashing with her thunder and matching it with equal measure. Beyond the barrier, the dragon saw her opponent and glared. There Kuroshi stood, slightly older with lines etched deep in her skin and hair tied back, clad in black-tinged armor of leather and iron, a pair of Uchigatanas at her hip and a black glaive resting upon her back.
Pale yellow eyes with slits stared up at her, the faintest hint of a smile on the fallen Drake Warrior's face.
"It's been a long while, dragon priestess." Lansseax gnashed her teeth. Kuroshi greeted her as though she were an old friend. "Or do you prefer Lady Lansseax?"
"I wouldst has't thee silence thy tongue!" she roared back.
Once more, she struck with her glaive. Once more, her attack was rebuffed. From behind the translucent barrier of glintstone sorcery, men clad in similar Reedland armor took a stance. Magic poured at their fingertips, forming into the shape of a greatbow. Lansseax narrowed her eyes and beat her wings, taking flight upward just as the archers took aim and fired. The spell was familiar to her, having once visited the royal Carian Manor. The apparition of Loretta, an albinauric knight without peer, defended Queen Renalla's ancestral home with a spell, empowered by three equally powerful apparitions, fending off all who dared approach. Although their spell paled in comparison to the albinauric knight, Lansseax knew better than to underestimate her enemy. She nearly made such a mistake with the Tarnished, and she dared not repeat it.
Their glittering arrows sailed far and vast to reach her. The mighty ancient dragon flew further until she was just out of range, then mustered an incantation fashioned after the one her brother taught her before tragedy befell the Golden Prince. She grasped red thunder, imbued and molded it with her magic, and with another guttural roar that shook the very heavens, she descended down upon the ship and her enemy. The archers took aim, but to cast such a spell took time. Enough for her to close the distance and drive a thunderous spear into the center of the barrier. She growled and pushed, pouring as much power into it as she could. The shield rippled and trembled, holding steady in the face of draconic might before it finally struggled and cracked.
Lansseax roared, and with a push, the barrier finally shattered before her. At that moment, the archers let loose their magical arrows.
It would be easy to smite the vessel then and there, endure the pelting of arrows and wipe the fallen Drake Warrior off the face of this earth. Had this been in the past, Lansseax would have done all that and more, reduce Pentos to mere rubble to strike down her enemy. What stayed and compelled her hand to relent, to force herself back into that cumbersome human shell, was the bittersweet memories of her beloved knight. Not for the first time did Lansseax curse Vyke's name, wondering how such a creature could make one such as her go "soft", as one might put it.
In the shift from dragon to man, the arrows sailed past her lithe form as she landed on the deck. The moment her feet touched the floorboard, she leaped at Kuroshi, weapon drawn from beneath her cloak.
An Uchigatana dyed blood red clashed with a gold, intertwined spear.
"The Bolt of Granssax," Kuroshi spoke the weapon's name with a hungry glint. There was not a Drake Warrior alive that did not recognize the weapon. "A fragment of your liege's famed spear, but I recognize the scent well."
"A gift from the Elden Lord. Answ'r me, loathsome wyrm!" Lansseax growled in the fallen Drake Warrior's face. "Wherefore has't thee cometh h're?! Coequal h're, doth thee wisheth to becometh a dragon?"
"I'm not picky about my dragons," the woman replied with a thin smile. "And I've grown curious from Crow's Eye's stories. They say the Targaryens carry a dragon's blood. I'm curious to see if there's truth to the claim."
Cold dread seeped into Lansseax's bones, followed by white-hot rage.
"Thee shall not toucheth h'r!"
The two parted, only to clash blades once more.
Red and gold thunder clashed with putrid flames and frost-laced lightning.
YOUNG GRIFF
For moments, the sight lingered in Griff's mind. The dreams and sketches did little justice to describe the beauty, the majesty of the scaled beast. He even dared to believe the mighty dragon who descended upon the foreign ship was larger than even the likes of the Black Dread; a great feat to claim, given the reputed size of the Conqueror's trusted companion.
The mesmerizing sight was only further emboldened when he bore witness to feats of magic. He and Danny watched the four-winged dragon conjure red thunder, commanding the storm as though it was called on its behest, and wield it like a blade. They watched on baited breath as the dragon attempted to strike down the foreign ship, only for a glittering dome to shield it from harm.
It's as if we've stepped into a bard's tale, Griff thought to himself, still star-struck.
"Where did it come from?" he heard Danny question, sharing in the awe-inspiring sight with him. "A-and who is it fighting?"
And therein lied the million gold question. The size of the ship and its banner were unknown to him as was the banner on which it flew. The dragon motif made him think it was perhaps a new house, one who swore allegiance to House Targaryen, but to the best of his knowledge, there was no new house with such a banner. It was unlikelier still, given King Robert Baratheon's famed hatred for any and all things related to his predecessors and kin. The man would sooner slit his throat than allow any to use draconic imagery, save perhaps the exiled and disgraced House Blackfyre, though even that was unlikely.
Whatever the case, Griff understood that whoever sailed that ship did not come to Pentos with well intentions. They came to wage war and conquer, though that raised even more questions, for who in their right mind would pick a fight with a Free City? Pentos might not have been the greatest of the Free Cities, but it had power all the same, and its magisters would do everything in their power to keep hold of their influence. They would use all the slaves and wealth at their disposal to repel and kill any would-be invaders. And when the other Free Cities and their magisters learn of what transpired, the invaders would find themselves hounded until all were slain.
"Someone too ambitious for their own good," Griff said. "We must flee at once! If we linger, that dragon will take all of Pentos with us to destroy that ship."
"We can't! My brother's still in the city! W-we have to find him!"
Griff bit his lip and weighed his options. He was not keen on meeting the beggar prince for a multitude of reasons, chief among them being his disgraceful behavior. He also doubted Aerys' son would take kindly to meeting one of the sellswords who spurned his offers of glory and robbed him of his coffers, gold he only later learned was gained from selling off his lady mother's crown. Much as he found Viserys Targaryen wanting, even Griff pitied him for his dire straits, forced to relinquish one of the few icons of glory of House Targaryen and a memento of Queen Rhaella beside.
Yet he's kin all the same, the voice of reason told him.
After a moment, he reluctantly nodded. "Where can we find him?"
"At Sir Illyrio's manse!"
Griff nearly did a double-take. "Illyrio?" he nearly shouted. "Illyrio Mopatis?" Why in the world were they—? No, he could think about that later. For now, he had a beggar prince to rescue.
Navigating the chaotic streets proved a challenge, but Griff was nothing if not nimble. Every now and again, he would look back at the carnage happening behind him. The fires all but consumed the port, smoke rising toward the sky. It was then he caught sight of the foreign ship's crew; warriors garbed in unfamiliar armor. The guardsmen, frenzied and panicked as they were, realized their identity quickly and went to slay them on the spot. Griff could not see the battle unfold on account of the sea of bodies obscuring his vision, but the brief glimpses told him the guardsmen fought a losing battle.
The dragon disappeared in a crackling burst of red, right as the translucent blue dome defending the shield shattered like glass. Griff wondered what happened to it, but pushed it to the back of his mind. He could ponder such questions later when the danger passed and his kin was safe.
When they arrived at Illyrio's manse, they were greeted with a sight of blood and violence. Danny flinched and cowered behind him. The path to the steps leading up to the iron gates lay decorated with corpses, guards and smallfolk alike. One body was impaled on the wall by a slender spear, punching clean through the guard's breastplate. One of the weaponless bodies, a servant if her garb was any indication, was stained crimson with a great bloody puddle beneath her still form.
"What the hells is going on?" Griff growled under his breath, reaching for the blade sheathed at his hip. "Stay close, Danny."
The girl clung to his tunic tightly, shaken but with steely will. A small dagger was taken somewhere from her person and clutched firmly in both hands. The two stepped into the manse, greeted with yet another bloody sight. More slain bodies strewn about the place. Blood sprays caked the walls. A guardsman's corpse was slumped near the entry to the leftmost corridor, his throat and breastplate caked in crimson. A quick glance told Griff the cut was neither clean nor precise, yet the width of the cut was too wide to have been done by a normal blade.
He recalled hearing fishmongers tell tales of foreign warriors, thought to hail from Yi-Ti from their features alone. Supposedly, they wore armor made of leather and iron, wielding blades the likes of which they'd not seen before. The sight of the invaders from the foreign ship and the armor made him ponder whether they're the supposed warriors from Yi-Ti, only to dismiss that thought. Brief as their visit was, he remembered seeing the warriors and guards of Yi-Ti. They were nothing alike, too different in terms of presence and conduct.
There was also the fact the invaders possessed magic, for how else could they conjure a glittering barrier capable of defending their ship from a dragon wielding lightning?
As more questions piled, the more confused Grif became. He—
The young sellsword froze, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. He gripped the handle of his blade tight, his muscles tightening as he slowly approached the entrance to the rightmost corridor. Danny followed close behind, dagger at the ready.
Just as Griff reached the threshold, a gleam of silver flashed. Instinct and reflex took over, and Valyrian steel was drawn. Swords clashed, sparks flying. Out from the shadows came the attacker.
"Jon?!" Griff exclaimed, eyes as wide as saucers.
An aged face with dyed blue hair with streaks of frost gray stared back in surprise. Immediately, the sword was drawn back. "Boy," Jon started. "What the hells are you doing here? Why…" He trailed off, taking notice of the exiled Targaryen princess behind him. His eyes widened in recognition. "Princess Daenerys…?"
"You know me?" Daenerys questioned in surprise. She stared at Jon a while longer before her eyes widened. "You…I know you. You're from the Golden Company. Commander Griff."
"Aye, my lady," Jon nodded. "I'm surprised and glad to see you remember me. Such talk can wait for the time being. Why are you here? The city's in chaos right now!"
"We're aware," Griff answered. "We're looking for Prince Viserys. Orders from the princess." He gestured to the confused and wary girl behind him. Her newfound caution was understandable; while he had not been present for Viserys' humiliation at the hands of the company commander, he heard tale of it from Jon. No matter how much of a twit the prince may have been, the company commander went too far. "I don't suppose you've found him?"
Jon shook his head, to his disappointment. "Afraid not. My being here is partly by chance. Illyrio summoned me for an important matter, refused to say anything more except in person. When we arrived, the attack was well underway."
"The magister?"
The look on his foster father's face told him everything. He inwardly swore, both for having lost a valuable ally and answers as to why Illyrio was harboring exiled royalty. Such information was important, especially with plans for their eventual return to Westeros.
"We need to leave," Jon said urgently. "Now."
"But what about—"
Danny's words were silenced by the sound of whistling wind and steel. Instinct barely saved Griff's life as he rounded on his side, blocking a blade from reaching him. He stared at his attacker, gobsmacked to find the most unlikeliest of foes, the ones least likely to engage in such stealthy slaughter. He recovered from his shock, taking advantage of the stunned surprise on the fool's face as he parried the blade and stepped forward, driving the blade into his chest.
The Ironborn sputtered and gurgled, choking on his own blood as he stumbled, barely held up by the sword using his own body as a fleshy sheathe. Griff grunted and shoved the dying Ironborn off his family's heirloom, letting the bastard die bleeding on the floor.
"What in the hells is going on?" Griff demanded to no one in particular. "First some ship comes along and sets the port ablaze, a bloody dragon shows up and starts throwing thunder around, and now fucking Ironborn?"
"Dragon?" Jon questioned. "Young Griff, what are you… No, nevermind that. We can talk later. We must flee. Now!"
"But, what about my brother?!" Danny shouted. "I-I can't! I won't leave without him!"
"I'm sorry, but you must think of yourself for the moment, princess."
Danny glared, bearing her teeth at the man. She looked ready to blow. The only reason she didn't was that they were set upon once more. More Ironborn arrived, attracted by the sounds of yelling and battle. They were not alone; accompanying them were the foreign warriors Griff heard tales of. Another mystery with no answer.
He gritted his teeth and let his dragonsblood sing. Jon took to his side and fell into a stance, the two standing between their enemy and his Targaryen kin.
Never before had Blackfyre felt so heavy in his hands.
VISERYS
The last prince of the Seven Kingdoms awoke. His head throbbed and ached, the world a blurry mess of harsh light. His wrists burned with pain, steel biting into his flesh. His mind was lost in a haze, barely conscious and able to think coherently. All he could think about was the pain and the light. He blinked, even shutting his eyes for a while, to give himself time to adjust. As the haze clouding his mind faded and his thoughts became clear, Viserys took stock of his surroundings. He was still clothed, but the fine silk Illyrio provided was stained red and tattered in some places. He was mostly uninjured, save for the cut beneath his eye.
Where am I?
He was not in the manse, but a place that reeked of piss of smoke. At first he thought it to be some kind of barn or animal pen, but he saw no straw or signs of housing for any such beasts. The floor was wooden, somewhat scorched from a fire ages ago, and the walls made of brick. A window sat on the wall to his left, giving him a clear view of the city. Great stacks of smoke and the orange glow of an inferno lit up the skyline. The sky itself was wrothful, full of black clouds and thunderclaps tinged scarlet.
The sight stunned Viserys, momentarily at a loss for words. He searched his memory, trying to recall what could have happened while unconscious and what brought him here. After a moment, he remembered the attack. It came so suddenly the manse guards were caught unawares, not realizing what was happening until it was too late. The attackers came as though they were catspaws and not warriors like their armor suggested; they remained silent up until a servant screamed, happening across one of the guardsmen being impaled.
Credit where it was due, Illyrio was quick to react and gave orders, first and foremost being Viserys' protection. He was given three of the magister's best and two servants to accompany him. Viserys was reluctant to leave at first, not when Daenerys wasn't here. He only obeyed the magister's suggestion when he reminded him of his duty and vow to reclaim the Iron throne from the usurper.
Unfortunately, they hadn't escaped very far. The only just managed to flee from the back when the attackers came upon them. They came so suddenly and quickly Viserys didn't realize it was over, not until one threw him to the ground and slammed his face into the dirt.
As his memories returned, humiliation and anger soared in his breast. Not only had someone dared to strike him, they held him prisoner. Not even ignorance would spare them from his wrath. When he was free of his bonds, he would show them how much they erred.
Amid the faint sounds of madness from outside, Viserys heard footsteps nearby. Someone was coming. Perhaps one of the ones who kidnapped him and dared to defy his house. He mustered his dignity, the kingly presence demanded of him that would judge the bastards for raising their hands against. Far from his sight, he heard the door to his holdings open. The footsteps grew louder. Four men and two women stepped into view, half clad in the same odd garments as the ones who attacked Illyrio's manse. The others dressed in something more familiar to the prince. They were plain, but the designs matched the ones he saw in the books he read during his brief stay at Dragonstone years ago.
"Ironborn," Viserys spat. "I should have guessed."
"It seems the prince knows us," one of the Ironborn said as he approached, stepping out of the shadow and into the moonlight. "How flattering."
The moment his kidnapper showed his face, Viserys felt his blood run cold. Cold sweat poured down his face like a great waterfall. This was their first meeting, yet the young boy knew him all the same. Sailors and smallfolk spoke his name with tones of fear and loathing, telling tales of madness and horror. As he looked into his eye, Viserys knew there was truth to the stories.
"Eyes are windows to the soul," his mother told him once. He never understood what she meant. Not until now, when he looked at his captor, staring back at madness and evil.
"Hello, Your Highness," Euron Greyjoy said with a smile full of teeth.
First is the usual shill. If you like my content and wanna help support me and my fam, consider becoming a Supporter on my patreon. If patreon isn't your thing but you like my work, consider checking out my book duology Chase Ryder and the City of Lost Memories over on Amazon. I recommend kindle if you have one as its the cheapest option.
Second, back in September, I posted a poll on my patreon asking people which story they'd like to see from me next. The poll closed three days ago, and by popular vote, the people have chosen Elven Overlord, a fanfiction of the Overlord Light Novel series. When the story will be published, I do not know.
In any case, check out the chapter. Or should I say chapters. Today's a double whammy!
DAENERYS
First came the dreadful calm, then came the howling storm. Fire rained down upon the port, bombarding Pentos' docks and killing hundreds in an instant. It came so suddenly, so quickly, the young Targaryen princess did not understand what was happening until Young Griff grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away, heedless of her cry of pain. She would have voiced her protest were it not for the growing stench of smoke and chorus of horror echoing around her.
"W-what's happening?" she shouted above all the noise and chaos. "What's going on?!"
The sellsword Valryian did not respond, more focused on getting them as far away from the carnage as possible. As fire continued to rain down upon the port and the smell of smoke grew thick, Daenerys heard the rumbling of storms. She looked above and saw angry black clouds, flashing bright red. The sight beggared belief, and for a moment she doubted her eyes. It was a clear sky moments ago, and she knew nothing of red thunder.
C-c-crack!
A violent, angry cry of thunder boomed. Daenerys yelped, feeling her eardrums shudder and shake from the clap and something catching her foot mid-run. She nearly hit the ground, grabbing onto Young Griff's tunic like a lifeline. He stumbled, nearly tripping and falling to the ground with her in tow. The moment was enough for them to stop and turn, in time to see something that made their breaths stop.
In her dreams, Daenerys saw dragons. She saw them as mighty winged beasts, just as they were described by Viserys and in what few tomes they were able to bring from the Red Keep before House Baratheon usurped them from King's Landing. She envisioned flying on one's back when she was naught but seven name days, feeling the bright sun washing across her skin and the winds rushing all over her body. In those dreams, she thought of better days, when Viserys was a kind brother. He'd ride beside her, on a dragon as large as Balerion the Black Dread.
For a moment, the exiled princess wondered if she was dreaming. Beneath the stormy clouds and cracking thunder, she saw it amid smoke and fire.
A pale white-scaled beast, four wings of glittering gold, and glowing red horns.
"Dragon," she breathed.
LANSSEAX
When foul Bayle enacted a great betrayal to his kin, the Dragonlord made a decision. A gamble, depending on who you asked.
In those days, when the dragonsworn had yet to earn the name of Drake Warrior, they were untested. They fought dragons before, some having managed to slay their enemy, but they never fought the likes of a trueborn like Lansseax or her lord brother. The drakes, their lesser kin, children of that vile usurper, were weaker, cumbersome. It was a common sight to see the drakes fall and die, felled by the dragonsworn or even at their own hands, hoping to claim greater strength and rise to the same heights as the Dread. Some worried that the dragonsworn would grow overconfident once the true empowering nature of communion became clear to their allies. Ambition was emboldening as it was dangerous.
As the drake hunts grew, so too did the dragonsworn. Fighting trueborn children of the Dragonlord gave them experience, which they used to fell countless drakes. Some desired to fulfill the wishes of the Dragonlord and slay Bayle the Dread. Others had their own aspirations, propelled by ambition. The truly foolish wished to achieve apotheosis, to transcend mortality and become as those they swore themselves to.
Lansseax did not know whether to feel grief or scorn, witnessing many would-be Drake Warriors become flightless wyrms with no real thought or reason. Instead of ascending, they became pale imitations. No better than the drakes. For a time, she lost faith.
Then she met a Drake Warrior beyond peer. The man she believed would become Elden Lord.
And then she lost him to the Frenzied Flame, to grief and madness. Even in this Age of Stars, with a future uncertain, when the man she yearned for was long gone, she still thought of sweet Vyke. He showed her things she ignored or didn't want to see, that there was more to life in the Lands Between. It was his memory that spurned her to see what lay beyond the scarred land she once called home, to see what sort of world the Lunar Queen brought them to.
She never expected to learn that one of the most accomplished Drake Warriors of the olden days come to Pentos.
Lansseax met her only but once, during the final days of the Shattering. Like the Tarnished of No Renown who scarred her scales nary a year ago, the one called Kuroshi hailed from the blood-soaked Land of Reeds. The warriors from that land were a rare breed, versed in the art of war with a code of honor. They fared well in the Lands Between, but it hadn't been long before they discovered their codes were useless. They needed to adapt to survive, refine their killing techniques further. Of the lot, Kuroshi proved the most adept.
The dragon came across Kuroshi in the aftermath of a drake hunt. Three of Bayle's progeny laid dead at the Reedlander's feet, her sword caked in their blood. She was wounded, but alive with a glint in her eyes, the gleam of victory and desire. At first, Lansseax thought she might be one of the few who may prove capable of slaying the Dread once and for all, yet whenever she thought back to that meeting, when she remembered the look on her face when she descended down to greet the new Drake Warrior…
Now, the uncertain, ugly feeling returned, this time with validation.
Lansseax struck first, bringing down her thunderous glaives down upon the ship. A translucent blue barrier repelled her, clashing with her thunder and matching it with equal measure. Beyond the barrier, the dragon saw her opponent and glared. There Kuroshi stood, slightly older with lines etched deep in her skin and hair tied back, clad in black-tinged armor of leather and iron, a pair of Uchigatanas at her hip and a black glaive resting upon her back.
Pale yellow eyes with slits stared up at her, the faintest hint of a smile on the fallen Drake Warrior's face.
"It's been a long while, dragon priestess." Lansseax gnashed her teeth. Kuroshi greeted her as though she were an old friend. "Or do you prefer Lady Lansseax?"
"I wouldst has't thee silence thy tongue!" she roared back.
Once more, she struck with her glaive. Once more, her attack was rebuffed. From behind the translucent barrier of glintstone sorcery, men clad in similar Reedland armor took a stance. Magic poured at their fingertips, forming into the shape of a greatbow. Lansseax narrowed her eyes and beat her wings, taking flight upward just as the archers took aim and fired. The spell was familiar to her, having once visited the royal Carian Manor. The apparition of Loretta, an albinauric knight without peer, defended Queen Renalla's ancestral home with a spell, empowered by three equally powerful apparitions, fending off all who dared approach. Although their spell paled in comparison to the albinauric knight, Lansseax knew better than to underestimate her enemy. She nearly made such a mistake with the Tarnished, and she dared not repeat it.
Their glittering arrows sailed far and vast to reach her. The mighty ancient dragon flew further until she was just out of range, then mustered an incantation fashioned after the one her brother taught her before tragedy befell the Golden Prince. She grasped red thunder, imbued and molded it with her magic, and with another guttural roar that shook the very heavens, she descended down upon the ship and her enemy. The archers took aim, but to cast such a spell took time. Enough for her to close the distance and drive a thunderous spear into the center of the barrier. She growled and pushed, pouring as much power into it as she could. The shield rippled and trembled, holding steady in the face of draconic might before it finally struggled and cracked.
Lansseax roared, and with a push, the barrier finally shattered before her. At that moment, the archers let loose their magical arrows.
It would be easy to smite the vessel then and there, endure the pelting of arrows and wipe the fallen Drake Warrior off the face of this earth. Had this been in the past, Lansseax would have done all that and more, reduce Pentos to mere rubble to strike down her enemy. What stayed and compelled her hand to relent, to force herself back into that cumbersome human shell, was the bittersweet memories of her beloved knight. Not for the first time did Lansseax curse Vyke's name, wondering how such a creature could make one such as her go "soft", as one might put it.
In the shift from dragon to man, the arrows sailed past her lithe form as she landed on the deck. The moment her feet touched the floorboard, she leaped at Kuroshi, weapon drawn from beneath her cloak.
An Uchigatana dyed blood red clashed with a gold, intertwined spear.
"The Bolt of Granssax," Kuroshi spoke the weapon's name with a hungry glint. There was not a Drake Warrior alive that did not recognize the weapon. "A fragment of your liege's famed spear, but I recognize the scent well."
"A gift from the Elden Lord. Answ'r me, loathsome wyrm!" Lansseax growled in the fallen Drake Warrior's face. "Wherefore has't thee cometh h're?! Coequal h're, doth thee wisheth to becometh a dragon?"
"I'm not picky about my dragons," the woman replied with a thin smile. "And I've grown curious from Crow's Eye's stories. They say the Targaryens carry a dragon's blood. I'm curious to see if there's truth to the claim."
Cold dread seeped into Lansseax's bones, followed by white-hot rage.
"Thee shall not toucheth h'r!"
The two parted, only to clash blades once more.
Red and gold thunder clashed with putrid flames and frost-laced lightning.
YOUNG GRIFF
For moments, the sight lingered in Griff's mind. The dreams and sketches did little justice to describe the beauty, the majesty of the scaled beast. He even dared to believe the mighty dragon who descended upon the foreign ship was larger than even the likes of the Black Dread; a great feat to claim, given the reputed size of the Conqueror's trusted companion.
The mesmerizing sight was only further emboldened when he bore witness to feats of magic. He and Danny watched the four-winged dragon conjure red thunder, commanding the storm as though it was called on its behest, and wield it like a blade. They watched on baited breath as the dragon attempted to strike down the foreign ship, only for a glittering dome to shield it from harm.
It's as if we've stepped into a bard's tale, Griff thought to himself, still star-struck.
"Where did it come from?" he heard Danny question, sharing in the awe-inspiring sight with him. "A-and who is it fighting?"
And therein lied the million gold question. The size of the ship and its banner were unknown to him as was the banner on which it flew. The dragon motif made him think it was perhaps a new house, one who swore allegiance to House Targaryen, but to the best of his knowledge, there was no new house with such a banner. It was unlikelier still, given King Robert Baratheon's famed hatred for any and all things related to his predecessors and kin. The man would sooner slit his throat than allow any to use draconic imagery, save perhaps the exiled and disgraced House Blackfyre, though even that was unlikely.
Whatever the case, Griff understood that whoever sailed that ship did not come to Pentos with well intentions. They came to wage war and conquer, though that raised even more questions, for who in their right mind would pick a fight with a Free City? Pentos might not have been the greatest of the Free Cities, but it had power all the same, and its magisters would do everything in their power to keep hold of their influence. They would use all the slaves and wealth at their disposal to repel and kill any would-be invaders. And when the other Free Cities and their magisters learn of what transpired, the invaders would find themselves hounded until all were slain.
"Someone too ambitious for their own good," Griff said. "We must flee at once! If we linger, that dragon will take all of Pentos with us to destroy that ship."
"We can't! My brother's still in the city! W-we have to find him!"
Griff bit his lip and weighed his options. He was not keen on meeting the beggar prince for a multitude of reasons, chief among them being his disgraceful behavior. He also doubted Aerys' son would take kindly to meeting one of the sellswords who spurned his offers of glory and robbed him of his coffers, gold he only later learned was gained from selling off his lady mother's crown. Much as he found Viserys Targaryen wanting, even Griff pitied him for his dire straits, forced to relinquish one of the few icons of glory of House Targaryen and a memento of Queen Rhaella beside.
Yet he's kin all the same, the voice of reason told him.
After a moment, he reluctantly nodded. "Where can we find him?"
"At Sir Illyrio's manse!"
Griff nearly did a double-take. "Illyrio?" he nearly shouted. "Illyrio Mopatis?" Why in the world were they—? No, he could think about that later. For now, he had a beggar prince to rescue.
Navigating the chaotic streets proved a challenge, but Griff was nothing if not nimble. Every now and again, he would look back at the carnage happening behind him. The fires all but consumed the port, smoke rising toward the sky. It was then he caught sight of the foreign ship's crew; warriors garbed in unfamiliar armor. The guardsmen, frenzied and panicked as they were, realized their identity quickly and went to slay them on the spot. Griff could not see the battle unfold on account of the sea of bodies obscuring his vision, but the brief glimpses told him the guardsmen fought a losing battle.
The dragon disappeared in a crackling burst of red, right as the translucent blue dome defending the shield shattered like glass. Griff wondered what happened to it, but pushed it to the back of his mind. He could ponder such questions later when the danger passed and his kin was safe.
When they arrived at Illyrio's manse, they were greeted with a sight of blood and violence. Danny flinched and cowered behind him. The path to the steps leading up to the iron gates lay decorated with corpses, guards and smallfolk alike. One body was impaled on the wall by a slender spear, punching clean through the guard's breastplate. One of the weaponless bodies, a servant if her garb was any indication, was stained crimson with a great bloody puddle beneath her still form.
"What the hells is going on?" Griff growled under his breath, reaching for the blade sheathed at his hip. "Stay close, Danny."
The girl clung to his tunic tightly, shaken but with steely will. A small dagger was taken somewhere from her person and clutched firmly in both hands. The two stepped into the manse, greeted with yet another bloody sight. More slain bodies strewn about the place. Blood sprays caked the walls. A guardsman's corpse was slumped near the entry to the leftmost corridor, his throat and breastplate caked in crimson. A quick glance told Griff the cut was neither clean nor precise, yet the width of the cut was too wide to have been done by a normal blade.
He recalled hearing fishmongers tell tales of foreign warriors, thought to hail from Yi-Ti from their features alone. Supposedly, they wore armor made of leather and iron, wielding blades the likes of which they'd not seen before. The sight of the invaders from the foreign ship and the armor made him ponder whether they're the supposed warriors from Yi-Ti, only to dismiss that thought. Brief as their visit was, he remembered seeing the warriors and guards of Yi-Ti. They were nothing alike, too different in terms of presence and conduct.
There was also the fact the invaders possessed magic, for how else could they conjure a glittering barrier capable of defending their ship from a dragon wielding lightning?
As more questions piled, the more confused Grif became. He—
The young sellsword froze, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. He gripped the handle of his blade tight, his muscles tightening as he slowly approached the entrance to the rightmost corridor. Danny followed close behind, dagger at the ready.
Just as Griff reached the threshold, a gleam of silver flashed. Instinct and reflex took over, and Valyrian steel was drawn. Swords clashed, sparks flying. Out from the shadows came the attacker.
"Jon?!" Griff exclaimed, eyes as wide as saucers.
An aged face with dyed blue hair with streaks of frost gray stared back in surprise. Immediately, the sword was drawn back. "Boy," Jon started. "What the hells are you doing here? Why…" He trailed off, taking notice of the exiled Targaryen princess behind him. His eyes widened in recognition. "Princess Daenerys…?"
"You know me?" Daenerys questioned in surprise. She stared at Jon a while longer before her eyes widened. "You…I know you. You're from the Golden Company. Commander Griff."
"Aye, my lady," Jon nodded. "I'm surprised and glad to see you remember me. Such talk can wait for the time being. Why are you here? The city's in chaos right now!"
"We're aware," Griff answered. "We're looking for Prince Viserys. Orders from the princess." He gestured to the confused and wary girl behind him. Her newfound caution was understandable; while he had not been present for Viserys' humiliation at the hands of the company commander, he heard tale of it from Jon. No matter how much of a twit the prince may have been, the company commander went too far. "I don't suppose you've found him?"
Jon shook his head, to his disappointment. "Afraid not. My being here is partly by chance. Illyrio summoned me for an important matter, refused to say anything more except in person. When we arrived, the attack was well underway."
"The magister?"
The look on his foster father's face told him everything. He inwardly swore, both for having lost a valuable ally and answers as to why Illyrio was harboring exiled royalty. Such information was important, especially with plans for their eventual return to Westeros.
"We need to leave," Jon said urgently. "Now."
"But what about—"
Danny's words were silenced by the sound of whistling wind and steel. Instinct barely saved Griff's life as he rounded on his side, blocking a blade from reaching him. He stared at his attacker, gobsmacked to find the most unlikeliest of foes, the ones least likely to engage in such stealthy slaughter. He recovered from his shock, taking advantage of the stunned surprise on the fool's face as he parried the blade and stepped forward, driving the blade into his chest.
The Ironborn sputtered and gurgled, choking on his own blood as he stumbled, barely held up by the sword using his own body as a fleshy sheathe. Griff grunted and shoved the dying Ironborn off his family's heirloom, letting the bastard die bleeding on the floor.
"What in the hells is going on?" Griff demanded to no one in particular. "First some ship comes along and sets the port ablaze, a bloody dragon shows up and starts throwing thunder around, and now fucking Ironborn?"
"Dragon?" Jon questioned. "Young Griff, what are you… No, nevermind that. We can talk later. We must flee. Now!"
"But, what about my brother?!" Danny shouted. "I-I can't! I won't leave without him!"
"I'm sorry, but you must think of yourself for the moment, princess."
Danny glared, bearing her teeth at the man. She looked ready to blow. The only reason she didn't was that they were set upon once more. More Ironborn arrived, attracted by the sounds of yelling and battle. They were not alone; accompanying them were the foreign warriors Griff heard tales of. Another mystery with no answer.
He gritted his teeth and let his dragonsblood sing. Jon took to his side and fell into a stance, the two standing between their enemy and his Targaryen kin.
Never before had Blackfyre felt so heavy in his hands.
VISERYS
The last prince of the Seven Kingdoms awoke. His head throbbed and ached, the world a blurry mess of harsh light. His wrists burned with pain, steel biting into his flesh. His mind was lost in a haze, barely conscious and able to think coherently. All he could think about was the pain and the light. He blinked, even shutting his eyes for a while, to give himself time to adjust. As the haze clouding his mind faded and his thoughts became clear, Viserys took stock of his surroundings. He was still clothed, but the fine silk Illyrio provided was stained red and tattered in some places. He was mostly uninjured, save for the cut beneath his eye.
Where am I?
He was not in the manse, but a place that reeked of piss of smoke. At first he thought it to be some kind of barn or animal pen, but he saw no straw or signs of housing for any such beasts. The floor was wooden, somewhat scorched from a fire ages ago, and the walls made of brick. A window sat on the wall to his left, giving him a clear view of the city. Great stacks of smoke and the orange glow of an inferno lit up the skyline. The sky itself was wrothful, full of black clouds and thunderclaps tinged scarlet.
The sight stunned Viserys, momentarily at a loss for words. He searched his memory, trying to recall what could have happened while unconscious and what brought him here. After a moment, he remembered the attack. It came so suddenly the manse guards were caught unawares, not realizing what was happening until it was too late. The attackers came as though they were catspaws and not warriors like their armor suggested; they remained silent up until a servant screamed, happening across one of the guardsmen being impaled.
Credit where it was due, Illyrio was quick to react and gave orders, first and foremost being Viserys' protection. He was given three of the magister's best and two servants to accompany him. Viserys was reluctant to leave at first, not when Daenerys wasn't here. He only obeyed the magister's suggestion when he reminded him of his duty and vow to reclaim the Iron throne from the usurper.
Unfortunately, they hadn't escaped very far. The only just managed to flee from the back when the attackers came upon them. They came so suddenly and quickly Viserys didn't realize it was over, not until one threw him to the ground and slammed his face into the dirt.
As his memories returned, humiliation and anger soared in his breast. Not only had someone dared to strike him, they held him prisoner. Not even ignorance would spare them from his wrath. When he was free of his bonds, he would show them how much they erred.
Amid the faint sounds of madness from outside, Viserys heard footsteps nearby. Someone was coming. Perhaps one of the ones who kidnapped him and dared to defy his house. He mustered his dignity, the kingly presence demanded of him that would judge the bastards for raising their hands against. Far from his sight, he heard the door to his holdings open. The footsteps grew louder. Four men and two women stepped into view, half clad in the same odd garments as the ones who attacked Illyrio's manse. The others dressed in something more familiar to the prince. They were plain, but the designs matched the ones he saw in the books he read during his brief stay at Dragonstone years ago.
"Ironborn," Viserys spat. "I should have guessed."
"It seems the prince knows us," one of the Ironborn said as he approached, stepping out of the shadow and into the moonlight. "How flattering."
The moment his kidnapper showed his face, Viserys felt his blood run cold. Cold sweat poured down his face like a great waterfall. This was their first meeting, yet the young boy knew him all the same. Sailors and smallfolk spoke his name with tones of fear and loathing, telling tales of madness and horror. As he looked into his eye, Viserys knew there was truth to the stories.
"Eyes are windows to the soul," his mother told him once. He never understood what she meant. Not until now, when he looked at his captor, staring back at madness and evil.
"Hello, Your Highness," Euron Greyjoy said with a smile full of teeth.
Interlude II
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
OLD WRITINGS
A series of papers penned by Archmaester Thorren Forrester, a controversial figure within the Citadel for his pursuit of knowledge, however esoteric or heretical.
The writings are faded and barely legible, describing the land of Limgrave, the great power that ruled over the Lands Between, and the religion that dominated the land with such zealotry.
"The territory of Limgrave was originally a land ruled by a coalition of noble lords who broke away from the Duchy of Caelid. Records of life prior to the rise of the House of the Erdtree are scarce and surprisingly difficult to piece together, but the scholars and scribes of Leyndell and Raya Lucaria have helped me paint as best a cohesive picture as possible.
During what I've tentatively come to call the Age of Shadow, in reference to the infamous Land of Shadow, the supposed birthplace of Golden Order fundamentalism, the lands of Limgrave were ruled by two Great Houses and four minor noble lineages who served as their vassals. The lands surrounding Stormveil Castle were ruled by the Great House of Stormveil, and to the south was the Weeping Peninsula, ruled by the Great House of Morne. Records of this time indicate there was a fierce and bitter rivalry between Houses Morne and Stormveil, stemming from a failed betrothal in which a daughter of Stormveil was spurned by her apparent suitor, falling to a state of depression so severe she would eventually throw herself off the ramparts and plummet to her deaths on the jagged cliffs surrounding the walls of Stormveil Castle. The Stormveils, by all accounts, were said to be stern but fair nobles, but their capacity to hold grudges was immense. Tensions remained thick between the two houses, lasting until the House of the Erdtree appeared.
It is unclear when Queen Marika the Eternal rose to prominence following her ascension into godhood, only that her first order of business was to unify the Lands Between under the golden branches of the Erdtree. To this end, she would lead a brutal campaign that lasted well over three centuries, subjugating countries and putting the non-human races to the sword. Some, however, chose to bend the knee to Marika and swore fealty when she demonstrated her godly power before them. The Great House of Stormveil and one of their vassal houses were the first to swear allegiance to her cause. The Great House of Morne and their allies, however, rose up in arms and attempted a pre-emptive strike against the conqueror. Exactly what occurred during the so-called "Siege of Morne" is unclear, save that it lasted barely three months and half the peninsula bathed in the blood of soldiers and non-humans alike before the Great House of Morne surrendered and swore fealty to Marika. By then, two of the four vassal houses were rendered extinct or declined to the point they were noble houses in name only. This is reportedly when the Weeping Peninsula earned its name.
With the Kingdom of Altus and the lands of Limgrave under her banner, the House of the Erdtree established itself in the political power bloc of the Lands Between. Inevitably, the Caelid Duchy and the House of the Erdtree almost immediately came into conflict, leading to the forty-year-long War of the Red."
"The House of the Erdtree was founded by Marika, a woman who ascended into godhood by the guidance of the Two Fingers, a curious race of non-verbal creatures. The Two Fingers are thought to be envoys and oracles of the Greater Will, a godly entity and Marika's patron from whom the Golden Order Fundamentalism holds with reverence and esteem.
At the time of Marika's ascension, the Lands Between was ruled by four countries; the Kingdom of Altus, the Kingdom of Caria, the lordly coalition of Limgrave, and the Caelid Duchy. The Kingdom of Altus was the weakest of the four, having suffered a rapid decline of influence after a series of weak-willed rulers and a seemingly corrupt small council of lords content to allow their smallfolk to wallow in rot, filth, and despair. Marika's arrival heralded what House Haight came to call the "Resplendent Era" of the kingdom.
According to official records provided by House Haight and the Great House of Hoslow, Marika's arrival was one of celebration as news of her ascension and appointment by the Two Fingers already spread throughout the realm. The corrupt nobles believed they could tempt her into their decadent court, perhaps believing they could use her godhood to their advantage. The Great House of Hoslow also speculates they were cautious and wary, fearing she had come to overthrow them and secretly plotted her assassination. Their fears proved ultimately correct, for within a single night, Marika single-handedly slaughtered the corrupt nobles and rendered their lineages extinct. In the bloody aftermath, Marika was approached by the monarch of the Kingdom of Altus, who kneeled before her and offered her his crown.
Thus began the reign of Queen Marika the Eternal, godly lord of the Kingdom of Altus, and the founding of the House of the Erdtree.
It was no secret that Marika desired to unify the Lands Between under the Erdtree's banner. For that reason alone, the Kingdom of Caria and the Caelid Duchy feared and mustered their forces for the day she inevitably came to conquer them. The conquest did not begin immediately, however. Due to Altus' waning power, even the god-queen knew she would have no hope of unifying the Lands Between with her power alone. Thus, she sought to bolster and raise her forces. To this end, she made a journey to a region known as the Badlands.
Unfortunately, there are no records of where the Badlands are located. Given what we know now regarding the appearance of the Lands Between within our known world, this is understandable but no less disappointing, yet I digress.
By all accounts, the Badlands lived up to its name. Imagine the Dothraki Sea, the Great Desolation where "kingdoms of the grass" rose and fell over a great myriad of years, with the same underlying cause: brutal, relentless war for the sole purpose of survival. Resources were so scarce that conflicts among the tribes and "countries" (I use the term loosely, for these regions were not ruled in any capacity by noble or sensible men but by savages that would disgust even the most base of men) were so frequent, any hospitable patch of land was scorched and burned. It is said that the ash-gray plains and jagged mountains of the Badlands stretched on for miles without end.
Around the time of Marika's rise as queen, however, an unexpected development occurred in the Badlands. A tribe of warriors known as Clan Loux, led by "Beast-Warrior" Hoarah Loux, began unifying the other warring tribes. It is unclear when Marika learned of him, save that she sought him out personally and extended an offer of friendship. An offer that, unexpectedly, shifted into marriage after the War of the Giants.
NOTE There are scarce mentions of someone named "the Impaler" amid what few reports I could muster in my research of the Lands Between's history. What little I discovered paint a grim picture reminiscent to that of Maegor the Cruel if he were part of the Faith Militant. Despite the macabre details of his work, there's no record of his name or even so much as a description. It is almost as if someone took great pains to erase any and all mention of this man from written history. At the very least, I was able to discover a written account of the Impaler's actions during the War of the Red.
"Those who bear their fangs against the Erdtree and its people shall all meet death. In the embrace of…"
The rest of the writing is illegible and smeared.
"Although Queen Marika the Eternal is hailed as a god, she is not the object of worship. She is revered and possesses numerous followers, but it is more accurate to call her a "High Septa" who rules both kingdom and faith. The patron behind her ascension is a god known as the Greater Will, the arbiter of life and creator of the Elden Ring. This object deserves far more study than what I have already done for other persons of interest in the Lands Between's storied and faded history, thus I shall touch upon it another time.
The Golden Order came about shortly after the War of the Giants ended and the people of the Lands Between were forever barred entry unless given permission by Queen Marika herself. Similar to the faith of the R'hllor Red Priesthood, Golden Order Fundamentalism is a monotheistic religion that espouses and reveres a singular god. As its name implies, the religion is a curious blend of faith and intellectual pursuit in which followers would attempt to study, discern, and interpret the meanings and teachings of the Greater Will. This study into religion somehow birthed a school of magic, of which birthed two great practitioners; the second Elden Lord Radagon and his son Miquella, one of the Twin Prodigies.
This curious religion gave rise to numerous academic pursuits and laid the foundation of an era of peace under Queen Marika's rule, though as with most other religions, it had little tolerance toward heathens, heretics, and non-believers. Unfortunately for the non-human races, the Golden Order had no tolerance for any who existed beyond its purview. Within the thousand-year-long rule of Queen Marika the Eternal, the Golden Order demanded nothing short of absolute obedience and xenophobia. No less than seven sapient non-human races within the Lands Between were rendered extinct, and numerous kingdoms from neighboring countries were given an ultimatum: Bend the knee to the Golden Order, or be put to the sword.
As a religion promoted by the dominant human species, non-human races such as trolls, giants, demi-humans, and misbegotten were put to the sword, enslaved, and exiled from their homelands. Toward the end of Queen Marika's reign, there was some stability amid the demi-human and misbegotten races whereas trolls and the artificial lifeforms known as albinaurics found safety and refuge under the more welcoming Kingdom of Caria. Some regions of Limgrave were tolerable toward the "lesser" races, with House Haight commonly in contact with the local demi-human tribes. The only race that found its place alongside humans in the Golden Order were the dragons, thanks to the efforts of Prince Godwyn the Golden, Queen Marika's firstborn son and heir presumptive.
Of all the non-human races to suffer under the yoke of Golden Order fundamentalism, however, none were as abhorred and abused as the Omen. I call them a non-human race, yet I cannot help but suspect they are cursed beings, for even a child born between two humans of noble bearing could produce an Omen child. It is said that Queen Marika despised the Omens above all other races, so much in fact that when she bore two Omen children, she cast them into the Subterranean Shunning Grounds nary a day after their birth. It was an all-too-common practice for Omen children to be cast aside or killed.
In Lunar Queen Ranni's Age of Stars, which promotes freedom of thought and social belief, Golden Order Fundamentalism has waned considerably. It still bears great influence within the Altus Plateau, the former home of the defunct Kingdom of Altus, but whatever political power it had is long gone.
NOTE Certain documents make mention of a non-human race referred to as the "Hornsent" who apparently ruled the Land of Shadow. I've uncovered surprisingly little about them, save that the manner of tone used to refer to the Hornsent implies that any and all of their kind found outside the Land of Shadow were marked for death."
A series of papers penned by Archmaester Thorren Forrester, a controversial figure within the Citadel for his pursuit of knowledge, however esoteric or heretical.
The writings are faded and barely legible, describing the land of Limgrave, the great power that ruled over the Lands Between, and the religion that dominated the land with such zealotry.
"The territory of Limgrave was originally a land ruled by a coalition of noble lords who broke away from the Duchy of Caelid. Records of life prior to the rise of the House of the Erdtree are scarce and surprisingly difficult to piece together, but the scholars and scribes of Leyndell and Raya Lucaria have helped me paint as best a cohesive picture as possible.
During what I've tentatively come to call the Age of Shadow, in reference to the infamous Land of Shadow, the supposed birthplace of Golden Order fundamentalism, the lands of Limgrave were ruled by two Great Houses and four minor noble lineages who served as their vassals. The lands surrounding Stormveil Castle were ruled by the Great House of Stormveil, and to the south was the Weeping Peninsula, ruled by the Great House of Morne. Records of this time indicate there was a fierce and bitter rivalry between Houses Morne and Stormveil, stemming from a failed betrothal in which a daughter of Stormveil was spurned by her apparent suitor, falling to a state of depression so severe she would eventually throw herself off the ramparts and plummet to her deaths on the jagged cliffs surrounding the walls of Stormveil Castle. The Stormveils, by all accounts, were said to be stern but fair nobles, but their capacity to hold grudges was immense. Tensions remained thick between the two houses, lasting until the House of the Erdtree appeared.
It is unclear when Queen Marika the Eternal rose to prominence following her ascension into godhood, only that her first order of business was to unify the Lands Between under the golden branches of the Erdtree. To this end, she would lead a brutal campaign that lasted well over three centuries, subjugating countries and putting the non-human races to the sword. Some, however, chose to bend the knee to Marika and swore fealty when she demonstrated her godly power before them. The Great House of Stormveil and one of their vassal houses were the first to swear allegiance to her cause. The Great House of Morne and their allies, however, rose up in arms and attempted a pre-emptive strike against the conqueror. Exactly what occurred during the so-called "Siege of Morne" is unclear, save that it lasted barely three months and half the peninsula bathed in the blood of soldiers and non-humans alike before the Great House of Morne surrendered and swore fealty to Marika. By then, two of the four vassal houses were rendered extinct or declined to the point they were noble houses in name only. This is reportedly when the Weeping Peninsula earned its name.
With the Kingdom of Altus and the lands of Limgrave under her banner, the House of the Erdtree established itself in the political power bloc of the Lands Between. Inevitably, the Caelid Duchy and the House of the Erdtree almost immediately came into conflict, leading to the forty-year-long War of the Red."
"The House of the Erdtree was founded by Marika, a woman who ascended into godhood by the guidance of the Two Fingers, a curious race of non-verbal creatures. The Two Fingers are thought to be envoys and oracles of the Greater Will, a godly entity and Marika's patron from whom the Golden Order Fundamentalism holds with reverence and esteem.
At the time of Marika's ascension, the Lands Between was ruled by four countries; the Kingdom of Altus, the Kingdom of Caria, the lordly coalition of Limgrave, and the Caelid Duchy. The Kingdom of Altus was the weakest of the four, having suffered a rapid decline of influence after a series of weak-willed rulers and a seemingly corrupt small council of lords content to allow their smallfolk to wallow in rot, filth, and despair. Marika's arrival heralded what House Haight came to call the "Resplendent Era" of the kingdom.
According to official records provided by House Haight and the Great House of Hoslow, Marika's arrival was one of celebration as news of her ascension and appointment by the Two Fingers already spread throughout the realm. The corrupt nobles believed they could tempt her into their decadent court, perhaps believing they could use her godhood to their advantage. The Great House of Hoslow also speculates they were cautious and wary, fearing she had come to overthrow them and secretly plotted her assassination. Their fears proved ultimately correct, for within a single night, Marika single-handedly slaughtered the corrupt nobles and rendered their lineages extinct. In the bloody aftermath, Marika was approached by the monarch of the Kingdom of Altus, who kneeled before her and offered her his crown.
Thus began the reign of Queen Marika the Eternal, godly lord of the Kingdom of Altus, and the founding of the House of the Erdtree.
It was no secret that Marika desired to unify the Lands Between under the Erdtree's banner. For that reason alone, the Kingdom of Caria and the Caelid Duchy feared and mustered their forces for the day she inevitably came to conquer them. The conquest did not begin immediately, however. Due to Altus' waning power, even the god-queen knew she would have no hope of unifying the Lands Between with her power alone. Thus, she sought to bolster and raise her forces. To this end, she made a journey to a region known as the Badlands.
Unfortunately, there are no records of where the Badlands are located. Given what we know now regarding the appearance of the Lands Between within our known world, this is understandable but no less disappointing, yet I digress.
By all accounts, the Badlands lived up to its name. Imagine the Dothraki Sea, the Great Desolation where "kingdoms of the grass" rose and fell over a great myriad of years, with the same underlying cause: brutal, relentless war for the sole purpose of survival. Resources were so scarce that conflicts among the tribes and "countries" (I use the term loosely, for these regions were not ruled in any capacity by noble or sensible men but by savages that would disgust even the most base of men) were so frequent, any hospitable patch of land was scorched and burned. It is said that the ash-gray plains and jagged mountains of the Badlands stretched on for miles without end.
Around the time of Marika's rise as queen, however, an unexpected development occurred in the Badlands. A tribe of warriors known as Clan Loux, led by "Beast-Warrior" Hoarah Loux, began unifying the other warring tribes. It is unclear when Marika learned of him, save that she sought him out personally and extended an offer of friendship. An offer that, unexpectedly, shifted into marriage after the War of the Giants.
NOTE There are scarce mentions of someone named "the Impaler" amid what few reports I could muster in my research of the Lands Between's history. What little I discovered paint a grim picture reminiscent to that of Maegor the Cruel if he were part of the Faith Militant. Despite the macabre details of his work, there's no record of his name or even so much as a description. It is almost as if someone took great pains to erase any and all mention of this man from written history. At the very least, I was able to discover a written account of the Impaler's actions during the War of the Red.
"Those who bear their fangs against the Erdtree and its people shall all meet death. In the embrace of…"
The rest of the writing is illegible and smeared.
"Although Queen Marika the Eternal is hailed as a god, she is not the object of worship. She is revered and possesses numerous followers, but it is more accurate to call her a "High Septa" who rules both kingdom and faith. The patron behind her ascension is a god known as the Greater Will, the arbiter of life and creator of the Elden Ring. This object deserves far more study than what I have already done for other persons of interest in the Lands Between's storied and faded history, thus I shall touch upon it another time.
The Golden Order came about shortly after the War of the Giants ended and the people of the Lands Between were forever barred entry unless given permission by Queen Marika herself. Similar to the faith of the R'hllor Red Priesthood, Golden Order Fundamentalism is a monotheistic religion that espouses and reveres a singular god. As its name implies, the religion is a curious blend of faith and intellectual pursuit in which followers would attempt to study, discern, and interpret the meanings and teachings of the Greater Will. This study into religion somehow birthed a school of magic, of which birthed two great practitioners; the second Elden Lord Radagon and his son Miquella, one of the Twin Prodigies.
This curious religion gave rise to numerous academic pursuits and laid the foundation of an era of peace under Queen Marika's rule, though as with most other religions, it had little tolerance toward heathens, heretics, and non-believers. Unfortunately for the non-human races, the Golden Order had no tolerance for any who existed beyond its purview. Within the thousand-year-long rule of Queen Marika the Eternal, the Golden Order demanded nothing short of absolute obedience and xenophobia. No less than seven sapient non-human races within the Lands Between were rendered extinct, and numerous kingdoms from neighboring countries were given an ultimatum: Bend the knee to the Golden Order, or be put to the sword.
As a religion promoted by the dominant human species, non-human races such as trolls, giants, demi-humans, and misbegotten were put to the sword, enslaved, and exiled from their homelands. Toward the end of Queen Marika's reign, there was some stability amid the demi-human and misbegotten races whereas trolls and the artificial lifeforms known as albinaurics found safety and refuge under the more welcoming Kingdom of Caria. Some regions of Limgrave were tolerable toward the "lesser" races, with House Haight commonly in contact with the local demi-human tribes. The only race that found its place alongside humans in the Golden Order were the dragons, thanks to the efforts of Prince Godwyn the Golden, Queen Marika's firstborn son and heir presumptive.
Of all the non-human races to suffer under the yoke of Golden Order fundamentalism, however, none were as abhorred and abused as the Omen. I call them a non-human race, yet I cannot help but suspect they are cursed beings, for even a child born between two humans of noble bearing could produce an Omen child. It is said that Queen Marika despised the Omens above all other races, so much in fact that when she bore two Omen children, she cast them into the Subterranean Shunning Grounds nary a day after their birth. It was an all-too-common practice for Omen children to be cast aside or killed.
In Lunar Queen Ranni's Age of Stars, which promotes freedom of thought and social belief, Golden Order Fundamentalism has waned considerably. It still bears great influence within the Altus Plateau, the former home of the defunct Kingdom of Altus, but whatever political power it had is long gone.
NOTE Certain documents make mention of a non-human race referred to as the "Hornsent" who apparently ruled the Land of Shadow. I've uncovered surprisingly little about them, save that the manner of tone used to refer to the Hornsent implies that any and all of their kind found outside the Land of Shadow were marked for death."
Chapter XVI
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
ROBB
Lord Kenneth Haight looked surprisingly average for a man of his station. Before he introduced himself, Robb thought him a septon for his flowing robes, however tailored and laced with fine trimmings they were. He wore his father's countenance, the face of a man exhausted by leadership yet trudging onward regardless. What stood out to the heir of Winterfell the most about him were his eyes, bearing a faded gold luster.
"An honor to meet you at last, King Baratheon," Lord Haight spoke to the king with an even tone, his words careful and courteous. "We've heard much talk about you since your scouts arrived."
"Good things, I hope," Robert replied with a smile. Robb worried how Lord Haight might receive the king's appearance, yet to his relief, the man barely bat an eye. "I've heard a fair bit about you myself, though not as much as I would've liked, if I'm being honest."
"A fact that will soon be rectified, with any luck. My sincerest apologies for my late arrival. Blackguards and footpads have become somewhat common in the area as of late, not helped by ongoing discussions with our newest neighbors. Ever since word of our existence reached foreign shores, we've had no end of visitors."
"Have you met with anyone from Essos as of late?"
Lord Haight sighed. "Far too many, particularly of the overenthusiastic lot. To say nothing of the less…amicable sorts who prefer talking with blades and conquest."
Robb was not surprised. Such a possibility was raised by his lord father and Prince Oberyn during the voyage. With a land of such unknown quality and intrigue, there were many who saw opportunity. The royal retinue of Westeros saw to establish foreign trade and political alliances, if not potential colonization. Others saw lands fit for plunder. He had little doubt the Lands Between were already acquainted with the Ironborn by now.
"Any come bearing the banner of a squid?"
"Ah, you're familiar with them," Lord Haight observed. "Are they a common threat?"
"The Ironborn have been around for as long as any of us can remember," Robb's father answered. "Some time ago, they raised the flag of rebellion and were crushed for it, though some refuse to accept the branch of trust given to them. Raiding and reaving is part of their culture, I'm afraid."
"You'd have better luck trying to convert them to another faith than to get them to stop raiding and raping," King Robert snorted. "How often do they come to test their luck with you all?"
Lord Haight sighed in exasperation. "Far too often."
The discussion of the Ironborn, ironically, helped to lessen the tense airs around them. The foreign lord remained stoic, but his dim eyes seemed to glow a bit brighter amid different conversations and topics. It would be some time before they were ready to depart for Stormveil Castle, time Lord Haight chose to use wisely by informing them about the history of the Lands Between, and more specifically, of Limgrave and its neighboring territory, the Weeping Peninsula.
Originally, two houses of noble prestige ruled over Limgrave, the Great Houses of Stormveil and Morne. The Stormveils perished in the years of the Shattering, a brutal period of strife and war that nearly saw the realm torn asunder and scarred beyond hope of healing, whereas the Great House of Morne were extinguished more recently. The last of its line, Castellan Edgar and his daughter Irina, died over a year ago. Now, Limgrave and the Weeping Peninsula were under the care of the Great House of Loux, founded with the blessing of Lunar Queen Ranni and the Elden Lord, and its founder and head, Nepheli, bearing the blood of the first Elden Lord and leader of Clan Loux, Godfrey. The fact she bore what was essentially "royal blood" was no doubt why the lords accepted her sudden rise to highborn status and leadership.
As far as territory went, Limgrave was fairly small. A glance at the map provided by Lord Haight showed it was roughly the size of the Crownlands, sitting between the territory of the Kingdom of Caria and the Caelid region. To the south was the Weeping Peninsula, a separate land connected by a stone bridge and barely half the size of Limgrave, surrounded by water on all fronts. By Lord Haight's own admission, the Shattering left most of the land a shadow of its former self and left much of it uninhabited. Despite Lady Nepehli's best efforts, brigands still maintained a foothold and preyed on what few villages were left standing, with the lady doing her best to care and defend her people. From what was said, she seemed to be succeeding.
"She sounds like a woman after my own heart," King Robert mused with a cheery grin. "Speaks well of her to ride out and hunt down the bastards herself. Kind of reminds me of you, Ned!"
Robb's father smiled slightly. "Such is the duty of a lord. I must ask, how have the brigands managed to elude Lady Loux thus far?"
"Familiarity of the land, and if I'm being honest, damn good luck," Lord Haight answered grimly. "Before Nepheli took her place as rightful heir of Limgrave, this land was once ruled by Godrick the Grafted, the last of Lord Godfrey's Golden Lineage. He was nothing short of shameful and incompetent, not to mention a craven beyond the pale." The lord's face darkened, his teeth showing behind thinned lips as he spoke with venomous contempt. "I could spend the rest of daylight telling you of his sham of a rule, but I'm afraid we'd be here all day, and I refuse to be a poor host. What I can tell you, however, is that between Godrick's inadequacies and the Shattering destroying much of Limgrave and its armies, we were forced to rely on sellswords and cutthroats to serve as soldiers. Godrick allowed them the run of the castle while he entertained himself in his craft whilst giving orders to hunt down the Tarnished."
Robb tilted his head. "The Tarnished? Who are they?"
"A group of people who were stripped of the Erdtree's grace, my boy." Lord Haight gestured to his eyes and their faded gold luster. "Once, the Erdtree shined a brilliant golden color, imbued with the very Grace that guided us through even the darkest times. Those blessed by Grace bore a golden shine in their eyes. Those stripped of their Grace were deemed Tarnished, cursed, and labeled as outcasts." He sighed and shook his head. "Among their number was Lord Godfrey, who after defeating the last of Queen Marika's enemies, lost his Grace. Marika exiled him and the rest of the Tarnished. It was naught until recently when the Tarnished were welcomed back, though I'm ashamed to say we did not receive them warmly, least of all by Godrick."
He paused, then a light smile formed across his face. "As a matter of fact, our current Elden Lord and Lunar Queen Ranni's consort eternal is a Tarnished as well."
Sansa would love this, Robb thought. A warrior stripped of status, returning home to claim the seat of power and marry into royalty? It sounded like sort of tale his sister would enjoy. There was obviously more to the story, but there wasn't time for such talk.
"Back to the topic of the Ironborn," Lord Edmure started. "When did they raid you last? Any casualties?"
"It gladdens me to say there were none. They only just breached our shores when we gave them a rather…hearty welcome, I would say."
King Robert guffawed. "I'm liking you people more and more. I'd love to hear some stories from you on the road!"
"It would my pleasure, King Baratheon."
The wheelhouses and horses were prepared within the hour. By Lord Haight's own estimation, they would reach Castle Stormveil before the sun set, though he mentioned the weather had been unpredictable as of late. The gray clouds and harsh winds proved his claims as they took to the road, arriving at one of the scars of the Shattering. The sight was both unfamiliar and familiar to Robb, described in manuals and accounts from the last rebellion. Adjacent to the paved brick road leading to the path taking them to Stormveil were ruined remains, houses and huts and toppled outposts, scorched and broken under the weight of siege weapons and mortar shells. Much of the ruins were already being reclaimed by the earth, patches of grass, dirt, and vines creeping along the cracked walls and broken ceilings.
The sight disturbed Robb as much as the fact the dead were left to rot. He found one skeleton too many, half-eaten by the earth and still clad whatever they wore at the moment of their deaths. Worrying still, he saw more soldiers than smallfolk.
"First time seeing such a sight, lad?" a knight in service of House Haight asked him.
Robb turned, taking stock of the man properly. When they first met, his attention was fully turned to his lord and liege. Looking upon him for the first time, Robb made sure to ask about their smiths. The armor was simplistic in shape and clearly saw battle from the number of dents and nicks, but the sleak black metal and gold markings spoke of a master craftsman. Even when braving the elements and marred in dirt, its black luster glowed in the light. He looked every bit the knight he read about in his younger years when he read with his lady mother to put little Sansa to sleep.
"I've only seen sights like these in tomes and such," he admitted. "How long have they sat there?"
"Too long, I'm afraid. The Shattering ended by the time I was born, but the scars were still fresh. Even as a wee little thing, I got used to the sight of corpses and the smell of dead flesh." Though he couldn't see his face, Robb had the distinct impression he was grimacing. "The number of dead was so great, the ones that the earth hadn't claimed were thrown in a ditch and left to rot."
Robb's face paled. "Gods…"
"Aye," the knight agreed grimly. "Unfortunately, the dead brought disease with them. It wasn't uncommon to hear of villages succumbing to plague than being put to the sword. The lack of authority and men of honor also led to a lawlessness that doomed just as many as disease had. There were more blackguards than decent men."
"Is that what made you become a knight?" Robb asked.
The knight chuckled. "Many would call me a fool, but I simply wished to do right. I knew I couldn't do much by myself, though. A good man is only worth as much as a lord he puts his trust in. It's how I found myself with the Oathseekers."
"Is that the name of your order?"
"Aye. As our name implies, we seek those worthy of our oaths, to serve them until the end of our lives. Some go their whole lives searching for a worthy lord to serve, whereas I found one well before I started sprouting gray hairs." The knight looked toward Lord Haight, who rode with the lords of the royal retinue, leading at the head of the group. He was deeply engrossed in conversation with the Lord Hand. "He was rather skeptical of me at first. I had little in the way of accomplishment beyond a skilled sword arm, and I was no more than a mere farm boy. Even so, he accepted my oaths of fealty. I've never regretted swearing myself to him, not when he led us through some of Limgrave's darkest hours. My deepest regret was being unable to be at his side when Godrick's men took his ancestral home."
The knight paused again, this time in belated realization. "Ah, forgive me, little lord, I've abandoned my manners. I am Leon of Caria."
"Robb, of House Stark," the heir of Winterfell replied. "It's an honor, ser."
JOFFREY
Joffrey rode quietly alongside his father and the lords of the retinue. He barely paid the foreign lord any mind as he spoke at length with Lord Arryn, trying his best not to show his frustration.
The plan was simple as it was perfect. His father liked it when people took charge, and his mother's coddling was stifling, more so now that discussions between Westeros and the Lands Between were about to take shape, there was no better time than to "flee the coup" so to speak. He was the crown prince, the rightful heir of the Iron Throne, so he was allowed this much, was he not?
That had been his thinking. A line of thought cruelly struck down by his father's hand. The last time he ever saw him so angry was over Tommen's stupid cat. Actually, his father's anger this time was worse. Just before the blow connected, the hand was balled into a fist. He would have struck him, his son, with a closed fist over a palm. Even though it turned into a slap at the last moment, it was still a sobering and cold reminder that he was not enough. His father still refused to acknowledge him.
The days spent aboard the Golden Celeste were nothing short of humiliating. Despite his station, his father demeaned him by having him act as though he were a cabin boy of all things, assisting the crew with menial tasks and labour better off in the hands of smallfolk. While such tasks alone were humiliating for a highborn like himself, his lack of sea legs didn't help. The voyage disabused any notion of enjoying trips across the sea. How his uncle liked living at sea was beyond him. He couldn't stand how the boat's constant trembles and shakes made his stomach churn inside out.
Their arrival at the Lands Between provided some relief, especially when they were back on dry land. The scouts told them a brief history about their new eastern neighbors, the presence of magic, and the lord in charge of Limgrave. Joffrey chose to withhold judgment about this Nepheli Loux, but he couldn't help but feel dissatisfied. A woman in charge of a region sounded like a joke. Poor student he may have been, but he understood what led to the Dance of the Dragons well enough. No matter the qualifications a woman held, it meant nothing if they were not recognized, if they did not have the strength to secure their power. Rhaenyra Targaryen was unfit to be queen, no matter how hard she struggled in vain to secure her claim to the throne.
But, Joffrey was not one to look to the past for guidance. He trusted only himself and his judgment. If nothing else, the trip told him who may be of use and who was no more than appeasing brownnosers.
Edmure Tully was as obvious in his approach as he was in flaunting his foolishness. Joffrey questioned Hoster Tully's sanity in allowing that bumbling oaf to be his representative. He was socially aware, but in the brief moments they spoke with one another, his political maneuvering left much to be desired. He had an inkling Edmure's talent for strategy was just as shoddy.
Margeary Tyrell was a beauty, but it was plain that she hoped to curry favor with him. Not unsurprising, as his mother warned him the Tyrells were well-versed in matters of courtly intrigue and desired the Iron Throne. She was pleasant, if nothing else. For now, he would indulge her and wait for the moment when she overstepped.
Robb Stark was…odd. They were around the same age, and if things went according to the king's designs, they would be goodbrothers. He seemed fairly likable, but something about him made it difficult for Joffrey to approach, much less like. They spoke at length about their respective families, with great focus given to Robb's sister Sansa. The girl sounded boring and dull, but he supposed there were worse choices for a bride.
Oberyn Martell, the infamous Red Viper, was someone that Joffrey was on guard against, and for good reason. His grandfather made it clear that the Martells were no allies of the Iron Throne, least of all the Lannisters, not after what they did to Elia and her children. They were no doubt plotting revenge, and it was almost certain this trip was an excuse. Every time they spoke, Joffrey was on edge, wondering whether this was the moment the Red Viper would kill him, consequences be damned. No such thing happened, of course, but that only made him even more concerned and worried. It didn't help that, for all the caution and wariness toward the prince of Dorne, Joffrey, against his better nature, found himself liking the man. Something about him drew him in, and he couldn't understand why.
The meeting between the royal retinue and Lady Nepheli Loux was close at hand. Joffrey's hands pooled with cold sweat, his nerves clenched as he wondered what he could possibly do to regain his father's favor. He couldn't stand to bare his future, his legacy, be put to the ground because of his inadequacy. Surely, there would be an opportunity for him to prove himself, to show his father he was a tried and true Baratheon, no matter his hair and eyes.
Fate, as it turned out, favored him. The trip was halted midway through as they approached an encampment up on the hill leading to Stormveil Castle. One of the guardsmen posted by the gate approached the retinue, more specifically Lord Haight.
"Forgive me, milord, but you'll have to delay your trip," the guardsmen said. Joffrey nearly balked by the audacity of the man, speaking to his better with such attitude. "There's been an incident further up the road."
"What seems to be the problem?" Lord Haight demanded. "More cravens come to pilfer our people?"
"Worse. Some daft fool's gone and stirred the runebears."
Lord Haight swore. The king raised an eyebrow and turned to the foreign lord. "Runebears? What are they?"
"Imagine a beast standing on all fours, larger than a man and coated in fur," Lord Haight said. "Now imagine that beast is as big as a house, with claws capable of rending a man in half." The imagery caused several among the retinue to shudder. Joffrey, meanwhile, wondered whether it was exaggeration and what sort of pelt it'd make. "It's odd for one to be so close to Stormveil. Normally they stay close to their habitat in the Mistwoods."
"One of the men who saw the bloody thing said it had a spear stuck in its hide," the guard informed. "Whatever brought it here, it's bloody mad and wreaking havoc. We've lost three men already, and several more are wounded. Best we can do is ward people off."
"If that's the case, then all we have to do is kill the fucking thing!" King Robert bellowed.
Lord Haight stared agape. "King Robert, with all due respect…"
"I agree," Lord Stark interjected, his face stern as Stannis'. "If this beast is as dangerous as you say, we cannot leave it unattended. I understand we are guests here, but please, Lord Haight, allow us to assist."
Lord Haight's face was a conflict of emotions before finally settling on gratitude. "You have my thanks, but I must warn you, the runebear is no beast of game. Treat it as you would an enemy soldier."
Joffrey smiled.
Perfect.
Leon is an original character, as some of us writers are wont to do, but for those wary of such things, he won't be a recurring character. I made him simply because I am a very huge fan of the Oathseeker Knight armor set, and I wanted to incorporate it into the story somehow beyond somebody just wearing the armor. He'll only show up a few times, but he's not important. I've no plans to kill him off, though.
Chapter is shorter than I would like due to some problems not worth mentioning. Next chapter will have us briefly return to King's Landing to see what's been happening in the two months the retinue spent at sea, and then we're back to the Lands Between to see how Joffrey's BRILLIANT PLAN will turn out.
…god, I hate writing this prick.
Lord Kenneth Haight looked surprisingly average for a man of his station. Before he introduced himself, Robb thought him a septon for his flowing robes, however tailored and laced with fine trimmings they were. He wore his father's countenance, the face of a man exhausted by leadership yet trudging onward regardless. What stood out to the heir of Winterfell the most about him were his eyes, bearing a faded gold luster.
"An honor to meet you at last, King Baratheon," Lord Haight spoke to the king with an even tone, his words careful and courteous. "We've heard much talk about you since your scouts arrived."
"Good things, I hope," Robert replied with a smile. Robb worried how Lord Haight might receive the king's appearance, yet to his relief, the man barely bat an eye. "I've heard a fair bit about you myself, though not as much as I would've liked, if I'm being honest."
"A fact that will soon be rectified, with any luck. My sincerest apologies for my late arrival. Blackguards and footpads have become somewhat common in the area as of late, not helped by ongoing discussions with our newest neighbors. Ever since word of our existence reached foreign shores, we've had no end of visitors."
"Have you met with anyone from Essos as of late?"
Lord Haight sighed. "Far too many, particularly of the overenthusiastic lot. To say nothing of the less…amicable sorts who prefer talking with blades and conquest."
Robb was not surprised. Such a possibility was raised by his lord father and Prince Oberyn during the voyage. With a land of such unknown quality and intrigue, there were many who saw opportunity. The royal retinue of Westeros saw to establish foreign trade and political alliances, if not potential colonization. Others saw lands fit for plunder. He had little doubt the Lands Between were already acquainted with the Ironborn by now.
"Any come bearing the banner of a squid?"
"Ah, you're familiar with them," Lord Haight observed. "Are they a common threat?"
"The Ironborn have been around for as long as any of us can remember," Robb's father answered. "Some time ago, they raised the flag of rebellion and were crushed for it, though some refuse to accept the branch of trust given to them. Raiding and reaving is part of their culture, I'm afraid."
"You'd have better luck trying to convert them to another faith than to get them to stop raiding and raping," King Robert snorted. "How often do they come to test their luck with you all?"
Lord Haight sighed in exasperation. "Far too often."
The discussion of the Ironborn, ironically, helped to lessen the tense airs around them. The foreign lord remained stoic, but his dim eyes seemed to glow a bit brighter amid different conversations and topics. It would be some time before they were ready to depart for Stormveil Castle, time Lord Haight chose to use wisely by informing them about the history of the Lands Between, and more specifically, of Limgrave and its neighboring territory, the Weeping Peninsula.
Originally, two houses of noble prestige ruled over Limgrave, the Great Houses of Stormveil and Morne. The Stormveils perished in the years of the Shattering, a brutal period of strife and war that nearly saw the realm torn asunder and scarred beyond hope of healing, whereas the Great House of Morne were extinguished more recently. The last of its line, Castellan Edgar and his daughter Irina, died over a year ago. Now, Limgrave and the Weeping Peninsula were under the care of the Great House of Loux, founded with the blessing of Lunar Queen Ranni and the Elden Lord, and its founder and head, Nepheli, bearing the blood of the first Elden Lord and leader of Clan Loux, Godfrey. The fact she bore what was essentially "royal blood" was no doubt why the lords accepted her sudden rise to highborn status and leadership.
As far as territory went, Limgrave was fairly small. A glance at the map provided by Lord Haight showed it was roughly the size of the Crownlands, sitting between the territory of the Kingdom of Caria and the Caelid region. To the south was the Weeping Peninsula, a separate land connected by a stone bridge and barely half the size of Limgrave, surrounded by water on all fronts. By Lord Haight's own admission, the Shattering left most of the land a shadow of its former self and left much of it uninhabited. Despite Lady Nepehli's best efforts, brigands still maintained a foothold and preyed on what few villages were left standing, with the lady doing her best to care and defend her people. From what was said, she seemed to be succeeding.
"She sounds like a woman after my own heart," King Robert mused with a cheery grin. "Speaks well of her to ride out and hunt down the bastards herself. Kind of reminds me of you, Ned!"
Robb's father smiled slightly. "Such is the duty of a lord. I must ask, how have the brigands managed to elude Lady Loux thus far?"
"Familiarity of the land, and if I'm being honest, damn good luck," Lord Haight answered grimly. "Before Nepheli took her place as rightful heir of Limgrave, this land was once ruled by Godrick the Grafted, the last of Lord Godfrey's Golden Lineage. He was nothing short of shameful and incompetent, not to mention a craven beyond the pale." The lord's face darkened, his teeth showing behind thinned lips as he spoke with venomous contempt. "I could spend the rest of daylight telling you of his sham of a rule, but I'm afraid we'd be here all day, and I refuse to be a poor host. What I can tell you, however, is that between Godrick's inadequacies and the Shattering destroying much of Limgrave and its armies, we were forced to rely on sellswords and cutthroats to serve as soldiers. Godrick allowed them the run of the castle while he entertained himself in his craft whilst giving orders to hunt down the Tarnished."
Robb tilted his head. "The Tarnished? Who are they?"
"A group of people who were stripped of the Erdtree's grace, my boy." Lord Haight gestured to his eyes and their faded gold luster. "Once, the Erdtree shined a brilliant golden color, imbued with the very Grace that guided us through even the darkest times. Those blessed by Grace bore a golden shine in their eyes. Those stripped of their Grace were deemed Tarnished, cursed, and labeled as outcasts." He sighed and shook his head. "Among their number was Lord Godfrey, who after defeating the last of Queen Marika's enemies, lost his Grace. Marika exiled him and the rest of the Tarnished. It was naught until recently when the Tarnished were welcomed back, though I'm ashamed to say we did not receive them warmly, least of all by Godrick."
He paused, then a light smile formed across his face. "As a matter of fact, our current Elden Lord and Lunar Queen Ranni's consort eternal is a Tarnished as well."
Sansa would love this, Robb thought. A warrior stripped of status, returning home to claim the seat of power and marry into royalty? It sounded like sort of tale his sister would enjoy. There was obviously more to the story, but there wasn't time for such talk.
"Back to the topic of the Ironborn," Lord Edmure started. "When did they raid you last? Any casualties?"
"It gladdens me to say there were none. They only just breached our shores when we gave them a rather…hearty welcome, I would say."
King Robert guffawed. "I'm liking you people more and more. I'd love to hear some stories from you on the road!"
"It would my pleasure, King Baratheon."
The wheelhouses and horses were prepared within the hour. By Lord Haight's own estimation, they would reach Castle Stormveil before the sun set, though he mentioned the weather had been unpredictable as of late. The gray clouds and harsh winds proved his claims as they took to the road, arriving at one of the scars of the Shattering. The sight was both unfamiliar and familiar to Robb, described in manuals and accounts from the last rebellion. Adjacent to the paved brick road leading to the path taking them to Stormveil were ruined remains, houses and huts and toppled outposts, scorched and broken under the weight of siege weapons and mortar shells. Much of the ruins were already being reclaimed by the earth, patches of grass, dirt, and vines creeping along the cracked walls and broken ceilings.
The sight disturbed Robb as much as the fact the dead were left to rot. He found one skeleton too many, half-eaten by the earth and still clad whatever they wore at the moment of their deaths. Worrying still, he saw more soldiers than smallfolk.
"First time seeing such a sight, lad?" a knight in service of House Haight asked him.
Robb turned, taking stock of the man properly. When they first met, his attention was fully turned to his lord and liege. Looking upon him for the first time, Robb made sure to ask about their smiths. The armor was simplistic in shape and clearly saw battle from the number of dents and nicks, but the sleak black metal and gold markings spoke of a master craftsman. Even when braving the elements and marred in dirt, its black luster glowed in the light. He looked every bit the knight he read about in his younger years when he read with his lady mother to put little Sansa to sleep.
"I've only seen sights like these in tomes and such," he admitted. "How long have they sat there?"
"Too long, I'm afraid. The Shattering ended by the time I was born, but the scars were still fresh. Even as a wee little thing, I got used to the sight of corpses and the smell of dead flesh." Though he couldn't see his face, Robb had the distinct impression he was grimacing. "The number of dead was so great, the ones that the earth hadn't claimed were thrown in a ditch and left to rot."
Robb's face paled. "Gods…"
"Aye," the knight agreed grimly. "Unfortunately, the dead brought disease with them. It wasn't uncommon to hear of villages succumbing to plague than being put to the sword. The lack of authority and men of honor also led to a lawlessness that doomed just as many as disease had. There were more blackguards than decent men."
"Is that what made you become a knight?" Robb asked.
The knight chuckled. "Many would call me a fool, but I simply wished to do right. I knew I couldn't do much by myself, though. A good man is only worth as much as a lord he puts his trust in. It's how I found myself with the Oathseekers."
"Is that the name of your order?"
"Aye. As our name implies, we seek those worthy of our oaths, to serve them until the end of our lives. Some go their whole lives searching for a worthy lord to serve, whereas I found one well before I started sprouting gray hairs." The knight looked toward Lord Haight, who rode with the lords of the royal retinue, leading at the head of the group. He was deeply engrossed in conversation with the Lord Hand. "He was rather skeptical of me at first. I had little in the way of accomplishment beyond a skilled sword arm, and I was no more than a mere farm boy. Even so, he accepted my oaths of fealty. I've never regretted swearing myself to him, not when he led us through some of Limgrave's darkest hours. My deepest regret was being unable to be at his side when Godrick's men took his ancestral home."
The knight paused again, this time in belated realization. "Ah, forgive me, little lord, I've abandoned my manners. I am Leon of Caria."
"Robb, of House Stark," the heir of Winterfell replied. "It's an honor, ser."
JOFFREY
Joffrey rode quietly alongside his father and the lords of the retinue. He barely paid the foreign lord any mind as he spoke at length with Lord Arryn, trying his best not to show his frustration.
The plan was simple as it was perfect. His father liked it when people took charge, and his mother's coddling was stifling, more so now that discussions between Westeros and the Lands Between were about to take shape, there was no better time than to "flee the coup" so to speak. He was the crown prince, the rightful heir of the Iron Throne, so he was allowed this much, was he not?
That had been his thinking. A line of thought cruelly struck down by his father's hand. The last time he ever saw him so angry was over Tommen's stupid cat. Actually, his father's anger this time was worse. Just before the blow connected, the hand was balled into a fist. He would have struck him, his son, with a closed fist over a palm. Even though it turned into a slap at the last moment, it was still a sobering and cold reminder that he was not enough. His father still refused to acknowledge him.
The days spent aboard the Golden Celeste were nothing short of humiliating. Despite his station, his father demeaned him by having him act as though he were a cabin boy of all things, assisting the crew with menial tasks and labour better off in the hands of smallfolk. While such tasks alone were humiliating for a highborn like himself, his lack of sea legs didn't help. The voyage disabused any notion of enjoying trips across the sea. How his uncle liked living at sea was beyond him. He couldn't stand how the boat's constant trembles and shakes made his stomach churn inside out.
Their arrival at the Lands Between provided some relief, especially when they were back on dry land. The scouts told them a brief history about their new eastern neighbors, the presence of magic, and the lord in charge of Limgrave. Joffrey chose to withhold judgment about this Nepheli Loux, but he couldn't help but feel dissatisfied. A woman in charge of a region sounded like a joke. Poor student he may have been, but he understood what led to the Dance of the Dragons well enough. No matter the qualifications a woman held, it meant nothing if they were not recognized, if they did not have the strength to secure their power. Rhaenyra Targaryen was unfit to be queen, no matter how hard she struggled in vain to secure her claim to the throne.
But, Joffrey was not one to look to the past for guidance. He trusted only himself and his judgment. If nothing else, the trip told him who may be of use and who was no more than appeasing brownnosers.
Edmure Tully was as obvious in his approach as he was in flaunting his foolishness. Joffrey questioned Hoster Tully's sanity in allowing that bumbling oaf to be his representative. He was socially aware, but in the brief moments they spoke with one another, his political maneuvering left much to be desired. He had an inkling Edmure's talent for strategy was just as shoddy.
Margeary Tyrell was a beauty, but it was plain that she hoped to curry favor with him. Not unsurprising, as his mother warned him the Tyrells were well-versed in matters of courtly intrigue and desired the Iron Throne. She was pleasant, if nothing else. For now, he would indulge her and wait for the moment when she overstepped.
Robb Stark was…odd. They were around the same age, and if things went according to the king's designs, they would be goodbrothers. He seemed fairly likable, but something about him made it difficult for Joffrey to approach, much less like. They spoke at length about their respective families, with great focus given to Robb's sister Sansa. The girl sounded boring and dull, but he supposed there were worse choices for a bride.
Oberyn Martell, the infamous Red Viper, was someone that Joffrey was on guard against, and for good reason. His grandfather made it clear that the Martells were no allies of the Iron Throne, least of all the Lannisters, not after what they did to Elia and her children. They were no doubt plotting revenge, and it was almost certain this trip was an excuse. Every time they spoke, Joffrey was on edge, wondering whether this was the moment the Red Viper would kill him, consequences be damned. No such thing happened, of course, but that only made him even more concerned and worried. It didn't help that, for all the caution and wariness toward the prince of Dorne, Joffrey, against his better nature, found himself liking the man. Something about him drew him in, and he couldn't understand why.
The meeting between the royal retinue and Lady Nepheli Loux was close at hand. Joffrey's hands pooled with cold sweat, his nerves clenched as he wondered what he could possibly do to regain his father's favor. He couldn't stand to bare his future, his legacy, be put to the ground because of his inadequacy. Surely, there would be an opportunity for him to prove himself, to show his father he was a tried and true Baratheon, no matter his hair and eyes.
Fate, as it turned out, favored him. The trip was halted midway through as they approached an encampment up on the hill leading to Stormveil Castle. One of the guardsmen posted by the gate approached the retinue, more specifically Lord Haight.
"Forgive me, milord, but you'll have to delay your trip," the guardsmen said. Joffrey nearly balked by the audacity of the man, speaking to his better with such attitude. "There's been an incident further up the road."
"What seems to be the problem?" Lord Haight demanded. "More cravens come to pilfer our people?"
"Worse. Some daft fool's gone and stirred the runebears."
Lord Haight swore. The king raised an eyebrow and turned to the foreign lord. "Runebears? What are they?"
"Imagine a beast standing on all fours, larger than a man and coated in fur," Lord Haight said. "Now imagine that beast is as big as a house, with claws capable of rending a man in half." The imagery caused several among the retinue to shudder. Joffrey, meanwhile, wondered whether it was exaggeration and what sort of pelt it'd make. "It's odd for one to be so close to Stormveil. Normally they stay close to their habitat in the Mistwoods."
"One of the men who saw the bloody thing said it had a spear stuck in its hide," the guard informed. "Whatever brought it here, it's bloody mad and wreaking havoc. We've lost three men already, and several more are wounded. Best we can do is ward people off."
"If that's the case, then all we have to do is kill the fucking thing!" King Robert bellowed.
Lord Haight stared agape. "King Robert, with all due respect…"
"I agree," Lord Stark interjected, his face stern as Stannis'. "If this beast is as dangerous as you say, we cannot leave it unattended. I understand we are guests here, but please, Lord Haight, allow us to assist."
Lord Haight's face was a conflict of emotions before finally settling on gratitude. "You have my thanks, but I must warn you, the runebear is no beast of game. Treat it as you would an enemy soldier."
Joffrey smiled.
Perfect.
Leon is an original character, as some of us writers are wont to do, but for those wary of such things, he won't be a recurring character. I made him simply because I am a very huge fan of the Oathseeker Knight armor set, and I wanted to incorporate it into the story somehow beyond somebody just wearing the armor. He'll only show up a few times, but he's not important. I've no plans to kill him off, though.
Chapter is shorter than I would like due to some problems not worth mentioning. Next chapter will have us briefly return to King's Landing to see what's been happening in the two months the retinue spent at sea, and then we're back to the Lands Between to see how Joffrey's BRILLIANT PLAN will turn out.
…god, I hate writing this prick.
Sorry about that. I'm a little too busy binge reading everything.
And I agree with you. Joffrey is so insufferable and I won't be surprised if he gets karma to the face there.
- Location
- UK
I notice I get far fewer comments over here than I do on Spacebattles. I have no idea why though. Still, the stories good and I cant wait for them to meet some more of the Lands Betweens more...interesting inhabitants,
They're gonna realize the gods, monsters and powerful warriors of might and magic are real than fancy tales.
- Location
- Israel
Huh ,you know is it odd im kinda rooting for joffrey here?
Like hes an unlikable idiot, but hes an unlikable idiot in a place that wont coddle him , and will test him again and again untill something better
will pop out.
If they stay long enough in the lands between we might just see a fanfiction rarity, a Likable joffrey
Like hes an unlikable idiot, but hes an unlikable idiot in a place that wont coddle him , and will test him again and again untill something better
will pop out.
If they stay long enough in the lands between we might just see a fanfiction rarity, a Likable joffrey
Nitramy
Love! Snow! Really Magic
- Location
- Home of Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage
Joffrey: Hah, what are you peasants so frightened of this place for, it's just a bunch of oversized lobsters -- [AWP firing sound]
Last edited:
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
The only *nice* Joffrey I've seen are either self-inserts or a character from another series is unlucky enough to get reincarnated into Joffrey.
But yeah, depending on how this goes, Joff might actually get positive character development. Provided he lives, of course.
I think joffrey is a monster that's made rather than born. He's a psychopath, but that in and of itself isn't why he's evil, it's because he has literally zero positive role models while cersei encourages every one of his worst aspects. I don't think it's impossible for him to learn to be better, but it would take a lot.
Chapter XVII
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
Hey everyone, SkyRig here. Two things to do before we get into the chapter.
First is the usual shill. If you like my content and wanna help support me and my fam, consider becoming a Supporter on my patreon. If patreon isn't your thing but you like my work, consider checking out my book duology Chase Ryder and the City of Lost Memories over on Amazon. I recommend kindle if you have one as its the cheapest option.
Second, back in September, I posted a poll on my patreon asking people which story they'd like to see from me next. The poll closed three days ago, and by popular vote, the people have chosen Elven Overlord, a fanfiction of the Overlord Light Novel series. When the story will be published, I do not know.
In any case, check out the chapter.
SANDOR
King's Landing was always shit. You could make it look fancy, doll it up with powder and flowery colors, but Sandor spent enough time in the Crownlands to know it was a steaming pile of shit. No one had to look any further than Flea Bottom, the one part of the whole damn city people didn't know what to do with. Some wanted to keep it around for Seven fucking knows what, and the others wanted it and everyone inside burned to the ground.
He cared nothing for it. It just represented what King's Landing really was at the end of the day.
Recently, the city became a powder keg. Two months passed since the king and his entourage of nobles and lords went to visit their newest neighbors. Queen Cersei was left as regent, and unsurprisingly, she wasted little time in throwing her new weight around. Orders were given to soldiers, white cloaks and all, securing order and routing any "unsavory" elements. On a good day, at least four bodies decorated the streets, with throats slit or hanged at the gallows. On worse days, there were too many bodies to know what to do with. Some days, the bodies piled up so quickly that they had to get carts to carry them off.
The Hound never thought he'd say this, but he sorely missed his previous post. Even on a good day, Joffrey Baratheon was a right prat in desperate need of an ass-kicking, yet strangely, Sandor enjoyed his presence all the same. At the very least, he treated him decently, if only because Sandor never questioned his orders and had a staunch loyalty toward House Lannister. Then the boy had the daft idea to go off and sneak aboard the Golden Celeste, with Sandor only realizing what'd happened after the fact.
Suffice to say, Queen Cersei was fucking pissed. For ten days the woman raged and wailed over the foolishness of her son, near all but certain he was going to get himself killed. Sandor was inclined to agree; the prince had no talent for swordplay, and he had no sea legs to speak of. He also doubted the king was pleased. It was no secret that there was tension between Robert and his son after he went and killed the second prince's cat, all because Joffrey wanted to prove he was also a "hunter", if that made any fucking sense. Sandor stopped trying to understand what went on in that kid's head a long time ago.
With the crown prince absent, the queen took to hoisting her affections on her younger children. To their credit, the brats were already uncomfortable with Queen Cersei's obsessive acts of affection. Her amplified efforts only made them squirm, often finding excuses to evade her, which of course led her to seek matters of affection elsewhere.
Sandor grimaced, remembering the noises he heard as he passed by the royal quarters one night. The sounds were familiar to him, though he was mildly impressed by how the queen sounded less like a woman and more like a squealing pig. For all she raged and seethed over the king's infidelity, she was not much better than her husband. For the poor bastard's sake, Sandor hoped the king never discovered this lest he bring the hammer down on the sod's skull.
Not that it was any of his business. Sandor's job was to listen to the crown's orders. What the queen did was none of his business unless the Lannisters said otherwise.
When he wasn't tasked with cutting down dissidents or sending fools to the gallows, Sandor enjoyed his free time walking through the streets, particularly those near the port. On windy days, the cold winds from the ocean soothed the burns on his face, if only barely. Today was not for pleasure, however. Today was business.
Like any soldier, Sandor needed to keep his equipment in decent shape. He made regular visits to the smiths in King's Landing, either to purchase new equipment when the need arose or when he needed his blades sharpened and the dents in his armor sorted out. He had no preference for who did the job, so long as they did it adequately. So far, he had no complaints and the smiths were happy with his coin. Lately, Sandor pondered the pros and cons of becoming a regular of a particular smith, said to be one of the best in the city.
Master Tohbo Mott was a man of Qohor. Sandor recognized the features easily, having dealt with them once in the past before he became Joffrey's sworn knight. His smithy skills alone would've been enough to earn him a royal permit, but if the rumors were to be believed, he was one of the few metalsmiths left who knew how to work Valyrian steel. It was a rare quality, though it was obviously not something he advertised. The man preferred simplicity and humility, though he never complained when someone gave him more coin than what was agreed on.
Sandor asked for Mott's services only thrice; the first when he noticed a crack in his sword after an engagement with a mountain clan wreaking havoc in the Crownlands; a rare occurrence when they preferred the mountain ranges, but nothing worth fearing. They fell like any other. He barely paid the smith's work any mind until he took it to combat and found the blade performing better than before. The second had been when he participated in a tourney at the prince's behest, a joust that saw him unhorsed and with a sizable dent in his breastplate. Mott fixed it with ease, and Sandor paid him a few more coins for the good work.
This visit was the third time. After years of wear and tear, his armor was finally in a state to where it was no longer viable, and therefore needed a replacement. He sent a missive to Mott with a bag of dragons, asking for the best armor he could forge with the materials he had on hand. It took a week, but Mott got back to him with news saying the armor was ready and awaiting delivery.
Sandor found the old smith working deeper in the shop. To his mild surprise, he wasn't alone. Evidently, the old man took an apprentice. His back was turned so Sandor couldn't see his face, but he could tell by his figure he was in his teens, mayhaps ten and two or ten and four name days.
"Ser Clegane," Mott greeted with a wry grin. "I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon."
"Here for my order," Sandor replied gruffly. He had no time for pleasantries, much less idle chatter.
The Qohorik smith nodded and went to the back of the shop, returning with the Hound's new armor in tow. It was nothing fancifcul with intricate designs or engravings. Sandor preferred function over fashion, no matter what Joffrey insisted. He took the breastplate from him, wrapping his knuckles against the steel. The metal was sturdy and thick, capable of withstanding a blow from a hammer, mace, and sword. He grunted and fished for his pocket, pulling out a few extra coins.
"For good work," he said simply.
Mott smiled wryly, graciously accepting the coin. "Many thanks, ser."
"None of that ser, shit. I'm not exactly sworn when my charge's gone and run off to visit that weird place everybody's obsessed with."
Mott grimaced, but said nothing. Sandor turned to leave with his armor in tow, only to stop when he got a good look at Mott's apprentice. It was brief, barely a few seconds, but he saw a young boy on the cusp of manhood; a Stormlander with tangled black hair and stormy blue eyes.
He looked like a younger Renly Baratheon.
STANNIS
"The queen goes too far," Renly told him with a grim face. "Surely, you agree with me on this, brother."
It was rare for the brothers to interact, given their conflicting personalities. Rarer still was Stannis remembering when they were boys, struggling to keep their people starved during the siege while their older brother went to war against the Targaryens and their loyalists. It was Stannis' first taste of reality, and what it meant to lead their people. Although he considered it a necessity to become the man he is now, back then he thought of it as the worst period of his life. The frustration of watching garrisons starve, smallfolk left to rot outside the walls of Storm's End, wondering whether each day would be their last…
Stannis took a calming breath. He found himself lost in old memories as of late, an unwanted distraction keeping him from his work.
The source of Renly's frustrations and worries was Cersei Lannister, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and her recent "purges". Laws were enforced to a degree he found near criminal, with gold cloaks regularly taking people off the streets and from their homes to either be hanged or put to the sword. The city smelled foul with all the mud and shit. Now it smelled of rotting corpses.
"It is not a matter of whether I agree, Renly," Stannis replied, choosing his words carefully. He knew better than to speak with loose lips, especially in the Red Keep. There was no telling who could be listening. "We do not have the power to challenge her, and we'd be fools to. Do not forget, she is regent until the king returns from the Lands Between."
"And when he does, he'll find a mountain of corpses piled right outside the front gate!" Renly hissed. "I've kept my tongue silent for the same reasons as you, but now even children are being put to death! It's a miracle no riots have taken to the streets!"
And yet, it's only a matter of time…
Stannis knew Renly wasn't wrong. The queen's bloody acts were intolerable, but credit where it was due, said "acts" were well within the rights and boundaries detailed in the rights and powers bequeathed to the regent. It didn't surprise him in the least, seeing as how she was a Lannister. Even at her most blatant, the queen knew how to work the system in her favor, how to play others to her tune. They could not accuse her with flimsy evidence. No, they needed something more definitive. Actual proof.
Patience, Stannis reminded himself. There was no point in getting worked up over such a matter. The people could recover, but the realm itself was another story. It was fragile, sitting on a wildfire cache waiting to explode. Tensions were high, now more than ever thanks to the presence of the Lands Between and the unknown opportunities it presented. Depending on how negotiations and discussions went, another war may be on the horizon. That was not even going into the matter of the queen's cuckolding and infidelity with her own godsdamned brother.
It hadn't taken Stannis long to realize the true underlying intent of Cersei's actions were, not when Tywin spent a few days talking with her before he returned to the Westerlands. They were looking for Robert's bastards.
Cersei Lannister was a vain woman, driven by paranoia and caution. She adored her children, the "crown prince" most of all. She would do anything to secure his rule, even killing innocent babes for the sole crime of being born from Robert's loins. Even though they were bastards, there was always the chance they could be legitimized, if not recognized by the crown. The small council and Great Houses could debate their legitimacy, but all Cersei saw was a threat, a rival for the throne, and she would suffer no "pretenders". No, the bastards had to die.
Stannis recognized the signs early enough that he was able to mitigate the damage. An anonymous message and pre-emptive warnings managed to save a few lives, but not all. He had no idea whether they survived or not, and there was still a chance they would be killed. So long as one survived…
"We do not know when the king will return," Renly continued grimly. "For all we know, he may very well not."
Stannis narrowed his eyes, catching the hidden meaning behind his younger brother's words. "Careful what you say, Renly…"
"I'm just stating the worse case. We've no idea what kinds of people these foreigners are. They could be like the Ironborn, or worse. If the king dies there, the queen will have total claim to the Iron Throne."
"She will need to remarry, if such is the case."
Renly scoffed. "Come now, brother. I know you aren't naïve. We both know Cersei Lannister prefers only one man's bed, and it is most assuredly not Robert's."
Stannis raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed that his younger brother managed to learn the truth about the king's "children". He would have to give Renly more credit than he thought.
Before they could discuss more, a sharp knock came to the door. "Beg your pardon, milord, but the Master of Whispers has called for a meeting with the council."
Stannis and Renly looked at one another with matching frowns.
"Varys? What could he possibly want?"
"Only one way to find out, I suppose…"
Unsurprisingly, Cersei decided not to involve herself in the meeting. Instead, she entrusted the task to one of the white cloaks tasked to remain in King's Landing to defend her and her children. As always, the sight of that pig Boros Blount repulsed Stannis. He still wondered what Robert was thinking, naming that man a member of the Kingsguard.
"It's been some time since we've called a council," Petyr Baelish commented, lounging on his chair almost leisurely so. The Master of Ships noted there was a hint of tension in his shoulders, and his jaw tight. "And curious still for you to call for us. Have the wayward Targaryens returned to claim vengeance at last?"
"Must you joke at a time like this, Lord Baelish?" Grand Maester Pycelle sighed.
"What can I say? I like to bring some enjoyment. And besides…" He cast a sidelong glance at Varys. "Something tells me this is no small matter we've been called to attend."
Indeed not. The face of the Master of Whispers was solemn, carved from solid stone with a dreadful cold stare. Clutched in his hand were a series of letters, which he laid out on the table.
"My birds in the riverlands bring dire news," he began. "Lord Hoster Tully, and Riverrun, are no more."
A cold, dreadful silence befell the small council.
It would be minutes before Baelish found his voice again, his sly smile all but gone and his face pale. "What do you mean?" He rose from his seat, his voice rising and echoing across the room. "Varys, what do you mean?"
"I received this letter yesterday." The Master of Whispers held up one of the letters for all to see. "It was written by a survivor, a man of House Tully who bore witness to the castle's end. In the dead of night, with none the wiser, a group of men garbed in armor assaulted Riverrun and put everyone to the sword. None were spared." He set the letter down, then raised another. "This arrived yesterday, written by the hand of one of my birds. They backed the survivor's claim and described the sight. Riverrun now sits as ruins, bathed in pale white fire."
Cold sweat ran down Stannis' face. Melisandre's visions of colored flames came to the forefront of his mind. "The survivor," he started. "Did they say anything else?"
From there, Varys began to detail the letter's contents. The survivor was a household servant tasked with attending to Lord Tully due to his frail health. In her letter, she described how the attack began. As Varys stated earlier, the assault began in the dead of night when most of the castle retired for the evening. The servant awoke to the sounds of screaming and battle, happening just outside her door. She described the assailants as men clad in rusted armor, colored black with chipped gold. Some bore faces wreathed in horns, others in helms bearing ghastly visages of laughing skulls.
The servant swore up and down what she writes is the truth, and how she wishes it were all a nightmare to be awoken from. She continued and wrote how they wielded ghostly flames and black swords wreathed in pale fire. She recalls hearing stories of villages in the riverlands being attacked by unknown brigands, with no survivors to be found. All were burned to the ground, leaving only piles of ash and dead bodies. By her recollection, three villages fell to the ghostly flames by the time the brigands came and slaughtered everyone in Riverrun. She does not know whether Lord Tully escaped or if he perished with the rest of his guardsmen. All she remembers was the sight of Riverrun being consumed by a pale white inferno as she and several other servants, escorted by guards, made their escape.
"My birds verified her claims, and sifted through the rubble when the flames ceased to burn," Varys continued. "Lord Hoster Tully's body was among the dead."
For but a moment, there was a dead silence. In the next, the small council erupted in an uproar. Masters argued, demanding questions and answers. Who was responsible for this massacre and treachery? Who would be so brazen, so daring as to kill a lord in his own keep? Who had the resources to carry out such a feat? Throughout it all, Stannis kept his thoughts and words private, all while looking curiously at Baelish. He was the only other person in the council who remained silent, if only out of stricken grief. His face was pale, wrought in disbelief and shock. Vaguely, Stannis remembered that Baelish was originally fostered in Riverrun before his disgraceful behavior led to his removal from the castle.
Did Baelish show true, genuine sorrow upon hearing Hoster's death? Or was it yet another fanciful mask? Either way, he couldn't be sure.
Regardless, Stannis Baratheon knew one thing:
"You picked a bad time to leave Wetseros, Robert."
To quell any potential arguments, I would like to point out that at the start of the books and TV show, Cersei was actually quite cunning. Granted, there were some outside parties also playing poor Ned and co., but she was able to get away with her schemes. It's not until later that her incompetence comes in. Here, I wanted to showcase that Cersei isn't dumb or batty (most of the time), and she's rightfully abusing her authority as regent in a way no one can actually challenge her without due cause.
Not that it means it won't blow up in her face. Remember that Cersei isn't the only major player in King's Landing, and there are others who want to destabilize the Lannisters' power.
The destruction of Riverrun and Hoster's death ties into the now revised version of a previous chapter where Winterfell was attacked. This is mainly done to foreshadow the upcoming assault (which is postponed to a future chapter) and show that one of the antagonists isn't exclusively targeting the Starks. And they won't be the last.
Anywho, next chapter will see us return to the Lands Between, and whether Joffrey's MASTER PLAN will get him killed.
First is the usual shill. If you like my content and wanna help support me and my fam, consider becoming a Supporter on my patreon. If patreon isn't your thing but you like my work, consider checking out my book duology Chase Ryder and the City of Lost Memories over on Amazon. I recommend kindle if you have one as its the cheapest option.
Second, back in September, I posted a poll on my patreon asking people which story they'd like to see from me next. The poll closed three days ago, and by popular vote, the people have chosen Elven Overlord, a fanfiction of the Overlord Light Novel series. When the story will be published, I do not know.
In any case, check out the chapter.
SANDOR
King's Landing was always shit. You could make it look fancy, doll it up with powder and flowery colors, but Sandor spent enough time in the Crownlands to know it was a steaming pile of shit. No one had to look any further than Flea Bottom, the one part of the whole damn city people didn't know what to do with. Some wanted to keep it around for Seven fucking knows what, and the others wanted it and everyone inside burned to the ground.
He cared nothing for it. It just represented what King's Landing really was at the end of the day.
Recently, the city became a powder keg. Two months passed since the king and his entourage of nobles and lords went to visit their newest neighbors. Queen Cersei was left as regent, and unsurprisingly, she wasted little time in throwing her new weight around. Orders were given to soldiers, white cloaks and all, securing order and routing any "unsavory" elements. On a good day, at least four bodies decorated the streets, with throats slit or hanged at the gallows. On worse days, there were too many bodies to know what to do with. Some days, the bodies piled up so quickly that they had to get carts to carry them off.
The Hound never thought he'd say this, but he sorely missed his previous post. Even on a good day, Joffrey Baratheon was a right prat in desperate need of an ass-kicking, yet strangely, Sandor enjoyed his presence all the same. At the very least, he treated him decently, if only because Sandor never questioned his orders and had a staunch loyalty toward House Lannister. Then the boy had the daft idea to go off and sneak aboard the Golden Celeste, with Sandor only realizing what'd happened after the fact.
Suffice to say, Queen Cersei was fucking pissed. For ten days the woman raged and wailed over the foolishness of her son, near all but certain he was going to get himself killed. Sandor was inclined to agree; the prince had no talent for swordplay, and he had no sea legs to speak of. He also doubted the king was pleased. It was no secret that there was tension between Robert and his son after he went and killed the second prince's cat, all because Joffrey wanted to prove he was also a "hunter", if that made any fucking sense. Sandor stopped trying to understand what went on in that kid's head a long time ago.
With the crown prince absent, the queen took to hoisting her affections on her younger children. To their credit, the brats were already uncomfortable with Queen Cersei's obsessive acts of affection. Her amplified efforts only made them squirm, often finding excuses to evade her, which of course led her to seek matters of affection elsewhere.
Sandor grimaced, remembering the noises he heard as he passed by the royal quarters one night. The sounds were familiar to him, though he was mildly impressed by how the queen sounded less like a woman and more like a squealing pig. For all she raged and seethed over the king's infidelity, she was not much better than her husband. For the poor bastard's sake, Sandor hoped the king never discovered this lest he bring the hammer down on the sod's skull.
Not that it was any of his business. Sandor's job was to listen to the crown's orders. What the queen did was none of his business unless the Lannisters said otherwise.
When he wasn't tasked with cutting down dissidents or sending fools to the gallows, Sandor enjoyed his free time walking through the streets, particularly those near the port. On windy days, the cold winds from the ocean soothed the burns on his face, if only barely. Today was not for pleasure, however. Today was business.
Like any soldier, Sandor needed to keep his equipment in decent shape. He made regular visits to the smiths in King's Landing, either to purchase new equipment when the need arose or when he needed his blades sharpened and the dents in his armor sorted out. He had no preference for who did the job, so long as they did it adequately. So far, he had no complaints and the smiths were happy with his coin. Lately, Sandor pondered the pros and cons of becoming a regular of a particular smith, said to be one of the best in the city.
Master Tohbo Mott was a man of Qohor. Sandor recognized the features easily, having dealt with them once in the past before he became Joffrey's sworn knight. His smithy skills alone would've been enough to earn him a royal permit, but if the rumors were to be believed, he was one of the few metalsmiths left who knew how to work Valyrian steel. It was a rare quality, though it was obviously not something he advertised. The man preferred simplicity and humility, though he never complained when someone gave him more coin than what was agreed on.
Sandor asked for Mott's services only thrice; the first when he noticed a crack in his sword after an engagement with a mountain clan wreaking havoc in the Crownlands; a rare occurrence when they preferred the mountain ranges, but nothing worth fearing. They fell like any other. He barely paid the smith's work any mind until he took it to combat and found the blade performing better than before. The second had been when he participated in a tourney at the prince's behest, a joust that saw him unhorsed and with a sizable dent in his breastplate. Mott fixed it with ease, and Sandor paid him a few more coins for the good work.
This visit was the third time. After years of wear and tear, his armor was finally in a state to where it was no longer viable, and therefore needed a replacement. He sent a missive to Mott with a bag of dragons, asking for the best armor he could forge with the materials he had on hand. It took a week, but Mott got back to him with news saying the armor was ready and awaiting delivery.
Sandor found the old smith working deeper in the shop. To his mild surprise, he wasn't alone. Evidently, the old man took an apprentice. His back was turned so Sandor couldn't see his face, but he could tell by his figure he was in his teens, mayhaps ten and two or ten and four name days.
"Ser Clegane," Mott greeted with a wry grin. "I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon."
"Here for my order," Sandor replied gruffly. He had no time for pleasantries, much less idle chatter.
The Qohorik smith nodded and went to the back of the shop, returning with the Hound's new armor in tow. It was nothing fancifcul with intricate designs or engravings. Sandor preferred function over fashion, no matter what Joffrey insisted. He took the breastplate from him, wrapping his knuckles against the steel. The metal was sturdy and thick, capable of withstanding a blow from a hammer, mace, and sword. He grunted and fished for his pocket, pulling out a few extra coins.
"For good work," he said simply.
Mott smiled wryly, graciously accepting the coin. "Many thanks, ser."
"None of that ser, shit. I'm not exactly sworn when my charge's gone and run off to visit that weird place everybody's obsessed with."
Mott grimaced, but said nothing. Sandor turned to leave with his armor in tow, only to stop when he got a good look at Mott's apprentice. It was brief, barely a few seconds, but he saw a young boy on the cusp of manhood; a Stormlander with tangled black hair and stormy blue eyes.
He looked like a younger Renly Baratheon.
STANNIS
"The queen goes too far," Renly told him with a grim face. "Surely, you agree with me on this, brother."
It was rare for the brothers to interact, given their conflicting personalities. Rarer still was Stannis remembering when they were boys, struggling to keep their people starved during the siege while their older brother went to war against the Targaryens and their loyalists. It was Stannis' first taste of reality, and what it meant to lead their people. Although he considered it a necessity to become the man he is now, back then he thought of it as the worst period of his life. The frustration of watching garrisons starve, smallfolk left to rot outside the walls of Storm's End, wondering whether each day would be their last…
Stannis took a calming breath. He found himself lost in old memories as of late, an unwanted distraction keeping him from his work.
The source of Renly's frustrations and worries was Cersei Lannister, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and her recent "purges". Laws were enforced to a degree he found near criminal, with gold cloaks regularly taking people off the streets and from their homes to either be hanged or put to the sword. The city smelled foul with all the mud and shit. Now it smelled of rotting corpses.
"It is not a matter of whether I agree, Renly," Stannis replied, choosing his words carefully. He knew better than to speak with loose lips, especially in the Red Keep. There was no telling who could be listening. "We do not have the power to challenge her, and we'd be fools to. Do not forget, she is regent until the king returns from the Lands Between."
"And when he does, he'll find a mountain of corpses piled right outside the front gate!" Renly hissed. "I've kept my tongue silent for the same reasons as you, but now even children are being put to death! It's a miracle no riots have taken to the streets!"
And yet, it's only a matter of time…
Stannis knew Renly wasn't wrong. The queen's bloody acts were intolerable, but credit where it was due, said "acts" were well within the rights and boundaries detailed in the rights and powers bequeathed to the regent. It didn't surprise him in the least, seeing as how she was a Lannister. Even at her most blatant, the queen knew how to work the system in her favor, how to play others to her tune. They could not accuse her with flimsy evidence. No, they needed something more definitive. Actual proof.
Patience, Stannis reminded himself. There was no point in getting worked up over such a matter. The people could recover, but the realm itself was another story. It was fragile, sitting on a wildfire cache waiting to explode. Tensions were high, now more than ever thanks to the presence of the Lands Between and the unknown opportunities it presented. Depending on how negotiations and discussions went, another war may be on the horizon. That was not even going into the matter of the queen's cuckolding and infidelity with her own godsdamned brother.
It hadn't taken Stannis long to realize the true underlying intent of Cersei's actions were, not when Tywin spent a few days talking with her before he returned to the Westerlands. They were looking for Robert's bastards.
Cersei Lannister was a vain woman, driven by paranoia and caution. She adored her children, the "crown prince" most of all. She would do anything to secure his rule, even killing innocent babes for the sole crime of being born from Robert's loins. Even though they were bastards, there was always the chance they could be legitimized, if not recognized by the crown. The small council and Great Houses could debate their legitimacy, but all Cersei saw was a threat, a rival for the throne, and she would suffer no "pretenders". No, the bastards had to die.
Stannis recognized the signs early enough that he was able to mitigate the damage. An anonymous message and pre-emptive warnings managed to save a few lives, but not all. He had no idea whether they survived or not, and there was still a chance they would be killed. So long as one survived…
"We do not know when the king will return," Renly continued grimly. "For all we know, he may very well not."
Stannis narrowed his eyes, catching the hidden meaning behind his younger brother's words. "Careful what you say, Renly…"
"I'm just stating the worse case. We've no idea what kinds of people these foreigners are. They could be like the Ironborn, or worse. If the king dies there, the queen will have total claim to the Iron Throne."
"She will need to remarry, if such is the case."
Renly scoffed. "Come now, brother. I know you aren't naïve. We both know Cersei Lannister prefers only one man's bed, and it is most assuredly not Robert's."
Stannis raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed that his younger brother managed to learn the truth about the king's "children". He would have to give Renly more credit than he thought.
Before they could discuss more, a sharp knock came to the door. "Beg your pardon, milord, but the Master of Whispers has called for a meeting with the council."
Stannis and Renly looked at one another with matching frowns.
"Varys? What could he possibly want?"
"Only one way to find out, I suppose…"
Unsurprisingly, Cersei decided not to involve herself in the meeting. Instead, she entrusted the task to one of the white cloaks tasked to remain in King's Landing to defend her and her children. As always, the sight of that pig Boros Blount repulsed Stannis. He still wondered what Robert was thinking, naming that man a member of the Kingsguard.
"It's been some time since we've called a council," Petyr Baelish commented, lounging on his chair almost leisurely so. The Master of Ships noted there was a hint of tension in his shoulders, and his jaw tight. "And curious still for you to call for us. Have the wayward Targaryens returned to claim vengeance at last?"
"Must you joke at a time like this, Lord Baelish?" Grand Maester Pycelle sighed.
"What can I say? I like to bring some enjoyment. And besides…" He cast a sidelong glance at Varys. "Something tells me this is no small matter we've been called to attend."
Indeed not. The face of the Master of Whispers was solemn, carved from solid stone with a dreadful cold stare. Clutched in his hand were a series of letters, which he laid out on the table.
"My birds in the riverlands bring dire news," he began. "Lord Hoster Tully, and Riverrun, are no more."
A cold, dreadful silence befell the small council.
It would be minutes before Baelish found his voice again, his sly smile all but gone and his face pale. "What do you mean?" He rose from his seat, his voice rising and echoing across the room. "Varys, what do you mean?"
"I received this letter yesterday." The Master of Whispers held up one of the letters for all to see. "It was written by a survivor, a man of House Tully who bore witness to the castle's end. In the dead of night, with none the wiser, a group of men garbed in armor assaulted Riverrun and put everyone to the sword. None were spared." He set the letter down, then raised another. "This arrived yesterday, written by the hand of one of my birds. They backed the survivor's claim and described the sight. Riverrun now sits as ruins, bathed in pale white fire."
Cold sweat ran down Stannis' face. Melisandre's visions of colored flames came to the forefront of his mind. "The survivor," he started. "Did they say anything else?"
From there, Varys began to detail the letter's contents. The survivor was a household servant tasked with attending to Lord Tully due to his frail health. In her letter, she described how the attack began. As Varys stated earlier, the assault began in the dead of night when most of the castle retired for the evening. The servant awoke to the sounds of screaming and battle, happening just outside her door. She described the assailants as men clad in rusted armor, colored black with chipped gold. Some bore faces wreathed in horns, others in helms bearing ghastly visages of laughing skulls.
The servant swore up and down what she writes is the truth, and how she wishes it were all a nightmare to be awoken from. She continued and wrote how they wielded ghostly flames and black swords wreathed in pale fire. She recalls hearing stories of villages in the riverlands being attacked by unknown brigands, with no survivors to be found. All were burned to the ground, leaving only piles of ash and dead bodies. By her recollection, three villages fell to the ghostly flames by the time the brigands came and slaughtered everyone in Riverrun. She does not know whether Lord Tully escaped or if he perished with the rest of his guardsmen. All she remembers was the sight of Riverrun being consumed by a pale white inferno as she and several other servants, escorted by guards, made their escape.
"My birds verified her claims, and sifted through the rubble when the flames ceased to burn," Varys continued. "Lord Hoster Tully's body was among the dead."
For but a moment, there was a dead silence. In the next, the small council erupted in an uproar. Masters argued, demanding questions and answers. Who was responsible for this massacre and treachery? Who would be so brazen, so daring as to kill a lord in his own keep? Who had the resources to carry out such a feat? Throughout it all, Stannis kept his thoughts and words private, all while looking curiously at Baelish. He was the only other person in the council who remained silent, if only out of stricken grief. His face was pale, wrought in disbelief and shock. Vaguely, Stannis remembered that Baelish was originally fostered in Riverrun before his disgraceful behavior led to his removal from the castle.
Did Baelish show true, genuine sorrow upon hearing Hoster's death? Or was it yet another fanciful mask? Either way, he couldn't be sure.
Regardless, Stannis Baratheon knew one thing:
"You picked a bad time to leave Wetseros, Robert."
To quell any potential arguments, I would like to point out that at the start of the books and TV show, Cersei was actually quite cunning. Granted, there were some outside parties also playing poor Ned and co., but she was able to get away with her schemes. It's not until later that her incompetence comes in. Here, I wanted to showcase that Cersei isn't dumb or batty (most of the time), and she's rightfully abusing her authority as regent in a way no one can actually challenge her without due cause.
Not that it means it won't blow up in her face. Remember that Cersei isn't the only major player in King's Landing, and there are others who want to destabilize the Lannisters' power.
The destruction of Riverrun and Hoster's death ties into the now revised version of a previous chapter where Winterfell was attacked. This is mainly done to foreshadow the upcoming assault (which is postponed to a future chapter) and show that one of the antagonists isn't exclusively targeting the Starks. And they won't be the last.
Anywho, next chapter will see us return to the Lands Between, and whether Joffrey's MASTER PLAN will get him killed.