You set your jaw. His tale is heartwrenching, to be sure, but you have seen worse, suffered worse. Whether or not his tale changed your view of the Targaryens you have set yourself alongside, you will not risk the alliances you have already made in trying to free him, or worse, allying with him. You cast a final glance at the wolf lord, and his piercing glare tells you that you will learn nothing more from him. Without a word, you turn and exit the musty cellar, leaving Lord Stark to his imprisonment. Behind you, the lordling's voice echoes, colder than the winter winds.
"Do not play with dragons, sellsword, else their fire consumes you in turn."
The guard at the door bows his head in respect as you push your way back into the throng of dying men and praying soldiers.
As you make your way back down the hill, you reflect on what you have learned. This land is called Westeros, and it is divided into Seven Kingdoms, ruled for lifetimes by the House Targaryen, whose sigil is the Dragon. Monstrous improprieties on the part of House Targaryen, including kidnapping and murder without trial, have led several of these kingdoms to rise up against their over-king, one Aerys Targaryen. While all seem to agree that this Aerys is unequivocally mad, opinion on his son, Prince Rhaegar, seems divided--the common soldiers of the royalist army talk of him as some sort of god, Lord Stark seems to think him a devil in the flesh, and Lord Connington's eyes flash with something you cannot read every time he speaks the man's name.
But you have had your fill of this land's politics, however bloody and murderous they might be. You walk back through the stony streets, packed tight with the wounded and the dying, screaming high and shrill. But your eyes are not on them. Through the smoke, through the sky almost clouded with ash, you can just make out a string of shimmering stars, otherworldly and familiar all at once. As you watch, a voice intones in your mind, and you are not certain it is your own.
Follow the Star to the Sea, and find the Little Lion.
When you arrive at Connington's tent, the throng of messengers has dwindled to a trickle, and only a handful of soldiers stand guard outside, each with a roaring griffin on their hauberks. Like the guard in the sept, they merely nod with respect. The men of the army have a clear idea of exactly who it is they owe their victory and survival to. You stride past them into Connington's spacious tent. It is set up with chairs, tables, and desks, all of which are scattered with maps and hastily scrawled messages from all corners of the front. Books on tactics and warcraft lie open on more than one surface, flipped haphazardly to relevant pages. In the middle of it all is the Hand of the King, Myles Mooton standing quietly at his side. They stand before a large desk in the middle of the tent, on which has been laid out a massive map of a continent you can only assume is Westeros itself. Pieces, obviously representing armies, have been laid out carefully across it's surface--a curved, stylistic dragon's head for the Targaryens, and a noble stag's visage for the rebel Baratheons.
As you watch, he moves a stack of dragons across a large river in the middle of the country, towards a smaller stack of stags, trapping them between the river and another approaching army of dragons.
"...fence him in and force him to make for the Trident. We can smash his forces there." Mooton says, his tone insistent.
"Yes, but if he turns for Riverrun, Tully's fresh forces can supply and bolster him there. And Arryn's banners are marching from the Vale to join him. We could capture Robert at the Trident, yes, but the risk of being attacked from behind by his allies is too great."
"Has Lord Tywin responded to..." Myles catches sight of you first, and the words rolling from his tongue slow and stop as he gives you a respectful nod. You do not miss the implication--they trust you, but not enough to openly discuss war plans around you.
"Ah, Lord Hador." Jon moves away from the map and his plans for war, greeting you with a thin smile. His use of your House's name is odd, but you have already familiarized yourself with the Westerosi convention of addressing one with his house name. "I've been expecting you. I trust your visit with Lord Stark answered any questions you might have had?"
Without pausing, he continues. "I do not know what he told you, but I have an idea, and I do know this--he has told you the truth. Aerys Targaryen burnt Rickard Stark and murdered his son. I saw it with my own eyes. I saw his skin melt and heard him scream. I will not defend that tyrant, not in closed quarters."
He fingers the pointed hand on his breast. "I never thought the day would come that I would wear this and think it a disgrace, but so it was and so it is."
You break in, your voice as pointed as the sigil of the Hand. "Then why do you serve him? Why would you die in his name?"
"In his name?" Jon's voice drips with distate. "Never. Never in his name. We may bow and grovel before Aerys, but we serve another. The rightful King, the true King."
"Jon--" Myles steps around the table, and his voice has a hint of dark warning.
"No!" Jon spins, and the Hand of the King's eyes gleam as he speaks. "If he is against us, we have already lost. He could murder both of us in moments and cut his way out of this town with nary a second thought. But if he is with us...if he is with us...we have a chance."
He turns back to you, and when he speaks again, his voice is hushed, but lacks none of it's former conviction. "We serve the true King, my Lord of Hador. We serve Rhaegar Targaryen, for he is the Blood of the Dragon. He is the rightful King of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms. We fight this war in his name, and when it is done, we will march to King's Landing and tear the Mad King from his throne."
You break into his words sharply. "I want no part in your War, and I do not care who sits your throne. I fight by you in order to find the one I seek, nothing more."
Jon nods slowly, but you can tell from the look in his eyes that he has already considered this. "Yes, and Aerys is mercurial, as fleeting as milkglass and madder than a mummer's Fool. He could aid you, or burn you alive as a spy. Were Rhaegar to sit the Iron Throne, he could aid you. The resources of the Iron Throne would be at your beck and call. Name the one you seek."
You are quiet for a long moment. There is nothing to be lost by telling him, and much to gain. And he was correct in his assessment--neither of them, nor the guards outside, are a threat to you.
"I seek the one called the Little Lion. I do not know their name, or age, or--"
Jon lets out a barking laugh, and cannot hide the grin that stretches his face. "Whatever seer or prophetess or mad urge sent you hence has a sense of humor, milord. I know of your target, and out of goodwill, I will give you his name whether you side with us or nay: There is only one man in all the Seven Kingdoms I know who is called the Little Lion. It is a pet name Aerys uses for his most favorite member of the Kingsguard--Jaime Lannister. The man detests it, but it is what they call him throughout all the Court."
Jaime Lannister. The Lion has a name, then. Lannister. It is a name you have already heard many times in your short time here. A powerful House, with a powerful Lord, with wealth and men enough to decide the War.
Connington's grin widens as he paces his words, closing in on you like a wolf cornering his prey. "The last I saw Jaime, he stood at the Mad King's side all in white. He remains with him in King's Landing. And so it seems our goals align, my Lord of Dor-Lomin. I offer you a choice--you can continue as you have been, little better than a sellsword or hedge knight, fighting alongside our army, and perhaps you may find Jaime Lannister in King's Landing. Or...you can swear to see Rhaegar Targaryen on the Iron Throne. Give me your service, and I will give you Jaime Lannister, knee bent, in chains, dead--whatever you will. And of course, if you refuse, I am afraid I cannot let you leave the army entirely--you know far too much."
The choice is clear--you can continue along with their army, or operate alone, for the chance of finding this Lannister in the capital of a land torn apart by war, or you can pledge yourself into the service of Jon Connington and his absent master, Rhaegar Targaryen, for the certain promise of finding the Little Lion. It would make your true task far, far easier, but it would also mean entangling yourself with the politics of this land even further. Connington's eyes meet yours, and you know you must choose now.
[] Bend the knee. Swear service to Rhaegar Targaryen, the mysterious and elusive prince from whom all this world's troubles seem to spring, in hope of cutting a path of blood to King's Landing and finding the Little Lion. Jon Connington, Hand of the King, has promised you aid in your quest and your endeavors once Rhaegar is King.
[] You swear to no man, but Connington's offer is enticing. Promise him your aid in his plot, for now. Even if he does not help you afterwards, being able to make it to King's Landing with an army around you is far more promising than going it alone.
[] No, you will not aid him in his plots or schemes, and you care not who sits this Iron Throne. Refuse him gently, and march alongside his army to King's Landing. You will have to sleep with the soldiers, and there is no guarantee that you can find him whom you seek, but it is better than being embroiled in some maddening game of blood and crowns.
[] You have had enough, and you know all that you need to know. Refuse him, and leave his camp afterwards. There is nothing he or his can do to stop you. It will be nearly impossible to make it into the most secure Keep in the land without aid, but you are Turin, son of Hurin, the bane of Dragons. And this Mad King is no Glaurung.
