Shrouded Destiny (ASOIAF AU/Time-travel)
- Thread starter Gladiusx
- Start date
I am surprised that Robert accept Tyrion that easily. Lets see if Tyrion finds anything wrong with Petyr's books. Relmy seems to be very suspicious of Ned
- Pronouns
- sapper
yeah, good point. Why didn't Stannis come back to King's Landing, and inform the Hand of his suspicions?
Sail in with the fleet, request the Hand a private meeting, take a small rowing boat out into the harbour with just the 2 of them, and tell Stark what you know and what you suspect. That is doing your duty.
Sail in with the fleet, request the Hand a private meeting, take a small rowing boat out into the harbour with just the 2 of them, and tell Stark what you know and what you suspect. That is doing your duty.
41-Strides
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.
Edited by: Void Uzumaki and Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
11th Day of the 9th Moon
The Onion Knight
The lord's room was as bare as before, save for the two chairs and the study desk strewn with parchment, where he conducted Shireen's lessons.
"Davos," Stannis let out a feeble, raspy cough from his bed. "The lessons are taking too much from me. The poppy is wearing off again."
"The air in Driftmark is easier on your lungs, according to Cressen, m'lord."
"I will not die-" if the wet, sickly cough made the smuggler worry, the dark blood splattering on the sheets made his insides churn, "in some other man's keep! When I perish, Shireen will be surrounded by leal men sworn first to me and then to her."
Stannis wiped the small streams of blood leaking from his lips with a napkin. While his throat had somewhat healed, allowing him to speak more freely, his lungs had only gone worse, and every breath he took sounded like a painful wheeze, which had become harsher since their return to Dragonstone.
Tired, Davos rubbed his brows to cover up his grimace. "Does she still not know?"
"Nay." The Baratheon's voice was hoarse yet as hard as steel. The months of constant pain had only hardened Stannis' resolve. His muscles and what little fat he had were almost fully melted, leaving only bones and skin as pale as milk, yet the stormy blue eyes were more alive than ever. "A father must never show weakness to his daughter. I… I know I have never been a good father, but I owe Shireen some joy before I go."
Another bout of coughing sent blood over the sheets again, and Stannis didn't even bother wiping away the blood from his lips.
Everything the man did was now for his daughter. Despite his dislike, Stannis gingerly took the milk of the poppy for his lessons with Shireen so he could stand up, walk, sit, and talk without too much pain. The charred skin on his legs never fully healed, and parts of it had to be cut out to prevent festering. Now, even his appearance before the fleet's captains was reduced to twice a week for half an hour, yet the tutoring of his daughter went for hours every day. Worse, while milk of the poppy dulled the pain, the agony returned a hundredfold afterwards, and the injured lungs were only further aggravated. Cressen had warned him that doing such things too much would only hasten his demise, yet Stannis had vehemently refused to reduce his time with his daughter.
Shireen knew her father was not in good health, but the poor lass had no idea he was not only ill but dying. Yet, Stannis was stubborn, just like he could be on this - Davos only prayed his death would not break the young girl's newfound spirit.
Shaking his head, the onion knight focused on the present and passed over Lord Velaryon's request, making the bedridden man laugh hoarsely, sending splatters of blood over the covers again.
"Robert always considered Stark more of a -" another bout of bitter, harsh hacking interrupted the lord's words, "more of a brother than Renly or me. Velaryon is too ambitious, but keeping the royal fleet with me gone would be putting a sword to Shireen's neck."
"Yet all the shipwrights in this part of the Narrow Sea are hard at work," Davos observed.
Stannis shook his head feebly. "Three or so dozens of ships amidst three houses is not much. But just enough so Shireen isn't powerless."
Most of the materials were taken from the royal fleet's reserves. Neither Dragonstone, Driftmark, nor Claw Isle could afford the materials or the experienced shipwrights, also hailing from King's Landing and the royal shipyards.
"Perhaps we should send an envoy with a letter directly to His Grace, at least warning him of the Lannister duplicity?"
The wet, wheezing laugh that rumbled out of Stannis' chest turned into a jarring cough, sending more blood over his covers. "And implicate Shireen? Stark's already in bed with the Lannisters with his heir married to the lioness' get." Stannis shook his head and wiped the blood from his lips; the white handkerchief was now damp with crimson. "Does the young Monterys get on with my daughter?"
Davos couldn't help but grimace. "He's still fearful."
"Alas, I had hoped…" He choked with a bloody cough again. "My daughter will do her duty. But… I had hoped Shireen would find more joy in life than I. What should I do, Davos?"
In the end, Stannis was contemplating a betrothal between his daughter and the younger Velaryon heir, uniting Dragonstone and Driftmark in the next generation. Such a move would also cement Monford's loyalty in blood.
"There's still time, and both of them are young," the smuggler said, uncomfortable. Yet Monterys was too skittish around Shireen, who was four years his senior. Davos felt she didn't like the young Velaryon heir much either but was still amiable, if somewhat distant, towards the boy. "Is there truly a need to rush for such an arrangement?"
Promising the hand of your young children was still an odd concept for him. His eldest, Dale, just got married to a merchant's daughter at four and twenty, just like Davos had. Although Marya's father was a baker, the then-young smuggler had to fight tooth and nail to get her old man's approval.
"You are right," the bedridden lord wheezed out. "I ought to let my daughter decide for herself-" he started coughing even more deeply than before and drowned out whatever he wanted to say.
This had happened before, and the episodes seemed to worsen by the sennight - Davos could do nothing but call Maester Cressen.
13th Day of the 9th Moon
The Lord of Winterfell
Nine days later, Howland still had nothing on the assassin. Three secret passages were found in the Hand's Tower, leading into a complex underground system of tunnels. A day of exploration had even Howland lost down there, so Ned had decided he did not need the headache or the inherent danger of slithering around in the dark like some rogue, so he had his men seal all three secret entrances.
For once, the courtly rumours worked in his favour - the news of the poisoning had turned into a case of stomach ache and badly cooked bacon, and nobody seemed to suspect anything malicious.
Regardless, the Lord of Winterfell found himself far more cautious now. There were always three heavily armed Stark men-at-arms within a hand's reach of him, or at least Winter. No food, water, or wine touched his or Tommen's lips before going past Calon and the direwolf's sharp nose.
The Lannister siblings did not seem to have made much progress either. It was an alliance of necessity - Ned liked them little, but at least their interests seemed to align, and he could trust them enough not to try to kill him or Tommen. More than the other courtiers, at least.
"Neither I nor Jaime managed to find anything. On the other hand, my royal sister replaced half the servants and thinks Renly is acting suspicious," Tyrion said with some amusement. It was far easier to meet Tywin's youngest without raising much attention since he became the new master of coin.
They had met in the Hand's audience chamber to supposedly discuss the goings of the Tourney and the repayment of the crown's debt.
"One councillor died on the streets like some dog," Ned reminded tiredly. "Everyone is cautious, skittish, or both." Littlefinger's murder came like lightning out of the blue, leaving him flat-footed. While he misliked the man, perishing like some nameless gutter rat was not a fate he would wish for any of his peers.
"Alas, you decided to saddle me with his heavy burden," Tyrion groaned, rubbing his mismatched eyes. But despite his complaints, Ned felt the dwarf was relishing the challenge. "What ought to be done with Littlefinger's assets?"
"Did he not leave a last testament?"
"If he did, I have failed to find it. The poor man probably did not expect to find himself a head shorter in the middle of the streets. Who would have thought saving coin on guardsmen would be so costly?" The dwarf tutted with glee, which quickly disappeared under Ned's stern glare. It was not proper to mock the dead. "Well, Drearfort returns under the care of House Arryn, but all the inns, warehouses, and brothels acquired under his tenure as a master of coin are another matter altogether."
"I suppose you have some ideas?" The Northern lord asked with a sigh. Unlike Tyrion, whorehouses were the last worry on Ned's mind. The Watch's reforms were on the verge of being finished, and the Tourney was going to start in a scant few days.
"The crown can either auction all those establishments for a quick coin or keep them for a steady revenue."
"You can't mean to have the Iron Throne run brothels?!"
His outrage only amused Tyrion, who chuckled. "Why not, Lord Stark? Gold is gold, and the royal coffers are in dreadful need of assistance. Littlefinger did not manage the whorehouses by himself - he had a madame in charge of each. Now, they shall pay the earnings to the crown instead of the unlamented Lord Baelish." And he generously filled his cup with wine from the pitcher. Even that one was bought randomly from some merchant by Vayon and tested by Calon to prevent any possible mishaps.
Ned rubbed his eyes tiredly - Tyrion was making a good point. He had no strength left to tackle the financial troubles facing the Iron Throne, nor was there a need to; it was the job of the master of coin to deal with such. In the end, he wasn't planning to stay here for too long. The Lord of Winterfell had already trusted the youngest Lannister sibling enough to push him into the post, so what was a little more?
"Do as you see fit," he said, making Tyrion choke on his wine. Reaching across the table, Ned smacked his back to help with the coughing, receiving a surprised yet grateful nod. "But it will be up to you to manage those madames and ensure they aren't short-changing the crown." Gods, the words made him feel dirty, but the whole city and the blistering heat already did that aplenty. Ned waited until he received another nod from the dwarf, "I hope there are no other troubles with your new post?"
"Surprisingly little. Although the High Septon has approached me to inquire about the crown's plans to repay the debt to the Faith."
Yet another one trying to call their dues at such an inconvenient moment. While the fat priest seemed to have let the grudge go publicly, he appeared to be dead set on making as much trouble as possible for him, doubtlessly inspired by the Tyroshi envoy. Some days Ned felt like the post of Hand was akin to a piece of meat, with every single viper in this damn sweltering den lusting for a bite. Robert's indifference helped little, but at least he was not alone. Hundreds of leal Northmen were in the city, and his alliance with the Lannister siblings gave him a sense of security despite his dislike.
"The Faith can wait," Ned groused. "The Seven-Pointed Star claims patience is a virtue, does it not?"
Tyrion took a generous mouthful of wine and closed his eyes in contentment. "Indeed. But I thought you Northerners followed the Old Gods?"
"Most of us do. But I know a thing or two from my fostering in the Vale due to a stubborn Septon thinking he could save me from my heathen ways." A fond smile came to his face at the memory - he missed that simpler time when his only woe was a persistent priest extolling the virtues of the Seven. Even Tyrion let out an amused huff.
"A single look at our pious High Septon would convince even the biggest unbeliever of the seven virtues," the dwarf said sarcastically before his mismatched eyes lost their cheer, turning sombre. "The Tyroshi envoy keeps pestering me to pass on a message to you, my lord Hand. Something about your steward sending him away."
"I would not sell my son to some slaver, no matter how hard this fool badgers me," Ned gritted his teeth. Just mentioning the Essosi's demands filled his blood with cold fury. Even Winter stirred from his rug by the empty hearth and padded over quietly, laying down by his feet.
Tyrion shrugged and took a cautious sip from his goblet, "There must have been some misunderstanding when Littlefinger conveyed his offer, it seems."
"Oh?"
"The offer for marriage is very generous and open-ended, and so are the terms of your son's stature, even more so that he's now to be a lord. It seems Magister Zaphon Sarrios desires an alliance and is willing to put in quite the effort."
All Ned could do was shake his head at the words. Had Littlefinger deceived them at that last council meeting? Or had the envoy changed his terms after hearing of Jon's ennoblement?
Why did neither possibility surprise him…
"All these talks are moot without Jon here," Ned deflated. He just hoped his boy was still safe, experience or not. "We have more pressing issues to discuss than some greedy Essosi Magisters."
"That is true. Let us speak more of the terms of enlistment and rewards that would pull the most able-bodied men towards the new Watch-"
Warg's Hold, Jon Snow
Some days, Jon felt adrift - as if he was lost, without a direction. He had done everything possible, and a few things thought impossible to bring the fight to the Others. Sure, it was far more successful than the previous time, and the wildlings were beginning to fight back, even after scattering through the far North. His own… tribe? Bannermen? Force? Clan? Vassals? In a true free folk fashion, neither felt genuinely fitting.
Regardless, Jon had a feeling of trepidation. He was no fool - what he was doing here could easily have far-reaching consequences if they managed to survive the onslaught of the Cold Shadows. Never before had the wildlings managed to unite in an actual cohesive, organised force under a single man. Hardhome, the previous wildlings kings - they were all a loose, desperate alliance that had broken apart at the first difficulty like an egg against a rock.
Warg's Hill, on the other hand, had given many of them a taste of discipline, of unity, of valuable tactical experience - things wildlings sorely lacked. All those who disliked such things had either left the budding town or died in the nightly expeditions, leaving only the hardened veterans able and willing to adapt behind. There was no telling how such a thing would play out, but Jon wasn't deluded enough to think there would be no consequences.
Especially with him leading this endeavour.
Was staying here and doing all of… this the right move?
No, the course was already set, and the time for doubts had passed. He shook his head, banishing away the errant thoughts - all meaningless assumptions if they failed to survive the Others.
"Another night with no fighting," Jon sighed as he rode Shadow through the gates, Val and Ghost on each side and the warband trailing behind in a loose line. The other groups that had gone out at night were also met with no foes in the dark.
His wife snorted. "You talk as if you want to fight the Cold Ones." The last few weeks had seen the spearwife finally tire, getting exhausted far more quickly than before. But despite his insistence on getting some rest, Val stubbornly tried to keep up with his pace with dogged determination.
Another nightly raid with no sight of any wights or Others - just like for the last moon. A joyous mood seems to have taken the bustling town - the sombre caution had slowly melted with warm weather and the lack of fighting. Some of the chieftains were happy, claiming the Others were defeated for good or had fled back into the Lands of Always Winter like cowardly curs. Thankfully, such foolish ideas were scant, unlike those who had begun to think of the icy foes as a dangerous annoyance at best.
The warm weather also made the surroundings flourish with lushness like never before, breathing life into the Haunted Forest.
However, Jon knew better - no summer lasted forever, and the Others were not so easily bested. A hundred Cold Ones slain was barely a part of what he had struggled against in his previous life.
Winter is coming.
"Aye, it's easier to fight a foe that you know on your terms. The Cold Shadows are not so easily vanquished; their absence means they have found easier targets or are considering other ways of attack."
His words made Val's gorgeous face twist in a grimace. This had been said to some chieftains and lesser leaders, but the days of peace and warmth seemed to slowly crumble their resolve to fight. Or some more foolish ones proposed venturing into the Land of Always Winter to try and hunt the Cold Gods…
All the more true, as Mag the Mighty requested a private meeting. The giants had always been content to do their own thing, and usually, Jon had to be the one to approach them with requests and tasks. Half an hour later, his raiders had disbanded, and Jon was in the small grove, facing the greying giant, only observed by a few dozen direwolves.
"We have to venture further and further every day to feed our mammoths," Mag the Mighty's guttural voice rumbled in the old tongue. "Some are refusing to eat bark any longer."
That was troublesome - a mammoth could eat over twenty stone of vegetation per day, and there was only so much grass, roots, shrubbery, and herbs to go around for over a hundred mammoths. The woolly behemoths ate the smaller vegetation faster than it could regrow, even with the warmer weather. Bark was far more abundant, but it was not the beasts' food of choice. If the mammoths refused to consume it…
"Would a bridge to the other bank of the Milkwater help?" The Old Tongue was coarse and harsh on the ears but something Jon had learned by necessity long ago. Truth be told, even this proposition was far-fetched - the other side was the outskirts of the Frostfangs, making it far more hilly, and the trees were far scarcer.
"Mayhaps. But five families want to leave back for the Thenn Valley with their mammoths."
"They are free to leave." So, the mammoths' lack of sustenance was just an excuse. But having some leaving would alleviate further trouble down the road. Food was a scarce resource Beyond the Wall.
Jon could bar those who desired to leave, but it would only create more woe. While giants had been helpful so far, it was more in construction, digging, and logging than anything else. Their poor vision and lack of agility made them unsuitable for his method of fighting the Others, especially in the dark. Not that he had not tried - but nearly a dozen men had been trampled in that particular battle, and the shield line had been broken with their fumbling, increasing the casualties even further.
And now that most of the construction and clearing efforts were complete, their presence wasn't as much of a boon as before.
15th Day of the 9th Moon
The Great Hall was crude but large enough to seat nearly two hundred men at the rough-hewn trestle tables. In fact, one could mistake the wildlings for a more civilised folk, as the leaders and chieftains had gathered around the high table. Jon was sitting at the head seat, Val to his left, with the other spearwives, Styr, Tormund and the rest to his right.
The spacious room had eight hearths, half of which were crackling with a ruddy fire.
"My warband got attacked last night," Blind Doss spoke up, grabbing the attention of everyone.
"You look no worse for wear," Devyn Sealskinner observed.
"Aye, none of mine died. 'Twas only three wights."
The words made everyone sombre, and any trace of cheer was gone.
"They are adapting," Jon said. "Looking for easy targets or testing the defences. Tormund?"
"Word has it, Harle n' his men have moved towards Hardhome," Giantsbane said, spitting a bone after devouring a roasted fish. "It's getting hard to track what happens to the other tribes and clans when they're so far apart, but I haven't heard o' any attacks."
With Redbeard at the mouth of the Antler River and Isryn going for the valley of the Thenns, most of Mance Rayder's army was now scattered across the Haunted Forest in groups big and small. But Jon's purpose had been achieved - while some died to the Others, they went down fighting.
All those tribes and clans gathered around the known obsidian deposits or searched for new ones.
"That means little," Soren Shieldbreaker leaned forward. "Could be that some clan got attacked, and none was close enough to even notice they're all dead."
Morna White Mask shuffled with unease. "Lerna and her ilk are moving down the Milkwater from the Giant's fist."
"She has grown daring to approach Warg's Fist," Styr said gruffly. "She took Lorn as a husband too, along with his tribe."
This was now the sixth husband the cannibal spearwife had taken, along with their clans and tribes. All those who opposed her were slaughtered and eaten. Such savagery was not a surprise; consuming human flesh was one of the less barbaric things commonly practised Beyond the Wall.
"I knew her old man, har. He barely had any wits to go by." Tormund burped and patted his bulging belly with satisfaction. "The lass will bite off more than she can chew, sooner or later, har!"
"Morna, send some hunters to keep an eye on Lerna and her movements," Jon ordered, and the masked spearwife nodded gravely.
All the meetings were much the same - nothing truly happened, and the Others had seemingly gone quiet. But at least those three wights reminded the chieftains of the looming death and darkness.
Things were deceptively calm now, but Jon had a looming feeling that a storm was approaching. Alas, there was not much he could do but wait and prepare. With the outer walls built and things organised, most of his days were spent mediating disputes, spars, and drilling.
But alas, nobody around could challenge him with a blade, and Jon found himself missing crossing swords with the Others. The harsh, keening cry when Valyrian Steel met their icy blades lit a fire in his veins and made him feel more alive than anything else.
As the sun hid behind the Frostfangs, Jon made his way to the grove that served as a Godswood. Every evening, Val would sit there on the bench, usually busying herself with something while waiting for him. The devotion not only made him feel warm, but Val's presence always soothed his weary mind and helped him to loosen up - be it sparring, fucking, bathing together or just talking where she would offer her support and insight into any things he could have missed.
It was everything Jon did not even know he wanted from marriage.
Yet, for the first time, Val was not waiting for him.
"Where's my wife?" Jon turned to Brightspot, the dark-furred Singer well-versed in healing and herbal remedies.
"Sister," she pointed with her hand toward Dalla's home. The words were queer and songlike but easy enough to understand. Some of the Singers had started speaking the common tongue, or at least a handful of words, but it was a slow thing. According to Leaf, their mouths were not made to produce the same sounds humans could, and it took a lot of time and effort to do so.
Dalla was easy to find - her home was a sizeable house built from crude logs. In hindsight, he could feel Ghost and half a dozen direwolves in that direction, and Val never remained without a shaggy retinue lately. Duncan and Jarod had made most of the house, and the young woods witch also used the common room downstairs for healing the wounded and the sick.
Just as he arrived, he could feel a cold dampness dance on his hair. Craning his neck to look up, Jon stilled as he noticed a snowflake dancing under the feeble wind. Another one followed, and before he could blink, the air was alive with snow, making him snort.
Winter is coming.
Shaking his head, Jon lifted the bearskin that covered the entrance and entered.
The insides were as crude and bare as expected, with scant few furnishings.
Val was sitting on a chair while Dalla fretted over her, making his insides twist into a knot with worry. Direwolves had lazily sprawled themselves over the floor like a colourful carpet of grey, brown, and black, with Ghost's enormous form looking more like a snow bear despite being curled just near Val.
"Is my wife ill?" He slowly approached, trying to get his turbulent emotions under control.
Dalla chuckled while Val glared at her sister. "Nay, not ill. But my stubborn mule of a sister seems to have gotten with child yet insists on playing spearwife still."
It took a good minute for his stunned mind to process the words spoken, during which his wife was looking at him expectantly. Yet despite the roiling mix of happiness, trepidation, and surprise, all that left his mouth was an "Oh."
Oberyn Martell
King's Landing's chaotic nights were finally stomped out by the new Commander of the Gold Cloaks. Marcher Lords were not to be underestimated, as any Dornishman knew all too well. And Balon Swann seemed to be an exemplary specimen - not even two days after taking up his position, half the captains had been arrested for corruption, bribery, extortion, and even murder and rape.
Riots were quickly dispersed, leaving many bruised and bloodied; lootings and burnings were met with swift retaliation, and worse, now Oberyn could no longer enjoy the illegal naked brawls or drunken horse races.
And while the city's streets had finally been put under order, the rumours indicated the court was filled with turmoil.
"The North sounds like an interesting place to visit," he murmured thoughtfully.
Ellaria, however, managed to overhear from the bed and groaned. "It snows in the damned summer, Oberyn."
"We've yet to see the Wall or Winterfell, love. I keep hearing the most fascinating tales from that place."
"It's hard to have fun when you're wrapped in many layers of wool and fur," she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Besides, I wouldn't call ice men or walking corpses fun. Magic is always dangerous, the ancient things even more so."
"We'll have all the time in the world to decide after the tourney," Oberyn waved away her concerns. Snow had been a rare sight for him, despite his travels, and now that the thought was stuck in his mind, Oberyn couldn't get it out.
Despite their gruffness, the Northmen held onto the customs of olde, so the Red Viper didn't think there would be any trouble for him in the North. And if they didn't seem very worried about old wives' tales coming back to life, why should Oberyn fret about it?
A knock on the door heralded the arrival of Nymeria.
"Where is your older sister?"
"Fooling around with some pretty boy from the Vale," she smirked, making him nod approvingly. Finally, Obara could release her pent-up frustration the proper way. "I finally managed to find out."
Oberyn lifted his wineskin and took a small sip, rolling the bitter liquid around his tongue. "Well then, don't keep us waiting!"
His daughter took the pitcher on the varnished table and directly took a generous gulp.
"The Mountain is barred by a royal order from entering the melee after killing too many opponents," Nymeria reported, dark cheeks now reddening.
"A pity, but the joust would have to do," Oberyn murmured.
Even getting his hands on Lorch would satisfy him at this point. Anything was better than waiting.
"That was far from the most interesting word on the streets, though," Nymeria took another generous gulp from the pitcher as Oberyn stretched lazily and clasped the belt around his waist. "Some talk problems in Essos between the Red Priests. And the Night's Watch has secured itself two town charters, it seems."
Ellaria finally stirred from the silken sheets and stretched like a cat, revealing her sensual curves. "Oh, and what would men who had sworn off marriage and children do with a town, let alone two?"
"Celibate no longer, it seems." Nymeria looked away in annoyance at the display of his lover. Sadly, his daughter lacked his appreciation for the more sensual beauty of a woman's body. "The black brothers can now marry, and the service is no longer for life, too!"
"Have you been drinking in the morning, Nym?" Oberyn coughed, looking at his daughter, who was chugging away the cask of wine without a care in the world. The Watch had remained unchanged for millennia, and the order had been the same while the Valyrians had been just a bunch of sheepherders in the Lands of Always Summer.
Nymeria stopped drinking, smacked her lips and glared at him. "I know what I heard!"
Indeed, he knew his daughter well enough, and she was not jesting…
Yet, the words that had come out of her mouth sounded so fantastical that Oberyn struggled to find his words for a good minute. His paramour, however, managed to gather her bearing far quicker.
"Still, I doubt many would desire to spend too long on a literal block of ice, royal endorsement or not," Ellaria snorted.
"You'd be surprised," Oberyn murmured numbly, heading for the door. "Many a man are in search of a purpose, but swearing off women does not appeal to them. The Watch might have lost most of its prestige, but it has a storied history. Where did you say this crier was, Nym?"
"I've heard one in almost every square. They are hard to miss…"
"Don't tell me you're interested in joining the Watch, now?" Elaria stood up, stark naked, and draped herself over him.
"It certainly wouldn't hurt to hear for myself." Oberyn pulled her into a deep kiss before disentangling himself from her nimble limbs.
After pulling up his boots and putting his spare daggers within, he left the brothel and walked up to the Silk Square. Everywhere he passed, there was talk of the Watch. Oberyn heard it even before he arrived, and the crowd had clogged the cobbled streets even thicker than usual.
"Hear ye, hear ye!" The crier's voice rose above the excited chatter. "Let all the people gather 'round for tidings of great import grace our ears this morn! By the decree of Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men, be it known to all the subjects that the Night's Watch, that stalwart brotherhood sworn to guard the realms of men, is now endorsed and champion by our beloved sovereign and the Lord Hand. By the order of His Grace and the Lord Hand, Eddard Stark, no longer are the brave men of the Watch required to foreswear women and children upon joining-"
The crier was drowned out by the commotion, as everyone seemed so damn excited all of a sudden. Oberyn couldn't help but feel his own spirits uplifted - change was always interesting if nothing else. Maybe there was some truth to those rumours about dark things stirring beyond the Wall.
Oberyn no longer tried to make his way forward and decided to listen to all those men chatting with excitement instead.
"-I heard after twenty years of service, and you get a nice plot 'o land."
"Bah, what use is good land when it's all covered in snow? Sides, even if you retire on a farm, you can still be levied under Lord Commander's summons."
"Ye fool, the Northmen grow crops easily enough. 'Sides, I'm sick o' drowning in my sweat 'n you get to see some fightin' and kill some savages and icemen."
"Eryk claims the Commanders still have to swear off women to lead, though."
"So what? It's not like a lug like you could ever get elected-"
Anywhere Oberyn went, he could hear the cries shouting themselves hoarse, announcing the overly lengthy decree for all to hear or folk discussing it with excitement.
"The Night's Watch, that ancient and honourable brotherhood, seeks stalwart men of courage and conviction to join their storied ranks to stand as the shield that guards the realms of men-"
The change was bold and daring, but whoever made it was thorough - Oberyn couldn't find any problems. The best aspects of the Ghiscari iron legions of yore had been borrowed, and with time, the Watch would doubtlessly turn into a well-trained war machine if it managed to recruit the numbers. And the overly generous royal endorsement of the reigning king on such a scale had never happened before.
"Let it be known that all those who join the Watch under the banner of Good King Robert shall receive a blessing of the crown for their service-"
Despite being a drunken lech, Robert's generosity was well-known far and wide, and the masses loved him. Even more so, with the Iron Throne championing the Watch, many would flock to its black banners, especially with the old vows discarded.
Oberyn found that even the notion of joining the Watch appealed to him somehow. Taking the black still washed away crimes and debts, but the bigger the debt or the worse the crime - the longer one had to serve in the new auxiliary order with the rest of the outlaws.
Author's Endnote:
Edited by: Void Uzumaki and Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
11th Day of the 9th Moon
The Onion Knight
The lord's room was as bare as before, save for the two chairs and the study desk strewn with parchment, where he conducted Shireen's lessons.
"Davos," Stannis let out a feeble, raspy cough from his bed. "The lessons are taking too much from me. The poppy is wearing off again."
"The air in Driftmark is easier on your lungs, according to Cressen, m'lord."
"I will not die-" if the wet, sickly cough made the smuggler worry, the dark blood splattering on the sheets made his insides churn, "in some other man's keep! When I perish, Shireen will be surrounded by leal men sworn first to me and then to her."
Stannis wiped the small streams of blood leaking from his lips with a napkin. While his throat had somewhat healed, allowing him to speak more freely, his lungs had only gone worse, and every breath he took sounded like a painful wheeze, which had become harsher since their return to Dragonstone.
Tired, Davos rubbed his brows to cover up his grimace. "Does she still not know?"
"Nay." The Baratheon's voice was hoarse yet as hard as steel. The months of constant pain had only hardened Stannis' resolve. His muscles and what little fat he had were almost fully melted, leaving only bones and skin as pale as milk, yet the stormy blue eyes were more alive than ever. "A father must never show weakness to his daughter. I… I know I have never been a good father, but I owe Shireen some joy before I go."
Another bout of coughing sent blood over the sheets again, and Stannis didn't even bother wiping away the blood from his lips.
Everything the man did was now for his daughter. Despite his dislike, Stannis gingerly took the milk of the poppy for his lessons with Shireen so he could stand up, walk, sit, and talk without too much pain. The charred skin on his legs never fully healed, and parts of it had to be cut out to prevent festering. Now, even his appearance before the fleet's captains was reduced to twice a week for half an hour, yet the tutoring of his daughter went for hours every day. Worse, while milk of the poppy dulled the pain, the agony returned a hundredfold afterwards, and the injured lungs were only further aggravated. Cressen had warned him that doing such things too much would only hasten his demise, yet Stannis had vehemently refused to reduce his time with his daughter.
Shireen knew her father was not in good health, but the poor lass had no idea he was not only ill but dying. Yet, Stannis was stubborn, just like he could be on this - Davos only prayed his death would not break the young girl's newfound spirit.
Shaking his head, the onion knight focused on the present and passed over Lord Velaryon's request, making the bedridden man laugh hoarsely, sending splatters of blood over the covers again.
"Robert always considered Stark more of a -" another bout of bitter, harsh hacking interrupted the lord's words, "more of a brother than Renly or me. Velaryon is too ambitious, but keeping the royal fleet with me gone would be putting a sword to Shireen's neck."
"Yet all the shipwrights in this part of the Narrow Sea are hard at work," Davos observed.
Stannis shook his head feebly. "Three or so dozens of ships amidst three houses is not much. But just enough so Shireen isn't powerless."
Most of the materials were taken from the royal fleet's reserves. Neither Dragonstone, Driftmark, nor Claw Isle could afford the materials or the experienced shipwrights, also hailing from King's Landing and the royal shipyards.
"Perhaps we should send an envoy with a letter directly to His Grace, at least warning him of the Lannister duplicity?"
The wet, wheezing laugh that rumbled out of Stannis' chest turned into a jarring cough, sending more blood over his covers. "And implicate Shireen? Stark's already in bed with the Lannisters with his heir married to the lioness' get." Stannis shook his head and wiped the blood from his lips; the white handkerchief was now damp with crimson. "Does the young Monterys get on with my daughter?"
Davos couldn't help but grimace. "He's still fearful."
"Alas, I had hoped…" He choked with a bloody cough again. "My daughter will do her duty. But… I had hoped Shireen would find more joy in life than I. What should I do, Davos?"
In the end, Stannis was contemplating a betrothal between his daughter and the younger Velaryon heir, uniting Dragonstone and Driftmark in the next generation. Such a move would also cement Monford's loyalty in blood.
"There's still time, and both of them are young," the smuggler said, uncomfortable. Yet Monterys was too skittish around Shireen, who was four years his senior. Davos felt she didn't like the young Velaryon heir much either but was still amiable, if somewhat distant, towards the boy. "Is there truly a need to rush for such an arrangement?"
Promising the hand of your young children was still an odd concept for him. His eldest, Dale, just got married to a merchant's daughter at four and twenty, just like Davos had. Although Marya's father was a baker, the then-young smuggler had to fight tooth and nail to get her old man's approval.
"You are right," the bedridden lord wheezed out. "I ought to let my daughter decide for herself-" he started coughing even more deeply than before and drowned out whatever he wanted to say.
This had happened before, and the episodes seemed to worsen by the sennight - Davos could do nothing but call Maester Cressen.
13th Day of the 9th Moon
The Lord of Winterfell
Nine days later, Howland still had nothing on the assassin. Three secret passages were found in the Hand's Tower, leading into a complex underground system of tunnels. A day of exploration had even Howland lost down there, so Ned had decided he did not need the headache or the inherent danger of slithering around in the dark like some rogue, so he had his men seal all three secret entrances.
For once, the courtly rumours worked in his favour - the news of the poisoning had turned into a case of stomach ache and badly cooked bacon, and nobody seemed to suspect anything malicious.
Regardless, the Lord of Winterfell found himself far more cautious now. There were always three heavily armed Stark men-at-arms within a hand's reach of him, or at least Winter. No food, water, or wine touched his or Tommen's lips before going past Calon and the direwolf's sharp nose.
The Lannister siblings did not seem to have made much progress either. It was an alliance of necessity - Ned liked them little, but at least their interests seemed to align, and he could trust them enough not to try to kill him or Tommen. More than the other courtiers, at least.
"Neither I nor Jaime managed to find anything. On the other hand, my royal sister replaced half the servants and thinks Renly is acting suspicious," Tyrion said with some amusement. It was far easier to meet Tywin's youngest without raising much attention since he became the new master of coin.
They had met in the Hand's audience chamber to supposedly discuss the goings of the Tourney and the repayment of the crown's debt.
"One councillor died on the streets like some dog," Ned reminded tiredly. "Everyone is cautious, skittish, or both." Littlefinger's murder came like lightning out of the blue, leaving him flat-footed. While he misliked the man, perishing like some nameless gutter rat was not a fate he would wish for any of his peers.
"Alas, you decided to saddle me with his heavy burden," Tyrion groaned, rubbing his mismatched eyes. But despite his complaints, Ned felt the dwarf was relishing the challenge. "What ought to be done with Littlefinger's assets?"
"Did he not leave a last testament?"
"If he did, I have failed to find it. The poor man probably did not expect to find himself a head shorter in the middle of the streets. Who would have thought saving coin on guardsmen would be so costly?" The dwarf tutted with glee, which quickly disappeared under Ned's stern glare. It was not proper to mock the dead. "Well, Drearfort returns under the care of House Arryn, but all the inns, warehouses, and brothels acquired under his tenure as a master of coin are another matter altogether."
"I suppose you have some ideas?" The Northern lord asked with a sigh. Unlike Tyrion, whorehouses were the last worry on Ned's mind. The Watch's reforms were on the verge of being finished, and the Tourney was going to start in a scant few days.
"The crown can either auction all those establishments for a quick coin or keep them for a steady revenue."
"You can't mean to have the Iron Throne run brothels?!"
His outrage only amused Tyrion, who chuckled. "Why not, Lord Stark? Gold is gold, and the royal coffers are in dreadful need of assistance. Littlefinger did not manage the whorehouses by himself - he had a madame in charge of each. Now, they shall pay the earnings to the crown instead of the unlamented Lord Baelish." And he generously filled his cup with wine from the pitcher. Even that one was bought randomly from some merchant by Vayon and tested by Calon to prevent any possible mishaps.
Ned rubbed his eyes tiredly - Tyrion was making a good point. He had no strength left to tackle the financial troubles facing the Iron Throne, nor was there a need to; it was the job of the master of coin to deal with such. In the end, he wasn't planning to stay here for too long. The Lord of Winterfell had already trusted the youngest Lannister sibling enough to push him into the post, so what was a little more?
"Do as you see fit," he said, making Tyrion choke on his wine. Reaching across the table, Ned smacked his back to help with the coughing, receiving a surprised yet grateful nod. "But it will be up to you to manage those madames and ensure they aren't short-changing the crown." Gods, the words made him feel dirty, but the whole city and the blistering heat already did that aplenty. Ned waited until he received another nod from the dwarf, "I hope there are no other troubles with your new post?"
"Surprisingly little. Although the High Septon has approached me to inquire about the crown's plans to repay the debt to the Faith."
Yet another one trying to call their dues at such an inconvenient moment. While the fat priest seemed to have let the grudge go publicly, he appeared to be dead set on making as much trouble as possible for him, doubtlessly inspired by the Tyroshi envoy. Some days Ned felt like the post of Hand was akin to a piece of meat, with every single viper in this damn sweltering den lusting for a bite. Robert's indifference helped little, but at least he was not alone. Hundreds of leal Northmen were in the city, and his alliance with the Lannister siblings gave him a sense of security despite his dislike.
"The Faith can wait," Ned groused. "The Seven-Pointed Star claims patience is a virtue, does it not?"
Tyrion took a generous mouthful of wine and closed his eyes in contentment. "Indeed. But I thought you Northerners followed the Old Gods?"
"Most of us do. But I know a thing or two from my fostering in the Vale due to a stubborn Septon thinking he could save me from my heathen ways." A fond smile came to his face at the memory - he missed that simpler time when his only woe was a persistent priest extolling the virtues of the Seven. Even Tyrion let out an amused huff.
"A single look at our pious High Septon would convince even the biggest unbeliever of the seven virtues," the dwarf said sarcastically before his mismatched eyes lost their cheer, turning sombre. "The Tyroshi envoy keeps pestering me to pass on a message to you, my lord Hand. Something about your steward sending him away."
"I would not sell my son to some slaver, no matter how hard this fool badgers me," Ned gritted his teeth. Just mentioning the Essosi's demands filled his blood with cold fury. Even Winter stirred from his rug by the empty hearth and padded over quietly, laying down by his feet.
Tyrion shrugged and took a cautious sip from his goblet, "There must have been some misunderstanding when Littlefinger conveyed his offer, it seems."
"Oh?"
"The offer for marriage is very generous and open-ended, and so are the terms of your son's stature, even more so that he's now to be a lord. It seems Magister Zaphon Sarrios desires an alliance and is willing to put in quite the effort."
All Ned could do was shake his head at the words. Had Littlefinger deceived them at that last council meeting? Or had the envoy changed his terms after hearing of Jon's ennoblement?
Why did neither possibility surprise him…
"All these talks are moot without Jon here," Ned deflated. He just hoped his boy was still safe, experience or not. "We have more pressing issues to discuss than some greedy Essosi Magisters."
"That is true. Let us speak more of the terms of enlistment and rewards that would pull the most able-bodied men towards the new Watch-"
Warg's Hold, Jon Snow
Some days, Jon felt adrift - as if he was lost, without a direction. He had done everything possible, and a few things thought impossible to bring the fight to the Others. Sure, it was far more successful than the previous time, and the wildlings were beginning to fight back, even after scattering through the far North. His own… tribe? Bannermen? Force? Clan? Vassals? In a true free folk fashion, neither felt genuinely fitting.
Regardless, Jon had a feeling of trepidation. He was no fool - what he was doing here could easily have far-reaching consequences if they managed to survive the onslaught of the Cold Shadows. Never before had the wildlings managed to unite in an actual cohesive, organised force under a single man. Hardhome, the previous wildlings kings - they were all a loose, desperate alliance that had broken apart at the first difficulty like an egg against a rock.
Warg's Hill, on the other hand, had given many of them a taste of discipline, of unity, of valuable tactical experience - things wildlings sorely lacked. All those who disliked such things had either left the budding town or died in the nightly expeditions, leaving only the hardened veterans able and willing to adapt behind. There was no telling how such a thing would play out, but Jon wasn't deluded enough to think there would be no consequences.
Especially with him leading this endeavour.
Was staying here and doing all of… this the right move?
No, the course was already set, and the time for doubts had passed. He shook his head, banishing away the errant thoughts - all meaningless assumptions if they failed to survive the Others.
"Another night with no fighting," Jon sighed as he rode Shadow through the gates, Val and Ghost on each side and the warband trailing behind in a loose line. The other groups that had gone out at night were also met with no foes in the dark.
His wife snorted. "You talk as if you want to fight the Cold Ones." The last few weeks had seen the spearwife finally tire, getting exhausted far more quickly than before. But despite his insistence on getting some rest, Val stubbornly tried to keep up with his pace with dogged determination.
Another nightly raid with no sight of any wights or Others - just like for the last moon. A joyous mood seems to have taken the bustling town - the sombre caution had slowly melted with warm weather and the lack of fighting. Some of the chieftains were happy, claiming the Others were defeated for good or had fled back into the Lands of Always Winter like cowardly curs. Thankfully, such foolish ideas were scant, unlike those who had begun to think of the icy foes as a dangerous annoyance at best.
The warm weather also made the surroundings flourish with lushness like never before, breathing life into the Haunted Forest.
However, Jon knew better - no summer lasted forever, and the Others were not so easily bested. A hundred Cold Ones slain was barely a part of what he had struggled against in his previous life.
Winter is coming.
"Aye, it's easier to fight a foe that you know on your terms. The Cold Shadows are not so easily vanquished; their absence means they have found easier targets or are considering other ways of attack."
His words made Val's gorgeous face twist in a grimace. This had been said to some chieftains and lesser leaders, but the days of peace and warmth seemed to slowly crumble their resolve to fight. Or some more foolish ones proposed venturing into the Land of Always Winter to try and hunt the Cold Gods…
All the more true, as Mag the Mighty requested a private meeting. The giants had always been content to do their own thing, and usually, Jon had to be the one to approach them with requests and tasks. Half an hour later, his raiders had disbanded, and Jon was in the small grove, facing the greying giant, only observed by a few dozen direwolves.
"We have to venture further and further every day to feed our mammoths," Mag the Mighty's guttural voice rumbled in the old tongue. "Some are refusing to eat bark any longer."
That was troublesome - a mammoth could eat over twenty stone of vegetation per day, and there was only so much grass, roots, shrubbery, and herbs to go around for over a hundred mammoths. The woolly behemoths ate the smaller vegetation faster than it could regrow, even with the warmer weather. Bark was far more abundant, but it was not the beasts' food of choice. If the mammoths refused to consume it…
"Would a bridge to the other bank of the Milkwater help?" The Old Tongue was coarse and harsh on the ears but something Jon had learned by necessity long ago. Truth be told, even this proposition was far-fetched - the other side was the outskirts of the Frostfangs, making it far more hilly, and the trees were far scarcer.
"Mayhaps. But five families want to leave back for the Thenn Valley with their mammoths."
"They are free to leave." So, the mammoths' lack of sustenance was just an excuse. But having some leaving would alleviate further trouble down the road. Food was a scarce resource Beyond the Wall.
Jon could bar those who desired to leave, but it would only create more woe. While giants had been helpful so far, it was more in construction, digging, and logging than anything else. Their poor vision and lack of agility made them unsuitable for his method of fighting the Others, especially in the dark. Not that he had not tried - but nearly a dozen men had been trampled in that particular battle, and the shield line had been broken with their fumbling, increasing the casualties even further.
And now that most of the construction and clearing efforts were complete, their presence wasn't as much of a boon as before.
15th Day of the 9th Moon
The Great Hall was crude but large enough to seat nearly two hundred men at the rough-hewn trestle tables. In fact, one could mistake the wildlings for a more civilised folk, as the leaders and chieftains had gathered around the high table. Jon was sitting at the head seat, Val to his left, with the other spearwives, Styr, Tormund and the rest to his right.
The spacious room had eight hearths, half of which were crackling with a ruddy fire.
"My warband got attacked last night," Blind Doss spoke up, grabbing the attention of everyone.
"You look no worse for wear," Devyn Sealskinner observed.
"Aye, none of mine died. 'Twas only three wights."
The words made everyone sombre, and any trace of cheer was gone.
"They are adapting," Jon said. "Looking for easy targets or testing the defences. Tormund?"
"Word has it, Harle n' his men have moved towards Hardhome," Giantsbane said, spitting a bone after devouring a roasted fish. "It's getting hard to track what happens to the other tribes and clans when they're so far apart, but I haven't heard o' any attacks."
With Redbeard at the mouth of the Antler River and Isryn going for the valley of the Thenns, most of Mance Rayder's army was now scattered across the Haunted Forest in groups big and small. But Jon's purpose had been achieved - while some died to the Others, they went down fighting.
All those tribes and clans gathered around the known obsidian deposits or searched for new ones.
"That means little," Soren Shieldbreaker leaned forward. "Could be that some clan got attacked, and none was close enough to even notice they're all dead."
Morna White Mask shuffled with unease. "Lerna and her ilk are moving down the Milkwater from the Giant's fist."
"She has grown daring to approach Warg's Fist," Styr said gruffly. "She took Lorn as a husband too, along with his tribe."
This was now the sixth husband the cannibal spearwife had taken, along with their clans and tribes. All those who opposed her were slaughtered and eaten. Such savagery was not a surprise; consuming human flesh was one of the less barbaric things commonly practised Beyond the Wall.
"I knew her old man, har. He barely had any wits to go by." Tormund burped and patted his bulging belly with satisfaction. "The lass will bite off more than she can chew, sooner or later, har!"
"Morna, send some hunters to keep an eye on Lerna and her movements," Jon ordered, and the masked spearwife nodded gravely.
All the meetings were much the same - nothing truly happened, and the Others had seemingly gone quiet. But at least those three wights reminded the chieftains of the looming death and darkness.
Things were deceptively calm now, but Jon had a looming feeling that a storm was approaching. Alas, there was not much he could do but wait and prepare. With the outer walls built and things organised, most of his days were spent mediating disputes, spars, and drilling.
But alas, nobody around could challenge him with a blade, and Jon found himself missing crossing swords with the Others. The harsh, keening cry when Valyrian Steel met their icy blades lit a fire in his veins and made him feel more alive than anything else.
As the sun hid behind the Frostfangs, Jon made his way to the grove that served as a Godswood. Every evening, Val would sit there on the bench, usually busying herself with something while waiting for him. The devotion not only made him feel warm, but Val's presence always soothed his weary mind and helped him to loosen up - be it sparring, fucking, bathing together or just talking where she would offer her support and insight into any things he could have missed.
It was everything Jon did not even know he wanted from marriage.
Yet, for the first time, Val was not waiting for him.
"Where's my wife?" Jon turned to Brightspot, the dark-furred Singer well-versed in healing and herbal remedies.
"Sister," she pointed with her hand toward Dalla's home. The words were queer and songlike but easy enough to understand. Some of the Singers had started speaking the common tongue, or at least a handful of words, but it was a slow thing. According to Leaf, their mouths were not made to produce the same sounds humans could, and it took a lot of time and effort to do so.
Dalla was easy to find - her home was a sizeable house built from crude logs. In hindsight, he could feel Ghost and half a dozen direwolves in that direction, and Val never remained without a shaggy retinue lately. Duncan and Jarod had made most of the house, and the young woods witch also used the common room downstairs for healing the wounded and the sick.
Just as he arrived, he could feel a cold dampness dance on his hair. Craning his neck to look up, Jon stilled as he noticed a snowflake dancing under the feeble wind. Another one followed, and before he could blink, the air was alive with snow, making him snort.
Winter is coming.
Shaking his head, Jon lifted the bearskin that covered the entrance and entered.
The insides were as crude and bare as expected, with scant few furnishings.
Val was sitting on a chair while Dalla fretted over her, making his insides twist into a knot with worry. Direwolves had lazily sprawled themselves over the floor like a colourful carpet of grey, brown, and black, with Ghost's enormous form looking more like a snow bear despite being curled just near Val.
"Is my wife ill?" He slowly approached, trying to get his turbulent emotions under control.
Dalla chuckled while Val glared at her sister. "Nay, not ill. But my stubborn mule of a sister seems to have gotten with child yet insists on playing spearwife still."
It took a good minute for his stunned mind to process the words spoken, during which his wife was looking at him expectantly. Yet despite the roiling mix of happiness, trepidation, and surprise, all that left his mouth was an "Oh."
Oberyn Martell
King's Landing's chaotic nights were finally stomped out by the new Commander of the Gold Cloaks. Marcher Lords were not to be underestimated, as any Dornishman knew all too well. And Balon Swann seemed to be an exemplary specimen - not even two days after taking up his position, half the captains had been arrested for corruption, bribery, extortion, and even murder and rape.
Riots were quickly dispersed, leaving many bruised and bloodied; lootings and burnings were met with swift retaliation, and worse, now Oberyn could no longer enjoy the illegal naked brawls or drunken horse races.
And while the city's streets had finally been put under order, the rumours indicated the court was filled with turmoil.
"The North sounds like an interesting place to visit," he murmured thoughtfully.
Ellaria, however, managed to overhear from the bed and groaned. "It snows in the damned summer, Oberyn."
"We've yet to see the Wall or Winterfell, love. I keep hearing the most fascinating tales from that place."
"It's hard to have fun when you're wrapped in many layers of wool and fur," she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Besides, I wouldn't call ice men or walking corpses fun. Magic is always dangerous, the ancient things even more so."
"We'll have all the time in the world to decide after the tourney," Oberyn waved away her concerns. Snow had been a rare sight for him, despite his travels, and now that the thought was stuck in his mind, Oberyn couldn't get it out.
Despite their gruffness, the Northmen held onto the customs of olde, so the Red Viper didn't think there would be any trouble for him in the North. And if they didn't seem very worried about old wives' tales coming back to life, why should Oberyn fret about it?
A knock on the door heralded the arrival of Nymeria.
"Where is your older sister?"
"Fooling around with some pretty boy from the Vale," she smirked, making him nod approvingly. Finally, Obara could release her pent-up frustration the proper way. "I finally managed to find out."
Oberyn lifted his wineskin and took a small sip, rolling the bitter liquid around his tongue. "Well then, don't keep us waiting!"
His daughter took the pitcher on the varnished table and directly took a generous gulp.
"The Mountain is barred by a royal order from entering the melee after killing too many opponents," Nymeria reported, dark cheeks now reddening.
"A pity, but the joust would have to do," Oberyn murmured.
Even getting his hands on Lorch would satisfy him at this point. Anything was better than waiting.
"That was far from the most interesting word on the streets, though," Nymeria took another generous gulp from the pitcher as Oberyn stretched lazily and clasped the belt around his waist. "Some talk problems in Essos between the Red Priests. And the Night's Watch has secured itself two town charters, it seems."
Ellaria finally stirred from the silken sheets and stretched like a cat, revealing her sensual curves. "Oh, and what would men who had sworn off marriage and children do with a town, let alone two?"
"Celibate no longer, it seems." Nymeria looked away in annoyance at the display of his lover. Sadly, his daughter lacked his appreciation for the more sensual beauty of a woman's body. "The black brothers can now marry, and the service is no longer for life, too!"
"Have you been drinking in the morning, Nym?" Oberyn coughed, looking at his daughter, who was chugging away the cask of wine without a care in the world. The Watch had remained unchanged for millennia, and the order had been the same while the Valyrians had been just a bunch of sheepherders in the Lands of Always Summer.
Nymeria stopped drinking, smacked her lips and glared at him. "I know what I heard!"
Indeed, he knew his daughter well enough, and she was not jesting…
Yet, the words that had come out of her mouth sounded so fantastical that Oberyn struggled to find his words for a good minute. His paramour, however, managed to gather her bearing far quicker.
"Still, I doubt many would desire to spend too long on a literal block of ice, royal endorsement or not," Ellaria snorted.
"You'd be surprised," Oberyn murmured numbly, heading for the door. "Many a man are in search of a purpose, but swearing off women does not appeal to them. The Watch might have lost most of its prestige, but it has a storied history. Where did you say this crier was, Nym?"
"I've heard one in almost every square. They are hard to miss…"
"Don't tell me you're interested in joining the Watch, now?" Elaria stood up, stark naked, and draped herself over him.
"It certainly wouldn't hurt to hear for myself." Oberyn pulled her into a deep kiss before disentangling himself from her nimble limbs.
After pulling up his boots and putting his spare daggers within, he left the brothel and walked up to the Silk Square. Everywhere he passed, there was talk of the Watch. Oberyn heard it even before he arrived, and the crowd had clogged the cobbled streets even thicker than usual.
"Hear ye, hear ye!" The crier's voice rose above the excited chatter. "Let all the people gather 'round for tidings of great import grace our ears this morn! By the decree of Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men, be it known to all the subjects that the Night's Watch, that stalwart brotherhood sworn to guard the realms of men, is now endorsed and champion by our beloved sovereign and the Lord Hand. By the order of His Grace and the Lord Hand, Eddard Stark, no longer are the brave men of the Watch required to foreswear women and children upon joining-"
The crier was drowned out by the commotion, as everyone seemed so damn excited all of a sudden. Oberyn couldn't help but feel his own spirits uplifted - change was always interesting if nothing else. Maybe there was some truth to those rumours about dark things stirring beyond the Wall.
Oberyn no longer tried to make his way forward and decided to listen to all those men chatting with excitement instead.
"-I heard after twenty years of service, and you get a nice plot 'o land."
"Bah, what use is good land when it's all covered in snow? Sides, even if you retire on a farm, you can still be levied under Lord Commander's summons."
"Ye fool, the Northmen grow crops easily enough. 'Sides, I'm sick o' drowning in my sweat 'n you get to see some fightin' and kill some savages and icemen."
"Eryk claims the Commanders still have to swear off women to lead, though."
"So what? It's not like a lug like you could ever get elected-"
Anywhere Oberyn went, he could hear the cries shouting themselves hoarse, announcing the overly lengthy decree for all to hear or folk discussing it with excitement.
"The Night's Watch, that ancient and honourable brotherhood, seeks stalwart men of courage and conviction to join their storied ranks to stand as the shield that guards the realms of men-"
The change was bold and daring, but whoever made it was thorough - Oberyn couldn't find any problems. The best aspects of the Ghiscari iron legions of yore had been borrowed, and with time, the Watch would doubtlessly turn into a well-trained war machine if it managed to recruit the numbers. And the overly generous royal endorsement of the reigning king on such a scale had never happened before.
"Let it be known that all those who join the Watch under the banner of Good King Robert shall receive a blessing of the crown for their service-"
Despite being a drunken lech, Robert's generosity was well-known far and wide, and the masses loved him. Even more so, with the Iron Throne championing the Watch, many would flock to its black banners, especially with the old vows discarded.
Oberyn found that even the notion of joining the Watch appealed to him somehow. Taking the black still washed away crimes and debts, but the bigger the debt or the worse the crime - the longer one had to serve in the new auxiliary order with the rest of the outlaws.
Author's Endnote:
Lots of stuff happens. The plots go deep and thick in the viper's nest and are not so easy to uncover. The Tourney is looming on the horizon, and the Night's Watch reform comes like thunder out of the blue sky.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where you can read ahead or simply come chat or ask me or others some questions.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where you can read ahead or simply come chat or ask me or others some questions.
"Sooo how many years for killing the Mountain, and/or Amory Lorch, and/or Tywin Lannister..."
"Oberyn, no."
"Oberyn, yes!"
I've binge read this awesome work of fiction and boy oh boy is it awesome. It's time travel done absolutely freaking right and it just develops into this utterly different retelling rather than reheating the same pot of soup, combined with the solid writing this has been an absolute joy to read.
42-A Brief Respite
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.
Edited by: Void Uzumaki, Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
21st Day of the 9th Moon
The Hand of the King
Ned did not think it possible, but the heat had gotten even more unbearable, with the city overflowing with people. It was as if the thousands of visitors brought the heat and damp humidity from their homes. Even the shade provided scarce relief, and he felt like he was swimming in his sweat.
Aside from the heat, things were mostly going well.
The first day of the tourney saw Gorlon Pyke clinching victory at the axe-throwing, and Rogar Wull won the log-tossing, each earning ten thousand dragons as the victor's purse. It was to be as expected since both men were raised from childhood on the exercise, even if it wasn't for a tournament.
The return of old, discarded games had attracted a handful of errant Ironborn from the nearby waters. Even the crowds loved the previously unseen games. Tyrion seemed confident to recoup the coin spent on the overly generous awards by the end, but the opulent spending still grated on Ned.
Even the evening feast had easily been more gaudy and sumptuous than what Ned toiled hard to offer in the North for the royal visit and Robb's wedding. This was just the first evening, and it had cost thousands of dragons already! It was clear how the Crown had gotten into such heavy debt, and any doubt about Robert's part in it had evaporated.
Worse, talking about any restraint with Robert was like pouring water into a broken bucket - any concerns were laughed away with 'Who cares about copper counting, Ned!'
While that left a sour taste in his mouth, things were not so terrible. Everything went surprisingly smoothly once he decided to put all his efforts into finishing his reform. Robert did not bother with the matter except heavily endorsing it as promised. Though the reception was greater than he had imagined…
On the second morning, a surprising visitor came just before Ned broke his fast. Unlike most of the scheming Southron nobility, he let Vayon know that any of his bannermen could visit him freely, and so could the Old Bear. While none of the Northern lords had made an appearance, King's Landing was full of cousins, second and third sons, old uncles, and a handful of unimportant heirs, all here in silent support and to grab whatever coin and prestige they could from the tourney.
The former Lord of Bear Isle was a frequent visitor who often came over to discuss different aspects of the reforms. But since they had been officially announced, Mormont had not come over, quite possibly busy dealing with the hefty aftermath.
They settled in the private audience chamber, but the old Mormont politely declined the offer of refreshments.
"How may I be of assistance, Jeor?"
"You've done more than enough, Lord Stark," the old Lord Commander smiled. His usually tired, dark eyes shone with warmth and hope. "I have decided to return to the Wall post-haste." That would explain the black travel cloak Mormont had donned.
"House Stark has always been a friend to the Watch." Ned nodded solemnly.
"That it has, although… I could use some help shipping those recruits." Mormont held a stoic face for a moment before crumbling into a bellyful of disbelieving laughter, tears streaming through his wrinkled cheeks. "A thousand volunteers in a sennight, Ned. A thousand."
And that was just volunteers; there were over two hundred thieves, poachers, and all sorts of lawbreakers that had expressed a desire to take the black, now that it was not for life. Even though the newly formed fourth order, temporarily named the Provisional Reserve, would take in all the men on the wrong side of the law and squeeze them for any worth they had until their sentence had taken its course. The decision to separate the scum from the rest had come after a lot of deliberation - many did not want to serve side by side with murderers, rapers, and thieves even after the pardons, brotherhood or not. And this was just King's Landing; ravens had been sent to every corner of the realm, carrying the royal decree.
And it seemed like it had paid off.
Even without the lawbreakers, the interest was so high that Jeor had decided to permanently station one of the rangers, Jafer Flowers, here as a recruiter. Ned had graciously arranged for a suitable property where such activity could be arranged - there were very few doors left unopened for the King's Hand within the city. Two other such chapters were to be established - in White Harbour and Wintertown. Perhaps he could wrangle with Tywin to allow one such in Lannisport? And Hoster or Edmure for one near Riverrun or Fairmarket.
And Gods, for the first time, the Lord of Winterfell felt that his efforts here were finally paying off. His main worry, his main reason for braving the snake den, had finally been fulfilled. The royal decree announcing the Watch's reform was showing better results than he could have ever imagined, and this had been based solely on King's Landing. Even now, ravens were flying to every corner of the realm with the word of the reform and a hefty royal endorsement.
Now, Ned could pour his efforts into helping Robert wrangle with the mess that was the court and city.
The relief was almost blissful, and the Lord of Winterfell could scarcely stop smiling. "I'll let Wylis lend you three of his galleys. I'll even do you one better and negotiate with a few seafaring houses to see if a deal can be brokered for further assistance."
"Aye, it would do for now. Lord Tyrion proposed a clever trick to lure in merchants, and Cotter's ships will hopefully be able to handle the east coast. Regardless, I'll figure something out. Gods, how long has it been since the Watch had such royal favour?" Jeor shook his wizened head in wonder.
"Three hundred years." Both of them grimaced at the words. While peace had played a role, House Targaryen's attitude towards the Watch slowly eroded the ancient order's foundations. Royal contempt was an insidious thing that could not be fought.
"Well then, a lot of work awaits." Jeor thoughtfully ran a hand through his white beard. "I never thought I would have more men than I know what to do with, hah! But that's not why I came here."
Mormont gingerly placed the all-too-familiar elongated fur wrap on his empty desk.
"The sword?" The crunching of ice as he carefully unwrapped it confirmed Ned's suspicion as the crystalline blade instantly spread a welcome chill in the sweltering air.
"Keep it, Lord Stark. You'll need it far more than the Watch in this wretched city. Only my First Ranger could wield it, but he already has Longclaw.
This had brought Ned great relief; his younger brother was a better sword than he was, and a Valyrian Steel blade would only make Benjen far more dangerous. Jeor had a point. A blade such as this could prove the difference between life and death, especially since Ned had left Ice to Robb, and the crystalline blade was a longsword - precisely what he favoured.
"Thank you." He accepted the blade, running his fingers through the handle, the chill tingling pleasantly through his skin. The hilt fit perfectly in his palm as he grasped it gently as if it were made for him to wield. The balance and weight were slightly different from what he was used to, but that was nothing some practice would not solve.
And last but not least, the cool emanating from the crystalline sword was refreshing. It reminded Ned of the North; even the drowsy Winter seemed to perk up in its presence.
Gods, could he use this to banish the uncomfortable heat from his chambers at night?
23rd Day of the 9th Moon
On the second day, Ben Burley, a distant cousin to the current Burley chieftain, won the archery, leaving the exiled prince Jalabhar and Anguy from the Dornish marches in the runner-up positions. Too many had signed up, eager for the horse-racing competition or the ten thousand dragons winner's purse, making the games stretch for a second day.
The herald's mouth had gone dry halfway through the morning as he had to announce over half a thousand participants from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
At least today was easier on the man. The contestants had been reduced to three score, and by now were down to a dozen - Oberyn Martell, Patrek Mallister, Rickard Ryswell, Loras Tyrell, Lothor Brune, a Bracken bastard and a handful of less important knights hailing from the Crownlands, Reach, and Westerlands.
The difference between North and South was finally on full display, along with everything Ned misliked. The overflowing pageantry and useless opulence were almost blinding, as everyone had done their best to look like some sort of peacock. And it wasn't even the joust yet! Looking at the cumbersome, almost impractical attire, Ned was reminded of his distaste at such a blatant yet ultimately useless display of supposed wealth. Only the gods knew how many fools were left with an empty pouch to find the most gaudy armour and attire.
Yet even at a time like this, schemes were still going. Lysa Arryn had forbidden the Knights of the Vale to attend, though it had not stopped Yohn Royce and his eldest son. Such a gesture only made his distrust of his good sister grow, especially when Yohn told him Lysa appeared even more distraught over the death of her foster brother than her husband.
Gods, the more he stayed around, the more he loathed the South and its petty games.
Whatever alliance had been forged between Houses Arryn, Stark, and Tully seemed broken. Or, well, most of it, Edmure Tully had arrived with a hefty retinue of Riverlanders and had come over on arrival, promising Ned his full support. Good lad, though he wondered why Hoster had left his heir remain unwed for so long - Edmure was just a year shy of thirty now.
Gods, he was even politicking in his mind now!
Shaking his head, Ned took stock of the tourney grounds, Tommen's golden mop of hair easy to spot amidst the crowd. The young prince had been entrusted with squiring duties for Walder so he could get a closer taste of the tourney. The stands were filled to the brim and some more, and the royal box was no different. Lord Tyrell, all plump and gaudy, had arrived with his daughter and second son. The last he had seen of the lord of Highgarden, he had looked like a knight of tales, strong, fit, and chivalrous. Now, Mace Tyrell seemed to have indulged in a few feasts too many - his rotund figure reminded Ned of Wylis Manderly.
Only Greyjoy, Arryn, and Martell were absent from the Great Houses, and the latter only because Oberyn was on the lists.
"How about a friendly bet?" Renly's bored drawl interrupted the silence as the contestants started racing through the track.
"A hundred dragons on my brother," Tyrion replied boldly. "Who are you betting on, my lord?"
"My former squire is the finest rider I have seen. A hundred on Loras."
"Patrek Mallister will win," Edmure scoffed, joining the bet.
Mace Tyrell, sitting right next to Ned, did not want to be left behind and slapped his bulging belly, laughing. "Another hundred on my son! Lord Hand, care to join us?"
All the gamblers looked at him expectantly while Robert snorted with amusement. At moments like this, he envied Winter, who had remained away at the Tower of the Hand, napping through the scathing heat. Alas, the direwolf's presence scared almost all the horses in his vicinity, which would ruin the race.
"I don't bet." Like he would fall for this fool's errand to risk his coin on meaningless trifles.
Still, if not for the Red Viper, he thought Rickard Ryswell would have won with his steed. The Northern horses were bred and trained to traverse all sorts of rough terrain, which the obstacles were supposed to simulate. Alas, the Martell prince had brought the finest sand steed Ned had seen - a beautiful stallion as black as the night sky with a dark crimson mane and tail that took to the track with ease. While the Dornish horses were smaller and would struggle to bear the weight of heavy armour, they were far more agile, quick, and tireless.
The steed of the sole hedge knight left in the race failed to jump high enough over one of the obstacles, and he toppled down, momentum sending it sprawling through the dirt while the rider was still strapped in. When they stopped, the man's limbs, including his neck, were all bent at a wrong angle. Even the horse was crippled, whining piteously in pain.
"A pity," Renly sighed with faux regret while a handful of ladies in the crowd shrieked and gasped in surprise; a few outright fainted, though Ned wasn't sure if it was from the heat or the blood.
"Lord Stark," Mace Tyrell said as a few servants hastily carried the corpse away, and the fallen horse was put down. "I heard your daughter is a vision of grace and beauty. The tales of her loveliness had spread far and wide all the way to Highgarden. Her presence here would have been well-welcomed."
The Lord of Winterfell barely managed to suppress his sigh. This suspiciously sounded like another marriage proposal…
"It might be so," Ned grudgingly replied. "But my son, Brandon, passed away recently. I could not, in good conscience, take away any more children from my Lady Wife, even if temporary."
"Understandable," the Lord of Highgarden nodded solemnly. If nothing else, the jovial man had offered genuine condolences for his son's death when they met before the games, something which almost no other Southron lords had even bothered doing. "Lady Sansa's hand is unpromised, is it not?"
There it was, the marriage proposal. Despite the quiet tone of the conversation, the Northern lord felt the royal box was listening with rapt attention. Everyone but Robert, who was fully focused on the race below, Oberyn Martell, had gained the lead. Had the sly Lord of Highgarden chosen this place for his query deliberately? Ned suppressed his annoyance and admitted it was a brilliant move, done in the open so no one could accuse Mace Tyrell of underhanded scheming.
"Indeed," he confirmed. "Yet I am not looking for a match for my children. They are still too young, and such decisions require careful consideration."
"Too young for marriage, but perhaps a simple arrangement?" The Reachman inclined his head. "My heir, Willas Tyrell, is a man of gentle disposition and noble character."
"And a cripple," Tyrion murmured, but loudly enough for all to hear. Edmure struggled to hold his laughter from the side and started coughing instead. While Robert's attention was on the race, the Queen snickered, covering her face with a dainty pale palm.
Tyrell's face reddened, but he quickly calmed down as his son Garlan placed a steady hand on his elbow. "His leg might be lame, but his heart is golden, Lord Tyrion."
"Let us not be too hasty, Lord Tyrell," Ned placated. "Yet if you are insistent on such a match, I shall give you the same response everyone else received. Willas is welcome to visit Winterfell, so my daughter and wife can meet him in person. Any further talks are moot if neither take a liking to each other."
He was well aware a cripple like Willas Tyrell would have great difficulty travelling to Winterfell, but Mace Tyrell had no grounds even to feel offended, and the twisted grimace on his face showed that the Lord of Highgarden was well aware of the fact.
In truth, Mace's plan had been quite boldly open. A marriage between Sansa and Willas would be an easy entry into the alliance of five houses propping up Robert's rule. Ned knew his daughter would love the lush and beautiful lands of the Reach and the gaudy white walls of Highgarden - a dream come true.
Yet, House Tyrell was too ambitious for his liking. Worse, while Mace Tyrell looked like a jovial, straightforward man, Ned knew he was not without his cunning. Using his honour and joviality outspokenly made far too many underestimate him, but almost every step Tyrell took felt carefully calculated. One look at the crown prince told Ned everything he needed to know; Margaery Tyrell was already cosying up with Joffrey, giggling at something he had said, even if her eyes were not laughing. Judging by the two blazing emeralds glaring daggers at the Golden Rose of Highgarden, the Queen had also noticed it.
No, none of Ned's children would cross south of the Neck to be used as potential hostages against him.
The rest of the race saw the royal box sink into a comfortable silence, with Edmure and Tyrion exchanging the occasional lighthearted jape. Apparently, they had hit it off well during Robb's wedding.
Predictably, Oberyn Martell won the horserace, much to the disappointment of the gamblers.
24th Day of the 9th Moon
Renly Baratheon
Sipping on his cup of Arbour Gold, Renly couldn't help but lament. The tourney was going well enough; today had been the first part of the joust, and Loras' performance was stellar, named Knight of Flowers by the cheering crowd. The youngest knight remaining on the list with a good chance of clinching victory.
But everything else was wrong, so wrong.
As he had hoped, Ser Balon Swann had done stellar work as commander of the gold cloaks, finally putting some order in the accursed city. But the marcher knight was distant to Renly's advances - he had spewed some horse-dung about honour and duty, saying he was loyal to the King and only the King.
The Hand had finally forced Stannis to resign from his post as master of ships, and the royal fleet had returned to the docks, uselessly waiting for a new commander. Any lingering doubts that something was afoot were dispelled - his dour yet dutiful to a fault brother would rather lose control of his lauded fleet than return to the city! Robert had declined any man Renly offered for the post, which meant that Cersei or Stark would manage to get one of theirs assigned.
Margaery Tyrell was not trying to woo Robert as planned. Instead, she was circling like a graceful swan, vying for Joffrey's attention, like the myriad of maidens brought here by their brothers and fathers. Worse, the Lord of Highgarden happily chatted with Eddard Stark, seemingly discussing the Watch and Willas' future trip to Winterfell.
Even Loras was sitting beside his elder brother, Garlan, looking rather sullen. His lover had tried to convince his family, but they would not hear a word of it. When Loras said Stark was scheming with Cersei Lannister, Mace Tyrell laughed so hard that he almost choked for breath.
Why did nobody see it!? The honour and duty were just a facade; beneath, the Lord of Winterfell had a heart blacker than the foundations of the Hightower!
Last, Hugh of the Vale, Jon Arryn's squire and the final remaining member of his retinue in the city, died to Clegane's lance in today's joust before Loras could cajole anything out of him. Cersei's doing, no doubt, tying up loose ends. Meanwhile, Robert was roaring with jubilation while drowning himself in wine without a single care, as he always did. Cersei sat beside him, her green eyes full of schemes.
Renly just took another sip of wine and closed his eyes, trying to figure out a plan to thwart the growing Stark and Lannister influence.
"No!" His brother's voice thundered, drowning all the chatter and the bards, immediately stopping their performance. Robert had stood up, swaying from too much drink, face reddened, glaring at his wife. "You do not tell me what to do, woman!" Renly would be far happier at such a quarrel if the Queen did not look like a proud statue clad in gold and crimson. "I am the king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!"
Everyone stared in grave silence, only interrupted by his brother's angry heaving. Renly remained in his seat, unmoving like the rest; the court knew not to cross Robert Baratheon in his wroth.
Cersei's face looked so cold that it could have been a mask hewn from ice, but Renly was not deceived. She stood up, gathered her skirts, and just before she stormed off, a tinge of satisfaction flashed in her eyes, confirming his suspicions. Something was amiss. Even the Kingslayer got pushed away, stumbling back and falling from a single shove, "The great knight, pah. One push, and you're in the dirt with the rest o' them!" Robert's words had begun to slur drunkenly. "Give me my hammer, and no man in the realm can stand before me!"
Lannister stood up and bowed his head stiffly, muttering some agreement. Renly would come and try to placate his brother with more wine, but he was not feeling like it - not with the cold chills crawling up his spine. He excused himself, making his way out of the Great Hall, but not before making a sign at Loras. Twenty minutes later, they met in his manse on the outskirts of Aegon's hill.
"What is it, Renly?" Loras hugged him, slightly tipsy, his soft curls messy.
"Cersei is plotting something again." He exhaled, pushing down the sense of trepidation. "I don't like it."
That sobered up his young lover quickly, and his slackened face was twisted in a grimace. "The melee? Surely, the king won't go off fighting because of some drunken boasts?"
"You don't know my brother, Loras - he never backs down from a challenge, spoken in drunken bravado or not. Robert will remember on the morrow and would not back down." Renly crumpled on the nearby chair, feeling wrung out from all the scheming. "Cersei knows this and goaded him."
However, the young Knight of Flowers did not give up, "But who would dare strike their king in the melee?" Gods, some days Renly forgot how young and naive Loras still was - a boy on the cusp of manhood who did not know how deep the viper's den went. It was that sense of righteous innocence that had lit the flames of passion.
"House Lannister does not lack for friends. Gods know Stark does not either." His lover's face scrunched up in thought, and the Lord of Storm's End poured himself a cup of wine from the pitcher on the nearby table and emptied it in one breath.
"Surely the kingsguard will defend His Grace in the fight?"
Renly scoffed. "Who? The Queen's brother? Greenfield? Cersei has sunk her claws in all of them. All but Selmy, who has only signed up for the lists"
"But… to kill His Grace in the melee?"
Renly took a generous gulp of wine from the pitcher as he tasted the words in his mind. Truth be told, he did not think Cersei this bold, but he had been wrong before.
"People die in tourneys all the time - we already have three dead in this one." The more Renly thought about it, the more it made sense. Who would say a thing when Robert fell in the melee? His royal brother had not even swung a sword or hammer in years, and many a man died in every tourney; it would easily look like a mishap.
"But… there are nearly a thousand contestants signed up for it - we don't even know which bracket His Grace will enter." Loras' words made him grimace. He had almost forgotten the absurd number of men who had signed up for the melee, even after the Imp had decided to charge two golden dragons' entry fee. "We don't even know who would be the Queen's men, and I can hardly protect the king when I did not sign for the melee."
His lover had decided to save his strength for the joust and joust alone - where all the glory was. While Loras was good enough with a sword, many were far better and stronger than him because of age and experience - his strength lay with horseriding and the lance.
Alas, that left him in a conundrum.
"But that also means Cersei knows not."
Renly clenched the pitcher in thought. Despite his misgivings about the Queen, the lioness was a cunning and intelligent shrew. What would he do in her boots?
Cersei would not use her men for this. Nor did she need to, as many hedge knights or Crownlanders loitering in the feasts or parade grounds would be happy to do it. Far too many men would take Lannister gold to kill their own mothers, let alone the king.
Plans spun in his head. Just as Cersei could have men to make trouble, others could be convinced to guard his royal brother's back. It would require some subtlety, but it was not impossible.
25th Day of the 9th Moon
Robert Baratheon
His patience was dwindling as the two useless golden-haired shits could not even help him don his armour properly.
"Your Grace," Lancel said, looking like a babe about to cry. "It's made too small, it won't fit!" With a fumble, the steel gorget he was trying to fit around his neck dropped to the ground.
"Seven hells," he roared at the two useless cravens, who jumped like some skittish deer. "Piss on both of you, can't even put a man's armour on properly. Squires, they say. Pah, I say they're swineherds dressed up in silk!"
"The lads are not at fault." Robert turned around only to see a tired Ned accompanied by Selmy. "You're too fat for your armour, Robert."
He dared?!
The king emptied his horn of beer and angrily tossed it on the sleeping furs. "Fat? Is that how you speak to your king?!" Ned nodded, gravely serious, and Robert couldn't help but guffaw. "Damn you, Ned. Why are you always right?!" Even the squires were smiling nervously, the golden shits. "You," he rounded on them, making them jump nervously again. Gods, he could not have found more spineless chits in the whole realm, even if he tried. "Yes, both of you. You heard the Hand - the King is too fat for his armour. Go find Ser Aron Santagar and tell him I need the breastplate stretcher. Now, damn you! What are you waiting for?"
The two squires fumbled out of the tent, tripping over each other. Robert barely managed to keep his laughter in, but as soon as they were out of sight, he dropped back on his chair and roared with laughter. Even Selmy and Ned let out a chuckle - it was a good thing to see the North had not frozen all the cheer in his friend.
"Ah, I wish to be there to see Santagar's face," the King snorted.
Ned shook his head with amusement before his face turned as severe as a storm. "Word is you're trying to fight in the melee, Robert?"
"Not you too, Ned," he groused. At least he had not mentioned his quarrel with Cersei last night. The damned shrew was hiding in the castle now, too scared to show her face. He'd show her the Demon of the Trident could still fight!
"It's unbecoming of a king to take part in the games," his friend persisted, eyes filled with concern.
"Even the king is a man, like every other." Robert slammed on his chest. "And like all the other men, I have needs, damn it. A gulp of wine in my throat, a squealing maiden in my bed, and a mighty steed beneath my legs." Ned did not let up his stern look. How was it that his friend could still shame him with just a glance as if they were both still children? "Seven hells, Ned. I just want to hit someone!"
"Your Grace," Barristan sighed, face weary, "who would dare strike you in the melee?"
"Why, all of them, damn it! If they can. And the last man left standing…"
"...will be you," Ned finished for him, face gravely serious. "Ser Barristan is right - no man would dare risk the royal ire by striking you."
The truth rang in his words, but Robert was unwilling. He wanted to smash something with his warhammer, to hear the crunch as the armour folded and bones broke beneath his might. "Are you telling me those prancing cravens will let me win?"
Ned nodded solemnly, and Selmy bowed his head in silent accord.
They dared… they dared!
Robert's hands grabbed his damned breastplate, grown too small for his mighty frame, and hurled it at Selmy, who dodged deftly. He wanted nothing more than to grab his warhammer and start swinging at all those fools outside. All of them would fall to his fury!
But what use would it be when all of them ran away like cravens, refusing to give him a proper fight?
Others take them all!
"Out," he spat coldly, his blood raging like a storm. "Out before I kill you!" Selmy fled like a scared doe, and Ned hesitantly turned around to leave. Ah, Ned, his dear and most loyal friend, who had been with him through thick and thin. Ned who would speak the truth, no matter how little one wanted to hear it. Ned, who Robert brought here to do just those two things. "Not you, Ned."
They were supposed to have fun together, just like the good old times. Yet his friend was always busy with this and that, ruling, just like Jon Arryn had been.
Robert grabbed his horn, wheeled around to fill it with beer from the barrel in the corner, and shoved it into Ned's hands. "Drink."
To his surprise, his friend chuckled and took a generous swig before belching with a grimace.
"You know, Robert, if your blood is still running hot, why not partake in the boulder lifting?"
"Bah, you say that as if the fools won't let me win anyway," Robert groused, slumping defeated in his chair, rueing the day he foolishly decided to claim the Iron Throne. Alas, to be foolish enough to curse himself with a crown!
"It is one thing to strike the king, another to test their mettle against him in a context of strength," Ned said with a wise nod and took another swig of beer.
Robert stilled. It was true, was it not?
Ned could not lie even to save his honour - even now, his face was the picture of earnest honesty.
"Fine," Robert grabbed another horn of ale and filled it before taking a swig. It was not the same as fighting, but it was better than sitting around. Perhaps this would finally get his blood running with excitement again. "I ought to show those prancing cravens who the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms is!"
Author's Endnote:
Edited by: Void Uzumaki, Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
21st Day of the 9th Moon
The Hand of the King
Ned did not think it possible, but the heat had gotten even more unbearable, with the city overflowing with people. It was as if the thousands of visitors brought the heat and damp humidity from their homes. Even the shade provided scarce relief, and he felt like he was swimming in his sweat.
Aside from the heat, things were mostly going well.
The first day of the tourney saw Gorlon Pyke clinching victory at the axe-throwing, and Rogar Wull won the log-tossing, each earning ten thousand dragons as the victor's purse. It was to be as expected since both men were raised from childhood on the exercise, even if it wasn't for a tournament.
The return of old, discarded games had attracted a handful of errant Ironborn from the nearby waters. Even the crowds loved the previously unseen games. Tyrion seemed confident to recoup the coin spent on the overly generous awards by the end, but the opulent spending still grated on Ned.
Even the evening feast had easily been more gaudy and sumptuous than what Ned toiled hard to offer in the North for the royal visit and Robb's wedding. This was just the first evening, and it had cost thousands of dragons already! It was clear how the Crown had gotten into such heavy debt, and any doubt about Robert's part in it had evaporated.
Worse, talking about any restraint with Robert was like pouring water into a broken bucket - any concerns were laughed away with 'Who cares about copper counting, Ned!'
While that left a sour taste in his mouth, things were not so terrible. Everything went surprisingly smoothly once he decided to put all his efforts into finishing his reform. Robert did not bother with the matter except heavily endorsing it as promised. Though the reception was greater than he had imagined…
On the second morning, a surprising visitor came just before Ned broke his fast. Unlike most of the scheming Southron nobility, he let Vayon know that any of his bannermen could visit him freely, and so could the Old Bear. While none of the Northern lords had made an appearance, King's Landing was full of cousins, second and third sons, old uncles, and a handful of unimportant heirs, all here in silent support and to grab whatever coin and prestige they could from the tourney.
The former Lord of Bear Isle was a frequent visitor who often came over to discuss different aspects of the reforms. But since they had been officially announced, Mormont had not come over, quite possibly busy dealing with the hefty aftermath.
They settled in the private audience chamber, but the old Mormont politely declined the offer of refreshments.
"How may I be of assistance, Jeor?"
"You've done more than enough, Lord Stark," the old Lord Commander smiled. His usually tired, dark eyes shone with warmth and hope. "I have decided to return to the Wall post-haste." That would explain the black travel cloak Mormont had donned.
"House Stark has always been a friend to the Watch." Ned nodded solemnly.
"That it has, although… I could use some help shipping those recruits." Mormont held a stoic face for a moment before crumbling into a bellyful of disbelieving laughter, tears streaming through his wrinkled cheeks. "A thousand volunteers in a sennight, Ned. A thousand."
And that was just volunteers; there were over two hundred thieves, poachers, and all sorts of lawbreakers that had expressed a desire to take the black, now that it was not for life. Even though the newly formed fourth order, temporarily named the Provisional Reserve, would take in all the men on the wrong side of the law and squeeze them for any worth they had until their sentence had taken its course. The decision to separate the scum from the rest had come after a lot of deliberation - many did not want to serve side by side with murderers, rapers, and thieves even after the pardons, brotherhood or not. And this was just King's Landing; ravens had been sent to every corner of the realm, carrying the royal decree.
And it seemed like it had paid off.
Even without the lawbreakers, the interest was so high that Jeor had decided to permanently station one of the rangers, Jafer Flowers, here as a recruiter. Ned had graciously arranged for a suitable property where such activity could be arranged - there were very few doors left unopened for the King's Hand within the city. Two other such chapters were to be established - in White Harbour and Wintertown. Perhaps he could wrangle with Tywin to allow one such in Lannisport? And Hoster or Edmure for one near Riverrun or Fairmarket.
And Gods, for the first time, the Lord of Winterfell felt that his efforts here were finally paying off. His main worry, his main reason for braving the snake den, had finally been fulfilled. The royal decree announcing the Watch's reform was showing better results than he could have ever imagined, and this had been based solely on King's Landing. Even now, ravens were flying to every corner of the realm with the word of the reform and a hefty royal endorsement.
Now, Ned could pour his efforts into helping Robert wrangle with the mess that was the court and city.
The relief was almost blissful, and the Lord of Winterfell could scarcely stop smiling. "I'll let Wylis lend you three of his galleys. I'll even do you one better and negotiate with a few seafaring houses to see if a deal can be brokered for further assistance."
"Aye, it would do for now. Lord Tyrion proposed a clever trick to lure in merchants, and Cotter's ships will hopefully be able to handle the east coast. Regardless, I'll figure something out. Gods, how long has it been since the Watch had such royal favour?" Jeor shook his wizened head in wonder.
"Three hundred years." Both of them grimaced at the words. While peace had played a role, House Targaryen's attitude towards the Watch slowly eroded the ancient order's foundations. Royal contempt was an insidious thing that could not be fought.
"Well then, a lot of work awaits." Jeor thoughtfully ran a hand through his white beard. "I never thought I would have more men than I know what to do with, hah! But that's not why I came here."
Mormont gingerly placed the all-too-familiar elongated fur wrap on his empty desk.
"The sword?" The crunching of ice as he carefully unwrapped it confirmed Ned's suspicion as the crystalline blade instantly spread a welcome chill in the sweltering air.
"Keep it, Lord Stark. You'll need it far more than the Watch in this wretched city. Only my First Ranger could wield it, but he already has Longclaw.
This had brought Ned great relief; his younger brother was a better sword than he was, and a Valyrian Steel blade would only make Benjen far more dangerous. Jeor had a point. A blade such as this could prove the difference between life and death, especially since Ned had left Ice to Robb, and the crystalline blade was a longsword - precisely what he favoured.
"Thank you." He accepted the blade, running his fingers through the handle, the chill tingling pleasantly through his skin. The hilt fit perfectly in his palm as he grasped it gently as if it were made for him to wield. The balance and weight were slightly different from what he was used to, but that was nothing some practice would not solve.
And last but not least, the cool emanating from the crystalline sword was refreshing. It reminded Ned of the North; even the drowsy Winter seemed to perk up in its presence.
Gods, could he use this to banish the uncomfortable heat from his chambers at night?
23rd Day of the 9th Moon
On the second day, Ben Burley, a distant cousin to the current Burley chieftain, won the archery, leaving the exiled prince Jalabhar and Anguy from the Dornish marches in the runner-up positions. Too many had signed up, eager for the horse-racing competition or the ten thousand dragons winner's purse, making the games stretch for a second day.
The herald's mouth had gone dry halfway through the morning as he had to announce over half a thousand participants from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
At least today was easier on the man. The contestants had been reduced to three score, and by now were down to a dozen - Oberyn Martell, Patrek Mallister, Rickard Ryswell, Loras Tyrell, Lothor Brune, a Bracken bastard and a handful of less important knights hailing from the Crownlands, Reach, and Westerlands.
The difference between North and South was finally on full display, along with everything Ned misliked. The overflowing pageantry and useless opulence were almost blinding, as everyone had done their best to look like some sort of peacock. And it wasn't even the joust yet! Looking at the cumbersome, almost impractical attire, Ned was reminded of his distaste at such a blatant yet ultimately useless display of supposed wealth. Only the gods knew how many fools were left with an empty pouch to find the most gaudy armour and attire.
Yet even at a time like this, schemes were still going. Lysa Arryn had forbidden the Knights of the Vale to attend, though it had not stopped Yohn Royce and his eldest son. Such a gesture only made his distrust of his good sister grow, especially when Yohn told him Lysa appeared even more distraught over the death of her foster brother than her husband.
Gods, the more he stayed around, the more he loathed the South and its petty games.
Whatever alliance had been forged between Houses Arryn, Stark, and Tully seemed broken. Or, well, most of it, Edmure Tully had arrived with a hefty retinue of Riverlanders and had come over on arrival, promising Ned his full support. Good lad, though he wondered why Hoster had left his heir remain unwed for so long - Edmure was just a year shy of thirty now.
Gods, he was even politicking in his mind now!
Shaking his head, Ned took stock of the tourney grounds, Tommen's golden mop of hair easy to spot amidst the crowd. The young prince had been entrusted with squiring duties for Walder so he could get a closer taste of the tourney. The stands were filled to the brim and some more, and the royal box was no different. Lord Tyrell, all plump and gaudy, had arrived with his daughter and second son. The last he had seen of the lord of Highgarden, he had looked like a knight of tales, strong, fit, and chivalrous. Now, Mace Tyrell seemed to have indulged in a few feasts too many - his rotund figure reminded Ned of Wylis Manderly.
Only Greyjoy, Arryn, and Martell were absent from the Great Houses, and the latter only because Oberyn was on the lists.
"How about a friendly bet?" Renly's bored drawl interrupted the silence as the contestants started racing through the track.
"A hundred dragons on my brother," Tyrion replied boldly. "Who are you betting on, my lord?"
"My former squire is the finest rider I have seen. A hundred on Loras."
"Patrek Mallister will win," Edmure scoffed, joining the bet.
Mace Tyrell, sitting right next to Ned, did not want to be left behind and slapped his bulging belly, laughing. "Another hundred on my son! Lord Hand, care to join us?"
All the gamblers looked at him expectantly while Robert snorted with amusement. At moments like this, he envied Winter, who had remained away at the Tower of the Hand, napping through the scathing heat. Alas, the direwolf's presence scared almost all the horses in his vicinity, which would ruin the race.
"I don't bet." Like he would fall for this fool's errand to risk his coin on meaningless trifles.
Still, if not for the Red Viper, he thought Rickard Ryswell would have won with his steed. The Northern horses were bred and trained to traverse all sorts of rough terrain, which the obstacles were supposed to simulate. Alas, the Martell prince had brought the finest sand steed Ned had seen - a beautiful stallion as black as the night sky with a dark crimson mane and tail that took to the track with ease. While the Dornish horses were smaller and would struggle to bear the weight of heavy armour, they were far more agile, quick, and tireless.
The steed of the sole hedge knight left in the race failed to jump high enough over one of the obstacles, and he toppled down, momentum sending it sprawling through the dirt while the rider was still strapped in. When they stopped, the man's limbs, including his neck, were all bent at a wrong angle. Even the horse was crippled, whining piteously in pain.
"A pity," Renly sighed with faux regret while a handful of ladies in the crowd shrieked and gasped in surprise; a few outright fainted, though Ned wasn't sure if it was from the heat or the blood.
"Lord Stark," Mace Tyrell said as a few servants hastily carried the corpse away, and the fallen horse was put down. "I heard your daughter is a vision of grace and beauty. The tales of her loveliness had spread far and wide all the way to Highgarden. Her presence here would have been well-welcomed."
The Lord of Winterfell barely managed to suppress his sigh. This suspiciously sounded like another marriage proposal…
"It might be so," Ned grudgingly replied. "But my son, Brandon, passed away recently. I could not, in good conscience, take away any more children from my Lady Wife, even if temporary."
"Understandable," the Lord of Highgarden nodded solemnly. If nothing else, the jovial man had offered genuine condolences for his son's death when they met before the games, something which almost no other Southron lords had even bothered doing. "Lady Sansa's hand is unpromised, is it not?"
There it was, the marriage proposal. Despite the quiet tone of the conversation, the Northern lord felt the royal box was listening with rapt attention. Everyone but Robert, who was fully focused on the race below, Oberyn Martell, had gained the lead. Had the sly Lord of Highgarden chosen this place for his query deliberately? Ned suppressed his annoyance and admitted it was a brilliant move, done in the open so no one could accuse Mace Tyrell of underhanded scheming.
"Indeed," he confirmed. "Yet I am not looking for a match for my children. They are still too young, and such decisions require careful consideration."
"Too young for marriage, but perhaps a simple arrangement?" The Reachman inclined his head. "My heir, Willas Tyrell, is a man of gentle disposition and noble character."
"And a cripple," Tyrion murmured, but loudly enough for all to hear. Edmure struggled to hold his laughter from the side and started coughing instead. While Robert's attention was on the race, the Queen snickered, covering her face with a dainty pale palm.
Tyrell's face reddened, but he quickly calmed down as his son Garlan placed a steady hand on his elbow. "His leg might be lame, but his heart is golden, Lord Tyrion."
"Let us not be too hasty, Lord Tyrell," Ned placated. "Yet if you are insistent on such a match, I shall give you the same response everyone else received. Willas is welcome to visit Winterfell, so my daughter and wife can meet him in person. Any further talks are moot if neither take a liking to each other."
He was well aware a cripple like Willas Tyrell would have great difficulty travelling to Winterfell, but Mace Tyrell had no grounds even to feel offended, and the twisted grimace on his face showed that the Lord of Highgarden was well aware of the fact.
In truth, Mace's plan had been quite boldly open. A marriage between Sansa and Willas would be an easy entry into the alliance of five houses propping up Robert's rule. Ned knew his daughter would love the lush and beautiful lands of the Reach and the gaudy white walls of Highgarden - a dream come true.
Yet, House Tyrell was too ambitious for his liking. Worse, while Mace Tyrell looked like a jovial, straightforward man, Ned knew he was not without his cunning. Using his honour and joviality outspokenly made far too many underestimate him, but almost every step Tyrell took felt carefully calculated. One look at the crown prince told Ned everything he needed to know; Margaery Tyrell was already cosying up with Joffrey, giggling at something he had said, even if her eyes were not laughing. Judging by the two blazing emeralds glaring daggers at the Golden Rose of Highgarden, the Queen had also noticed it.
No, none of Ned's children would cross south of the Neck to be used as potential hostages against him.
The rest of the race saw the royal box sink into a comfortable silence, with Edmure and Tyrion exchanging the occasional lighthearted jape. Apparently, they had hit it off well during Robb's wedding.
Predictably, Oberyn Martell won the horserace, much to the disappointment of the gamblers.
24th Day of the 9th Moon
Renly Baratheon
Sipping on his cup of Arbour Gold, Renly couldn't help but lament. The tourney was going well enough; today had been the first part of the joust, and Loras' performance was stellar, named Knight of Flowers by the cheering crowd. The youngest knight remaining on the list with a good chance of clinching victory.
But everything else was wrong, so wrong.
As he had hoped, Ser Balon Swann had done stellar work as commander of the gold cloaks, finally putting some order in the accursed city. But the marcher knight was distant to Renly's advances - he had spewed some horse-dung about honour and duty, saying he was loyal to the King and only the King.
The Hand had finally forced Stannis to resign from his post as master of ships, and the royal fleet had returned to the docks, uselessly waiting for a new commander. Any lingering doubts that something was afoot were dispelled - his dour yet dutiful to a fault brother would rather lose control of his lauded fleet than return to the city! Robert had declined any man Renly offered for the post, which meant that Cersei or Stark would manage to get one of theirs assigned.
Margaery Tyrell was not trying to woo Robert as planned. Instead, she was circling like a graceful swan, vying for Joffrey's attention, like the myriad of maidens brought here by their brothers and fathers. Worse, the Lord of Highgarden happily chatted with Eddard Stark, seemingly discussing the Watch and Willas' future trip to Winterfell.
Even Loras was sitting beside his elder brother, Garlan, looking rather sullen. His lover had tried to convince his family, but they would not hear a word of it. When Loras said Stark was scheming with Cersei Lannister, Mace Tyrell laughed so hard that he almost choked for breath.
Why did nobody see it!? The honour and duty were just a facade; beneath, the Lord of Winterfell had a heart blacker than the foundations of the Hightower!
Last, Hugh of the Vale, Jon Arryn's squire and the final remaining member of his retinue in the city, died to Clegane's lance in today's joust before Loras could cajole anything out of him. Cersei's doing, no doubt, tying up loose ends. Meanwhile, Robert was roaring with jubilation while drowning himself in wine without a single care, as he always did. Cersei sat beside him, her green eyes full of schemes.
Renly just took another sip of wine and closed his eyes, trying to figure out a plan to thwart the growing Stark and Lannister influence.
"No!" His brother's voice thundered, drowning all the chatter and the bards, immediately stopping their performance. Robert had stood up, swaying from too much drink, face reddened, glaring at his wife. "You do not tell me what to do, woman!" Renly would be far happier at such a quarrel if the Queen did not look like a proud statue clad in gold and crimson. "I am the king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!"
Everyone stared in grave silence, only interrupted by his brother's angry heaving. Renly remained in his seat, unmoving like the rest; the court knew not to cross Robert Baratheon in his wroth.
Cersei's face looked so cold that it could have been a mask hewn from ice, but Renly was not deceived. She stood up, gathered her skirts, and just before she stormed off, a tinge of satisfaction flashed in her eyes, confirming his suspicions. Something was amiss. Even the Kingslayer got pushed away, stumbling back and falling from a single shove, "The great knight, pah. One push, and you're in the dirt with the rest o' them!" Robert's words had begun to slur drunkenly. "Give me my hammer, and no man in the realm can stand before me!"
Lannister stood up and bowed his head stiffly, muttering some agreement. Renly would come and try to placate his brother with more wine, but he was not feeling like it - not with the cold chills crawling up his spine. He excused himself, making his way out of the Great Hall, but not before making a sign at Loras. Twenty minutes later, they met in his manse on the outskirts of Aegon's hill.
"What is it, Renly?" Loras hugged him, slightly tipsy, his soft curls messy.
"Cersei is plotting something again." He exhaled, pushing down the sense of trepidation. "I don't like it."
That sobered up his young lover quickly, and his slackened face was twisted in a grimace. "The melee? Surely, the king won't go off fighting because of some drunken boasts?"
"You don't know my brother, Loras - he never backs down from a challenge, spoken in drunken bravado or not. Robert will remember on the morrow and would not back down." Renly crumpled on the nearby chair, feeling wrung out from all the scheming. "Cersei knows this and goaded him."
However, the young Knight of Flowers did not give up, "But who would dare strike their king in the melee?" Gods, some days Renly forgot how young and naive Loras still was - a boy on the cusp of manhood who did not know how deep the viper's den went. It was that sense of righteous innocence that had lit the flames of passion.
"House Lannister does not lack for friends. Gods know Stark does not either." His lover's face scrunched up in thought, and the Lord of Storm's End poured himself a cup of wine from the pitcher on the nearby table and emptied it in one breath.
"Surely the kingsguard will defend His Grace in the fight?"
Renly scoffed. "Who? The Queen's brother? Greenfield? Cersei has sunk her claws in all of them. All but Selmy, who has only signed up for the lists"
"But… to kill His Grace in the melee?"
Renly took a generous gulp of wine from the pitcher as he tasted the words in his mind. Truth be told, he did not think Cersei this bold, but he had been wrong before.
"People die in tourneys all the time - we already have three dead in this one." The more Renly thought about it, the more it made sense. Who would say a thing when Robert fell in the melee? His royal brother had not even swung a sword or hammer in years, and many a man died in every tourney; it would easily look like a mishap.
"But… there are nearly a thousand contestants signed up for it - we don't even know which bracket His Grace will enter." Loras' words made him grimace. He had almost forgotten the absurd number of men who had signed up for the melee, even after the Imp had decided to charge two golden dragons' entry fee. "We don't even know who would be the Queen's men, and I can hardly protect the king when I did not sign for the melee."
His lover had decided to save his strength for the joust and joust alone - where all the glory was. While Loras was good enough with a sword, many were far better and stronger than him because of age and experience - his strength lay with horseriding and the lance.
Alas, that left him in a conundrum.
"But that also means Cersei knows not."
Renly clenched the pitcher in thought. Despite his misgivings about the Queen, the lioness was a cunning and intelligent shrew. What would he do in her boots?
Cersei would not use her men for this. Nor did she need to, as many hedge knights or Crownlanders loitering in the feasts or parade grounds would be happy to do it. Far too many men would take Lannister gold to kill their own mothers, let alone the king.
Plans spun in his head. Just as Cersei could have men to make trouble, others could be convinced to guard his royal brother's back. It would require some subtlety, but it was not impossible.
25th Day of the 9th Moon
Robert Baratheon
His patience was dwindling as the two useless golden-haired shits could not even help him don his armour properly.
"Your Grace," Lancel said, looking like a babe about to cry. "It's made too small, it won't fit!" With a fumble, the steel gorget he was trying to fit around his neck dropped to the ground.
"Seven hells," he roared at the two useless cravens, who jumped like some skittish deer. "Piss on both of you, can't even put a man's armour on properly. Squires, they say. Pah, I say they're swineherds dressed up in silk!"
"The lads are not at fault." Robert turned around only to see a tired Ned accompanied by Selmy. "You're too fat for your armour, Robert."
He dared?!
The king emptied his horn of beer and angrily tossed it on the sleeping furs. "Fat? Is that how you speak to your king?!" Ned nodded, gravely serious, and Robert couldn't help but guffaw. "Damn you, Ned. Why are you always right?!" Even the squires were smiling nervously, the golden shits. "You," he rounded on them, making them jump nervously again. Gods, he could not have found more spineless chits in the whole realm, even if he tried. "Yes, both of you. You heard the Hand - the King is too fat for his armour. Go find Ser Aron Santagar and tell him I need the breastplate stretcher. Now, damn you! What are you waiting for?"
The two squires fumbled out of the tent, tripping over each other. Robert barely managed to keep his laughter in, but as soon as they were out of sight, he dropped back on his chair and roared with laughter. Even Selmy and Ned let out a chuckle - it was a good thing to see the North had not frozen all the cheer in his friend.
"Ah, I wish to be there to see Santagar's face," the King snorted.
Ned shook his head with amusement before his face turned as severe as a storm. "Word is you're trying to fight in the melee, Robert?"
"Not you too, Ned," he groused. At least he had not mentioned his quarrel with Cersei last night. The damned shrew was hiding in the castle now, too scared to show her face. He'd show her the Demon of the Trident could still fight!
"It's unbecoming of a king to take part in the games," his friend persisted, eyes filled with concern.
"Even the king is a man, like every other." Robert slammed on his chest. "And like all the other men, I have needs, damn it. A gulp of wine in my throat, a squealing maiden in my bed, and a mighty steed beneath my legs." Ned did not let up his stern look. How was it that his friend could still shame him with just a glance as if they were both still children? "Seven hells, Ned. I just want to hit someone!"
"Your Grace," Barristan sighed, face weary, "who would dare strike you in the melee?"
"Why, all of them, damn it! If they can. And the last man left standing…"
"...will be you," Ned finished for him, face gravely serious. "Ser Barristan is right - no man would dare risk the royal ire by striking you."
The truth rang in his words, but Robert was unwilling. He wanted to smash something with his warhammer, to hear the crunch as the armour folded and bones broke beneath his might. "Are you telling me those prancing cravens will let me win?"
Ned nodded solemnly, and Selmy bowed his head in silent accord.
They dared… they dared!
Robert's hands grabbed his damned breastplate, grown too small for his mighty frame, and hurled it at Selmy, who dodged deftly. He wanted nothing more than to grab his warhammer and start swinging at all those fools outside. All of them would fall to his fury!
But what use would it be when all of them ran away like cravens, refusing to give him a proper fight?
Others take them all!
"Out," he spat coldly, his blood raging like a storm. "Out before I kill you!" Selmy fled like a scared doe, and Ned hesitantly turned around to leave. Ah, Ned, his dear and most loyal friend, who had been with him through thick and thin. Ned who would speak the truth, no matter how little one wanted to hear it. Ned, who Robert brought here to do just those two things. "Not you, Ned."
They were supposed to have fun together, just like the good old times. Yet his friend was always busy with this and that, ruling, just like Jon Arryn had been.
Robert grabbed his horn, wheeled around to fill it with beer from the barrel in the corner, and shoved it into Ned's hands. "Drink."
To his surprise, his friend chuckled and took a generous swig before belching with a grimace.
"You know, Robert, if your blood is still running hot, why not partake in the boulder lifting?"
"Bah, you say that as if the fools won't let me win anyway," Robert groused, slumping defeated in his chair, rueing the day he foolishly decided to claim the Iron Throne. Alas, to be foolish enough to curse himself with a crown!
"It is one thing to strike the king, another to test their mettle against him in a context of strength," Ned said with a wise nod and took another swig of beer.
Robert stilled. It was true, was it not?
Ned could not lie even to save his honour - even now, his face was the picture of earnest honesty.
"Fine," Robert grabbed another horn of ale and filled it before taking a swig. It was not the same as fighting, but it was better than sitting around. Perhaps this would finally get his blood running with excitement again. "I ought to show those prancing cravens who the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms is!"
Author's Endnote:
Starring Eddard 'His honour and duty are merely a facade!' Stark, Mace 'the Ace' Tyrell, and a few others.
This and the next chapter are the last vestiges before we deviate from canon completely. The Tourney is the perfect place for Cersei to get rid of Robert, and it's not like she'd pass up on the opportunity, not now.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where you can read ahead or simply come chat or ask me or others some questions.
This and the next chapter are the last vestiges before we deviate from canon completely. The Tourney is the perfect place for Cersei to get rid of Robert, and it's not like she'd pass up on the opportunity, not now.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where you can read ahead or simply come chat or ask me or others some questions.
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- Europe
Hmm, that doesn't quite square with canon. In 58 AC (230 years ago), Jaehaerys I the Wise granted the Watch the New Gift, on the request of his sister-wife, Alysanne Targaryen, who held the Night's Watch in high esteem. She also paid for the construction of the caste of Deep Lake with her own jewels, and it was built by men Jaehaerys sent north for that purpose. So, quite some significant royal favour back then.
Jaehaerys ruled until 103 AC (and Alysanne until 100 AC), so presumably the Night's Watch continued to be favored, if maybe not so extravagantly, until 195 years ago. So, "Two hundred years" would be more correct here.
Excellent story otherwise, I'm very much looking forward for more
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While partly true, a large part of this is an unreliable narrator(both Jeor and Ned are biased). Let's take a closer look, though.Hmm, that doesn't quite square with canon. In 58 AC (230 years ago), Jaehaerys I the Wise granted the Watch the New Gift, on the request of his sister-wife, Alysanne Targaryen, who held the Night's Watch in high esteem. She also paid for the construction of the caste of Deep Lake with her own jewels, and it was built by men Jaehaerys sent north for that purpose. So, quite some significant royal favour back then.
Jaehaerys ruled until 103 AC (and Alysanne until 100 AC), so presumably the Night's Watch continued to be favored, if maybe not so extravagantly, until 195 years ago. So, "Two hundred years" would be more correct here.
Excellent story otherwise, I'm very much looking forward for more
It was probably the worst royal favour ever that happened after Jaehaerys decided to send all of his problems to the Watch. What good is more land when the Watch is not equipped to make use of it? By design, no member of the Watch could hold lands or titles and thus govern the extra territory directly. It's a clear show of force and putting the North in their place; otherwise, Jaehaerys and Alysanne wouldn't have visited Winterfell with six bloody dragons in tow. I would be slightly less sceptical if the whole idea did not come from Alysanne herself, who rarely cares to think of the consequences of half of her 'ideas'. Being impressed with the bravery of the Night's Watch somehow translates to rewarding them with more land... which they could not use by literal design(and punishing some of the northern lords in the process).
It is said that King Jaehaerys I Targaryen took six dragons with him to the north, including Jaehaerys's Vermithor and Queen Alysanne's Silverwing, to visit the Warden of the region.
Quote from the wiki, although it might or might not have been an unreliable narrator... just like everything else in ASOIAF, really.
The free folk often enter the Gift to raid, steal, and carry off women of the north.[1] In 133 AC, for instance, three thousand wildling raiders led by Sylas the Grim spread out across the Gift until being hunted down by Lord Cregan Stark, Flints, Glovers, Norreys, and rangers.[7] Because of the frequency of raids, many people have fled south into the mountains or the lands of House Umber east of the kingsroad, leaving the villages and holdfasts abandoned.[1]
This is less than a hundred years after Jaehaerys and Alysanne's stunt, and the Watch is already struggling, requiring even the Stark of Winterfell to intervene.
Tl;dr, giving away the New Gift looks more like a show of force to cow the North/House Stark (or at least that's what Jaehaerys decided to ultimately turn it into) than anything else.
The whole thing is far more controversial once you take a closer look, and when Jon/Bran travel through the Gift, the previously worked lands have been abandoned large-scale without the protection of the lords.
All that aside, Ned and Jeor are biased here (unreliable narrator ft myself). We see that the Northerners have soured greatly on House Targaryen for nearly half a century afterwards. Jaehaerys, Mormont, and Ned would not view this as a favour, especially when it contributed to the Watch's downfall and created new problems instead(all left unaddressed).
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Oh, absolutely, I am (and was) well aware that the New Gift turned out to be more of a bane than a boon to the Night's Watch, but the intention was for it to be a boon (same with the castle). Hence, my point that it was a favor, and that calling that attitude "contempt" seems off.
I disagree on the show-of-force thing. As you said, Alysanne was a bit impulsive at times, and it seems to me that here her intention was simply to aid the Watch, with the effects on the North being only secondary. This is supported by using her jewels to build the castle, which fits the motive of aiding the Watch, but not a show of force to the North.
Of course, there is some unreliable narrator element here, but Ned is generally fairly reliable (if not perfect), and as he should know these things, it seems odd for him to, in internal narration, classify Alysanne's actions as contempt for the Watch.
I disagree on the show-of-force thing. As you said, Alysanne was a bit impulsive at times, and it seems to me that here her intention was simply to aid the Watch, with the effects on the North being only secondary. This is supported by using her jewels to build the castle, which fits the motive of aiding the Watch, but not a show of force to the North.
Of course, there is some unreliable narrator element here, but Ned is generally fairly reliable (if not perfect), and as he should know these things, it seems odd for him to, in internal narration, classify Alysanne's actions as contempt for the Watch.
Arimai
Curmudgeon
I disagree. It was definitely a show of force. A stupid one against a house that held to their oaths and was mostly isolationist against the Andal dominated South. The Starks should have reclaimed that land the moment the dragons died. The Targaryens were a millstone around everyone's neck. Family of inbred psychopaths. The North lost a fuckton of income with the stunt. Three productive towns vanished from the map within decades, along with every industry and resource extraction operation in those territories. Taking away skilled laborers and specialists.
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43-A Shadow of a Shadow
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.
Edited by: Void Uzumaki, Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
25th Day of the 9th Moon
The Red Viper
The air almost vibrated with excitement in the bustling arena, and the crowd's roar drowned everything else.
It was a traditional old-style melee; everyone was on foot, with no groups or teams.
The tourney grounds were filled with contestants, but the Red Viper only had eyes for the stout knight clad in heavy, ornate steel with a black manticore painted on his shield. After years of waiting, the gods finally smiled upon him, for Lorch was in the same round. It was far from how Oberyn imagined his chance would come, but he would take anything after seventeen years.
An impudent hedge knight of middling height with three brown mice upon his tattered surcoat foolishly blocked his way. A warm-up!
His opponent warily approached, arming sword in hand, half-hiding behind his shield. Oberyn, not wanting to risk the tourney spear over such a foe, stabbed it into the ground before unsheathing a longsword from his belt. They traded a few testing blows, and the Prince quickly established the knight had sloppy footwork, probably lacking a proper teacher or too used to fighting on horseback. His strikes from the left were also weak, and he relied on the shield far too much.
Oberyn feinted a strike to the neck, forcing the man to lift his shield, and smacked away the flat of the arming sword with his armoured glove. It was a risky thing to do, but all the blades in the tourney were blunted. Before the knight could retreat, Oberyn slammed his body into his foe while hooking the heel of his back leg, sending him sprawling on the ground. The hedge knight quickly yielded, allowing the Red Viper to grab his spear and go after his prey once more.
Thankfully, Lorch was still not knocked out, fighting against a Horpe, judging by the three death's head moths on his surcoat. Skilfully, Oberyn danced around his foes, exchanging a few probing taps whilst carefully avoiding further confrontation lest the chance for revenge slip away.
Amory fought quite aggressively with his heavy plate and used his strength to his advantage, eventually disarming the Moth knight and forcing him to yield, but losing his shield to the Stormlander's warhammer. The moment their fight had ended, Oberyn lunged forward, striking the weak point on the side of the visored barbute helmet. The blow didn't do much to the helmet, but the recoil hurt Lorch's neck and rang his head like a bell, evident by his wobbly legs, and prevented him from picking himself up.
Oberyn didn't hesitate to press his advantage, duelling etiquette discarded as his spear twirled forward in a storm of steel. Lorch, however, managed to find his footing and fend off most of the strikes. The blunted speartip could never do fatal damage through the armour - steel, padded doublet, and ringmail, but the sides were good enough to cut the leather straps on Lorch's gorget.
Yet all that armour weighed on his niece's murderer, and the heavy helmet limited his vision greatly. The Red Viper, wearing only half plate, took full advantage and used sweeping strikes to attack from the edges of Amory's vision, aiming for his head to keep him disoriented while poking at his gorget. A powerful strike to the helmet with a warhammer could easily snap a heavily armoured knight's neck, but while sweeping blows from the spear were not as powerful, they could easily daze and even knock him out.
By the time Lorch managed to gather himself to counterattack, Oberyn had succeeded - one of the leather straps was already hanging; the gorget was no longer sealed tight, allowing a finger to slip in through the gap with the breastplate.
Luring his foe with a feint, Oberyn mustered all his strength to give a devastating blow to the man's head with the butt of his spear, stunning him. As Lorch swayed unsteadily, the spear was discarded, and the Red Viper had drawn his longsword, and holding it by the blade, he jammed it up with all his might through the gap under the gorget.
He felt the blunted blade bite into the flesh, rammed it again and again, and twisted for good measure, Amory's feeble gurgling music to his ears, and a grin blossomed on his face at the man's agony.
Oberyn's triumph was short-lived as he turned around, only to face a mountain of muscle clad in heavy brigandine. For a short moment, he thought the Mountain had come to flank him. But no, Gregor Clegane had been banned from melees after killing a few contestants too many, and the man wore a grey direwolf livery on his surcoat, not the three black hounds of the Cleganes. With such size, this could only be the Giant of Winterfell.
Most of the fighting had concluded by now, and everyone had stepped aside as Walder the Red Wake effortlessly twirled a heavy poleax, producing a brutal swooshing sound that hummed through the air and spoke loudly about the weight of the weapon. Oberyn did not have a chance to withdraw his sword before the sound of steel cleaving through the wind approached.
He blinked, the world far too bright for his taste, and a groan rolled from his throat. Thankfully, Ellaria's concerned face loomed over him.
"What happened?" His voice came out hoarse.
"You killed Lorch while the Red Wake fended off other contestants," Nymeria's giddy lilt came from the side.
"Then he knocked you out when you seemed all too joyful in your success." His paramour gave him a wry smile as she ran her delicate hand through his curls.
"Bah," Obara spat. "Why would the Northman help?"
"Long winters make for a hardy folk, and there's little place for deception. Honesty and valour are more valuable than gold north of the Neck, and Lorch and the Mountain lack both." Oberyn shuffled, only to wince when his side protested. "Fuck."
"Drink." Ellaria brought the wineskin to his lips, and he gulped thirstily. The strong Dornish wine felt like fire in his throat, invigorating his wariness. "You won't be doing any more fighting, it seems."
"Any trouble?" He coughed, tongue still aflame with heavy spice.
"No, a dozen fools perished in the melee so far, and Lorch is just one of many," Nymeria snorted. "Might be a few more will die before the madness ends. I've never seen a tourney so bloody!"
"Your actions have attracted some undue attention; both the King and the Hand were looking."
It took him nearly half an hour to come back to his senses, and even then, Oberyn had to walk with a crutch like some cripple because his side ached. The Red Wake had gotten him good, even if he couldn't remember anything other than heavy, ominous whooshing from that part of the melee.
Still, success felt like he was in Ynanna's sweet embrace; Rhaenys's murderer was finished. Clegane would be next, and then the old Lion himself. But, there was only so much luck one could get - the Mountain had been knocked off the lists last evening by a Dustin madman, who rode like the devil himself. The expected rage from the rabid dog had not come, probably because there were two scores of burly Northmen nearby, the Red Wake at their helm, all looking eager for a brawl.
And now that Oberyn had been knocked out of all the games, he could only tend to his wounds while watching and studying Gregor Clegane's every move and trying to enjoy the festivities. Moving was too risky with the Hand and the king's undue attention. Yet revenge was sweeter than honey, and The Red Viper hungered for more.
He had woken up just in time to see the final opening round of the melee. Ser Androw Crane, the famed wielder of Red Wing, and Gyles Rowan, another Valyrian Steel wielder, proved themselves worthy swordsmen even with tourney blades in hand. Along with Grance Morrigen, they were the last three standing, thus proceeding to the finals.
The other preliminary rounds had ended as expected; over thirty contestants would fight in the final tomorrow, most of them men of renown, tried and tested in battle from every corner of the realm. The Northmen had made for a strong showing despite their drably plain equipment - Oberyn could count at least a handful of men who qualified from the cold wastes, including the Red Wake, a Liddle, a Wull, and two Flints.
Boulder lifting, on the other hand, was far more amusing to watch. To everyone's surprise, the king had risen from his high seat to join the contestants. This particular game seemed to require not only strength but plenty of technique, so the final rounds saw the competitors dwindling quickly.
"BARATHEON!" The crowd was chanting madly as the Demon of the Trident himself was red-faced, struggling to lift a boulder that weighed thirty-five stone. Years of drinking, feasting, and whoring had made him go round with fat, but bulging muscles still hid underneath. With much grunting and puffing, the weight was deposited atop the thick oaken barrel.
The other contestants, Harwin Belmore and Morgan Liddle, failed to lift the thirty-five stone boulder, and the crowd exploded in jubilation.
Robert's hearty laugh boomed above all the commotion as he raised his meaty fists in victory.
1st Day of the 10th Moon
Near Vaes Kwemo
The Gift Bearers
The Fallen Kingdom of Sarnor was a lamentable sight. The once golden fields of wheat stretching to the horizon were no more, replaced with grassland and the creeping forest. Sheep, aurochs, and goats were all gone, replaced by all sorts of wild beasts prowling through the lush woodland instead.
Not a single village or an inn was in sight; all foolish or daring enough to try and settle down again had been quickly enslaved or slaughtered by the passing Dothraki hordes. One would even think the land had been untouched by human hand if not for the dragon road, the handful of persistent ruins that had not yet given in to time, or the creeping vegetation. The Valyrian Road was a thick, monstrous ribbon of fused black stone as far as the eyes could see, twenty feet wide and straight as a spear. One of the final wonders of the fallen Freehold seemed to shrug off the vestiges of time, still smooth and unblemished by the elements.
Even to this day, the magical road allowed for easy, unimpeded travel, making any caravans far swifter than dirt roads would allow.
"And the dragon roads end here, at Sarnath," Maester Arren supplied helpfully from his donkey. The enthusiastic man was in his mid-thirties with balding auburn hair and freshly forged chain and serving in Ramsgate before the Lord of White Harbour bid him to join the expedition as a man well-versed in Essosi history, geography, and languages. "We should be there before sunset if the caravan master is correct."
The Northern delegation led by Ser Donnel Locke and Robar Royce had six more knights, a handful of squires, and a score of men at arms. After riding hard to Qohor, they finally joined a caravan on the way to Vaes Dothrak to avoid going deeper into Dothraki territory on their lonesome, as the horselords tended to attack armed travellers on sight to test their mettle. The traders welcomed them with open arms, only asking the Westerosi retinue to guard the rear and aid them in case of a fight.
"So much fertile land wasted," Donnel Locke shook his head, looking at the lush grassy woodlands and the multitude of springs and rivers spreading as far as the eye could see.
"The Dothraki consider the land to be their Mother, and it is a sin to wound her with ploughs, spades, or axes. Fields, towns, farms are the first to be put to the torch when the horselords pass by." The maester's explanation turned the mood sombre. They had encountered a smaller Khalasar two days prior, and the caravan master had to gift them a tribute to pass.
"Savages," Robar Royce murmured with distaste, loudly enough for only Donnel to hear.
It was almost unthinkable for the Westerosi to allow such blatant robbery, but the maester's ample warnings had them watch with a measure of disbelief. The bribe consisted of a handful of silver and bronze trinkets, just enough to satisfy the ageing Khal. Considering trade unmanly was so ironically amusing when they did it with such blatant gusto under the guise of 'gifting', even haggling over the value of the gift.
Despite lacking the concept of 'trade', the horselord had gifted a few fine pelts and exotic hides in return, recouping the loss the caravan would have otherwise suffered.
"Sarnor is known as the City of the Tall Towers," the young maester enthusiastically began prattling on. "It was said it had hundreds of spires, some over three hundred feet, and all of them a work of art-"
"Didn't you say the Dothraki call it the City of Worms?" Donnel interrupted with a laugh.
"The story says after Mazor Alexi perished in the Field of Crows, the gates were opened from within, and the Dothraki loathe cravens."
"Well, there's your city," Robar pointed ahead, where a cracked, ruined wall barely fought off the clinging treeline, and the gate had long turned into a crumbling arch. "My father always said even the mightiest walls are only as strong as those who man them."
"But… where are the towers?" Arren pulled on his auburn whiskers in indignation.
"Those who survived the sack were probably beset by the vestiges of time." Donnel shrugged. "There are many ruins scattered around the North, and only bare stones remain."
The balding maester looked crestfallen at the sight. "The Palace with a Thousand Rooms was supposed to be bigger than Harrenhal and more magnificent than Summerhall…"
"And both are barely more than a crumbling piece of masonry," Robar shrugged dismissively. "Considering those savage scavengers, they probably only left the charred stones behind." And indeed, much to the maester's woe, Valyria's staunchest ally had been reduced to a footnote in the pages of history. Vaes Kwemo was in a pitiful state, the once beautiful city replaced with collapsing ruins and cracked stones, slowly but surely devoured by the hungry vegetation.
"Gods, at least another moon to the fucking savage city," Donnel groused when the caravan finally stopped in what once could have been an enormous square but was now overtaken by weeds and roots, peeking through the dirt and the cracked pavement. "I just hope the horselord is there. I never thought my eyes would get bored of this endless deluge of grass and trees."
"At least there is an abundance of game, and the caravan has a trapper or two to make you those comfortable furs you enjoy." Robar grinned at the Northman's attire, which included an assortment of pelts from a Hrakr's fur to a strange breed of wolf the traders called a hyena.
Donnel Locke snorted as he took a slow, dismissive measure of the Royce Knight's own attire, a padded surcoat made from exotic hides and a new fancy red breastplate he had purchased from the Qohorik smiths.
"Bah, the North is still better."
The maester groaned from the side as the two knights bickered over the oldest of feuds - which kingdom was better? It quickly became an argument over past wars, most long buried in the vestiges of time. Yet even their sharp words lacked any heat as if they were arguing for the sake of it. Perhaps this book would feature the unlikely friendship of a Northman and a Valeman side by side against the savage lands of the Far East.
18th Day of the 10th Moon
The Bowels of the Red Keep
Deep beneath the surface of Aegon's hill, in the darkest corner of Maegor's passages, utterly bereft of the warm touch of the sun, two robed figures, both stout, clung to a flickering torch each.
"The tunnels have grown dangerous of late," one said, chill clinging to the damp stones despite the sweltering heat outside.
"You should not have taken that silly risk," the second chastised with a slick Essosi accent as they moved through the darkness. "It was far too early. What was it you said? Patience is our greatest strength."
"Yes, but the Hand, oh the Hand. He seeks to undermine everything we set out to do. In three moons, the man has toppled the board completely instead of playing the game by the rules! Stannis dismissed, Littlefinger slain, and Slynt replaced. Another year like this, and the Iron Throne will be the strongest it has ever been in a century."
"He is not looking into the old Falcon's death?"
"Nay, for all the talk of honour, the man seems to be pursuing his interests first and has placed his full backing behind the throne." The man's footsteps were as soft as silk despite his heavy leather boots, the arming sword and dirk on his belt making no sound. Clad in boiled leather and a simple byrnie, he could easily be mistaken for a man-at-arms with his scarred face, rugged beard and thick cap.
The second man absentmindedly tugged on his forked yellow beard. "If one Hand can die, why not a second?"
"I tried," the first hissed out. "But a sorcerer is not so easily felled. His prowess is greater than I envisioned - he somehow found out about the Tears of Lys!"
"I thought you said the Westerosi hated wizards and magic?"
"The Quiet Wolf is far more dangerous than we thought. But," he paused as the flames licked at the cold air, sending small puffs of smoke, "there is some opportunity for discord."
The shadows danced as the torch swayed through the air, and the silence slowly stretched.
"The young stag is prancing about, but to no avail. It matters not; the Princess is with child. Once a son is born, the Khal will bestir himself."
"Risky," murmured the first one. "Her brother is a fool, wasting his sister on the savage. Convincing the horselords to cross the Narrow Sea might yet prove impossible. If a daughter is born, the Khal might turn his attention elsewhere. The Company cannot fight the realm on its lonesome."
"Nothing worthwhile has ever been easy, my friend," deep laughter rumbled through the stilted air. "Little difficulties have never stopped us before. This is merely another obstacle to leap over."
"Yet the obstacles only grow greater and greater. With Stark alive and entrenched in court, we cannot hope to claim legitimacy. Even now, the Faith has grown too strong along the Mander, and my birds cannot find a place to roost. I suspect the Most Devout have taken control over the Stranger's wives."
"The zealots lost their strength long ago," the second figure waved dismissively. "And if the Hand proves too great an obstacle, he can be removed by… other means. Valar Morghulis."
"The cost would be unimaginable, and he is far from our only hurdle. The mother of wolves is not like her sister, and his heir is old enough to rally his banners."
"A young pup is not to be feared. Keep working your magic, then," the forked beard replied, breathless from the long trek through the tunnels. "The nobles are too blind, too proud and prickly. Fan the flames of rivalry, pour oil into the ambitions, and sow the seeds of doubt and division. Chaos will be our greatest ally. Justice and fairness are dangerous things. The Hand has stepped on many feet, and the longer he lingers, the more foes he makes."
"Even the finest juggler cannot keep a hundred balls in the air forever."
"You're far more than a mere juggler, my friend. A true sorcerer, I say." The man with the accent reached out to pat the other man's shoulder. "All I ask is that you work your magic awhile longer."
They reached a small, round juncture and halted on the damp floor atop the worn mosaic of the three-headed dragon. Under the torch's wavering light, the black and red tiles became indistinguishable whirl as the colours merged.
"I must have more gold, then. And a hundred more birds."
"So many? The ones you want are not easy to find…"
"So is the task you ask of me, my friend," came the soft reply.
19th day of the 10th Moon
The Lord of Winterfell
The urgent council meeting caught him without his companion, the direwolf preferring to sleep the sweltering heat away, where the crystalline blade kept the chambers cool.
"The whore is pregnant!" Robert slammed his fist on the table as loud as a thunderclap. "I warned you this would happen, Ned. Back in the Barrowlands, I warned you, but you and your gifts. Well, enough of gifts and plots, I want them dead. Both the mother and son, and that fool Viserys too. Is that plain enough for you? I want them dead!"
The king was red-faced and puffing with rage.
The rest of the councillors were observing with caution, faces still. "And the Khal would simply forget and forgive that his wife and child have been slain? Come on, Robert, Jon taught you better than this."
"If only I didn't listen to him, the dragonspawn would be long dead. You cannot mean to do nothing when the shadow of the headman's steel hangs over my neck!"
"Only a shadow of a shadow. Sailing a hundred thousand Dothraki screamers and their hordes across the Narrow Sea is far easier said than done, Your Grace," Lord Stark's face had grown as cold as ice. "Five thousand willing ships are not so easy to find. There will be no threat if the child is a girl or fails to live to adulthood. Would the Khal bestir himself to go to a faraway land over the whims of a woman or for a daughter? Should he be so daring, we'll throw him back into the sea."
Robert took a swallow of wine and glared across the table. "Aye, Stannis would drown him in the sea, you said. But now you've dismissed my brother from the small council. Would Sebaston Farman know how to fight at sea?" His gaze settled on Tyrion, who looked as expressionless as a statute, before moving on to the Hand and then Renly. "Would Wyman Manderly lead the fleet or count some coppers? Or that glorified wine-maker Redwyne? Why are all of you silent? Answer me, damn it!"
"You're trying to provoke a war now over something that might never happen, Robert," Ned tiredly ran a hand through his hair. Gods, the hatred of House Targaryen had truly settled like madness in his friend, chasing away any and all reason. "The girl has done you no wrong, and for all you know, this Khal Drogo will get bored of Daenerys and take another wife. And then another, as the horselords oft do. Viserys is a half-mad fool and will get himself killed sooner or later."
"How well can this… Jorah Mormont be trusted?" Tyrion finally spoke out, gaze calculating.
"Ser Jorah craves a royal pardon dearly," Varys said softly, wringing his soft, powdered hands together. "He would not dare deceive me; the princess surely is with a child."
The new master of coin took a small sip from his goblet. "Did not Daenerys' mother have notorious difficulties with conceiving? It seems we're truly jumping at shadows here."
"Rhaella Targaryen still managed to produce two sons and a daughter. Sooner or later, one of Daenerys' babes would live, Lord Tyrion." The eunuch gave a wry smile. "It is unwise to ignore such a threat to the realm. A claimant to the throne leading a hundred thousand horsemen at his back could spell doom for the kingdoms."
"I want Stannis back!" Robert smacked his palm on the table with such force it began to crack. All the councillors winced from the sudden strike, and the groan of woods reverberated between the walls.
"I shall write a summon at once." Ned bowed and grabbed a roll of parchment from the helpful yet confused Tommen.
The king, however, still did not seem appeased and looked akin to an angry bull. "You should not have dismissed Stannis in the first place! I want him back here commanding my fleet, and I want that whore and her dragonspawn dead!"
"That dragonspawn is of little threat to you, Robert." The Lord of Winterfell stiffly shook his head. "You would drag the realm into a war over an unborn babe?"
Varys gave the king his usual oily, reassuring smile and placed a soft, powdered hand on Ned's sleeve. "I understand your qualms, Lord Stark, I truly do. It's a terrible thing we contemplate, a vile thing. Yet we who presume to rule must do such deeds for the good of the realm, however much it pains us. Besides, there are ways to get rid of Daenerys and her child without implicating the crown."
Renly shrugged, seeming entirely too satisfied with where things were going. "We ought to have killed Viserys and his sister years ago, but His Grace had made the mistake of listening to Jon Arryn's misplaced mercy."
"Kindness to your foes is cruelty to oneself, Lord Stark," Varys added with a titter.
"Yet many of the loyalists were not only spared but pardoned of all and any crimes," Ned steeled himself and glared at Renly. "Lord Mace Tyrell still holds Highgarden despite starving you and your brother Stannis for a year. Ser Barristan here slew a dozen of our friends on the Trident. When he was taken down, grievously wounded and near death, Roose Bolton advised to slit his throat, yet your brother said, 'I will not kill a man for loyalty, not for fighting well' and sent his own maester to tend to the Bold's wounds. And you, Lord Varys, are you not enjoying Robert's mercy now, after faithfully serving the Mad King for years?" The Spider squirmed under his gaze, but Ned looked at his friend coldly. "Would that the same man were here today."
Robert had the decency to avert his gaze for a moment but quickly shook his head. "It is not the same. I can forgive people for serving faithfully."
"But not children for being born?" Ned tried to keep the scorn out of his voice but seemed to have failed, judging by the king's reddening face. "Your Grace, I never knew you to fear Rhaegar. Have the years unmanned you so to tremble before the shadows of a babe unborn?"
"No more, Ned," Robert, eyes blazing with fury, warned with a meaty finger pointed at him. "Not another word. Have you forgotten who is king here?"
"No, Your Grace." Eddard sighed inwardly. "Have you?"
"Enough!" The king's roar whipped like a thunderclap. "I'm sick of talk. I will be done with this or be damned."
"At His Grace's command," Varys bowed deeply.
"We should have killed the Targaryens long ago," Renly agreed.
Pycelle hemmed and hawed but also bowed his head, face sad and weary. "It is as His Grace commands. The Targaryens are too dangerous to be left alive. Once I counselled Aerys as I counsel King Robert, I bear this girl and her child no ill will. Yet I ask you this - should war come, how many would die? How many would be slaughtered fighting? How many towns will burn? How many babes would be ripped from their cradles and perish at the savage's blade?" The Grandmaester cleared his throat, wiping an errant tear from his wrinkled face. "Is it not wiser, even kinder, that Daenerys Targaryen should die now so ten thousand might live?"
"Kinder," Varys echoed. "Truly well-spoken, Grand Maester. Should the gods grant Daenerys a son in their caprice, the realm would bleed."
"Should the girl perish, the Iron Throne would be the first suspect," Tyrion countered, taking a generous mouthful of wine. "And we'll get the war we fear anyway. We might as well prepare to fight either way."
"There are ways it would not be traced to us," Varys reminded quietly.
"There is honour in facing a foe on the battlefield," Selmy finally raised his weary gaze from the table and spoke. "But there's none in killing him in his mother's womb."
"Kinder," Robert looked at Pycelle with wonder, as if he had not heard the old knight, and turned to his Hand. "Yes, it would be a kindness to get the world rid of the dragonspawn."
"And what of your grandmother, Robert?" Ned chastised. "Rhaelle Targaryen's blood runs through your veins."
"A woman that perished in the fires of Summerhall before I was born," the king waved the words away as if they were some annoying fly. "I have nothing to do with her! I am king here, damn it, and I want Aerys' dragonspawn dead! The question is how."
"Do it yourself, Robert. The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword. It's so easy to kill someone far away on a whim. See her tears, hear her last words. You owe her that much, at least." His hand searched for the comfort of the hilt of his sword but found nought as the icy blade had remained in his chambers.
"Gods," the king's face had gone purple as if he was barely able to contain his fury. "You mean it, don't you? You damned honourable fool!" Robert picked up his cup but found it empty and flung it to shatter against the wall. "I am out of wine and out of patience. Enough of this. Just have it done."
Ned sighed tiredly. How do you help someone who does not care to be helped? The gods seemed to be laughing at him from above, and just when everything was going so well. "I will not be part of this reckless folly. Do as you will, but do not ask me to put my seal on it."
The silence was deafening for a few heartbeats. Defiance was not a dish tasted often, it seemed, and all of the councillors looked at Ned with open surprise while Robert was blinking with incomprehension. Realisation eventually sank in, and an angry royal finger was stabbed in his direction. "You are the King's Hand, Lord Stark. You will do as I command, or I will find me a Hand who will."
"I wish him every success," Ned said, unclasping the heavy silver pin and placing it on the table before Robert. Cat had turned out right in the end; his friend was gone, and the king had taken his place. The fearless warrior, unmatched on the battlefield, had been broken by the weight of a crown. "I thought you were a better man than this, Robert. I thought we had made for a nobler king."
"Out," the words were choked out with fury, the king's face purple with rage. "Out, damn you, I am done with you! What are you waiting for? Go, run back to Winterfell. And make certain I never look at your face again, or I will have your head on a spike!"
Heart pained, Ned bowed and turned to leave, any hesitation gone. He could feel Robert's gaze on his back, burning a hole through his silken cloak.
"On Braavos, there's a society called the Faceless Men," Pycelle's voice echoed behind, resuming the discussion. "It is said they make the death look like a mishap-" The door closed behind Ned, silencing the voices. The white cloak guarding outside, Mandon Moore, regarded him dispassionately from the corner of his eyes but remained otherwise silent and unmoving.
Why did Robert refuse to see his fury would plunge the realm into an inevitable war? Alas, the king's word was law. Ned knew this well enough, but to see a royal order drag the realm into madness was painful. He couldn't help but wonder if any of the royal councillors had advised Aerys against his follies.
Shaking his head, the Lord of Winterfell banished the ghastly thoughts from his mind. The words were spoken and could be taken back no more than an arrow after leaving the bowstring.
"We're going back to Winterfell?" Tommen's hopeful voice behind almost made the Northern Lord jump.
He had not noticed his page following.
"Aye, until you turn twelve, or His Grace summons you back," Ned said after a moment, shaking his head as the golden-haired boy almost leapt in joy. At least someone else was happy to leave the city.
The sky roiled above, a storm brewing within the clouds. If only the rain could wash out the accursed den of fools and cravens. When Ned crossed the bailey back to the Tower of the Hand, he was met with Vayon, who had a roll of parchment.
"A letter for you from Winterfell, my lord Hand," the steward bowed.
"Hand no longer."
Ned broke the familiar direwolf sigil, and a wry smile found its way to his face at Luwin's words. The gods saw fit to provide a ray of sunlight in the darkest days; he was to be a father again and a grandfather to boot. But the last part had chilled his blood; Benjen had brought news of Jon's ambitiously daring plan.
Gods, when had his boy grown so reckless?
The inked words, however, made up his mind. What had Howland advised him again? Yes, return home at the first opportunity. And it had readily landed on his lap, with a royal order to back it.
"The king and I have quarrelled." Ned exhaled slowly. "We shall be returning to Winterfell at once."
Vayon was dismayed, quite probably because the last of the effects had arrived just last week. He spied a look at the happy Tommen standing to the side and hesitated. But the steward quickly swallowed his objection and nodded. "I shall begin making arrangements at once, my lord. We might need up to a fortnight to prepare everything for the journey."
I will have your head on a spike!
Ned frowned. Would his friend truly harm him? But no, he had challenged the royal pride now and openly at that.
Half a year ago, he would laugh at the motion, but now… now he was not sure he had ever known Robert.
"I want us gone before sunrise. Tell Jory to get guardsmen to help you with the packing and have the less important things shipped at a later date." It would be best not to risk it in the end, and the sooner he left this accursed city, the better. Ned paused for a moment. "Get in touch with Ser Wylis. We'll be using his ships to get out of here."
It took him half an hour to find Howland Reed, who already knew what was happening.
"Should I tell the Northmen to get ready to leave with us?"
"As much as the Manderly ships will allow. Robert wants to make war to the east when the true foes are in the Lands of Always Winter."
"The South would be of little use in such a war, and you know this, Ned. But at least with the Night's Watch secure, you will no longer be fighting alone. Perhaps leaving now is for the best."
"Indeed," Ned grudgingly agreed. "There is little that can be done here in this vipers' den."
"It might be prudent to leave some Northmen behind, lest the Queen find herself in need of swords with all those schemers."
The Lord of Winterfell held no love for Cersei Lannister or Joffrey, but his friend made a good point. His tentative allies could only remain here in danger with the poisoner still at large. "See who volunteers, and make sure you notify Her Grace before we leave."
Winter, looking shaggy as if he had just roused himself from his nap, softly padded over and gave his hand a reassuring lick.
Author's Endnote:
Edited by: Void Uzumaki, Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
25th Day of the 9th Moon
The Red Viper
The air almost vibrated with excitement in the bustling arena, and the crowd's roar drowned everything else.
It was a traditional old-style melee; everyone was on foot, with no groups or teams.
The tourney grounds were filled with contestants, but the Red Viper only had eyes for the stout knight clad in heavy, ornate steel with a black manticore painted on his shield. After years of waiting, the gods finally smiled upon him, for Lorch was in the same round. It was far from how Oberyn imagined his chance would come, but he would take anything after seventeen years.
An impudent hedge knight of middling height with three brown mice upon his tattered surcoat foolishly blocked his way. A warm-up!
His opponent warily approached, arming sword in hand, half-hiding behind his shield. Oberyn, not wanting to risk the tourney spear over such a foe, stabbed it into the ground before unsheathing a longsword from his belt. They traded a few testing blows, and the Prince quickly established the knight had sloppy footwork, probably lacking a proper teacher or too used to fighting on horseback. His strikes from the left were also weak, and he relied on the shield far too much.
Oberyn feinted a strike to the neck, forcing the man to lift his shield, and smacked away the flat of the arming sword with his armoured glove. It was a risky thing to do, but all the blades in the tourney were blunted. Before the knight could retreat, Oberyn slammed his body into his foe while hooking the heel of his back leg, sending him sprawling on the ground. The hedge knight quickly yielded, allowing the Red Viper to grab his spear and go after his prey once more.
Thankfully, Lorch was still not knocked out, fighting against a Horpe, judging by the three death's head moths on his surcoat. Skilfully, Oberyn danced around his foes, exchanging a few probing taps whilst carefully avoiding further confrontation lest the chance for revenge slip away.
Amory fought quite aggressively with his heavy plate and used his strength to his advantage, eventually disarming the Moth knight and forcing him to yield, but losing his shield to the Stormlander's warhammer. The moment their fight had ended, Oberyn lunged forward, striking the weak point on the side of the visored barbute helmet. The blow didn't do much to the helmet, but the recoil hurt Lorch's neck and rang his head like a bell, evident by his wobbly legs, and prevented him from picking himself up.
Oberyn didn't hesitate to press his advantage, duelling etiquette discarded as his spear twirled forward in a storm of steel. Lorch, however, managed to find his footing and fend off most of the strikes. The blunted speartip could never do fatal damage through the armour - steel, padded doublet, and ringmail, but the sides were good enough to cut the leather straps on Lorch's gorget.
Yet all that armour weighed on his niece's murderer, and the heavy helmet limited his vision greatly. The Red Viper, wearing only half plate, took full advantage and used sweeping strikes to attack from the edges of Amory's vision, aiming for his head to keep him disoriented while poking at his gorget. A powerful strike to the helmet with a warhammer could easily snap a heavily armoured knight's neck, but while sweeping blows from the spear were not as powerful, they could easily daze and even knock him out.
By the time Lorch managed to gather himself to counterattack, Oberyn had succeeded - one of the leather straps was already hanging; the gorget was no longer sealed tight, allowing a finger to slip in through the gap with the breastplate.
Luring his foe with a feint, Oberyn mustered all his strength to give a devastating blow to the man's head with the butt of his spear, stunning him. As Lorch swayed unsteadily, the spear was discarded, and the Red Viper had drawn his longsword, and holding it by the blade, he jammed it up with all his might through the gap under the gorget.
He felt the blunted blade bite into the flesh, rammed it again and again, and twisted for good measure, Amory's feeble gurgling music to his ears, and a grin blossomed on his face at the man's agony.
Oberyn's triumph was short-lived as he turned around, only to face a mountain of muscle clad in heavy brigandine. For a short moment, he thought the Mountain had come to flank him. But no, Gregor Clegane had been banned from melees after killing a few contestants too many, and the man wore a grey direwolf livery on his surcoat, not the three black hounds of the Cleganes. With such size, this could only be the Giant of Winterfell.
Most of the fighting had concluded by now, and everyone had stepped aside as Walder the Red Wake effortlessly twirled a heavy poleax, producing a brutal swooshing sound that hummed through the air and spoke loudly about the weight of the weapon. Oberyn did not have a chance to withdraw his sword before the sound of steel cleaving through the wind approached.
He blinked, the world far too bright for his taste, and a groan rolled from his throat. Thankfully, Ellaria's concerned face loomed over him.
"What happened?" His voice came out hoarse.
"You killed Lorch while the Red Wake fended off other contestants," Nymeria's giddy lilt came from the side.
"Then he knocked you out when you seemed all too joyful in your success." His paramour gave him a wry smile as she ran her delicate hand through his curls.
"Bah," Obara spat. "Why would the Northman help?"
"Long winters make for a hardy folk, and there's little place for deception. Honesty and valour are more valuable than gold north of the Neck, and Lorch and the Mountain lack both." Oberyn shuffled, only to wince when his side protested. "Fuck."
"Drink." Ellaria brought the wineskin to his lips, and he gulped thirstily. The strong Dornish wine felt like fire in his throat, invigorating his wariness. "You won't be doing any more fighting, it seems."
"Any trouble?" He coughed, tongue still aflame with heavy spice.
"No, a dozen fools perished in the melee so far, and Lorch is just one of many," Nymeria snorted. "Might be a few more will die before the madness ends. I've never seen a tourney so bloody!"
"Your actions have attracted some undue attention; both the King and the Hand were looking."
It took him nearly half an hour to come back to his senses, and even then, Oberyn had to walk with a crutch like some cripple because his side ached. The Red Wake had gotten him good, even if he couldn't remember anything other than heavy, ominous whooshing from that part of the melee.
Still, success felt like he was in Ynanna's sweet embrace; Rhaenys's murderer was finished. Clegane would be next, and then the old Lion himself. But, there was only so much luck one could get - the Mountain had been knocked off the lists last evening by a Dustin madman, who rode like the devil himself. The expected rage from the rabid dog had not come, probably because there were two scores of burly Northmen nearby, the Red Wake at their helm, all looking eager for a brawl.
And now that Oberyn had been knocked out of all the games, he could only tend to his wounds while watching and studying Gregor Clegane's every move and trying to enjoy the festivities. Moving was too risky with the Hand and the king's undue attention. Yet revenge was sweeter than honey, and The Red Viper hungered for more.
He had woken up just in time to see the final opening round of the melee. Ser Androw Crane, the famed wielder of Red Wing, and Gyles Rowan, another Valyrian Steel wielder, proved themselves worthy swordsmen even with tourney blades in hand. Along with Grance Morrigen, they were the last three standing, thus proceeding to the finals.
The other preliminary rounds had ended as expected; over thirty contestants would fight in the final tomorrow, most of them men of renown, tried and tested in battle from every corner of the realm. The Northmen had made for a strong showing despite their drably plain equipment - Oberyn could count at least a handful of men who qualified from the cold wastes, including the Red Wake, a Liddle, a Wull, and two Flints.
Boulder lifting, on the other hand, was far more amusing to watch. To everyone's surprise, the king had risen from his high seat to join the contestants. This particular game seemed to require not only strength but plenty of technique, so the final rounds saw the competitors dwindling quickly.
"BARATHEON!" The crowd was chanting madly as the Demon of the Trident himself was red-faced, struggling to lift a boulder that weighed thirty-five stone. Years of drinking, feasting, and whoring had made him go round with fat, but bulging muscles still hid underneath. With much grunting and puffing, the weight was deposited atop the thick oaken barrel.
The other contestants, Harwin Belmore and Morgan Liddle, failed to lift the thirty-five stone boulder, and the crowd exploded in jubilation.
Robert's hearty laugh boomed above all the commotion as he raised his meaty fists in victory.
1st Day of the 10th Moon
Near Vaes Kwemo
The Gift Bearers
The Fallen Kingdom of Sarnor was a lamentable sight. The once golden fields of wheat stretching to the horizon were no more, replaced with grassland and the creeping forest. Sheep, aurochs, and goats were all gone, replaced by all sorts of wild beasts prowling through the lush woodland instead.
Not a single village or an inn was in sight; all foolish or daring enough to try and settle down again had been quickly enslaved or slaughtered by the passing Dothraki hordes. One would even think the land had been untouched by human hand if not for the dragon road, the handful of persistent ruins that had not yet given in to time, or the creeping vegetation. The Valyrian Road was a thick, monstrous ribbon of fused black stone as far as the eyes could see, twenty feet wide and straight as a spear. One of the final wonders of the fallen Freehold seemed to shrug off the vestiges of time, still smooth and unblemished by the elements.
Even to this day, the magical road allowed for easy, unimpeded travel, making any caravans far swifter than dirt roads would allow.
"And the dragon roads end here, at Sarnath," Maester Arren supplied helpfully from his donkey. The enthusiastic man was in his mid-thirties with balding auburn hair and freshly forged chain and serving in Ramsgate before the Lord of White Harbour bid him to join the expedition as a man well-versed in Essosi history, geography, and languages. "We should be there before sunset if the caravan master is correct."
The Northern delegation led by Ser Donnel Locke and Robar Royce had six more knights, a handful of squires, and a score of men at arms. After riding hard to Qohor, they finally joined a caravan on the way to Vaes Dothrak to avoid going deeper into Dothraki territory on their lonesome, as the horselords tended to attack armed travellers on sight to test their mettle. The traders welcomed them with open arms, only asking the Westerosi retinue to guard the rear and aid them in case of a fight.
"So much fertile land wasted," Donnel Locke shook his head, looking at the lush grassy woodlands and the multitude of springs and rivers spreading as far as the eye could see.
"The Dothraki consider the land to be their Mother, and it is a sin to wound her with ploughs, spades, or axes. Fields, towns, farms are the first to be put to the torch when the horselords pass by." The maester's explanation turned the mood sombre. They had encountered a smaller Khalasar two days prior, and the caravan master had to gift them a tribute to pass.
"Savages," Robar Royce murmured with distaste, loudly enough for only Donnel to hear.
It was almost unthinkable for the Westerosi to allow such blatant robbery, but the maester's ample warnings had them watch with a measure of disbelief. The bribe consisted of a handful of silver and bronze trinkets, just enough to satisfy the ageing Khal. Considering trade unmanly was so ironically amusing when they did it with such blatant gusto under the guise of 'gifting', even haggling over the value of the gift.
Despite lacking the concept of 'trade', the horselord had gifted a few fine pelts and exotic hides in return, recouping the loss the caravan would have otherwise suffered.
"Sarnor is known as the City of the Tall Towers," the young maester enthusiastically began prattling on. "It was said it had hundreds of spires, some over three hundred feet, and all of them a work of art-"
"Didn't you say the Dothraki call it the City of Worms?" Donnel interrupted with a laugh.
"The story says after Mazor Alexi perished in the Field of Crows, the gates were opened from within, and the Dothraki loathe cravens."
"Well, there's your city," Robar pointed ahead, where a cracked, ruined wall barely fought off the clinging treeline, and the gate had long turned into a crumbling arch. "My father always said even the mightiest walls are only as strong as those who man them."
"But… where are the towers?" Arren pulled on his auburn whiskers in indignation.
"Those who survived the sack were probably beset by the vestiges of time." Donnel shrugged. "There are many ruins scattered around the North, and only bare stones remain."
The balding maester looked crestfallen at the sight. "The Palace with a Thousand Rooms was supposed to be bigger than Harrenhal and more magnificent than Summerhall…"
"And both are barely more than a crumbling piece of masonry," Robar shrugged dismissively. "Considering those savage scavengers, they probably only left the charred stones behind." And indeed, much to the maester's woe, Valyria's staunchest ally had been reduced to a footnote in the pages of history. Vaes Kwemo was in a pitiful state, the once beautiful city replaced with collapsing ruins and cracked stones, slowly but surely devoured by the hungry vegetation.
"Gods, at least another moon to the fucking savage city," Donnel groused when the caravan finally stopped in what once could have been an enormous square but was now overtaken by weeds and roots, peeking through the dirt and the cracked pavement. "I just hope the horselord is there. I never thought my eyes would get bored of this endless deluge of grass and trees."
"At least there is an abundance of game, and the caravan has a trapper or two to make you those comfortable furs you enjoy." Robar grinned at the Northman's attire, which included an assortment of pelts from a Hrakr's fur to a strange breed of wolf the traders called a hyena.
Donnel Locke snorted as he took a slow, dismissive measure of the Royce Knight's own attire, a padded surcoat made from exotic hides and a new fancy red breastplate he had purchased from the Qohorik smiths.
"Bah, the North is still better."
The maester groaned from the side as the two knights bickered over the oldest of feuds - which kingdom was better? It quickly became an argument over past wars, most long buried in the vestiges of time. Yet even their sharp words lacked any heat as if they were arguing for the sake of it. Perhaps this book would feature the unlikely friendship of a Northman and a Valeman side by side against the savage lands of the Far East.
18th Day of the 10th Moon
The Bowels of the Red Keep
Deep beneath the surface of Aegon's hill, in the darkest corner of Maegor's passages, utterly bereft of the warm touch of the sun, two robed figures, both stout, clung to a flickering torch each.
"The tunnels have grown dangerous of late," one said, chill clinging to the damp stones despite the sweltering heat outside.
"You should not have taken that silly risk," the second chastised with a slick Essosi accent as they moved through the darkness. "It was far too early. What was it you said? Patience is our greatest strength."
"Yes, but the Hand, oh the Hand. He seeks to undermine everything we set out to do. In three moons, the man has toppled the board completely instead of playing the game by the rules! Stannis dismissed, Littlefinger slain, and Slynt replaced. Another year like this, and the Iron Throne will be the strongest it has ever been in a century."
"He is not looking into the old Falcon's death?"
"Nay, for all the talk of honour, the man seems to be pursuing his interests first and has placed his full backing behind the throne." The man's footsteps were as soft as silk despite his heavy leather boots, the arming sword and dirk on his belt making no sound. Clad in boiled leather and a simple byrnie, he could easily be mistaken for a man-at-arms with his scarred face, rugged beard and thick cap.
The second man absentmindedly tugged on his forked yellow beard. "If one Hand can die, why not a second?"
"I tried," the first hissed out. "But a sorcerer is not so easily felled. His prowess is greater than I envisioned - he somehow found out about the Tears of Lys!"
"I thought you said the Westerosi hated wizards and magic?"
"The Quiet Wolf is far more dangerous than we thought. But," he paused as the flames licked at the cold air, sending small puffs of smoke, "there is some opportunity for discord."
The shadows danced as the torch swayed through the air, and the silence slowly stretched.
"The young stag is prancing about, but to no avail. It matters not; the Princess is with child. Once a son is born, the Khal will bestir himself."
"Risky," murmured the first one. "Her brother is a fool, wasting his sister on the savage. Convincing the horselords to cross the Narrow Sea might yet prove impossible. If a daughter is born, the Khal might turn his attention elsewhere. The Company cannot fight the realm on its lonesome."
"Nothing worthwhile has ever been easy, my friend," deep laughter rumbled through the stilted air. "Little difficulties have never stopped us before. This is merely another obstacle to leap over."
"Yet the obstacles only grow greater and greater. With Stark alive and entrenched in court, we cannot hope to claim legitimacy. Even now, the Faith has grown too strong along the Mander, and my birds cannot find a place to roost. I suspect the Most Devout have taken control over the Stranger's wives."
"The zealots lost their strength long ago," the second figure waved dismissively. "And if the Hand proves too great an obstacle, he can be removed by… other means. Valar Morghulis."
"The cost would be unimaginable, and he is far from our only hurdle. The mother of wolves is not like her sister, and his heir is old enough to rally his banners."
"A young pup is not to be feared. Keep working your magic, then," the forked beard replied, breathless from the long trek through the tunnels. "The nobles are too blind, too proud and prickly. Fan the flames of rivalry, pour oil into the ambitions, and sow the seeds of doubt and division. Chaos will be our greatest ally. Justice and fairness are dangerous things. The Hand has stepped on many feet, and the longer he lingers, the more foes he makes."
"Even the finest juggler cannot keep a hundred balls in the air forever."
"You're far more than a mere juggler, my friend. A true sorcerer, I say." The man with the accent reached out to pat the other man's shoulder. "All I ask is that you work your magic awhile longer."
They reached a small, round juncture and halted on the damp floor atop the worn mosaic of the three-headed dragon. Under the torch's wavering light, the black and red tiles became indistinguishable whirl as the colours merged.
"I must have more gold, then. And a hundred more birds."
"So many? The ones you want are not easy to find…"
"So is the task you ask of me, my friend," came the soft reply.
19th day of the 10th Moon
The Lord of Winterfell
The urgent council meeting caught him without his companion, the direwolf preferring to sleep the sweltering heat away, where the crystalline blade kept the chambers cool.
"The whore is pregnant!" Robert slammed his fist on the table as loud as a thunderclap. "I warned you this would happen, Ned. Back in the Barrowlands, I warned you, but you and your gifts. Well, enough of gifts and plots, I want them dead. Both the mother and son, and that fool Viserys too. Is that plain enough for you? I want them dead!"
The king was red-faced and puffing with rage.
The rest of the councillors were observing with caution, faces still. "And the Khal would simply forget and forgive that his wife and child have been slain? Come on, Robert, Jon taught you better than this."
"If only I didn't listen to him, the dragonspawn would be long dead. You cannot mean to do nothing when the shadow of the headman's steel hangs over my neck!"
"Only a shadow of a shadow. Sailing a hundred thousand Dothraki screamers and their hordes across the Narrow Sea is far easier said than done, Your Grace," Lord Stark's face had grown as cold as ice. "Five thousand willing ships are not so easy to find. There will be no threat if the child is a girl or fails to live to adulthood. Would the Khal bestir himself to go to a faraway land over the whims of a woman or for a daughter? Should he be so daring, we'll throw him back into the sea."
Robert took a swallow of wine and glared across the table. "Aye, Stannis would drown him in the sea, you said. But now you've dismissed my brother from the small council. Would Sebaston Farman know how to fight at sea?" His gaze settled on Tyrion, who looked as expressionless as a statute, before moving on to the Hand and then Renly. "Would Wyman Manderly lead the fleet or count some coppers? Or that glorified wine-maker Redwyne? Why are all of you silent? Answer me, damn it!"
"You're trying to provoke a war now over something that might never happen, Robert," Ned tiredly ran a hand through his hair. Gods, the hatred of House Targaryen had truly settled like madness in his friend, chasing away any and all reason. "The girl has done you no wrong, and for all you know, this Khal Drogo will get bored of Daenerys and take another wife. And then another, as the horselords oft do. Viserys is a half-mad fool and will get himself killed sooner or later."
"How well can this… Jorah Mormont be trusted?" Tyrion finally spoke out, gaze calculating.
"Ser Jorah craves a royal pardon dearly," Varys said softly, wringing his soft, powdered hands together. "He would not dare deceive me; the princess surely is with a child."
The new master of coin took a small sip from his goblet. "Did not Daenerys' mother have notorious difficulties with conceiving? It seems we're truly jumping at shadows here."
"Rhaella Targaryen still managed to produce two sons and a daughter. Sooner or later, one of Daenerys' babes would live, Lord Tyrion." The eunuch gave a wry smile. "It is unwise to ignore such a threat to the realm. A claimant to the throne leading a hundred thousand horsemen at his back could spell doom for the kingdoms."
"I want Stannis back!" Robert smacked his palm on the table with such force it began to crack. All the councillors winced from the sudden strike, and the groan of woods reverberated between the walls.
"I shall write a summon at once." Ned bowed and grabbed a roll of parchment from the helpful yet confused Tommen.
The king, however, still did not seem appeased and looked akin to an angry bull. "You should not have dismissed Stannis in the first place! I want him back here commanding my fleet, and I want that whore and her dragonspawn dead!"
"That dragonspawn is of little threat to you, Robert." The Lord of Winterfell stiffly shook his head. "You would drag the realm into a war over an unborn babe?"
Varys gave the king his usual oily, reassuring smile and placed a soft, powdered hand on Ned's sleeve. "I understand your qualms, Lord Stark, I truly do. It's a terrible thing we contemplate, a vile thing. Yet we who presume to rule must do such deeds for the good of the realm, however much it pains us. Besides, there are ways to get rid of Daenerys and her child without implicating the crown."
Renly shrugged, seeming entirely too satisfied with where things were going. "We ought to have killed Viserys and his sister years ago, but His Grace had made the mistake of listening to Jon Arryn's misplaced mercy."
"Kindness to your foes is cruelty to oneself, Lord Stark," Varys added with a titter.
"Yet many of the loyalists were not only spared but pardoned of all and any crimes," Ned steeled himself and glared at Renly. "Lord Mace Tyrell still holds Highgarden despite starving you and your brother Stannis for a year. Ser Barristan here slew a dozen of our friends on the Trident. When he was taken down, grievously wounded and near death, Roose Bolton advised to slit his throat, yet your brother said, 'I will not kill a man for loyalty, not for fighting well' and sent his own maester to tend to the Bold's wounds. And you, Lord Varys, are you not enjoying Robert's mercy now, after faithfully serving the Mad King for years?" The Spider squirmed under his gaze, but Ned looked at his friend coldly. "Would that the same man were here today."
Robert had the decency to avert his gaze for a moment but quickly shook his head. "It is not the same. I can forgive people for serving faithfully."
"But not children for being born?" Ned tried to keep the scorn out of his voice but seemed to have failed, judging by the king's reddening face. "Your Grace, I never knew you to fear Rhaegar. Have the years unmanned you so to tremble before the shadows of a babe unborn?"
"No more, Ned," Robert, eyes blazing with fury, warned with a meaty finger pointed at him. "Not another word. Have you forgotten who is king here?"
"No, Your Grace." Eddard sighed inwardly. "Have you?"
"Enough!" The king's roar whipped like a thunderclap. "I'm sick of talk. I will be done with this or be damned."
"At His Grace's command," Varys bowed deeply.
"We should have killed the Targaryens long ago," Renly agreed.
Pycelle hemmed and hawed but also bowed his head, face sad and weary. "It is as His Grace commands. The Targaryens are too dangerous to be left alive. Once I counselled Aerys as I counsel King Robert, I bear this girl and her child no ill will. Yet I ask you this - should war come, how many would die? How many would be slaughtered fighting? How many towns will burn? How many babes would be ripped from their cradles and perish at the savage's blade?" The Grandmaester cleared his throat, wiping an errant tear from his wrinkled face. "Is it not wiser, even kinder, that Daenerys Targaryen should die now so ten thousand might live?"
"Kinder," Varys echoed. "Truly well-spoken, Grand Maester. Should the gods grant Daenerys a son in their caprice, the realm would bleed."
"Should the girl perish, the Iron Throne would be the first suspect," Tyrion countered, taking a generous mouthful of wine. "And we'll get the war we fear anyway. We might as well prepare to fight either way."
"There are ways it would not be traced to us," Varys reminded quietly.
"There is honour in facing a foe on the battlefield," Selmy finally raised his weary gaze from the table and spoke. "But there's none in killing him in his mother's womb."
"Kinder," Robert looked at Pycelle with wonder, as if he had not heard the old knight, and turned to his Hand. "Yes, it would be a kindness to get the world rid of the dragonspawn."
"And what of your grandmother, Robert?" Ned chastised. "Rhaelle Targaryen's blood runs through your veins."
"A woman that perished in the fires of Summerhall before I was born," the king waved the words away as if they were some annoying fly. "I have nothing to do with her! I am king here, damn it, and I want Aerys' dragonspawn dead! The question is how."
"Do it yourself, Robert. The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword. It's so easy to kill someone far away on a whim. See her tears, hear her last words. You owe her that much, at least." His hand searched for the comfort of the hilt of his sword but found nought as the icy blade had remained in his chambers.
"Gods," the king's face had gone purple as if he was barely able to contain his fury. "You mean it, don't you? You damned honourable fool!" Robert picked up his cup but found it empty and flung it to shatter against the wall. "I am out of wine and out of patience. Enough of this. Just have it done."
Ned sighed tiredly. How do you help someone who does not care to be helped? The gods seemed to be laughing at him from above, and just when everything was going so well. "I will not be part of this reckless folly. Do as you will, but do not ask me to put my seal on it."
The silence was deafening for a few heartbeats. Defiance was not a dish tasted often, it seemed, and all of the councillors looked at Ned with open surprise while Robert was blinking with incomprehension. Realisation eventually sank in, and an angry royal finger was stabbed in his direction. "You are the King's Hand, Lord Stark. You will do as I command, or I will find me a Hand who will."
"I wish him every success," Ned said, unclasping the heavy silver pin and placing it on the table before Robert. Cat had turned out right in the end; his friend was gone, and the king had taken his place. The fearless warrior, unmatched on the battlefield, had been broken by the weight of a crown. "I thought you were a better man than this, Robert. I thought we had made for a nobler king."
"Out," the words were choked out with fury, the king's face purple with rage. "Out, damn you, I am done with you! What are you waiting for? Go, run back to Winterfell. And make certain I never look at your face again, or I will have your head on a spike!"
Heart pained, Ned bowed and turned to leave, any hesitation gone. He could feel Robert's gaze on his back, burning a hole through his silken cloak.
"On Braavos, there's a society called the Faceless Men," Pycelle's voice echoed behind, resuming the discussion. "It is said they make the death look like a mishap-" The door closed behind Ned, silencing the voices. The white cloak guarding outside, Mandon Moore, regarded him dispassionately from the corner of his eyes but remained otherwise silent and unmoving.
Why did Robert refuse to see his fury would plunge the realm into an inevitable war? Alas, the king's word was law. Ned knew this well enough, but to see a royal order drag the realm into madness was painful. He couldn't help but wonder if any of the royal councillors had advised Aerys against his follies.
Shaking his head, the Lord of Winterfell banished the ghastly thoughts from his mind. The words were spoken and could be taken back no more than an arrow after leaving the bowstring.
"We're going back to Winterfell?" Tommen's hopeful voice behind almost made the Northern Lord jump.
He had not noticed his page following.
"Aye, until you turn twelve, or His Grace summons you back," Ned said after a moment, shaking his head as the golden-haired boy almost leapt in joy. At least someone else was happy to leave the city.
The sky roiled above, a storm brewing within the clouds. If only the rain could wash out the accursed den of fools and cravens. When Ned crossed the bailey back to the Tower of the Hand, he was met with Vayon, who had a roll of parchment.
"A letter for you from Winterfell, my lord Hand," the steward bowed.
"Hand no longer."
Ned broke the familiar direwolf sigil, and a wry smile found its way to his face at Luwin's words. The gods saw fit to provide a ray of sunlight in the darkest days; he was to be a father again and a grandfather to boot. But the last part had chilled his blood; Benjen had brought news of Jon's ambitiously daring plan.
Gods, when had his boy grown so reckless?
The inked words, however, made up his mind. What had Howland advised him again? Yes, return home at the first opportunity. And it had readily landed on his lap, with a royal order to back it.
"The king and I have quarrelled." Ned exhaled slowly. "We shall be returning to Winterfell at once."
Vayon was dismayed, quite probably because the last of the effects had arrived just last week. He spied a look at the happy Tommen standing to the side and hesitated. But the steward quickly swallowed his objection and nodded. "I shall begin making arrangements at once, my lord. We might need up to a fortnight to prepare everything for the journey."
I will have your head on a spike!
Ned frowned. Would his friend truly harm him? But no, he had challenged the royal pride now and openly at that.
Half a year ago, he would laugh at the motion, but now… now he was not sure he had ever known Robert.
"I want us gone before sunrise. Tell Jory to get guardsmen to help you with the packing and have the less important things shipped at a later date." It would be best not to risk it in the end, and the sooner he left this accursed city, the better. Ned paused for a moment. "Get in touch with Ser Wylis. We'll be using his ships to get out of here."
It took him half an hour to find Howland Reed, who already knew what was happening.
"Should I tell the Northmen to get ready to leave with us?"
"As much as the Manderly ships will allow. Robert wants to make war to the east when the true foes are in the Lands of Always Winter."
"The South would be of little use in such a war, and you know this, Ned. But at least with the Night's Watch secure, you will no longer be fighting alone. Perhaps leaving now is for the best."
"Indeed," Ned grudgingly agreed. "There is little that can be done here in this vipers' den."
"It might be prudent to leave some Northmen behind, lest the Queen find herself in need of swords with all those schemers."
The Lord of Winterfell held no love for Cersei Lannister or Joffrey, but his friend made a good point. His tentative allies could only remain here in danger with the poisoner still at large. "See who volunteers, and make sure you notify Her Grace before we leave."
Winter, looking shaggy as if he had just roused himself from his nap, softly padded over and gave his hand a reassuring lick.
Author's Endnote:
Oberyn grabs a handful of success.
Androw Crane and Gyles Rowan are my own OCs. Canonically, there are supposed to be over 200 VS swords in Westeros, but we know a meagre handful by name. This is me expanding more upon the lore.
We see where the gift is.
Did anyone foresee… escalation?
Starring plotters, fools, lickspittle, and an angry king.
With this, the last vestiges of canon are finally thrown into the garbage bin. We're in a completely new and uncharted territory.
I had a few more plots to roll off in King's Landing, but the only thing that kept Ned in King's Landing this time was his desire to help Robert. And with Robert telling him to go away… yeah. That doesn't mean the plots won't continue anyway; it's just that Ned will not be dragged down into them directly.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where you can read ahead or simply come chat or ask me or others some questions.
Androw Crane and Gyles Rowan are my own OCs. Canonically, there are supposed to be over 200 VS swords in Westeros, but we know a meagre handful by name. This is me expanding more upon the lore.
We see where the gift is.
Did anyone foresee… escalation?
Starring plotters, fools, lickspittle, and an angry king.
With this, the last vestiges of canon are finally thrown into the garbage bin. We're in a completely new and uncharted territory.
I had a few more plots to roll off in King's Landing, but the only thing that kept Ned in King's Landing this time was his desire to help Robert. And with Robert telling him to go away… yeah. That doesn't mean the plots won't continue anyway; it's just that Ned will not be dragged down into them directly.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where you can read ahead or simply come chat or ask me or others some questions.
Roberts days are now going to be numbered
Robert: The fuck do you mean he actually LEFT?! Get Ned back here at once!
Eddard up and leaving could also work for Varys as he was proving to be an obstacle so we can only hope for no last minute death.
44-Cloudy Skies
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.
Edited by: Void Uzumaki, Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
19th Day of the 10th Moon
The Master of Coin
Half a moon after the tourney had ended, King's Landing had finally calmed down from the craze, and the streets and inns were no longer overflowing. The evening was approaching, and it took Tyrion an hour to finally find the former Hand. The docks were overflowing with Northmen boarding heavy carracks, the green mermen and the grey direwolf banners proudly fluttering in the wind above. Dozens of prized steeds were brought up to the ship's stables, the noblemen reluctant to part with them, even if for a short while.
He saw many of the rugged Northern clansmen, a deluge of short Crannogmen, and the myriad crests of Glovers, Flints, Cerwyns, Ryswells, and Damon Dustin. The relatively unknown barrow-knight had earned himself the moniker Mad Lance after clinching the runner-up in the joust with dogged fervour against Loras Tyrell, only to lose the final round to the Red Crane by a hair's breadth. Yet, now he was clad in the best armour Tobho Mott could offer, all coloured bright yellow and bought by the runner-up's purse. Rumour had it he had even bought a similar barding for his horse.
After winning the melee, Red Wake Walder was no different; his brigandine was replaced with a heavy plate and a new, hefty poleaxe. While his new equipment lacked any fancy ornaments or colours bar the direwolf livery, the Giant of Winterfell had become an imposing behemoth of steel, reminding Tyrion of the Mountain, if far more disciplined. There was a tall, bulky lad who looked too big to be a child next to the Red Wake; if the rumours were correct, he had somehow recruited Mott's prized apprentice as his squire.
Tyrion's face and stature were easily recognisable, and soon enough, he was quickly brought to the Northern Highlord; Jyck and Morrec helped him dismount and stood to the side.
"Leaving so quickly?"
"It is for the best." Stark shrugged, relief plain to see on his face. The accursed icy blade hung ominously on his belt in some queer lacquered scabbard yet still sending a soft chill in the air, the Northern Lord looking oddly comfortable with it. "A royal order is not to be disputed." As usual, the enormous direwolf was right next to him. The beast was already a head taller than Tyrion at the shoulders, and it felt like Winter could make a snack out of him in a heartbeat. How the Starks dared to trust such beasts, he would never know.
"Well, insolence and ingratitude… might have been mentioned once or twice." He could only grimace at the memory of the king's frothing rage. If Robert Baratheon was a dragon, Tyrion had no doubt he would be spewing fire and brimstone everywhere. With a frown, he glanced at the frenzied docks; the Northerners seemed eager to leave, like a cheating wife fleeing her angry husband. "Impressive speed, I have to admit."
"I won't miss the heat or the scheming fools." With a sign, a wall of Stark guardsmen surrounded them loosely, preventing anyone from approaching. The Northerner leaned closer, voice lowered to a whisper. "We've yet to find the thrice-cursed poisoner."
"We have been… unable to find much proof, either," the words came out sour on his tongue. Procuring a wine tester had proved cumbersome, especially since it meant there was less for Tyrion to drink. "Whoever did it covered his tracks well. This only makes my dear sister suspect the eunuch and the Lord of Storm's End."
Renly Baratheon had been behaving oddly of late, trying to court the commander of the City Watch and pull the Tyrells into his corner. Cersei, of course, had already moved to counter him, and Balon Swann was betrothed to the comely Jocelyn Lannister from the Lannisport Lannisters. The negotiations were easy; Lord Gulian Swann had readily accepted after the generous dowry the Queen had brokered, along with a chance to tie himself to the royals, if indirectly. And the Spider… it was hard to glean what the eunuch was planning besides fanning the flames.
"Cregan Karstark has volunteered to stay, along with some Umbers, Slates, and a contingent from the Lockes, so you'll have two hundred swords to call upon in need," Stark sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. "They will answer your call if the need arises. If only His Grace cared more about the matters of the realm and court than a pair of foolish children on the other side of the world."
Tyrion was startled at the number. A more careful look around the dock, and he could easily count over four hundred Northmen, all armed and armoured heavily. Despite not being as flippant and shiny as their southern counterparts, their swords and axes looked no less dangerous, and all carried themselves like bloodied veterans. These were not the sloppy men-at-arms that had grown soft with peace but a part of the Northern elite.
Two hundred of these were more than his father had sent with cousin Daven, along with a multitude of various Lantells, Lannetts, and Lannys, to partly escort Jocelyn, Cerenna, and Myrielle Lannister here and bolster Cersei's forces in the city after the poisoning attempt.
Had Eddard Stark used the tourney as a guise to muster so many swords in the city? Even now, all those Northmen moved swiftly, with practised haste. Tyrion snorted, dismissing the thought as it came. The Northern Highlord was not without cunning but was far too straight-laced for such schemes. No, Stark seemed to have an effortless grasp on his bannermen somehow.
Uncorking his flask and inhaling a mouthful of wine, Tyrion shook his head, banishing the errant thoughts. "Well, you'll be pleased to know that no assassins were sent for Aerys' get yet."
"Has Robert finally found his wits?"
"Nay, it was a matter of coin. The Faceless Men would require a loan nobody would be willing to give, and anything else risks outright war regardless. Our grandmaester argued we might as well poison the Khal himself to avoid any fighting instead."
"The Dothraki would scatter to the four winds should the Khal have no grown sons," Ned sighed, face twisted with disappointment. "But if a Khal were so easily disposed of, the horselords would have been finished long ago. But would His Grace stoop so low to use poison?"
"A coward's weapon, he dismissed it. They want to declare a bounty in exchange for a lordship, but such a move would implicate the Iron Throne regardless and lead to the same war we're trying to avoid." Tyrion snorted; he still struggled to see how a dagger in the dark was less cowardice than poison. "He stormed out of the meeting then, not before sending a summons to my Lord Father."
Eddard Stark shuffled uneasily. "Handship?"
"Indeed, it seems even our king thinks Tywin Lannister shits gold and can solve all problems with a snap of a finger." The truth was that Tyrion wasn't looking for a family reunion anytime soon, but royal summons could not be denied. Worse, he doubted the Lord of Casterly Rock would miss the opportunity to come to court and run the kingdom. But Tywin Lannister was not held back by petty scruples or honour like Eddard Stark.
"Alas, it seems the crown can turn even the bravest man into a craven." Stark looked so profoundly… disappointed. It was odd to see the grey eyes full of steel gone dull with grief. "It is better I leave. The Starks do not belong here, in the South. Do you want me to pass a message to the Princess?"
"Ah, my favourite niece," Tyrion chuckled and took a swig of wine from his flask. "Do send my regards. At least Cella will have Tommen to keep her company, along with the hefty gaggle of ladies she has gathered. I'm surprised His Grace has let you keep your page."
"Until a new arrangement is demanded, I shall honour my word. The lad is all too happy about leaving King's Landing behind."
"Perhaps a change of scenery would indeed suit my nephew." Tyrion sighed. It was no wonder Tommen had taken to Eddard Stark, who treated him like a son more than Cersei or Robert ever did. His sister would undoubtedly express her disagreement at parting with her youngest child vehemently, but she did not have much of a choice in the matter. And it was for the better in the end; Tommen was the spare, and he would be far safer from poison and catspaws in Winterfell.
Winter stood up, and Stark looked at the setting sun. "A long journey awaits, and I'm afraid I must bid you farewell, Lord Tyrion."
The master of coin bowed his head. "Fair winds to you, Lord Stark."
And with that, the Northern Highlord gave him one final nod and decisively boarded the biggest ship flying the direwolf sigil, the formidable form of Winter following obediently, with a shaggy tail swaying languidly in the air. The five carracks were filled, and Tyrion watched as they slowly set sail, the sun's setting turning the Blackwater Bay into a dark, glossy expanse, reflecting the heavy clouds coming from the southeast. The Northern ships had three masts each to compensate for the lack of rowers; it seemed like Manderly was short on manpower for his naval ambitions.
Tyrion Lannister couldn't help but feel some sorrow at Stark's departure. The man had been surprisingly accommodating and fair in all matters, and he had helped him gain a good position; becoming Master of Coin was the best thing that had happened to Tyrion.
Alas, now Eddard Stark would be replaced with Tywin Lannister. A grievous loss, Tyrion decided. Life would get much harder with his father's penchant for control. With a sigh, Tyrion returned to Jyck and Morrec, who helped him on his horse. It was time for his nightly inspection of the royal brothels; the madames in charge were surprisingly accommodating, and he found himself with a different companion each night.
21st Day of the 10th Moon
The Prancing Stag
Soon after his brother banished Stark from the capital, Mace Tyrell took his leave. Loras claimed his father had been outraged to not even be considered for the position of a new Hand, but Renly did not think the rose lord looked particularly angry.
Still, Renly began to lose patience at the lack of progress and was forced to confront Pycelle.
"It is not surprising for men to die at eighty, my lord," the grandmaester muttered sleepily.
"Indeed," Renly gave a practised reluctant frown. "But Lady Lysa Arryn has approached me with a claim her husband has been murdered by someone." No such thing had happened, of course, but he needed an excuse. Given how unstable and famously hysterical the Lady of the Eyrie was, nobody would question such a thing. A distraught widow asking after her husband's death shouldn't raise any eyebrows, more so after she fled the city in haste.
"Err," Pycelle nervously tugged onto his chain, face scrunched up in thought. "How can I be of help? My memory is not what it used to be."
After a long and painful two hours of meandering and slowly sifting through the library, Renly finally managed to wrangle out the book Arryn was reading before he died. It was a dreadful old tome called The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. Seven above, he felt sleepy just by looking at the yellow pages.
Davos Seaworth
He looked at his lord; Stannis Baratheon was lying in his bed, far more peaceful in death than in life. All the worries that had weighed upon his brow were nowhere to be seen. Shireen, all garbed in a black mourning gown, sobbed piteously on a chair, making Davos' heart twist in pain. He could not imagine a greater woe for a child than to bury both parents, not so early.
He had known it was coming, but the blow struck hard anyway; mind muddled, Davos walked out of the chambers just as seven silent sisters had arrived in the hallway. The Stranger's handmaidens would remove the bowels and organs, stuffing the body with salt and fragrant herbs before washing the skin with holy oils. Once done, the lord would be deposited in the Sept for his kin and kith to pay their respects for seven days before departing for his final resting place.
Mind wandering, Davos found himself making his way to the Great Hall, a queer building shaped like an enormous laying dragon. Passing through the red gates at its maw, he heard the murmurs inside.
"-he lungs had festered too badly," Cressen lamented, explaining to the gathered knights and heads of household. All the knights who had answered Stannis' summons after the tragic fire still lingered here. "I tried everything I knew, but all it did was stave off the inevitable."
Nearly two dozen knights of various houses were here along with their squires, especially since Stannis had summoned Elyena Celtigar, Helicent Farring, and Rosey Sunglass to become Shireen's handmaids.
"Valar Morghulis," Monford Velaryon murmured at the side, face heavy.
"Too early." Davos sadly wiped the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. "A great man died today, and the Seven Kingdoms are lesser for it."
Ser Richard Horpe, a dangerous, hard-eyed knight with a scarred face, took a swig from a horn of ale and spoke up, "What of Lord Stannis' last will?"
The murmurs quieted as the attention turned to Cressen. The old maester sadly sighed before slowly pulling out a roll of parchment from his robes, his hands shaking as always.
"In the name of Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, and by the grace of the Seven as the rightful Lord of Dragonstone, I, Stannis of House Baratheon, being of sound mind, do hereby declare the following: Unto the event of my untimely death, all my titles and estates are to pass onto my sole heir and daughter, Shireen Baratheon. Under the event she has yet to come of age, I proclaim Ser Davos Seaworth as her sole regent-"
"What?" Lord Velaryon had stood up from the table, pale face reddening.
"Sit down, my lord. Let us hear the rest of it in peace." Lothor Hardy, the burly master-at-arms, glared sternly at Monford. Seeing everyone was looking at him warily, the Lord of the Tides stiffly sat back down.
Davos, however, was reeling from the revelation. He had no idea how to do any of the highborn things, let alone guide anyone else!
"Ahem," Cressen tugged on his chain nervously and tried to steady his hands as his gaze roamed over the parchment. "I proclaim Ser Davos Seaworth as her sole regent; may he offer Shireen valuable and honest advice as he did to me. Should my brothers agree to it, my body ought to be buried in Storm's End's crypts, together with our forebearers."
"That's it?" Ser Justin Massey looked expectantly at the old maester.
"Indeed, good Sers."
"This must be some kind of mistake," Monford said, voice sharp as a sword. "For the last few moons, Lord Stannis has been drinking the milk of the poppy, which is known to scramble one's wits. This is not a final will inked while sound of mind. Nobody sane would declare a smuggler as regent for their daughter!"
Cressen recoiled from the accusation, his hands shaking even more now. "I assure you, Lord Stannis was lucid when he dictated the testament."
The Velaryon lord snorted dismissively. "Bold words from the man feeding him the milk of the poppy."
"I would never-"
"Perhaps you've lost your wits in your old age, maester, but the truth here is clear." Monford stood up and nodded to a few of the knights. "Lord Stannis confided to me his plans to guide young Shireen until she came of age. Clearly, this onion knight is grasping and must be sent back home to his ill-gotten holdfast instead of leading a young lady of noble bearing astray."
At his nod, Davos found himself grabbed by the Massey Knight and one of the Velaryon men, but they suddenly froze.
"That's not what the will says," Richard Horpe growled, his sword already drawn and at Justin Massey's neck. All the other knights and men at arms stood up, drawing steel and surrounding Monford's men, easily outnumbering them half a dozen times.
"You can't mean to listen to some-"
"Smuggler?" Ser Rolland Storm laughed scornfully, eyes full of violence and a wicked battle axe in hand. "I was there in Storm's End, a young squire when Ser Davos came with the salted fish and the onions. It was the finest meal my tongue has tasted. More than half of us here owe Ser Davos our lives." A round of agreement echoed from most of the men-at-arms.
Lothor Hardy chortled, sword drawn. "Stannis thought you'd pull some foolery like this, Velaryon, and bid me prepare. What I didn't expect was you drawing Massey and Sunglass in this folly. Perhaps some time in the dungeons would clear your mind."
"All this for a common smuggler?" Monford's face was stony.
"All this for Lord Stannis. He talked to most of us the last moon, telling much the same of what the will said," the bastard of Nightsong grunted, then glanced at the men holding Davos, face turning savage. "Stand down, fools, or your heads will line the spikes outside."
The hands holding Davos's shoulders disappeared, and the clutter of steel littered the floor as the Onion Knight blinked in confusion.
22nd Day of the 10th Moon
Lord Stannis had kept all the plots he had uncovered close to his chest, sharing his knowledge and suspicions only with Davos. Now, with the lord gone, the burden had fallen on his shoulders. The old maester knew a little and probably suspected more but did not say a word. Shireen herself was not privy to any of her father's woes either.
Stannis had wanted his daughter to be unburdened by the scheming happening in the royal seat; as long as she remained ignorant, she would be safe. Besides, it's not like Davos had any proof other than Stannis' words and suspicions. The old smuggler could see Stannis had been rankled deep inside at the injustice, but he grudgingly let it go. For his daughter.
"Perhaps Lord Velaryon is right," Davos sighed, looking helplessly at the desk full of letters and scrolls. The lord's chair was mighty uncomfortable despite the velvet lining. "I have no idea how to help Shireen, maester. A regent is supposed to guide, but Shireen has been doing all the teaching here, helping me learn my letters."
"Ah, Ser Davos, it is never too late to learn!" Cressen's shaking hand tugged on his wizened beard. The old man had gone breathless from climbing the solar, but his grey eyes were still bright. "You have me and Ser Hardy to advise you on the matters of regency. Wisdom comes in many forms, and true loyalty is more valuable than gold. A regent must be leal, honest, and have his charge's interest in mind, something Lord Velaryon conveniently forgot."
"What am I to do with the Lord of the Tides and a handful of knights in the dungeons, then?"
"Have them swear fealty to Shireen in the eyes of the Seven before sending them away," the master at arms proposed. "You don't want no rats in your household. Even the strongest keeps can fall to treachery."
"Well then, see it done, Ser Hardy," Davos grimaced, and the knight grunted in agreement. "What of Lord Velaryon?"
"We keep his heir here to foster. The lord of the tides could be moved into… better accommodations or sent back to Driftmark after vowing obeisance. It is not wise to alienate a bannerman, but his loyalty must be ensured."
The former smuggler liked it little, but he found himself agreeing. "Alright then. Perhaps we should start bringing Lady Shireen into those decisions. She is the one who shall rule in a handful of years."
As Hardy and Cressen nodded in agreement, an urgent knock came from the door, and Ser Rolland Storm came in, heaving for breath.
"Direwolf sails on the horizon."
"Since when did the Starks have a fleet?" Davos groaned, standing up, but he received no answer.
Still, after hearing so much about the Lord of Winterfell, the Onion Knight couldn't help but feel dread. Judging by Cressen and Ser Hardy's apprehension, he was far from the only one. Stannis showed no love for the Lord of Winterfell, and having such a powerful man arrive here so soon was worrying.
"The King's Hand is not easily sent away," Cressen advised hoarsely. "But no matter what, the Northmen will keep to the laws of hospitality."
Half an hour later, Davos, heart filled with apprehension, was at the Dragonstone docks, escorting a downcast Shireen, Ser Hardy, five knights and two dozen men-at-arms. Dark, heavy clouds hung heavy above. After sailing for so long, the Narrow Sea was like a cold yet intimate mistress, and the old smuggler could recognise an autumn storm brewing when he saw one.
Five carracks of such size were a rare sight - many preferred to employ oarsmen, who could pick up arms and join in the ship's defence.
Yet, Stark did not seem to have such issues; a single glance told Davos the vessels were filled to the brim with men, easily more than the already sizable garrison Dragonstone possessed.
The Lord of Winterfell was even more formidable than he imagined, his stern gaze pressed down on you like a cold mountain. A hefty retinue followed him down the ships, all of them hard men with bloodshed and steel in their eyes. There was even a giant easily two heads taller than most others, muscled like a bull. Was that the infamous Red Wake who had won the melee in King's Landing? But that was not the queerest sight; a wolf, almost the size of a horse, was prowling next to Stark like an obedient dog.
"Welcome, Lord Stark." Shireen, who looked so small before the Northern highlord, stiffly curtsied and motioned for a trembling servant to bring in the bread and salt. Never before had Davos felt more out of place, and he had accompanied Stannis a few times in court…
The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife, but then Stark decisively tore a piece of bread, dipped it into the salt and devoured it with a single bite. Suddenly, everyone eased, and Davos could only let out a relieved sigh.
"Thank you, Lady Shireen. Where is your Lord Father?" Stark asked, gaze searching through the piers. A chilling scabbard hung on his belt, with a queer crystalline hilt wrapped in leather, looking oddly out of place. The thing made the back of his neck crawl with ants.
"My father… passed away three days ago," Shireen choked out.
The northern highlord's eyes slightly widened before softening like fog. "My condolences."
Eddard Stark's face was genuine in a plain and honest way. Davos had seen many men over the years and prided himself on his ability to see under the veneer many liked to portray. And, despite what Stannis had spoken before, Lord Stark was the most forthcoming man the old smuggler had seen. There was not a tinge of arrogance or dishonesty in the Northern Highlord, only steely resolve and… was that compassion?
Had Stannis been mistaken? But what were his goals if Stark wasn't in league with the Lannisters?
Regardless, Davos would remain vigilant and observe.
The silence stretched awkwardly, and Shireen looked so lost when the enormous direwolf just padded over and cautiously nudged the frozen Lady of Dragonstone with his enormous snout. Davos' cry died on his lips as Shireen started giggling while the beast began licking the unmarred side of her face.
With a cough from Stark, the direwolf reluctantly retreated and sat obediently next to his master like a well-trained dog, shaggy silver tail wagging furiously.
Davos scratched his head at the ludicrousness of the situation, tried to remember his courtesies, and sighed. "How may we be of assistance, Lord Hand?" The faster they could send Stark away, the better.
"A Hand no longer," Stark's face grew solemn. "His Grace no longer deemed my services necessary, and I tire of the South. I had hoped to have a word with Lord Stannis, but it seems I shall have to settle for resupplying and paying my respects. With your permission, Lady Shireen?"
The girl nodded mutely. The Lord of Winterfell was surprisingly humble and easy to get along with for a man of such a storied lineage and even passed through the Sept to pay his respect to Stannis. Lightning whipped through the sky, splitting it in two, followed by roaring thunder, and it began to drizzle. Shireen shyly offered Dragonstone's hospitality for the night, receiving a deluge of grateful nods and grunts from the Northern retinue.
Dragonstone's Great Hall was filled to the brim, and the old smuggler was surrounded by a cheerful bustle as the Northmen made merry as if the day was their last despite the humble feast prepared in haste. Their spirit was infectious, as the Dragonstone knights and men-at-arms couldn't help but join. He spied a big bald clansman, Liddle or something, competing over ale with Rolland Storm while many others watched and hollered in approval, egging them on.
The wolf lord was far more reserved, but Davos could spy his lips twitching in amusement as he glanced around the hall. The old smuggler remained silent, content to observe and let the other do the talking.
The oddest thing was that the youngest prince, Tommen Baratheon, was here as Stark's page and sitting on the other side of the Highlord. His mop of golden hair looked out of place, but the young boy seemed happy, green eyes drinking in the merriment of the hall with keen interest as he happily chatted with Shireen. This was the first child Davos had seen speak so enthusiastically with the young girl, even ignoring the gaggle of young handmaids surrounding the new Lady of Dragonstone.
It seemed like there was a grain of truth about Stark's alliance with Cersei, but the man appeared so… genuinely carefree and happy, nothing like those scheming highborns wearing fake smiles and empty words Davos had seen aplenty. All he saw was a tired man who wanted to go home.
But his presence alone had Davos feel like he was treading on thin ice.
A day or two, and Stark would be gone, no doubt, which brought him a good measure of relief. The Onion Knight knew not how to entertain such a highlord and let the others do the talking. Ser Hardy, Cressen, and Shireen were the ones who slowly prodded with what sounded like random questions to Davos, and Stark was generous with his replies.
As the night progressed, the Northern Highlord explained why he was dismissed from the court. The direwolf was at his feet, devouring a pig's roast leg whole, crunching through the bone as if it were straw, and sending chills through Davos' spine. Any doubt the beast was dangerous had quickly evaporated.
The topic slowly steered to the court and then to the Night's Watch and the dangers lurking in the Lands of Always Winter. Davos had heard whispers and rumours about the black brothers and the new reform, but to see a highlord speak of it with such heavy concern was sobering. Still, Stark coughed and began talking of his experiences at court, many of which were outright amusing.
To Davos's worry, Shireen quickly started warming up to lord Stark's friendly demeanour.
"Lord Stark," she said, words slow and hesitant. "How does one deal with unruly bannermen?"
Even Tommen perked up next to her, listening on with keen interest.
"It depends on their misdeeds," Stark said with a thoughtful hum. "The vows of fealty go both ways, and honour and mercy can go a long way to smoothen out any future trouble. Yet, a liege lord must always maintain a position of strength, and infractions must be punished fairly."
"Well-" the woes with Lord Velaryon quickly left Shireen's lips while the Northerner listened with quiet attentiveness.
"The man follows the Seven, does he not? Keep him quartered away for seven days, then offer him a chance to redeem himself while keeping young Monterys here to foster."
"A chance to redeem himself?" She echoed curiously.
A deafening cheer overtook the hall, and they all paused, only to see Rolland Storm passed out on the table while Liddle swayed unsteadily but with his arms raised in victory. The clansman was helped aside as Ser Richard Horpe challenged Dustin to a drinking match, much to the crowd's joy.
Stark chuckled, shaking his head with unveiled amusement once the commotion dwindled. "Monford Velaryon has yet to swear any vows to you. You've done well in sending his men away. Let him give his oaths of fealty and offer him a choice - stay here as an advisor to redeem himself or return home. Have Stannis's final testament sent to the king, who would be honour-bound to ensure the will is followed. Many problems melt away at the face of the crown's power."
Shireen's face lit up.
Davos scratched his head, feeling somewhat foolish. A glance at Cressen told him the advice given was heartfelt. Truth be told, he had no idea what the Lord of Winterfell was up to anymore and couldn't even begin to guess. It didn't matter - he'd be out of their hair by the next noon. Still, a few words from Stark had quickly resolved a conundrum that had given him a terrible headache. He was not suited for that regency thing one bit and, to his dread, realised that five more years of this headache awaited him.
But he would learn. For Shireen. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too late for an old dog like him to learn some new tricks.
Bells chiming heralded Patchface's arrival. Wearing an old tin bucket like a helmet, the fool scuttled sideways towards Shireen and grabbed their attention. The poor soul had been quiet of late.
"Under the sea, frost turns to fire, and the wolves fly upside down," his motley face was twisted like a grotesque, one half laughing, one half crying. "I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."
Many laughed at the words, but a chill went down Davos's spine.
23rd Day of the 10th Moon
The Bold
The court felt far emptier these days, but a rising tension could be felt brewing among the courtiers. While some lingered even after the so-called Northern Tourney ended, the semblance of order and calm was gone with Stark absent. Mace Tyrell had also left the city shortly afterwards, dragging away a hefty retinue of Reachmen. If the rumours were true, the rose lord was angry for not even being considered for the Handship when he was in the city over Tywin Lannister, who was two kingdoms away.
Not only that, but since the Lord of Winterfell had resigned, His Grace's rage had cooled off, and he had been deeper in his cups than usual. Especially so, for tonight was a feast celebrating the Queen's thirty-third name day. Even now, the king took thirsty gulps of dark ale and thick wine as if it were water. Barristan couldn't help but feel sorrowful; the honest, brave, and valiant warrior that spared him at the Trident was long gone.
But he remained silent as usual; it was not for the white cloaks to judge.
Then, Pycelle hobbled over and whispered something in the king's ear, nervously holding a parchment roll in his grasp.
"What do you mean Stannis is dead?!" Robert's bellow thundered like a whip, halting any merriment and silencing the bards. Everyone whipped their heads to look at the royal seat. Even the usually unflappable Queen looked… confused.
"Ehm," the old maester hemmed and hawed, but a dangerous flush crept up the king's collar, and Pycelle moaned piteously, trembling hands unfurling the message while hunching over. "It's inked by Maester Cressen of Dragonstone, Your Grace. Lord Stannis passed away from a festering fever."
"Stannis cannot be dead!" Robert stood up, swaying drunkenly, the silence growing deafening. It was little wonder as Selmy saw him consume enough wine to knock out three men. "Where is Ned?" The king's face grew red as he looked around uneasily, but nobody dared speak. "Answer me, damn it!"
"You dismissed him, Your Grace." Renly approached cautiously, head bowed. "Lord Stark left, back to Winterfell."
"Left?" Robert snatched a newly filled goblet of wine and drained it in one gulp. "Left he says. Well, summon him back!"
Renly's face looked like he sucked on a sour lemon, but he schooled himself, nodded humbly, and retreated from the throne room as if on fire. Selmy couldn't help but notice the crown prince was gazing at Robert with undisguised admiration.
"Pycelle," the king barked, snatching the parchment from the cowed maester. His frowning, unfocused gaze floated unsteadily through the ink. "What mummery is this?!"
"It's Cressen's personal signature and your brother's seal, Your Grace," the old man mumbled. "He has served House Baratheon loyally for half a century. There can't be any mistakes here."
"Stannis cannot die to some fever!" Robert declared, words beginning to slur together. "I tire of these jests. I want Stannis to stop hiding in that dark castle and answer my summons, damn it! Send for him. Your king commands it! And old man Cressen, too!" Pycelle bowed deeply and hobbled away with surprising speed. Robert's massive paw of an arm angrily swept through the table, sending plates and cutleries sprawling on the marble floor. "What are you all staring at? Out, damn you. Out with you all!"
The courtiers fled, relief on their faces as if they were pardoned from the block, and Selmy couldn't blame them. Unlike Jaime, who escorted the Queen out, and Greenfield, who was shadowing the crown prince, the rest of the white cloaks had no excuse to leave.
"Not you, Tyrek, Lancel!" The royal squires halted halfway to the door, looking like frightened deer. "Bring me more wine. And ale, too! That's all you useless fools are good for anyway."
The two Lannister boys stiffly carried over more and more jugs of wine and ale, and the king kept drinking and drinking.
One cup turned to two; two cups turned to four, and more; none dared tell him to stop. It would be of no use, Selmy knew, as the king would only take it as a challenge and drink harder. It was not the kingsguard's duty to advise the king but to guard him.
Selmy prayed then for the king to pass out from drinking, and it seemed like Robert Baratheon had the same idea. Yet it seemed that no amount of wine and ale could lay the king low; it only made him more drunk.
"Damn it, I need to piss," he slurred out and stood up uneasily. Blount came over to help the king steady himself, but Robert pushed him away, sending the knight tumbling on the floor. "I need no help walking!"
Sharing a glance with Moore, who was helping Blount up, Selmy sighed and followed the swaying Robert Baratheon as he made his way to the privy. Yet, two steps out of the throne room, it seemed he couldn't even remember where he was going. It was a small wonder a man could be so inebriated yet still awake.
"This way, Your Grace," the old knight softly corralled the drunken king towards the nearest privy with bedrooms nearby; it did not seem like Robert Baratheon was in any condition to make the journey to Maegor's Holdfast.
The Seven finally seemed to be taking pity on him as Robert listened. The king swayed after him, still refusing any help. Moore and Blount cautiously followed a handful of steps behind.
"The privy is further than I remembered," he complained with a heavy slur as they passed through the dim-lit hallways. The men-at-arms standing sentry were still as statues, but Selmy could see pity in their eyes as they looked at him. It pained him far more than any wounds taken in battle.
"Only a little more, Your Grace," Selmy promised as they went around the corner. "Just down the stairs."
Robert staggered down the stairs in question, making the old knight tense. His attempt to aid the king was met with a hard shove and an angry glare, making Barristan step away with a grimace.
Just then, Robert Baratheon misstepped with his wobbling feet and tumbled down forward. Selmy lunged forward, grasping for the king.
A tearing sound echoed ominously as the Lord Commander of the kingsguard was left with a torn sleeve in his grasp while the Demon of the Trident stopped at the bottom of the stairway, dead still with his neck bent at a wrong angle.
Author's Endnote:
Edited by: Void Uzumaki, Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
19th Day of the 10th Moon
The Master of Coin
Half a moon after the tourney had ended, King's Landing had finally calmed down from the craze, and the streets and inns were no longer overflowing. The evening was approaching, and it took Tyrion an hour to finally find the former Hand. The docks were overflowing with Northmen boarding heavy carracks, the green mermen and the grey direwolf banners proudly fluttering in the wind above. Dozens of prized steeds were brought up to the ship's stables, the noblemen reluctant to part with them, even if for a short while.
He saw many of the rugged Northern clansmen, a deluge of short Crannogmen, and the myriad crests of Glovers, Flints, Cerwyns, Ryswells, and Damon Dustin. The relatively unknown barrow-knight had earned himself the moniker Mad Lance after clinching the runner-up in the joust with dogged fervour against Loras Tyrell, only to lose the final round to the Red Crane by a hair's breadth. Yet, now he was clad in the best armour Tobho Mott could offer, all coloured bright yellow and bought by the runner-up's purse. Rumour had it he had even bought a similar barding for his horse.
After winning the melee, Red Wake Walder was no different; his brigandine was replaced with a heavy plate and a new, hefty poleaxe. While his new equipment lacked any fancy ornaments or colours bar the direwolf livery, the Giant of Winterfell had become an imposing behemoth of steel, reminding Tyrion of the Mountain, if far more disciplined. There was a tall, bulky lad who looked too big to be a child next to the Red Wake; if the rumours were correct, he had somehow recruited Mott's prized apprentice as his squire.
Tyrion's face and stature were easily recognisable, and soon enough, he was quickly brought to the Northern Highlord; Jyck and Morrec helped him dismount and stood to the side.
"Leaving so quickly?"
"It is for the best." Stark shrugged, relief plain to see on his face. The accursed icy blade hung ominously on his belt in some queer lacquered scabbard yet still sending a soft chill in the air, the Northern Lord looking oddly comfortable with it. "A royal order is not to be disputed." As usual, the enormous direwolf was right next to him. The beast was already a head taller than Tyrion at the shoulders, and it felt like Winter could make a snack out of him in a heartbeat. How the Starks dared to trust such beasts, he would never know.
"Well, insolence and ingratitude… might have been mentioned once or twice." He could only grimace at the memory of the king's frothing rage. If Robert Baratheon was a dragon, Tyrion had no doubt he would be spewing fire and brimstone everywhere. With a frown, he glanced at the frenzied docks; the Northerners seemed eager to leave, like a cheating wife fleeing her angry husband. "Impressive speed, I have to admit."
"I won't miss the heat or the scheming fools." With a sign, a wall of Stark guardsmen surrounded them loosely, preventing anyone from approaching. The Northerner leaned closer, voice lowered to a whisper. "We've yet to find the thrice-cursed poisoner."
"We have been… unable to find much proof, either," the words came out sour on his tongue. Procuring a wine tester had proved cumbersome, especially since it meant there was less for Tyrion to drink. "Whoever did it covered his tracks well. This only makes my dear sister suspect the eunuch and the Lord of Storm's End."
Renly Baratheon had been behaving oddly of late, trying to court the commander of the City Watch and pull the Tyrells into his corner. Cersei, of course, had already moved to counter him, and Balon Swann was betrothed to the comely Jocelyn Lannister from the Lannisport Lannisters. The negotiations were easy; Lord Gulian Swann had readily accepted after the generous dowry the Queen had brokered, along with a chance to tie himself to the royals, if indirectly. And the Spider… it was hard to glean what the eunuch was planning besides fanning the flames.
"Cregan Karstark has volunteered to stay, along with some Umbers, Slates, and a contingent from the Lockes, so you'll have two hundred swords to call upon in need," Stark sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. "They will answer your call if the need arises. If only His Grace cared more about the matters of the realm and court than a pair of foolish children on the other side of the world."
Tyrion was startled at the number. A more careful look around the dock, and he could easily count over four hundred Northmen, all armed and armoured heavily. Despite not being as flippant and shiny as their southern counterparts, their swords and axes looked no less dangerous, and all carried themselves like bloodied veterans. These were not the sloppy men-at-arms that had grown soft with peace but a part of the Northern elite.
Two hundred of these were more than his father had sent with cousin Daven, along with a multitude of various Lantells, Lannetts, and Lannys, to partly escort Jocelyn, Cerenna, and Myrielle Lannister here and bolster Cersei's forces in the city after the poisoning attempt.
Had Eddard Stark used the tourney as a guise to muster so many swords in the city? Even now, all those Northmen moved swiftly, with practised haste. Tyrion snorted, dismissing the thought as it came. The Northern Highlord was not without cunning but was far too straight-laced for such schemes. No, Stark seemed to have an effortless grasp on his bannermen somehow.
Uncorking his flask and inhaling a mouthful of wine, Tyrion shook his head, banishing the errant thoughts. "Well, you'll be pleased to know that no assassins were sent for Aerys' get yet."
"Has Robert finally found his wits?"
"Nay, it was a matter of coin. The Faceless Men would require a loan nobody would be willing to give, and anything else risks outright war regardless. Our grandmaester argued we might as well poison the Khal himself to avoid any fighting instead."
"The Dothraki would scatter to the four winds should the Khal have no grown sons," Ned sighed, face twisted with disappointment. "But if a Khal were so easily disposed of, the horselords would have been finished long ago. But would His Grace stoop so low to use poison?"
"A coward's weapon, he dismissed it. They want to declare a bounty in exchange for a lordship, but such a move would implicate the Iron Throne regardless and lead to the same war we're trying to avoid." Tyrion snorted; he still struggled to see how a dagger in the dark was less cowardice than poison. "He stormed out of the meeting then, not before sending a summons to my Lord Father."
Eddard Stark shuffled uneasily. "Handship?"
"Indeed, it seems even our king thinks Tywin Lannister shits gold and can solve all problems with a snap of a finger." The truth was that Tyrion wasn't looking for a family reunion anytime soon, but royal summons could not be denied. Worse, he doubted the Lord of Casterly Rock would miss the opportunity to come to court and run the kingdom. But Tywin Lannister was not held back by petty scruples or honour like Eddard Stark.
"Alas, it seems the crown can turn even the bravest man into a craven." Stark looked so profoundly… disappointed. It was odd to see the grey eyes full of steel gone dull with grief. "It is better I leave. The Starks do not belong here, in the South. Do you want me to pass a message to the Princess?"
"Ah, my favourite niece," Tyrion chuckled and took a swig of wine from his flask. "Do send my regards. At least Cella will have Tommen to keep her company, along with the hefty gaggle of ladies she has gathered. I'm surprised His Grace has let you keep your page."
"Until a new arrangement is demanded, I shall honour my word. The lad is all too happy about leaving King's Landing behind."
"Perhaps a change of scenery would indeed suit my nephew." Tyrion sighed. It was no wonder Tommen had taken to Eddard Stark, who treated him like a son more than Cersei or Robert ever did. His sister would undoubtedly express her disagreement at parting with her youngest child vehemently, but she did not have much of a choice in the matter. And it was for the better in the end; Tommen was the spare, and he would be far safer from poison and catspaws in Winterfell.
Winter stood up, and Stark looked at the setting sun. "A long journey awaits, and I'm afraid I must bid you farewell, Lord Tyrion."
The master of coin bowed his head. "Fair winds to you, Lord Stark."
And with that, the Northern Highlord gave him one final nod and decisively boarded the biggest ship flying the direwolf sigil, the formidable form of Winter following obediently, with a shaggy tail swaying languidly in the air. The five carracks were filled, and Tyrion watched as they slowly set sail, the sun's setting turning the Blackwater Bay into a dark, glossy expanse, reflecting the heavy clouds coming from the southeast. The Northern ships had three masts each to compensate for the lack of rowers; it seemed like Manderly was short on manpower for his naval ambitions.
Tyrion Lannister couldn't help but feel some sorrow at Stark's departure. The man had been surprisingly accommodating and fair in all matters, and he had helped him gain a good position; becoming Master of Coin was the best thing that had happened to Tyrion.
Alas, now Eddard Stark would be replaced with Tywin Lannister. A grievous loss, Tyrion decided. Life would get much harder with his father's penchant for control. With a sigh, Tyrion returned to Jyck and Morrec, who helped him on his horse. It was time for his nightly inspection of the royal brothels; the madames in charge were surprisingly accommodating, and he found himself with a different companion each night.
21st Day of the 10th Moon
The Prancing Stag
Soon after his brother banished Stark from the capital, Mace Tyrell took his leave. Loras claimed his father had been outraged to not even be considered for the position of a new Hand, but Renly did not think the rose lord looked particularly angry.
Still, Renly began to lose patience at the lack of progress and was forced to confront Pycelle.
"It is not surprising for men to die at eighty, my lord," the grandmaester muttered sleepily.
"Indeed," Renly gave a practised reluctant frown. "But Lady Lysa Arryn has approached me with a claim her husband has been murdered by someone." No such thing had happened, of course, but he needed an excuse. Given how unstable and famously hysterical the Lady of the Eyrie was, nobody would question such a thing. A distraught widow asking after her husband's death shouldn't raise any eyebrows, more so after she fled the city in haste.
"Err," Pycelle nervously tugged onto his chain, face scrunched up in thought. "How can I be of help? My memory is not what it used to be."
After a long and painful two hours of meandering and slowly sifting through the library, Renly finally managed to wrangle out the book Arryn was reading before he died. It was a dreadful old tome called The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. Seven above, he felt sleepy just by looking at the yellow pages.
Davos Seaworth
He looked at his lord; Stannis Baratheon was lying in his bed, far more peaceful in death than in life. All the worries that had weighed upon his brow were nowhere to be seen. Shireen, all garbed in a black mourning gown, sobbed piteously on a chair, making Davos' heart twist in pain. He could not imagine a greater woe for a child than to bury both parents, not so early.
He had known it was coming, but the blow struck hard anyway; mind muddled, Davos walked out of the chambers just as seven silent sisters had arrived in the hallway. The Stranger's handmaidens would remove the bowels and organs, stuffing the body with salt and fragrant herbs before washing the skin with holy oils. Once done, the lord would be deposited in the Sept for his kin and kith to pay their respects for seven days before departing for his final resting place.
Mind wandering, Davos found himself making his way to the Great Hall, a queer building shaped like an enormous laying dragon. Passing through the red gates at its maw, he heard the murmurs inside.
"-he lungs had festered too badly," Cressen lamented, explaining to the gathered knights and heads of household. All the knights who had answered Stannis' summons after the tragic fire still lingered here. "I tried everything I knew, but all it did was stave off the inevitable."
Nearly two dozen knights of various houses were here along with their squires, especially since Stannis had summoned Elyena Celtigar, Helicent Farring, and Rosey Sunglass to become Shireen's handmaids.
"Valar Morghulis," Monford Velaryon murmured at the side, face heavy.
"Too early." Davos sadly wiped the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. "A great man died today, and the Seven Kingdoms are lesser for it."
Ser Richard Horpe, a dangerous, hard-eyed knight with a scarred face, took a swig from a horn of ale and spoke up, "What of Lord Stannis' last will?"
The murmurs quieted as the attention turned to Cressen. The old maester sadly sighed before slowly pulling out a roll of parchment from his robes, his hands shaking as always.
"In the name of Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, and by the grace of the Seven as the rightful Lord of Dragonstone, I, Stannis of House Baratheon, being of sound mind, do hereby declare the following: Unto the event of my untimely death, all my titles and estates are to pass onto my sole heir and daughter, Shireen Baratheon. Under the event she has yet to come of age, I proclaim Ser Davos Seaworth as her sole regent-"
"What?" Lord Velaryon had stood up from the table, pale face reddening.
"Sit down, my lord. Let us hear the rest of it in peace." Lothor Hardy, the burly master-at-arms, glared sternly at Monford. Seeing everyone was looking at him warily, the Lord of the Tides stiffly sat back down.
Davos, however, was reeling from the revelation. He had no idea how to do any of the highborn things, let alone guide anyone else!
"Ahem," Cressen tugged on his chain nervously and tried to steady his hands as his gaze roamed over the parchment. "I proclaim Ser Davos Seaworth as her sole regent; may he offer Shireen valuable and honest advice as he did to me. Should my brothers agree to it, my body ought to be buried in Storm's End's crypts, together with our forebearers."
"That's it?" Ser Justin Massey looked expectantly at the old maester.
"Indeed, good Sers."
"This must be some kind of mistake," Monford said, voice sharp as a sword. "For the last few moons, Lord Stannis has been drinking the milk of the poppy, which is known to scramble one's wits. This is not a final will inked while sound of mind. Nobody sane would declare a smuggler as regent for their daughter!"
Cressen recoiled from the accusation, his hands shaking even more now. "I assure you, Lord Stannis was lucid when he dictated the testament."
The Velaryon lord snorted dismissively. "Bold words from the man feeding him the milk of the poppy."
"I would never-"
"Perhaps you've lost your wits in your old age, maester, but the truth here is clear." Monford stood up and nodded to a few of the knights. "Lord Stannis confided to me his plans to guide young Shireen until she came of age. Clearly, this onion knight is grasping and must be sent back home to his ill-gotten holdfast instead of leading a young lady of noble bearing astray."
At his nod, Davos found himself grabbed by the Massey Knight and one of the Velaryon men, but they suddenly froze.
"That's not what the will says," Richard Horpe growled, his sword already drawn and at Justin Massey's neck. All the other knights and men at arms stood up, drawing steel and surrounding Monford's men, easily outnumbering them half a dozen times.
"You can't mean to listen to some-"
"Smuggler?" Ser Rolland Storm laughed scornfully, eyes full of violence and a wicked battle axe in hand. "I was there in Storm's End, a young squire when Ser Davos came with the salted fish and the onions. It was the finest meal my tongue has tasted. More than half of us here owe Ser Davos our lives." A round of agreement echoed from most of the men-at-arms.
Lothor Hardy chortled, sword drawn. "Stannis thought you'd pull some foolery like this, Velaryon, and bid me prepare. What I didn't expect was you drawing Massey and Sunglass in this folly. Perhaps some time in the dungeons would clear your mind."
"All this for a common smuggler?" Monford's face was stony.
"All this for Lord Stannis. He talked to most of us the last moon, telling much the same of what the will said," the bastard of Nightsong grunted, then glanced at the men holding Davos, face turning savage. "Stand down, fools, or your heads will line the spikes outside."
The hands holding Davos's shoulders disappeared, and the clutter of steel littered the floor as the Onion Knight blinked in confusion.
22nd Day of the 10th Moon
Lord Stannis had kept all the plots he had uncovered close to his chest, sharing his knowledge and suspicions only with Davos. Now, with the lord gone, the burden had fallen on his shoulders. The old maester knew a little and probably suspected more but did not say a word. Shireen herself was not privy to any of her father's woes either.
Stannis had wanted his daughter to be unburdened by the scheming happening in the royal seat; as long as she remained ignorant, she would be safe. Besides, it's not like Davos had any proof other than Stannis' words and suspicions. The old smuggler could see Stannis had been rankled deep inside at the injustice, but he grudgingly let it go. For his daughter.
"Perhaps Lord Velaryon is right," Davos sighed, looking helplessly at the desk full of letters and scrolls. The lord's chair was mighty uncomfortable despite the velvet lining. "I have no idea how to help Shireen, maester. A regent is supposed to guide, but Shireen has been doing all the teaching here, helping me learn my letters."
"Ah, Ser Davos, it is never too late to learn!" Cressen's shaking hand tugged on his wizened beard. The old man had gone breathless from climbing the solar, but his grey eyes were still bright. "You have me and Ser Hardy to advise you on the matters of regency. Wisdom comes in many forms, and true loyalty is more valuable than gold. A regent must be leal, honest, and have his charge's interest in mind, something Lord Velaryon conveniently forgot."
"What am I to do with the Lord of the Tides and a handful of knights in the dungeons, then?"
"Have them swear fealty to Shireen in the eyes of the Seven before sending them away," the master at arms proposed. "You don't want no rats in your household. Even the strongest keeps can fall to treachery."
"Well then, see it done, Ser Hardy," Davos grimaced, and the knight grunted in agreement. "What of Lord Velaryon?"
"We keep his heir here to foster. The lord of the tides could be moved into… better accommodations or sent back to Driftmark after vowing obeisance. It is not wise to alienate a bannerman, but his loyalty must be ensured."
The former smuggler liked it little, but he found himself agreeing. "Alright then. Perhaps we should start bringing Lady Shireen into those decisions. She is the one who shall rule in a handful of years."
As Hardy and Cressen nodded in agreement, an urgent knock came from the door, and Ser Rolland Storm came in, heaving for breath.
"Direwolf sails on the horizon."
"Since when did the Starks have a fleet?" Davos groaned, standing up, but he received no answer.
Still, after hearing so much about the Lord of Winterfell, the Onion Knight couldn't help but feel dread. Judging by Cressen and Ser Hardy's apprehension, he was far from the only one. Stannis showed no love for the Lord of Winterfell, and having such a powerful man arrive here so soon was worrying.
"The King's Hand is not easily sent away," Cressen advised hoarsely. "But no matter what, the Northmen will keep to the laws of hospitality."
Half an hour later, Davos, heart filled with apprehension, was at the Dragonstone docks, escorting a downcast Shireen, Ser Hardy, five knights and two dozen men-at-arms. Dark, heavy clouds hung heavy above. After sailing for so long, the Narrow Sea was like a cold yet intimate mistress, and the old smuggler could recognise an autumn storm brewing when he saw one.
Five carracks of such size were a rare sight - many preferred to employ oarsmen, who could pick up arms and join in the ship's defence.
Yet, Stark did not seem to have such issues; a single glance told Davos the vessels were filled to the brim with men, easily more than the already sizable garrison Dragonstone possessed.
The Lord of Winterfell was even more formidable than he imagined, his stern gaze pressed down on you like a cold mountain. A hefty retinue followed him down the ships, all of them hard men with bloodshed and steel in their eyes. There was even a giant easily two heads taller than most others, muscled like a bull. Was that the infamous Red Wake who had won the melee in King's Landing? But that was not the queerest sight; a wolf, almost the size of a horse, was prowling next to Stark like an obedient dog.
"Welcome, Lord Stark." Shireen, who looked so small before the Northern highlord, stiffly curtsied and motioned for a trembling servant to bring in the bread and salt. Never before had Davos felt more out of place, and he had accompanied Stannis a few times in court…
The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife, but then Stark decisively tore a piece of bread, dipped it into the salt and devoured it with a single bite. Suddenly, everyone eased, and Davos could only let out a relieved sigh.
"Thank you, Lady Shireen. Where is your Lord Father?" Stark asked, gaze searching through the piers. A chilling scabbard hung on his belt, with a queer crystalline hilt wrapped in leather, looking oddly out of place. The thing made the back of his neck crawl with ants.
"My father… passed away three days ago," Shireen choked out.
The northern highlord's eyes slightly widened before softening like fog. "My condolences."
Eddard Stark's face was genuine in a plain and honest way. Davos had seen many men over the years and prided himself on his ability to see under the veneer many liked to portray. And, despite what Stannis had spoken before, Lord Stark was the most forthcoming man the old smuggler had seen. There was not a tinge of arrogance or dishonesty in the Northern Highlord, only steely resolve and… was that compassion?
Had Stannis been mistaken? But what were his goals if Stark wasn't in league with the Lannisters?
Regardless, Davos would remain vigilant and observe.
The silence stretched awkwardly, and Shireen looked so lost when the enormous direwolf just padded over and cautiously nudged the frozen Lady of Dragonstone with his enormous snout. Davos' cry died on his lips as Shireen started giggling while the beast began licking the unmarred side of her face.
With a cough from Stark, the direwolf reluctantly retreated and sat obediently next to his master like a well-trained dog, shaggy silver tail wagging furiously.
Davos scratched his head at the ludicrousness of the situation, tried to remember his courtesies, and sighed. "How may we be of assistance, Lord Hand?" The faster they could send Stark away, the better.
"A Hand no longer," Stark's face grew solemn. "His Grace no longer deemed my services necessary, and I tire of the South. I had hoped to have a word with Lord Stannis, but it seems I shall have to settle for resupplying and paying my respects. With your permission, Lady Shireen?"
The girl nodded mutely. The Lord of Winterfell was surprisingly humble and easy to get along with for a man of such a storied lineage and even passed through the Sept to pay his respect to Stannis. Lightning whipped through the sky, splitting it in two, followed by roaring thunder, and it began to drizzle. Shireen shyly offered Dragonstone's hospitality for the night, receiving a deluge of grateful nods and grunts from the Northern retinue.
Dragonstone's Great Hall was filled to the brim, and the old smuggler was surrounded by a cheerful bustle as the Northmen made merry as if the day was their last despite the humble feast prepared in haste. Their spirit was infectious, as the Dragonstone knights and men-at-arms couldn't help but join. He spied a big bald clansman, Liddle or something, competing over ale with Rolland Storm while many others watched and hollered in approval, egging them on.
The wolf lord was far more reserved, but Davos could spy his lips twitching in amusement as he glanced around the hall. The old smuggler remained silent, content to observe and let the other do the talking.
The oddest thing was that the youngest prince, Tommen Baratheon, was here as Stark's page and sitting on the other side of the Highlord. His mop of golden hair looked out of place, but the young boy seemed happy, green eyes drinking in the merriment of the hall with keen interest as he happily chatted with Shireen. This was the first child Davos had seen speak so enthusiastically with the young girl, even ignoring the gaggle of young handmaids surrounding the new Lady of Dragonstone.
It seemed like there was a grain of truth about Stark's alliance with Cersei, but the man appeared so… genuinely carefree and happy, nothing like those scheming highborns wearing fake smiles and empty words Davos had seen aplenty. All he saw was a tired man who wanted to go home.
But his presence alone had Davos feel like he was treading on thin ice.
A day or two, and Stark would be gone, no doubt, which brought him a good measure of relief. The Onion Knight knew not how to entertain such a highlord and let the others do the talking. Ser Hardy, Cressen, and Shireen were the ones who slowly prodded with what sounded like random questions to Davos, and Stark was generous with his replies.
As the night progressed, the Northern Highlord explained why he was dismissed from the court. The direwolf was at his feet, devouring a pig's roast leg whole, crunching through the bone as if it were straw, and sending chills through Davos' spine. Any doubt the beast was dangerous had quickly evaporated.
The topic slowly steered to the court and then to the Night's Watch and the dangers lurking in the Lands of Always Winter. Davos had heard whispers and rumours about the black brothers and the new reform, but to see a highlord speak of it with such heavy concern was sobering. Still, Stark coughed and began talking of his experiences at court, many of which were outright amusing.
To Davos's worry, Shireen quickly started warming up to lord Stark's friendly demeanour.
"Lord Stark," she said, words slow and hesitant. "How does one deal with unruly bannermen?"
Even Tommen perked up next to her, listening on with keen interest.
"It depends on their misdeeds," Stark said with a thoughtful hum. "The vows of fealty go both ways, and honour and mercy can go a long way to smoothen out any future trouble. Yet, a liege lord must always maintain a position of strength, and infractions must be punished fairly."
"Well-" the woes with Lord Velaryon quickly left Shireen's lips while the Northerner listened with quiet attentiveness.
"The man follows the Seven, does he not? Keep him quartered away for seven days, then offer him a chance to redeem himself while keeping young Monterys here to foster."
"A chance to redeem himself?" She echoed curiously.
A deafening cheer overtook the hall, and they all paused, only to see Rolland Storm passed out on the table while Liddle swayed unsteadily but with his arms raised in victory. The clansman was helped aside as Ser Richard Horpe challenged Dustin to a drinking match, much to the crowd's joy.
Stark chuckled, shaking his head with unveiled amusement once the commotion dwindled. "Monford Velaryon has yet to swear any vows to you. You've done well in sending his men away. Let him give his oaths of fealty and offer him a choice - stay here as an advisor to redeem himself or return home. Have Stannis's final testament sent to the king, who would be honour-bound to ensure the will is followed. Many problems melt away at the face of the crown's power."
Shireen's face lit up.
Davos scratched his head, feeling somewhat foolish. A glance at Cressen told him the advice given was heartfelt. Truth be told, he had no idea what the Lord of Winterfell was up to anymore and couldn't even begin to guess. It didn't matter - he'd be out of their hair by the next noon. Still, a few words from Stark had quickly resolved a conundrum that had given him a terrible headache. He was not suited for that regency thing one bit and, to his dread, realised that five more years of this headache awaited him.
But he would learn. For Shireen. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too late for an old dog like him to learn some new tricks.
Bells chiming heralded Patchface's arrival. Wearing an old tin bucket like a helmet, the fool scuttled sideways towards Shireen and grabbed their attention. The poor soul had been quiet of late.
"Under the sea, frost turns to fire, and the wolves fly upside down," his motley face was twisted like a grotesque, one half laughing, one half crying. "I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."
Many laughed at the words, but a chill went down Davos's spine.
23rd Day of the 10th Moon
The Bold
The court felt far emptier these days, but a rising tension could be felt brewing among the courtiers. While some lingered even after the so-called Northern Tourney ended, the semblance of order and calm was gone with Stark absent. Mace Tyrell had also left the city shortly afterwards, dragging away a hefty retinue of Reachmen. If the rumours were true, the rose lord was angry for not even being considered for the Handship when he was in the city over Tywin Lannister, who was two kingdoms away.
Not only that, but since the Lord of Winterfell had resigned, His Grace's rage had cooled off, and he had been deeper in his cups than usual. Especially so, for tonight was a feast celebrating the Queen's thirty-third name day. Even now, the king took thirsty gulps of dark ale and thick wine as if it were water. Barristan couldn't help but feel sorrowful; the honest, brave, and valiant warrior that spared him at the Trident was long gone.
But he remained silent as usual; it was not for the white cloaks to judge.
Then, Pycelle hobbled over and whispered something in the king's ear, nervously holding a parchment roll in his grasp.
"What do you mean Stannis is dead?!" Robert's bellow thundered like a whip, halting any merriment and silencing the bards. Everyone whipped their heads to look at the royal seat. Even the usually unflappable Queen looked… confused.
"Ehm," the old maester hemmed and hawed, but a dangerous flush crept up the king's collar, and Pycelle moaned piteously, trembling hands unfurling the message while hunching over. "It's inked by Maester Cressen of Dragonstone, Your Grace. Lord Stannis passed away from a festering fever."
"Stannis cannot be dead!" Robert stood up, swaying drunkenly, the silence growing deafening. It was little wonder as Selmy saw him consume enough wine to knock out three men. "Where is Ned?" The king's face grew red as he looked around uneasily, but nobody dared speak. "Answer me, damn it!"
"You dismissed him, Your Grace." Renly approached cautiously, head bowed. "Lord Stark left, back to Winterfell."
"Left?" Robert snatched a newly filled goblet of wine and drained it in one gulp. "Left he says. Well, summon him back!"
Renly's face looked like he sucked on a sour lemon, but he schooled himself, nodded humbly, and retreated from the throne room as if on fire. Selmy couldn't help but notice the crown prince was gazing at Robert with undisguised admiration.
"Pycelle," the king barked, snatching the parchment from the cowed maester. His frowning, unfocused gaze floated unsteadily through the ink. "What mummery is this?!"
"It's Cressen's personal signature and your brother's seal, Your Grace," the old man mumbled. "He has served House Baratheon loyally for half a century. There can't be any mistakes here."
"Stannis cannot die to some fever!" Robert declared, words beginning to slur together. "I tire of these jests. I want Stannis to stop hiding in that dark castle and answer my summons, damn it! Send for him. Your king commands it! And old man Cressen, too!" Pycelle bowed deeply and hobbled away with surprising speed. Robert's massive paw of an arm angrily swept through the table, sending plates and cutleries sprawling on the marble floor. "What are you all staring at? Out, damn you. Out with you all!"
The courtiers fled, relief on their faces as if they were pardoned from the block, and Selmy couldn't blame them. Unlike Jaime, who escorted the Queen out, and Greenfield, who was shadowing the crown prince, the rest of the white cloaks had no excuse to leave.
"Not you, Tyrek, Lancel!" The royal squires halted halfway to the door, looking like frightened deer. "Bring me more wine. And ale, too! That's all you useless fools are good for anyway."
The two Lannister boys stiffly carried over more and more jugs of wine and ale, and the king kept drinking and drinking.
One cup turned to two; two cups turned to four, and more; none dared tell him to stop. It would be of no use, Selmy knew, as the king would only take it as a challenge and drink harder. It was not the kingsguard's duty to advise the king but to guard him.
Selmy prayed then for the king to pass out from drinking, and it seemed like Robert Baratheon had the same idea. Yet it seemed that no amount of wine and ale could lay the king low; it only made him more drunk.
"Damn it, I need to piss," he slurred out and stood up uneasily. Blount came over to help the king steady himself, but Robert pushed him away, sending the knight tumbling on the floor. "I need no help walking!"
Sharing a glance with Moore, who was helping Blount up, Selmy sighed and followed the swaying Robert Baratheon as he made his way to the privy. Yet, two steps out of the throne room, it seemed he couldn't even remember where he was going. It was a small wonder a man could be so inebriated yet still awake.
"This way, Your Grace," the old knight softly corralled the drunken king towards the nearest privy with bedrooms nearby; it did not seem like Robert Baratheon was in any condition to make the journey to Maegor's Holdfast.
The Seven finally seemed to be taking pity on him as Robert listened. The king swayed after him, still refusing any help. Moore and Blount cautiously followed a handful of steps behind.
"The privy is further than I remembered," he complained with a heavy slur as they passed through the dim-lit hallways. The men-at-arms standing sentry were still as statues, but Selmy could see pity in their eyes as they looked at him. It pained him far more than any wounds taken in battle.
"Only a little more, Your Grace," Selmy promised as they went around the corner. "Just down the stairs."
Robert staggered down the stairs in question, making the old knight tense. His attempt to aid the king was met with a hard shove and an angry glare, making Barristan step away with a grimace.
Just then, Robert Baratheon misstepped with his wobbling feet and tumbled down forward. Selmy lunged forward, grasping for the king.
A tearing sound echoed ominously as the Lord Commander of the kingsguard was left with a torn sleeve in his grasp while the Demon of the Trident stopped at the bottom of the stairway, dead still with his neck bent at a wrong angle.
Author's Endnote:
Did someone say… peace? Hah! Electric Boogaloo, ice and fire edition, here we come! Canon is officially dead.
Starring Tyrion 'I should've become brothel owner long ago' Lannister, Davos 'What the fuck just happened' Seaworth, Ned 'I am totally not adopting stray kids' Stark, Monford 'My move was calculated, but it turns out Stannis is better at math than I' Velaryon, Mace 'I was right here, yet they ignore me!' the Ace, and Robert 'I am king, damn it, Stannis cannot die, and I command it!' Baratheon.
Jokes aside, after the fire, Stannis Baratheon calls for knights he knows in person, so we see men from the Stormlands he knows in person. Yes, he's a hard man; few hold any love for him, but those who do are leal to the bone.
Unreliable narrator... yada yada, you all know the drill.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where you can read ahead or simply come chat or ask me or others some questions.
Starring Tyrion 'I should've become brothel owner long ago' Lannister, Davos 'What the fuck just happened' Seaworth, Ned 'I am totally not adopting stray kids' Stark, Monford 'My move was calculated, but it turns out Stannis is better at math than I' Velaryon, Mace 'I was right here, yet they ignore me!' the Ace, and Robert 'I am king, damn it, Stannis cannot die, and I command it!' Baratheon.
Jokes aside, after the fire, Stannis Baratheon calls for knights he knows in person, so we see men from the Stormlands he knows in person. Yes, he's a hard man; few hold any love for him, but those who do are leal to the bone.
Unreliable narrator... yada yada, you all know the drill.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where you can read ahead or simply come chat or ask me or others some questions.
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Like I said last time Roberts days were numbered but a death like that only has himself to blame
Fuuuuck.
So lays House Baratheon, whose only remaining members are a paranoid younger brother and the too young to rule lady.
I'm sure rhat Renly will somehow blame the deaths of both Robert and Stannis on Eddard
So lays House Baratheon, whose only remaining members are a paranoid younger brother and the too young to rule lady.
I'm sure rhat Renly will somehow blame the deaths of both Robert and Stannis on Eddard
- Pronouns
- sapper
honestly, that is precisely the type of death the late King Robert deserved.
Sure, as a younger man he deserved, better. but the man he finally became? deserved a death like this.
Now to hope everything else will work out.
Rest in Peace Stannis of the house Baratheon, One True Mannis, first of that name
Sure, as a younger man he deserved, better. but the man he finally became? deserved a death like this.
Now to hope everything else will work out.
Rest in Peace Stannis of the house Baratheon, One True Mannis, first of that name