THE KING NOBODY WANTED--(ASOIAF AU)

[Space Oddity]

I should note there's some potentially triggering stuff in this one. Not onscreen, but still... not nice.

THE TRUE AND HONORABLE MASTER

"Ah, Master Slynt, Asynda," said Arabella Brightflowers. She leaned down and pinched Morros' cheek, then patted Syndei's hair. "And your delightful children." Syndei and Morros both stared at Arabella in awe, even as Asynda looked at the Tavern-Keeper with muted disapproval. Janos quietly tugged the pair away, and sent them with the other Masters' children. In truth, Janos could understand the awe. Arabella always dressed magnificently – right now the Master of Tavernkeepers was clad in a gown of purple and crimson silk, with a string of white pearls around her slender neck, and a pair of peacock feathers in her rich chestnut hair, only now starting to show a few streaks of grey. An attractive woman, despite sharing with her brothers a pair of oversized jug ears.

Meshara raised the babe. "And here's little Jothos," the Tyroshi maid said. Arabella leaned over and pinched the babe's cheek, cooing kindly.

"Such a sweet little thing," said Arabella.

Meg and Sharra Brightflowers came forward, and poked around their goodsister to get a look at the babe. "Oooh," Meg murmured. "He has your eyes, Asynda."

Asynda laughed. "And Janos' nose." She tweaked her baby son's nose, causing little Jothos to give a little whine.

"It's a good nose," said Jonos, with a chuckle. "I got it from my father, and he got it from his."

"And let us hope your boy gets more from his father than his nose," said Tommen, gesturing for Janos to sit near him. Tommen's brother Mern was by him, looking grim as usual, and clad in a more austere finery than his siblings. He nodded at Janos as he approached. Mollaro Deem sat in a corner, nursing a drink, and looking grim, while Tobho Mott smiled kindly beside him. Arabella, as was her wont, sat a good distance from her kin, in a large and comfortable chair. A young man immediately began to rub her shoulders as she sat down. She gave him an encouraging pat on the hand.

"Is all well, Master Deem?" asked Janos, sitting down next to the cooper.

"No it is fucking not," snapped Mollaro. "Your fucking Butchers' Boys beat the Coopers' Lads, and now they're facing the damned Masons' Hodcarriers. It is a fucking crime! A fucking crime! I can cheer for nobody! Fucking nobody!"

"They are not his Butchers Boys," noted Tobho Mott.

"Ha!" snorted Mollaro. "As if he'd fucking cheer for anyone else!"

"And besides, consider myself," continued Tobho. "The Smiths' Hands exited the matches weeks ago, and yet you do not see me moaning and complaining."

"You Qohorik would smile and nod if you were fucking set on fire," snapped Mollaro.

"We are a people of politeness and restraint, yes," agreed the smith.

"Master Mott," said Meg Brightflowers suddenly, "would you perhaps like a drink? And a bit of sausage?"

"Alas, I must refuse your offer, Mistress Brightflowers," replied Tobho. "It is the start of the Festival of Lights, where my people celebrate the birth of our beloved Black Goat. While we hold it, from sunrise to sunset we take neither food nor drink."

"A bloody kind god you've got," said Mollaro, rolling his eyes.

"Indeed," said Tobho, nodding. "When my people began this custom, so great was our love for Him that many did not eat at all, and the Black Goat called for us to cease the practice. But we wailed that we felt such gratitude and love for Him that we had to demonstrate it, and He relented and gave us the rules that we now practice for this sacred festival. That is how great His love is for us, and how boundless His kindness."

There was an uncomfortable silence. It was always odd to hear the Qohorik speak of their fearsome god, who they seemed to regard with astonishing affection. Indeed, when a Qohorik described the Black Goat, it seemed less like a god to Janos and more like a beloved uncle who they were expecting to come around for a visit in the near future.

"Great Guildhall is not calling for the services of a priest of the Black Goat," said Mollaro at last.

"We do not ask it of you," said Tohbo. "We of Qohor bear our great and good god in our hearts, always. Such is our covenant."

Any further conversation was thankfully ended when the prentices struck their hurleys on the cobbles below and began to play. Janos turned and watched. The Hodcarriers got the ball, and immediately began a push towards the Butchers' Boys goal. Their opponents held firm and began to press them back, so the ball-carrier made a desperate heave of it, hoping it would be caught by one of his fellows. Instead, a Butcher Boy managed to intercept it and raised his hand.

Janos clicked his tongue. "A fair shot at that distance? Silly boy."

"You made one once," said Arabella, "as I recall it."

"Had the wind at my back," replied Janos. "He doesn't. This'll fail."

"You won the Ashes that year, did you not?" asked Mern.

Janos nodded at that. "Never quite stood right with me, that one. Everyone was impressed by that throw, but Guyal and Turjan did more for us that year, keeping the Smiths' from scoring."

Meshara gestured to the teams below, gathering in lines and forms. "Why have they stopped playing? Why is the man who caught the ball just… bouncing it against the ground?"

"It is a fair catch," explained Janos. "When a prentice catches a hurl tossed by the opposing team in the matches, he is allowed to make a throw for the goal from that very spot, if he so chooses." The girl nodded, her lack of comprehension obvious. Janos shrugged. "It is all a matter of… mmm, strategy, and so forth."

The boy made his toss below, and to Janos' complete lack of surprise, fell well short of the goal. The Hodcarriers quickly claimed the ball and began driving it back towards the Butchers' Boys' goal. Janos sighed as they managed to flick it in. Foolish, foolish, foolish.

"Oh, fucking hell," groaned Mollaro. "I'm in agony! Agony! The Butchers' Boys do poorly, and I cannot celebrate because it is the Hodcarriers doing well!"

"My heart bleeds for you," said Tommen, rolling his eyes. He glanced at Janos. "You've missed a fine set of matches for your Butchers' Boys, I'm afraid."

Janos sighed. "So I hear."

"And much else," continued Tommen, twirling his cloth-of-silver cloak. "The King's departed for Tumbleton and the war, the Queen's departed for Storm's End, and the High Septon left with fourteen or so Most Devout on a river barge for Stoney Sept."

"You've left out the most significant absence," said Arabella. "Chataya's gone across the Narrow Sea." She sighed. "Such a loss to my profession. That woman was an artist! An artist! She strove to give the inhabitants of this city a taste of the exotic, the skillful in its houses of pleasure! And what has happened? Driven out by the crass, the boorish and the prudish!" She flung her head back dramatically. "I am disconsolate. I cannot be consoled."

Janos nodded and looked at Mern. "So, the Father of the Faithful is heading to Stoney Sept?

"Indeed," said Mern. "Apparently from there, he and his entourage will make their way to Oldtown as the opportunities open to them."

"So the rumors are true," said Janos. "He's to bring terms to the Dragons."

Mern Brightflowers shook his head. "Nay, nay. The King says he's allowing His High Holiness to travel to the Starry Sept in respect for his years of service. But he does so as a matter of the Faith, not the Throne." Mern leaned forward. "Well, I've given you news, perhaps you can share some with me. How's my boy, Master Slynt?"

Sharra nodded. "Is Torfyn doing alright?" she asked plaintively.

Janos' mind blanked for a moment, and then he realized who they meant. "Fyn… urr, Torfyn seemed in good spirits last I saw him."

Mern and his wife frowned at that. "Hmmmph, what is it with the lad?" grumbled Mern. "Torfyn is a fine name, a kingly name."

"Torfyn the Bold was a great king of the Vale," said Sharra, nodding. "He won the War of the Sisters! Oh, and there was Torfyn the Red, Torfyn the Wise, Torfyn the Lover… Many fine Torfyns."

Arabella chuckled. "I think he prefers having a name that sounds well with his instrument," she noted to her brother. Her young man snickered softly at this.

Mern crossed his arms. "A fiddle! I paid for the boy's lessons in singing, the lute, the high harp, and the tabor, and what did he do? Acquire a passion for the most common instrument imaginable!"

"He is a very fine fiddler," said Janos. "One of the finest I've ever heard."

Sharra smiled at him. "Well, that is good." She placed a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Is that not good, Mern?"

Mern sighed. "Yes, yes, I suppose."

Janos took a deep breath. "In truth… I asked him to do a service for me, at Rollingford." Mern and Sharra both looked intently at him. "The wedding there… I… things did not sit right with me. I asked him… to keep an eye on things."

The others were looking at him. "What things did not sit right?" asked Tommen.

"It was… hard to put your finger on," said Janos. He turned to look at the game, where the Butchers' Boys were doing their best to drive the ball to the goal. "The Shawneys and the Freys had taken the whole thing over. More like an army invading than a wedding party."

Arabella chuckled. "You do not quite know the nobility, Janos. Let me tell you of them. They are not like you or I."

Tommen snorted. "Well, no, they have titles." Meg chuckled at that.

Arabella continued as if he hadn't spoken. "They possess early, enjoy early. It makes them hard in places we less highly born are soft, and soft in places where we are hard. And so very convinced that they are our betters, no matter their circumstances."

"As I said to your nephew, Arabella," noted Janos, "you've noble blood."

Arabella's lips curled in a sneer. "And I assume my nephew told you how much our noble blood means to them." Her young man gave her shoulders a comforting squeeze.

Mern nodded in agreement. "Did he tell you how the Hightowers and the Florents hounded us from Oldtown and then the Reach? How they pressured us out of the Stormlands and the Westerlands using the Highhills as their catspaws? How they cozened the Hoares – the bloody Hoares! – to throw us out of the Riverlands? How they spent near a century making sure we could settle and prosper nowhere?"

Janos coughed. "He may have given me the outline of that, yes." He looked back to the match. The Butchers' Boys and the Masons' Hodcarriers were going back to their sides, as a young Scribe raised the ball to let it fall to start play again.

Tommen smiled. "The story goes that the Hightowers swore to our Florent kin that the city had not been founded which we could rest in." He shrugged. "Thankfully, a century later, it was."

Mern cackled at that. "As soon as the Aegonfort was set up, we Brightflowers were there, for we scented opportunity! Let the Florents, Peakes and Balls boast of Florys the Fox's blood all they want – we Brightflowers have not only that, but our blessed ancestor's' wits!"

"Hear, hear!" called Arabella, before leaning back in her chair for another shoulder rub from her young man.

Tommen leaned forward. "I feel we've praised our family and spat on our enemies enough. So… tell me more of this wedding that has you bothered, Janos."

Janos shrugged. "As I said, it was… oh, a jumble of things. So many families invited, even if Lord Frey and Lord Shawney want to seem grand. Lady Staunton came… and Lord Mooton… and Lord Thorne, he was there…"

Tommen's eyes raised at the last one. "Lord Ouen? That is odd. He and Lord Shawney are at odds. Have been since the marriage." Janos' puzzlement must have been readily discernible. "Lord Thorne's eldest son eloped with one of Shawney's younger daughters. Clydas was bitterly offended and made various noises about taking some sort of action. Lord Thorne bid him try. Then Shawney began to tell them they would get no wealth from him. To which Lord Thorne answered they had no need of it. Since then there's been icy silence betwixt Deeppools and the Brambles. Shawney hasn't even tried to abuse Thornvale's hospitality since the marriage, a first in his long history."

Janos nodded. "And yet he was there, Tommen. Lord Thorne came, and… well, we all know what the Thornes are like." Nearly everyone nodded at that. House Thorne's pride was proverbial in King's Landing and the Crownlands, and Janos couldn't help but feel if the family had been a bit more prominent, it would have been famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

"You likely did well, Janos," said Tommen. "And if you are wrong… well, it never hurts to be careful." His fingers tapped idly on the side of his chair. "That reminds me… I've news for you as well. That bothersome Volantene who barged into your raising…"

"Maerroro Maegyr," said Mollaro Deen, sipping his drink.

"That was him, yes," agreed Tommen with a nod. "Well, he was seeking vengeance on you. And me. And likely all the True and Honorable Masters of King's Landing."

Janos watched as the Hodcarriers managed a fair catch rather dangerously close to the Butchers' Boys' goal. "That sounds… dangerous…"

"It might have been," said Tommen. "But Maegyr's way of seeking it was to march into Flea Bottom to hire blades to teach us a lesson. Wearing the same sort of finery as he wore then."

"Ahh." Janos glanced at Tommen. "Have they found his body?"

"It has not surfaced," said Tommen. "But articles of his clothing are appearing in pawn shops."

Janos sighed. "What was it Bael said of him? The blood of Old Valyria?"

"Fuck the old blood," spat out Mollaro. "What did it do that was so grand? Spread blood, death and slavery from the backs of dragons? Fuck that! Fuck it!"

Arabella glanced at him. "I think they did rather more than that…"

The cooper snorted. "There's not a thing the Valyrians did, those that weren't Valyrians wound up regretting. Fuck Old Valyria!" He gestured to himself. "Why, I'm the blood of Old Valyria! On both sides! But do I boast of it? Bah!" Mollaro spat. Janos stared at the older man in surprise. Mollaro chuckled at that. "You think I lie or jest. But I don't. In terms of blood, I'm as much a descendent of the Empire as that whelp Maerroro. That blood that mad Aerys spilled on the Iron Throne – it was not so pure as mine! I know I don't look it." Mollaro tapped the Demon's Head and the barrel tattoos on his cheeks. "The Old Blood say they mark the slaves of Volantis so they will never forget that they are slaves. I say they do it so they can pretend they are all a different breed entire from those who live in the Black Walls. That is what they did to me." He shook his head. "A dark story. But it should be heard. It should be heard, so men know what lies across the Narrow Sea."

He folded his hands before him. "My mother, she was of an old family of Lys. Now, when those fine old families of Lys have many daughters, they sell the poor girls to brothels, where they fetch high prices. The Old Blood behind the Black Walls… they delight in such slaves. It wouldn't do for their sons to soil their dicks with common whores. No, no, it must be a woman of breeding! Preferably a virgin! And so my mother was purchased, and taken behind the Black Walls, a gift to a highborn brat of the Old decided to make a great show of it, taking her. Invited all his friends to see. And once he was done with her… invited them to take turns." The man took a deep breath, his eyes narrowed. "She was never sure how many were there. More than ten, fewer than twenty, she thought. It went on for hours. And only stopped because one of the fools came with a fancy hunting knife in his belt. My mother put it in his arm."

Janos glanced at the children, but they were all watching the match, enraptured. Asynda smiled at him, and placed a comforting hand on his leg. They were all staring at Mollaro now, Janos realized, all the Masters. "He did not die," said Mollaro, simply. "If that had happened, they'd have killed her. As it was, they lashed her raw, they gave her the Demon's Head, and they sent her to the river farms, to work as a serving girl, with me already growing in her belly…" He sighed. "I'll not say her life was easy from that point, but the worst was past her. She made a life there, and she met my father."

Meshara gulped. "I thought… you said she was already…"

Mollaro gave a harsh laugh at that. "Oh, my blood came from one of those fucks. I'll not deny it. But what is that but a spurt of seed into my mother's womb? Bennaro Deem was my father. He raised me. He loved me. He taught me the ways of wood… aye, and of water. And the most important part." Mollaro leaned forward and fixed the Tyroshi girl with his eyes. "No matter what they tell you, they can never own all of you. Never. There'll be one little inch where you're free. And from that little spot… you can work, till there's more. I never forgot that. Nor did my sisters. At least, I hope they did not. The last I saw them was before I was put on the Jorrāelagon Raqiros as ship's cooper…"

Meshara's eyes went wide. "The Jorrāelagon Raqiros? But… that ship sunk!"

Mollaro cackled at that. "Is that what they tell you happened, girl?"

Tommen grinned. "Well, it's not an utter lie. We did scuttle it, after you gave it to us."

"And after you bastards stripped it of every item of value," noted Mollaro, chuckling.

"My family are men of business, Mollaro," replied Tommen with a shrug.

"Men and women," stated Arabella, clutching her young man's arm.

Tommen continued to speak as if she had said nothing. "And you did have a Guildhall membership to pay off."

"As if you were doing me a favor," noted Mollaro, rolling his eyes.

"My father was," said Tommen. He glanced at Janos. "And he did the same for your grandfather, when he came. And I will do the same for all those men the pair of you've been helping across the Narrow Sea. For the same reason he did. For the same reason when the first of them came to King's Landing, when others called on them to be barred from practicing their trades here, we Brightflowers championed them." The man's face grew strangely grave as he spoke. "Because we knew what it was to be chased, and harried, and to hope desperately for a spot of land where you can breathe free and easy. And we do not forget what we were. Never."

Janos watched as the Butchers' Boys scored a goal, tying the game. "Have you ever thought of… oh, if you and yours had become lords of Brightwater Keep?"

Tommen gave a shrug. "Oh, occasionally when I was a child, but… never deeply." He looked at Janos seriously. "This is our home, Janos. It has served us well, and we… we have served it well. We love it. We love it deeply." Tommen spread his hand over the scene below, gesturing to the game, the crowd watching it, and the docks and ships that lay just further beyond. "Outsiders may call this city a stinking hole, and perhaps it is. But it is so much more than that. There is beauty here, and not just in the fine septs and pretty fountains. In deals made, and bonds honored. In trades practiced with skill and artistry by free people, not slaves. In men and women going about their lives, looking to stand a little taller than they did the day before, and hoping their children can stand taller still." To Janos' surprise, Tommen's eyes seemed to glisten somewhat, as if he was holding back tears. "As I said, a beautiful thing. What need have I for a castle that I could sit in while I dreamed of getting a better castle, when I have this?" He turned to Janos, with a smile on his face that seemed happy and grave all at once. "I did not jest when I told that Black Walls brat that I think being a True and Honorable Master of King's Landing greater than having the blood of the Kings of the Upper Honeywine and, aye, the Kings of the Reach as well. It is an honor greater than any of my ancestors could have dreamed when they fled the west."

Janos gave a quiet nod, watching the Hodcarriers and the Butchers' Boys go to their sides to begin another round. "You know," said Mern, quietly, "Tommen and I had something to ask of you. He's been appointed Captain-general of the Steelcaps, and I'm his Master of Horse. Now, we've divided them up into bands, one for each gate, and we need a Captain for the Gate of the Gods…"

Mollaro nodded. "Tobho here is Captain of the King's Gate, and I'm the fucking Captain of the Gate of Iron."

Janos stared at them all, looking at him expectantly. "Why me…?"

"You've a strong arm," said Tommen, simply. "Men respect you. And you know why we need the Steelcaps. What could happen if they fail."

Janos glanced at his eldest son and daughter, both watching the match intently, his wife having placed a motherly hand on their shoulders. Meshara was kneeling next to them, cooing over Jothos. Asynda glanced over at him, and smiled. "I will do it," he said.

"I thought you would," said Tommen with a nod and pat on his arm. "Now, come, let's focus on the match. 'Tis getting interesting." Janos turned and stared at the match. Despite their slow start, the Butchers' Boys had caught up and were making it a contest. The score was tied, and it was anyone's game for the moment.

 

[K von Carstein]

Thanks for the update. I think you're one of the few fanfic authors who write about the smallfolk and was concerned with worldbuilding them. It's refreshing.

 

[bookwyrm]

So what is to become of the Goldcloaks once they return from Stannis' grand host at Tumbleton and find all the Steelcaps at their gatehouses and inside their barracks halls? Cersei and the Stags have just buying them out and reabsorbing their right to arm themselves back into the crown as their plan if and when they no longer need the Steelcaps, but even before any of the thorny problems that might come up from that- Stannis will clearly have use of this arrangement for much longer than just one campaigning season. What happens when the Goldcloaks need to rest and refit and petition for leave to return to their home city for winter quarters, or are simply so mangled by the war that they need a fresh recruitment drive to get their companies back in fighting shape? As seen with "Kingsguard Lyn Corbray" and also everything else about Stannis, the man's not above using stone-cold killers and applying the cruelties of hard war, would he want to give up their morale and cohesion as fighting bands by unceremoniously dispersing the Goldcloaks among the rest of his banners as carrion before the vultures? And yet likewise to send in the Goldcloaks among the Steelcaps is certain to cause a massive headache, and endangers his oath sealed in writ to respect the assemblage of the Steelcaps and their duty to defend the King's Landing's walls.

 

[Space Oddity]

So what is to become of the Goldcloaks once they return from Stannis' grand host at Tumbleton and find all the Steelcaps at their gatehouses and inside their barracks halls? Cersei and the Stags have just buying them out and reabsorbing their right to arm themselves back into the crown as their plan if and when they no longer need the Steelcaps, but even before any of the thorny problems that might come up from that- Stannis will clearly have use of this arrangement for much longer than just one campaigning season. What happens when the Goldcloaks need to rest and refit and petition for leave to return to their home city for winter quarters, or are simply so mangled by the war that they need a fresh recruitment drive to get their companies back in fighting shape? As seen with "Kingsguard Lyn Corbray" and also everything else about Stannis, the man's not above using stone-cold killers and applying the cruelties of hard war, would he want to give up their morale and cohesion as fighting bands by unceremoniously dispersing the Goldcloaks among the rest of his banners as carrion before the vultures? And yet likewise to send in the Goldcloaks among the Steelcaps is certain to cause a massive headache, and endangers his oath sealed in writ to respect the assemblage of the Steelcaps and their duty to defend the King's Landing's walls.

Click to shrink...

The Goldcloaks aren't the royal army. They stay in King's Landing. What this lets Stannis free up are household guards and actual soldiers who have been working with the Goldcloaks to make up for manpower shortages.

 

[bookwyrm]

The Goldcloaks aren't the royal army. They stay in King's Landing. What this lets Stannis free up are household guards and actual soldiers who have been working with the Goldcloaks to make up for manpower shortages.

Click to shrink...

aaaah, my mistake. In that case I presume the Goldcloaks and their Steelcap brothers are the height of fraternal constabulary cooperation

 

[Space Oddity]

aaaah, my mistake. In that case I presume the Goldcloaks and their Steelcap brothers are the height of fraternal constabulary cooperation

Click to shrink...

To be fair, right now the Steelcaps are so fresh and new the Goldcloaks think they're a ridiculous thing that will quickly fail, leaving them looking better than ever.

 

[Space Oddity]

Right. Time to explain the break.

I started a chapter. Thought I'd prefer a different chapter in this spot, and so started that one. Then thought I'd want yet ANOTHER chapter in this spot, wrote it, didn't like it, went back to my second planned chapter, and had the damn thing balloon on me until I realized it was more or less two separate chapters. So, now, with some hasty edit work, I've got chapter 100 pretty much written. (Just need to check to make certain it all works.)

Enjoy a chapter of Ned. And family trauma! And religion! Which is also going to be the subject of the next Ned chapter, which obviously, is going to come some time after this one.

Oh, yes, and the first planned chapter 100 is now chapter 102, and almost finished. 101 might take some time.

 

[Space Oddity]

EDDARD

Eddard sat beneath the sentinel tree, taking slow deep breaths. He heard Lord Blackwood breathing on his right, Howland breathing on his left, and Lord Cerwyn a little behind them. He tried to send his thoughts to the gods, as he had been taught, but he could not. His thoughts raced, went hither and thither, to places he did not want to go. He wished, idly, that more of his companions besides Howland were here, but they all had things to do, things he had given them to do. He opened his eyes slightly, and glanced over at Lord Blackwood, looking serene and calm as he always did. Eddard once again felt inadequate next to the older lord, as if he were in the godswood at Winterfell with his father once again, fidgeting as Lord Rickard sat stock still before the heart tree. He'd often seemed as much a symbol of the old gods as the weirwood to Ned when he was a boy, as hard and unbending as the face on the heart tree.

I must never let myself become terrible to Robb, Ned thought, suddenly. I will be firm with him, yes, but never grim. Eddard shook his head, and wondered where that thought had come from. A crashing sound from the fringes of the grove broke his chain of thought, and he turned to look at its source. A young man stood there, trying to balance what looked to be a rather heavy bucket with a ladle on its side, while he regarded the gathered lords there with acute embarrassment.

"Pardon," he said. "Pardon, lords! Thought you'd be finished here!" He carefully set his bucket down, and fidgeted some more. "I will… I will let you finish your business with your gods, and then…" He gave a nervous wave of his hand.

I know him, Eddard thought idly. Not well, but… I have seen him about… "Hendry Bracken," said Lord Blackwood, frowning as he stood up. "I am surprised to see you here."

Hendry gulped. "Tis a common godswood, Lord Blackwood," replied the young Bracken. "Open to all. Same as the great Stoney Sept. I'd not say anything if I saw any of you there."

"I very much doubt either of us will ever see the other anywhere near a sept, Hendry," replied Lord Blackwood, smiling to himself.

Medger Cerwyn coughed. "You may dispute that Lord Blackwood, but the notion is sound." He turned to Hendry. "Our devotions should be finished soon, young man."

"Thankee kindly, lord," said Hendry. He gave a nervous grin. "You've no need to worry on my account."

"We do not," said Lord Blackwood.

Lord Cerwyn rolled his eyes. "You do not." He turned once again to Hendry. "I believe our business here is finished. What do you say, Lord?"

Eddard blinked. "I… yes, Lord Cerwyn. As you say, we have done our devotions." He rose and turned to look at Howland. "Would you not say so, Lord Reed?"

"Oh, most assuredly," agreed Howland. The crannogman looked at Hendry, struggling with his bucket. "Do you wish help with that, young Bracken?"

"Thankee, Lord Reed," said Hendry, trying very hard to balance his bucket. "Usually Harys and Joros… that's me cousins… they help, but they's out with the scouts…"

Howland darted to the younger man's side, and began to assist with the bucket, only to stop as he saw its contents. "This appears to be… blood," noted Howland.

Hendry Bracken gave a cheery nod at this. "Aurochs blood! From the butchers." He smiled at them all. "There's those that says cream will work, but blood is best. That's what Bullroarer taught us!"

"Bullroarer?" said Ned, despite himself. He recalled those oatcakes that Barb had left in the Harrenhal godswood, smeared with something red.

"Barnabas Bracken," said Lord Blackwood, distaste evident on his face. "The previous Lord Bracken. Father to Lord Jonos and his brothers."

Hendry nodded as he and Howland carried the bucket . "Grandpa were a great Bracken! His word were law in the Roundhouse, the Bridle, Flint Hoof, and even Firemane!"

Eddard glanced at Lord Blackwood. "Bracken holdfasts," said Lord Tytos softly. "Only one other family dislikes the Brackens as much as we do, and that is the Brackens." Eddard nodded. It seemed to him that Hendry and Howland were lugging the bucket uneasily, so he stepped forward to assist them. The smell of the blood filled his nostrils, and he felt an urge to recoil.

"Thankee, Lord Stark," said Hendry. "Thankee kindly. 'Tis always a pleasure when the great show consideration to their lessers." It seemed to Ned that Hendry shot a sour glance to Lord Blackwood, who merely rolled his eyes.

"I will be on my way," said Lord Tytos. "There's work to be done with my cousin Urien's outriders." Lord Cerwyn nodded about that, as he fell behind Blackwood.

"Indeed, indeed," agreed Medger. "I will need to hear this as well. You will have my report, Lord Stark, you may rest assured of it."

The pair headed away then, on their business. Hendry gave a satisfied snort, as he continued to lug his bucket of oxblood with Howland and Ned's help. "How do ye find Lord Blackwood?" he asked suddenly.

"A very great and noble lord," said Ned.

Hendry gave another snort. "Great. Noble. Aye. Aye. That's him alright. Filled to the brim with greatness and nobility so that he overflows with it and it all spills out around the edges." He scowled. "I'm not the Bracken, nor the Bracken's heir, as Barb is. They may kick, but I… I must bear." He indicated that they should set down the bucket. They placed it down and stepped back.

Hendry stared up at the sentinel tree and shook his head. "Ahh, me, ahh, me. 'Tis not right. 'Tis not right. Should be a weirwood. How can the Gods see things if they've no eyes here?" Ned stared at him in surprise. Hendry stiffened and coughed. "I… Do not think… I am sept-blessed and named, Lord Stark, and I praise the Seven in all their mercy, them being very fine ladies and gentlemen all of them, very much so. But we Brackens, we keep the faith with them that keeps faith with us. The trees never played us false, Lord Stark. Never." He dipped the ladle into the bucket and stirred it fitfully.

"As opposed to the Blackwoods, I suppose," said Howland. Hendry merely smirked, and pulled out his ladle, filled with blood. He stuck his finger in the air for a moment, then paced about the tree and poured the blood on the ground. After doing this three times, he darted back to the bucket and refilled the ladle, then repeated his previous action, pouring out the ladle in three more spots. Ned watched as he then darted back to the bucket to start the whole process over again. Ned glanced at Howland, and saw his friend was watching the proceedings with an interest that seemed almost scholarly. After he'd made a circle around the tree, he moved the bucket, which was now far lighter, to a spot before it. Hendry brought his left arm up across his chest, and raised his right. He suddenly chopped it down over the left, in a way that seemed strangely suggestive to Ned's eyes, though he could not quite figure out what it reminded him of. With that done, Hendry poured the bucket out before the tree.

"Satisfied?" asked Howland softly.

Hendry shook his head. "The Old Fellow, or the Young Gentleman or the Sweet Lady or even the Scowling Ser, they'd perk right up with this. But this thing… I cannot feel it. Did the Gods see this? Did they even… sense it..?" The young man frowned, the misery obvious on his face.

Ned struggled to come up with a response. "Do… you need their favor…?"

"Folk is talkin'," said Hendry. "Battle comin'. Bitterbridge, maybe. Or maybe, Longtable. Best get the Gods to look after their own."

"What of your Warrior?" said Howland.

"He has too much to watch, Lord Reed," said Hendry. "What am I to him but a speck? The Old Gods are better for such as this. That's what the Dam always tells me."

"Sept-blessed and sept-named," said Howland, smiling to himself.

"Indeed, Lord Reed," replied Hendry, apparently not noting any irony on Howland's part. "Great affairs, in Flint Hoof sept, both were. The Dam were there, for both. She loves me well, the Dam do."

They were silent for awhile, as they left the godswood. "It was likely just rumors," said Ned. "This talk of battle. Smallfolk get nervous at times like this."

"If you will not listen to your cobbler, be not surprised if your boots bloody your feet," said Hendry. "The Dam told me that when I were a lad. And ol' Bullroarer, he nodded at that."

Howland nodded. "You've wise blood, Hendry Bracken."

"Thankee, Lord," said the young man, as they left the godswood. Hendry seemed about to head towards the Bracken camp, but turned suddenly. "May the Warrior guard you, the Father judge you kindly, the Mother show you her mercy, the Stranger stay far from you, and may you be always watched by the Gods' red eyes, sirs!" And then he darted away.

Eddard glanced at Howland. Howland managed a shrug. Ned could think of nothing to say, and yet felt a need to say something. "Well…" he began, then gave up. The Stoney Sept godswood was properly outside the town, part of what had been the old Deddings castle. But the Deddings had left their old castle behind when they were granted rule of Stoney Sept by Jaehaerys the Conciliator, for it was small and falling into disrepair. Now they had a large, rather grim fortress inside the town for their own, while what remained of Deddings Castle was used as a merchants' hosteltry. Ned glanced at the three banners that hung from the walls. Urri had told him that they represented the Guildshalls of Gulltown, Oldtown and King's Landing, though Ned had forgotten which was which. The gulls on gold is for Gulltown, that seems obvious, but are the keys King's Landing or is it the scales…? He suddenly wished the young Ironman was there. He is surprisingly good company. And so quick to learn. But Urri and Theo and Martyn were all scouting the Gold Road with Lord Piper right now. They will be back soon.

The area between Stoney Sept, the godswood, and the river frequently swelled into an extension of the town, especially when travel up and down the Blackwater was at its height, and now was no exception. As they passed a hastily erected stall, Ned heard two women talking. "...Gone to Tumbleton, I hear, and taken the child with her," said one. "Left Tansy to mind the Peach."

The other woman gave a shocked gasp. "Seven have mercy, what does Moll think he'll do?"

"Pay most like," said the first with a chuckle.

"But it's not his child," noted the other woman.

"Still his blood, and blood is blood," laughed the first. "And he's a prickly proud one. You know how that sort are. Why do recall when old Lord Thorne…"

Ned never heard what old Lord Thorne did, for he was moving on and a louder voice drowned it out. "Beware, you haughty lords!" came the loud cry. He and Howland turned to see a ragged man standing on a barrel haranguing a crowd. "Justice comes from the river and the hills! Mychel the Fifth comes into his own! The House of Mudd shall be restored in his name! He shall break those that sit proud and bloated in their palaces, he shall take your treasures and give them to the poor you have neglected! Your false laws and lying ways shall be ended, and the voice of the people you have ignored shall be heard! Praise be to the King of the River and the Hills! Praise be to his beloved heir! Praise be to the Crown of Mudd!" There was a crowd gathered around the man. Most looked like they were there to gawk, but there were others who nodded along with the man. Ned decided it was best to move on quickly.

Eddard looked around and saw Lords Cerwyn and Blackwood talking to two well-dressed men, one in a great scarlet and gold cloak – a Blackwood cousin, to look at his face – the other a hulking man with dirty blonde hair, wearing black trimmed with silver. Ned would have moved on, but Medger saw him and waved for him to join them. Eddard was tempted to simply continue on his way as if he had not seen him but then Cerwyn cried, "Lord Stark, Lord Reed!" And so, with a sigh, Eddard walked across the road, Howland following him.

Lord Blackwood clapped him on the shoulder. "Ah, Lord Stark, let me introduce you to my kinsman, Lord Urien of Castle Clattering," he said. "He has been leading the Blackwood scouts."

"Raventree Hall calls, Castle Clattering comes," said Urien cheerfully.

"And I," said the blonde man, stepping forward to offer Ned his hand, "am Ser Gerart Rogers, of Amberly." He looked at Eddard significantly, as if Ned should know that name. Eddard took his hand and shook it idly. Like as not feels he has a reputation I should note, Ned thought.

"How goes the scouting?" asked Ned.

"Well enough," replied Urien. "The Dragons are moving westward, away from here. A good blow and…" Eddard managed a nod, and glanced awkwardly at Ser Gerart, who glanced awkwardly back. There was an awkward silence.

Urien turned to Eddard, clearly unsettled by the conversation's lull. "Are you still out of sorts? I heard about young Hendry. The Brackens are rustics at the bottom of them and those raised at Flint Hoof, they are the most rustic of the lot. Even the Firemane Brackens seem civilized in comparison, and they're little better than bandits."

"Bandits that you can't safely hang," grumbled Lord Blackwood.

"No, no, it has nothing to do with that," said Eddard. "Just back there…a man is speaking of some… rebel in the Riverlands. King Mychel the Fifth."

To his surprise, the Blackwoods laughed at this. "My goodness," said Urien, "is that what the lunatic is talking of?"

"One has to admire his persistence," said Lord Tytos. "How many tries does this bring him to?"

"I have lost count," chuckled Urien. "And I am certain he has never kept it."

"I… I do not follow you," said Lord Cerwyn. "You know of this… urrr, self-proclaimed Mychel the Fifth…?"

"I very much doubt Mychel Mudd proclaims himself anything or indeed, proclaims anything himself," said Urien. "Bandits and lunatics have been raising his standard since the days of King Aenys. If it is true, then he's been trying to reclaim the Riverlands for near two and half centuries."

"Longer, " noted Lord Blackwood. "He claimed to be the son of that Mulcifer the Third who Harwyn Hoare hanged. That would mean he started before the Conquest." The Blackwoods laughed at that. Lord Tytos glanced at the Northerners. "What we are saying is, Mychel the Fifth is a legend. He is a tale some of the smallfolk in the Riverlands tell themselves whenever the taxes seem too high and the roads too poor. The great king of the House of Mudd, who will reclaim what was lost, and rule in glory and peace. He is part and parcel of that never-ending Summer that will come if they are good."

"Like Hugor of the Hill coming from across the water to rule over all the Andals," said Ser Gerart, then looked embarrassed as he realized who he was speaking with. "Ahh, do not think…"

"We get your meaning, Ser Gerart," said Urien gently.

"House Mudd… is that not the house Jenny of Oldstones claimed?" asked Howland.

Tytos Blackwood frowned and shook his head. "Jenny of Oldstones claimed to be a Fisher." He shrugged. "Like Ser Lymond before her, in his day. The smallfolk confuse things. They know that the Fishers were kings of old, and they know that Oldstones is a very old castle, so naturally, they assume that the Fishers ruled from Oldstones…"

"There was a House Fisher in the North," said Lord Cerwyn. "The Kings of the Stony Shore."

"A different family," said Urien. "These were the Fishers of the Misty Isle. Dead and gone by the time we came to the Riverlands, mind you. We only dealt with their byblows." He shook his head. "The Shawneys, the Mootons, the Keaths, the Tullys…" He glanced at Eddard. "Aye, Lord Stark, I speak a truth. Your wife is a descendent of kings, though no Tully ever wore a crown."

"That is not quite true," said Lord Blackwood. "Many queens of the Rivers and Hills were Tullys. Aylmos the Elder, the first to rule from Raventree Hall, his wife was a Tully. His grandson, Aylmos the Younger as well, and Lucas the True, and oh… too many to count." His face grew wistful as he listed the names, men who had been dust for ages when Tytos' father's father had been a little boy. Eddard suddenly recalled going to the crypts with his father as a child once, and asking who one particularly fierce looking statue was.

Some man of our family, who is dead, Lord Rickard had replied, flatly. Eddard had spoken with Nan later, and learnt it was Harlon Stark, Harlon the Starver, one of the fiercer Kings of Winter. He shuddered, despite himself. Many of the tales of the Starks of old were unpleasant ones, especially as Old Nan told them.

But we always liked to hear them, he thought. Lyanna and Benjen especially. "Is all well, Lord Stark?" asked Ser Gerart quietly.

"Thoughts of my home," said Ned.

Gerart nodded. "I've heard many tales of old Winterfell. It sounds a marvelous place."

"They talk of Winterfell in Amberly?," said Ned, surprised.

"Some do, Lord Stark," answered Ser Gerart with a smile. "Some do." He sighed. "I've often wished to visit, but the distances and other matters…"

"Well, perhaps you may come as my guest after this is finished," noted Eddard.

"I think I would like that," said Gerart with a nod.

Eddard was about to reply when the singing stopped him. "O gladsome light, o radiant Seven, let Your glory guide our way!" sang the group of pilgrims walking down the street. "Your blessed wisdom is the sun that turns our night to day!" There were about thirty of them, men, women and children, all clad in simple grey cloaks with reeds in their belts. To Eddard's surprise, they were not walking towards the great sept that gave the town its name, but towards the river docks on the outskirts.

The Blackwoods were ruefully shaking their heads, while Howland and Lord Cerwyn were merely staring in mild fascination. "There is a reason we Blackwoods usually keep our distance from Stoney Sept," said Lord Tytos.

"This was to be the Teagues' capital," said Urien. "The fourth line which was thankfully the last. It is hard to feel love for a place that was built to be your tomb."

"And the pilgrims come to celebrate," said Lord Blackwood, with a scowl. "And mourn poor King Humfrey, and the four kings who followed him over the course of a single day."

"Arlan Durrandon made many mistakes in taking the Riverlands," muttered Lord Urien. "The gravest was letting them be buried in honor here." He spat, and then glanced at the small village of tents that had sprung up near the docks, under that strange banner showing a septon hammering at a crown on a forge as a figure on a throne watched. "Of course it soon will be worse, if that is possible. The High Septon is making his way here up the river, and his Master of Household is preparing things for him. When he gets here…" Urien shook his head. "We will be preparing for a war as this place acquires every begging brother, wandering septon and pilgrim for leagues around."

"Whatever was His Grace thinking?" snapped Lord Blackwood. He looked at the banner and shook his head. "Gods' red eyes, what is that thing? I've been staring at it for near a week now, and it still baffles me…"

"His High Holiness' personal device," said Ser Gerart. "It's a play on his personal motto, 'Proud to serve the Most High'. And the hammer refers…" The young knight froze as he realized the others were all looking at him. "I… considered a life in the Faith, as a lad. Even studied for it."

"The High Septon has a personal motto?" said Howland.

"And a personal device," answered Ser Gerart with a nod. "Or at least, they're supposed to. But sometimes they don't live long enough to have them made, and sometimes, they don't bother." He sighed. "There's a great deal that doesn't get done these days. We used to make each High Septon an amber-studded ring at Amberly when he was elected, but they stopped asking for it a century and a half ago, so we've got the last one we made waiting to be picked up." He shrugged. "It's probably sized wrong at this point."

Lord Cerwyn nodded at this. "My, my, your Andal faith is… so full of interesting custom." Ned and Howland managed nods as well, while the Blackwoods suppressed a mutual snort. Gerart fidgeted and forced on a smile. Eddard coughed and glanced at the man.

"I… I am thinking of building a sept at Winterfell," said Ned quietly. "For Ca… my wife."

"A noble gesture," said Ser Gerart with a smile. "I… my family has… some experience with such things. My brother Benedict's wife Llantri is devoted to the God of her native Norvos, and well, our own mother…" He glanced at the group awkwardly again, paused, started to say something, stopped, and then shrugged. "Well, as I say, we have experience of this. It is… it is what you should do, Lord Stark." He looked at Eddard with a strange intensity, then glanced at the High Septon's banner. "You should… you may be able to get a relic for the Sept from the Most Devout. For… a donation." Ned realized his skepticism must have been obvious, for the man raised a hand. "It will go to charity, Lord Stark. Alms, for the poor."

Eddard managed a nod at this. "I… will consider it." Ser Gerart gave a nod of own.

"My daughter has written to me from Winterfell," said Lord Cerwyn. "She says your brother Benjen is well, and handling his duties as the Stark of Winterfell exquisitely." Medger grinned at Ned. "That was her very word. 'Exquisitely'."

Eddard recalled his younger brother's disappointed face as the rest of the family had left for the south that last time. But we did not know that, he thought. Benjen had looked so mournful at the gate, Ned had stopped to wave at him. Ben had waved back, a sad smile on his face. That is how he'd left his brother, neither of them with any idea of what lay ahead. In Barrowton he'd gotten word of Lady Rowena's death, and begged his father to go to the Vale and pay his respects, to be there, and to help Lord Jon cope.

'Such a loyal lad you are, Ned,' Lord Rickard had said, with the closest thing to a smile Eddard had ever seen on his face. 'Ah, Brandon will be well-served by you.' And then came that quick, curt nod of his. 'Go. Go and give Jon my sympathies.'

Those were his father's last words to him.

"...soon, methinks," laughed Medger, then stopped to regard Eddard. "Lord Stark, is all well?"

Eddard forced on a smile. "Just lost in thought, Lord Cerwyn. What is it you were saying?"

"That you will have a new goodsister soon," answered the man with a smile. "My Jonelle fancies your brother, and if I do not miss my mark, I think he fancies her."

"Ah," said Ned, making a quick nod. I should have known. "Well, let us hope for a happy marriage then."

"Gods know I do," replied Medger with a grin.

Lord Urien smiled at the group. "Perhaps you would wish to celebrate. I've a suckling pig being prepared at my camp, and I've been hoping for some men of rank to celebrate with…"

"That sounds delightful," said Lord Cerwyn.

"I… must decline," said Ned. "Perhaps some other time, when my… stomach is settled."

Howland nodded. "And I go where he goes."

Lord Urien gave a nod. "Very well, Lord Stark. Lord Reed. Know that the hospitality of my hall is always open for you." He glanced at Ser Gerart. "What of you, Gerart?"

"Alas, much like Lord Stark, I fear I have not the stomach for it," said the Stormlands knight smoothly. "Perhaps some other time." The Blackwoods nodded, and then walked away with Lord Medger.

Eddard glanced at Ser Gerart. "I… my apologies if you are missing this on my account…"

Gerart Rogers smiled at him. "There is no need for that, Eddard." He gave an awkward shrug as he fell in besides Eddard and Howland. "Truth be told, I have no great love for any meal where the head is still attached." He shuddered slightly.

"Remind me to be careful what I set out if you should visit my hall, Ser Gerart," said Howland.

"Ahh, Lord Reed, that is where I will beg you to give no care," answered Gerart, grinning. "A Rogers never seeks to give offense to a host."

"What never?" asked Howland.

"No, never," answered Gerart.

Howland raised an eyebrow. "What never?"

"Well, hardly ever," Gerart said apologetically. He glanced at Ned. "So you may be assured, Lord Stark, I'd be a pleasant guest at your younger brother's wedding."

"That assumes there will be one," said Ned.

Gerart chuckled. "Indeed. So I assume Lord Cerwyn is being somewhat… optimistic?"

"He spent the last three years encouraging his daughter to get my attention," answered Ned quietly. "Her favored method was to give me pies she'd cooked." Jonelle was a plump, moon-faced lass, awkward and earnest and four years his junior. He recalled her trying to speak to him at her father's remarriage two years ago. It had been such an ordeal for the girl he'd asked her to dance. And then she stepped on my feet.

"Ahh," said Ser Gerart knowingly. "The trial of we second sons. Being the matrimonial target of every eligible daughter of every hopeful family that know they've no chance of getting the eldest. I remember having Ynid Gower, Lunyd Peasbury, and Alinore Kennington all begging me for a dance at once."

Ned barely kept his eyes from rolling. "I've no doubt you bore it well," he said.

"Then you should, Lord Stark, for I bore it ill," replied Gerart. "I'm a shy man by nature, and well, recall, I was studying to be a septon." He chuckled and shook his head. "Ahh, those poor girls. I must have seemed frightfully rude to them. They've all married now, mind you. Vialle and I went to Alinore's wedding together." He coughed. "That is my wife. Vialle Whitehead. Well, obviously, she is a Rogers now, but she was…" He fidgeted. "I have her portrait here. Would you like to see it?"

Ned gave a nod, sensing that agreeing to this would be the best way to calm Ser Gerart's nerves. Gerart pulled a miniature out, worn close to the heart Ned noted with no surprise, and handed it to him. Ned opened it, and looked at the portrait inside. It showed a pretty woman with pale blonde hair, smiling gently. "She seems quite fair," said Ned, handing the miniature back to Gerart. "It is most skillfully done."

"I thank you for complimenting my poor efforts," said Gerart.

Eddard blinked at that. "You painted this?"

"I have… some small interest in the art," replied the knight. "And less talent, to be honest."

"I think you wrong yourself, ser," said Ned.

"And you flatter me outrageously, Lord Stark," replied Gerart.

Eddard glanced at Howland who merely chuckled. Eddard looked for something to continue the conversation. "I… your family has served the cause well in… this unpleasantness."

"Most of us, yes," said Gerart, smiling sadly. "A long tradition. Some Houses may have had second thoughts, but House Rogers has stood by House Baratheon for better and for worse, just as our Amberson ancestors stood by the Durrandons." He laughed. "King Erich wore boiled leather, said his throne was a saddle and a not too comfortable one at that and ate barley and black bread, while Orsyn the Magnificent wore a mantle of gold, his throne was made of finest rosewood and he dined on swan and larks tongue, but when Erich called, Orsyn came, for Orsyn was his man."

"Most of you, you said," noted Howland.

"My brother… my youngest brother Brand… I've five brothers, five brothers and four sisters," said Gerart awkwardly, before coughing and continuing. "Brand is wed to an Yronwood and lives in Dorne. We're not sure, but we think he rides with Tarly." He sighed. "He was always an excitable lad. I doubt he has considered things. For all he's broke our heart, I do hope he's well."

Ned nodded at that. "Aye. I know what it's like to worry about kin. Especially kin that causes you trouble." Lyanna, where are you? The thought came on him and Ned had to bite his lip to keep from bursting into tears.

Gerart looked at him, then clapped a hand on Eddard's shoulder. "I thank you for your sympathy, Lord Stark."

Howland nodded and clasped Ned's arm. The three of them stood there for a moment in awkward silence. "Five brothers and four sisters, eh?" said Howland at last.

"And my grandfather, Lord Rogers. And… also some cousins, scattered about," said Gerart sadly. "Who I worry about. Greatly."

"You are a kind man, Ser Gerart," noted Ned.

The knight smiled. "It gladdens my heart to hear you say that, Lord Stark."

 

[Estro]

"What never?" asked Howland.

"No, never," answered Gerart.

Howland raised an eyebrow. "What never?"

"Well, hardly ever," Gerart said apologetically.

Click to shrink...

I wonder how he is at sea.

 

[Space Oddity]

I wonder how he is at sea.

Click to shrink...

He hardly ever gets shipwrecked at sea.

 

[Temes1066]

House Rogers does have some blood ties to House Stark. As Rickard Stark wife who was a distant Stark Cousin had a sister that wed a Ser Harrold Rogers but that is all the information we have on the matter.

Edit: Goddamn, this has given me another ASOIAF Fanfic idea, I'm never going to get around to writing.

 

[yobbin2000]

I wonder how he is at sea.

Click to shrink...

He's never, never sick at sea.

But would he use the big, big D?

 

[Space Oddity]

He's never, never sick at sea.

But would he use the big, big D?

Click to shrink...

Won't lie, it tickles me that people are dwelling on this reference, and not Lord Orsyn the Magnificent Amberson.

 

[Space Oddity]

CERSEI

The wheelhouse rambled down the kingsroad, wheels bumping on the ground, and Cersei tried to keep her stomach settled. Gods be good, if I knew this is what it'd be like, I'd have ridden something else, she thought, clutching her swollen belly. Or not ridden at all.

"Ooooh, oooh," said little Mirimelle Rogers, leaning out the wheelhouse window, her bright blonde curls gleaming in the sun. She glanced back at Lomas' daughters Bethany and Mae Estermont, who had in the course of the last few days become her dearest friends. "Look, look, a great white tower!"

Gwyndolyn glanced out along with the Estermont sisters, as she pulled the little girl back in. "Oh, that is Spyne Tower, of Castle Spyne. My family's castle. It's very old, and quite tall. Not Hightower or the Wall tall, mind you, but tall. Seven stories. And even more floors below. Ever so many. Nobody knows the precise number. Some of my family have tried to see how far it goes into the earth. Usually, they disappear. Sometimes they go mad." She shrugged. "Occasionally both. And so we continue to have no idea."

"Sounds like an unpleasant place to live," said Marya.

"It is," replied Gwyndolyn. "So we haven't even tried for the last six centuries. Spyne Keep is where we actually live. It's much smaller, and far less interesting, but people don't vanish mysteriously, strange things don't come up from below and there are no rooms with enigmatic bloody handprints. Sometimes one must sacrifice romance for comfort."

Lady Fell looked up from her corner of the wheelhouse. "You know such comforting tales, Lady Chelsted." She glanced at her youngest sister. "Come here, Miri. Stop darting about so. You're making Her Grace's tummy hurt."

"I am not!" said Miri, pouting. She looked at Cersei, worried. "Am I?"

"Not… particularly," said Cersei as the child kicked in her belly. Settle down, I beg you. When you've gotten yourself born, I will be ever so nice to you if you do. Please?

"Should I send for the maester?" asked Lady Errol, leaning forward, eyes wide with concern, her little niece nestled sleeping on her lap, while her sister Flora bit her lip. "Or the Septon? I've heard soothing prayers can help. And Septon Sefton, he has a very calming voice…"

Cersei managed to shake her head, while Lady Fell rolled her eyes at her sisters. "She is fine, Deidre," noted Lady Fell.

"Are you sure, Fiona?" said Deidre Errol.

"Yes," stated Lady Fell flatly, while she played with a lock of her red-gold hair. She glanced at Cersei. "I do apologize for my sisters. Deidre's just found she's with child and Flora is to be wed in a year, and they are both putting all their anxiety on you. As for Miri, she's nine." She smiled. "We Rogers are a rambunctious bunch. Rest assured, it was I they were pestering throughout my first pregnancy. And my second."

Cersei managed a nod at that. The Rogers of Amberly were one of the greater families of the Stormlands, not on the level of the Carons, Swanns or Penroses perhaps, but close. They were also rich from the amber trade – not as rich as her family of course, but far richer than the Carons and Swanns, and possibly a bit richer than the Penroses. Not people one can simply offend. Even if one does wish they were somewhere far away. "It… it is..fuh... fuh…" And then her stomach turned.

Marya's face stiffened, and she stuck her head out the window. "Stop the wheelhouse!" she shouted. Cersei tried to make a protest but her throat leapt and she instead found herself trying to keep her gorge down. The wheelhouse came to a lurching stop, and then Gwyndolyn was opening the door, and pulling down the steps while Marya helped her from the seat.

Lady Adrya stirred from her sleep. "Why… why have we stopped?" she said with a yawn.

"Your goodcousin the queen is feeling poorly," said Fiona, as Marya and Gwyndolyn helped her down the stairs. Ser Cortnay rode up near them, frowning. He seemed about to ask a question, but one look at Cersei and he merely nodded and rode quietly beside her and her ladies as they lead her to a tree.

Cersei knelt and began to retch, as Lady Chelsted and Lady Seaworth pulled her hair back. She felt such a deep sense of humiliation as she vomited. I must be the first queen in all the Seven Kingdoms to have this happen to her, she thought, miserable. "There, there," said Marya soothingly rubbing Cersei's back.

"This will pass," cooed Gwyndolyn, stroking her arm. "You will be fine."

"Thuh… thuh…" began Cersei, only to vomit again. After a while, she stopped. Ser Cortnay, who had dismounted from his horse as she… took care of her business, handed her a cloth.

"For Your Grace's face," he said gently. She took it, and wiped her mouth, glancing at him. If Ser Cortnay was at all bothered by this, he showed no signs.

"Thank you, Ser Cortnay," she muttered. "I…"

"My goodsister's pregnancy was much the same," said the knight. "I tried to be of service to her during it. I could do no less for my queen."

Cersei nodded at this. She turned to look at the tree, and realized it was not a tree at all, but a stone pillar covered with ivy. "What is this…?" she muttered, pulling the ivy aside. There symbols carved in the stone – a spear and a crown, a swordfish and then a ship with a star on its sails.

Ser Cortnay's eyes went wide. "An old marker. By the Seven, it's amazing this still stands. It's of the second Spear Kingdom, from after the Conquest." He put his hand to the sigils. "It signifies that this land is claimed by the Spear King, of House Bar Emmon, and held for them by…" He stared at the last sigil. "Hmmm, some vassal…"

"I know this one," said Gwyndolyn. "We have some shields that show it hanging in Spyne Keep. War trophies from when we were the shield to the Briar Kings. It's the Frey sign. A dark blue ship with a seven pointed star on the sails rendered in gold, on a field of grey."

Cersei blinked at that. "What? I know the Frey sigil. Two blue towers on grey."

"That is the cadet line, the Freys of the Twins," said Ser Cortnay. "This would be the senior line, the Freys of Freyhal. Who are now extinct." He shrugged. "This is probably one of the last signs of them in these lands."

"What happened to them?" asked Cersei, as they began to make their way back to the wheelhouse.

"The Durrandons had them destroyed, root and branch, for the treachery of their kin, the Freys of the Twins," answered the knight. "When Harwyn Hoare invaded the riverlands, they sided with him, and even betrayed knowledge of the Storm King's war plans to him, ensuring Arrec's defeat. In retaliation – and to keep them from aiding their kin in the future – Arrec had the Freys of Freyhal put to the sword, and Freyhal destroyed, to its very foundations." Cortnay frowned. "They were not much missed. An ill-loved family, given to treachery and self-importance. Their kin have not changed, as I hear it. Still they are gone from these lands. A blessing, I suppose, however bloodily it was won." The Kingsguard led them back to the wheelhouse.

Cersei glanced at Ser Cortnay. "Your family ruled these lands once, didn't they? The… the Kingdom of the Word?"

"So the chroniclers call it," said Ser Cortnay with a smile. "We Penroses held ourselves to be the true Kings of the Stormlands in those days, chosen by the Seven Above. We contested the Durrandons for rule, and at times ruled more land than they. But in the end, they outlasted us and we became their vassals."

Miri glanced at him as Cersei re-entered. "Why do people call it the Kingdom of the Word then?" asked the girl.

"Because the Durrandons had a kingdom they also called the Kingdom of the Storm," answered Ser Cortnay, "and they were the victors. When the chronicles were written, another name was needed for what the Penroses held. And the most notable title we Penroses claimed besides our throne was 'Servant of the Inviolate Word'." He shrugged. "We still claim it. My father is the present Servant. And should remain so, for many long years."

Little Miri nodded. "Grandfather is the Chosen of the Unicorn and Master of the Maze. My father would have been after him, but…" She fidgeted uncomfortably, and looked away. "When Grandfather dies, my brother Benedict will be the new Chosen and Master. He's nice."

Stannis had mentioned this to her when he told her the Rogers sisters would be traveling with her. "Ser Harrold was a brave man," Cersei said. "He served Robert very loyally."

Miri nodded and looked at her, eyes wide. She looked around the chamber nervously. "Did you really meet my cousin?"

Lady Fell glanced at her little sister with a touch of irritation, while the other sisters seemed more nervous. "I… I might have," said Cersei. "Who is your cousin?"

"She means Lord Stark," said Fiona. "Our mothers were sisters. Branda and Lyarra Stark. The Wandering Wolf's girls." Cersei gave a nod. She says that as if I'd know who it is. Lady Fell smiled. "Obviously, you don't know who that is. A fifth son, who had a rather exciting life. Made his fortune abroad, came home and wed, and then went abroad yet again and again. At one point, he met our other grandfather, and they became dear and bosom friends, which lead to my mother being pledged to my father. There was drink involved in that. In stories involving Rodrik Stark and Lord Conrad Rogers, there is always drink involved. Oh, such stories." She chuckled. "Made quite a bit of money too, and had a wife with a holdfast out in the hills, so Winterfell was quite eager to reunite the lines. They did not want another Greystarks, or worse another Nyrstarks or Colstarks." She shrugged. "Sorry. More things you haven't heard of. The North has an interesting history."

"I assume 'interesting' is standing in for 'bloody'," said Gwyndolyn.

"Some of the time," replied Lady Fell, grinning.

"Well, yes, I did meet him," said Cersei.

"Is he nice?" asked Miri.

Cersei thought back to the man begging like a fool in their solar to desert her husband's cause. "I did not meet him very long," she managed.

Miri nodded, and glanced around the chamber again, her fingers idly tapping on the seat. "We and our cousins are estranged," she whispered loudly. Most of her sisters looked at her disapprovingly, though Fiona chuckled. Miri continued. "It is a great and terrible rift in our family."

"It is no such thing," laughed Lady Fell. "I apologize for my sister's dramatics. She is Mother's favorite, and well, everything enters little Miri's ears and gets magnified. It is a dull little family quarrel and the only point of interest is that it's between the richest family in the Stormlands and the Lords Paramount of the North."

"What happened?" asked Marya, and Cersei was thankful because this meant that she didn't have to ask.

"As I understand it, there was some horrible argument before she came to Amberly to marry my father," said Lady Fell. "Something with much shouting and things thrown, and that makes me think it is a good thing he wed my aunt and not my mother. Truth, the passion involved, I half imagine they fancied each other, terrible as that would have been." Diedre and Flora were glaring daggers at their older sister, who was cheerfully ignoring them. "Whatever happened, Lord Rickard and my mother spent the ensuing time trying their best to act as if the other did not exist, something they managed with a great deal of skill and dedication. "

Fiona leaned back and gave a dramatic sigh. "Various quiet efforts to patch things up by others failed. My father, for example, offered to foster young Eddard, but was rebuffed. Lord Stark had other plans for the boy. And then offered to have my brother Gerart foster at Winterfell, but was rebuffed with more vigor." She shrugged. "Mother put it down to spite, pure and simple, but I suspect he had other motives. Likely didn't want any of us getting any ideas. Mother gave up all claims to holdings in the North on the marriage, but we are known to be wealthy, and it would not be the first time a rich house found ways around such an arrangement." She shrugged. "Though spite and hatred doubtless played a part. I've no doubt that when Rickard bothered to think of us we were the cursed spawn of that women instead of the nieces and nephews he tragically did not know. So there the matter stood, quite bad, and then it managed to get worse."

"How?" Cersei blurted out.

"My aunt fell off a horse and died," replied Lady Fell. "Mother broke the decade-long silence to ask Lord Rickard to delay the funeral so she could attend. Lord Rickard refused and strongly suggested that a visit on her part would be unwanted. Mother was so furious, that her yells in the godswood could be heard in the sept. And Amberly's sept is on the other side of the palace." Fiona chuckled. "As you can see, my mother is a formidable woman." She shrugged. "I wish I could say that death has eased the quarrel, but in truth Mother is still quite cross with him. Especially dying in such a grand horrible way. Now she has to mourn him, and it makes her ever so mad."

"And you do not consider that a rift?" noted Gwyndolyn raising an eyebrow.

"Well, no, because all it is a dull squabble kept up by two exceedingly stubborn people, one of whom is dead," said Lady Fell.

Flora looked at her sister. "Mother would be so cross to hear you."

"But she can't hear me at the moment," answered Fiona. "And I'm done worrying about her being cross." She smiled at Cersei. "I've no doubt one of us will make an approach and Lord Stark, unless his father's venom has completely destroyed his good sense on the subject, will be happy to reassociate himself with kin." She shrugged. "It is not as if he has some hideous dark secret that will cause him to keep us at arms length, after all. Mother will protest, and groan, and then pretend this was all at her prompting. And we will all agree with her pretense, for she is, again, formidable."

Lady Errol rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Fiona, you chide Miri for it, but you're a worse gossip than her."

"Oh, I am a better gossip," said Lady Fell. "I make people interested in what I have to say, Diedre." She smirked at Cersei, who squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. There was something so… knowing in Lady Fell's glances. Her aunt had a gaze like that, one that looked as if it was trying to win you over as it sneaked the secrets out of your skull.

Cersei bit her lip and looked at Miri, who was whispering to the Estermont sisters. She smiled. The girl reminded her of herself at that age, always with Melara and Jeyne… Melara's screams came to Cersei's ears, the screams and that sound of hands paddling desperately as she tried to stay afloat. Your fault, Melara, thought Cersei with a frown. Your fault. You had us go to the witch. You asked her that stupid, impertinent question. You made me ask her something… you made me… you made me… Cersei shut her eyes. 'Dark as a raven's wing', croaked Maggie the Frog.

"Are you all right, Your Grace?" asked Marya softly, a comforting hand on her shoulder. Cersei's eyes cracked open.

Cersei managed a nod. "It… I am just tired."

"Oh, you poor dear," said Lady Fell, smiling. "Motherhood is such a burden."

"Fiona," snapped Lady Errol.

"I am sympathizing with the Queen, Diedre," replied Lady Fell. Lady Errol seemed about to say something when the sound of horses approaching near the wheelhouse was heard.

"Is everything all right?," called out a familiar voice. "We saw the wheelhouse stop and…"

Gwyndolyn smiled at Renly. "Your goodsister was feeling poorly, Your Grace. On account of the child within her."

Renly smiled winningly on his little pony, flanked by a group of knights and young squires and noblemen. He was wearing a green and gold doublet and a large fringed cloak with a silver brooch showing a rearing stag. Cersei noted the Plumm brothers a little behind him. "I do hope the Queen is feeling better now," he said.

An older man with an axe at his side glanced at Lady Fell. "Are you all right, my sweetness? The ride comfortable, and… so forth?"

"I am excellent, Darwyn," said Fiona. "And as always pleased to have such a considerate husband." Cersei blinked as she realized she was looking at 'Silveraxe' Fell. I thought he'd look more impressive.

Miri glanced at Renly, blushed and bit her lip. "Is the trip nice, Prince Renly? Are you liking the scenery and the air and… so forth?"

"It is pleasant enough, Lady Mirimelle" replied Renly. "There are few things I enjoy more than a hearty ride with some sturdy companions."

Miri nodded nervously. "I hope… I hope this doesn't mean you won't mind the feast at Bronzegate… when we get there…"

Renly chuckled. "Do not worry, Lady Mirimelle. A fine feast in good company is among those few things." He looked at Cersei. "I hope you are feeling better soon, goodsister." Cersei forced out a nod. Renly smiled at her, then spurred his pony on, and rode forward, the others following him.

Diedre frowned at her elder sister. "I see you still have Lord Darwyn twisted around your little finger."

Fiona smiled. "I have some small talent in that direction." She glanced at Adrya. "I understand that you might be in the market for a second husband in the near future. While I can hardly claim to know your taste, I suggest you buy aged." She leaned back in her seat. "They do pamper one so."

Marya shook her head. "My mother had a word for women like you," she muttered.

"My mother has the same word," said Lady Fell. "I own my nature, it is mine, same as my hands, my feet and my hair."

Miri had been staring dreamily at the ceiling. "Prince Renly is so dashing," she said with a sigh. The Estermont sisters giggled at that.

"He is the very image of Robert at that age," said Lady Adrya, sighing herself.

"Robert didn't dress so well," said Marya. "At least, not when he was riding about."

"A silk cloak on the road," noted Gwyndolyn, shaking her head. "Father would be furious. He used to grumble that some men think silk grows on trees. Then one day Rys pointed out that it more or less does…"

Miri twiddled her thumbs. "I thought he looked very well. The prince I mean." The Estermont sisters giggled again, and Lady Fell smirked at her little sister. Miri squirmed in her seat, and then looked at Cersei. "Is it true you fell in love with the King on hearing of his great valor?"

Cersei blinked and then laughed. She considered telling the girl that of course it was true, but little Miri looked so absurdly hopeful that she could not lie. "No, that is just… something they have us all say. I… when my father had us betrothed, all I knew of Stannis is he was Robert's brother and had held Storm's End for him."

Miri seemed disappointed by this, biting her lip, and fiddling with one of her blonde curls. "So, when did you fall in love with him?"

Cersei blinked at her. "Gradually," she said. "Over time. As I came to know his… goodness. And his strength." That should satisfy the little fool, she thought. She did not know what she had with Stannis, but she wouldn't call it love. Fondness, perhaps. I do wish he was here. It would be nice to talk to him. He doesn't waste time with claptrap such as this. She sighed.

Thankfully, Miri seemed to accept this. "It was very dashing, when he rode up to the wheelhouse just as you were out the gates." The girl fiddled with her curls, then twiddled her thumbs. "And then you and he kissed."

Cersei smiled, despite herself. "Oh, yes. Very dashing indeed." Cersei could hardly believe Stannis had done it, ridden right up to them. She was certain he'd had some message for her, and perhaps he had, but whatever it had been, he'd forgotten it, and they'd just wound up staring at each other, for a while. I should have said something, she thought, but of course, she hadn't, and then…

Miri and the Estermont sisters giggled suddenly, and Cersei realized they were giggling at her. It struck her that she should be annoyed at this, and yet somehow she was not. I wonder if I looked like that, when I was her age… And then she was thinking of herself, and Jeyne, and Melara, stupid Melara, stupid treacherous Melara… She was crying for help, afterwards. Still crying, when I… when I left… And then Cersei was back in the tent, listening to that horrible old woman. Cersei had asked her if she would marry the prince, and Maggy the Frog had told her she would marry the king. She'd thought that this meant she would marry Rhaegar after Aerys had died…

'So I will be queen then?' she'd asked. 'Oh, yes,' said the old woman. 'You will be the queen of summer, until the queen of winter comes, to blight your green and your gold, with a smile on her icy blue lips…' Maggy the Frog had grinned at that, and Cersei had felt so frightened. 'Will we have children?' she had sputtered out. 'The king and I… I mean…' And Maggy had only grinned more. 'Fine babes will he have of you, three princes and two princesses, and all shall take after their father, and be dark as a raven's wing…" She wondered at that, wondered how Rhaegar could be described as dark, how she and he could have children who were dark, but she then thought that this meant they would share their father's temperament… and then Maggy the Frog had let out her last most wicked foretelling.

'Yes, fine princes, but no kings,' said the old woman and that grin had become so cruel. 'You will see them all die,' she continued. 'Die before you. And the queen of winter shall laugh, and the valonqar shall come for you, and end your life with his cruel black hands. And they will find the tatters that were your body and weep bitter tears…'

Cersei whimpered to herself. She'd whimpered in Maggy's tent then too, because she'd felt so tiny, and so frightened, and so alone… It is no wonder I listened to that ridiculous idea of Melara's. I was so terrified, I'd have grabbed any foolishness that seemed an answer… Your fault, Melara! Your fault! It's all your fault! All of it!

"Are you all right, Your Grace?" asked Marya. The woman was looking at her as if there was something wrong with her. They all were, and Cersei wished she could vanish, wished that she could somehow make it so they weren't looking at her. She took a deep breath and tried to say something, but her voice would not work. Mirimelle Rogers crept up to her and put her little head on Cersei's lap.

"Please be all right, Your Grace," said the girl.

Cersei stroked the girl's fair curls. "I am fine, Miri. Simply… bad memories. About my little brother."

"The dwarf?" asked Miri.

"Miri!" snapped Lady Errol, while Flora simply glared at her little sister. Cersei wondered what offended them so.

"But he is a dwarf," mumbled Miri.

Lady Errol leaned forward. "Miri, would you like it if someone else called grandfather a crookback?"

Miri shrugged. "Well, he is…"

Lady Fell chuckled at that, and then glanced at Cersei. "As he has come to Bronzegate to see you, do not call grandfather a crookback. Unless he tells you to call him a crookback. Then do so. Much like my mother, Lord Conrad Rogers is quite formidable, so you are best off giving him what he wants." She shrugged. "He usually gets it anyway."

"I will try to remember that," said Cersei, glad that this had proven a distraction from Miri's inquiry about Tyrion. Dreadful little creature, she thought. You'll not get my sons. I'll not let you!

"Will I get to sit next to Prince Renly at Bronzegate?" asked Miri quietly.

Flora rolled her eyes. "Mother's Mercy, Miri… first it was young Bryce Caron. Now…"

"What?" said Miri, crossing her arms. "I just want to know if I will be allowed to sit next to the King's little brother. That is sensible! He is important!"

Cersei felt a sudden chill. She told herself she was being a fool, but… She just said 'valonqar'. A little brother. Not necessarily my little brother. She shook her head. It had felt so sensible that it be Tyrion! But… no, no, that was often how this sort of prophecy worked. Cersei knew her tales, the stories of kings told they'd be killed by a certain beast, who died at the hands of a man who used that for the sigil. Or even as a name. And cases that went the other way… King Lancel the Ill-Omened had started a war against the Brackens because he was told to beware the horse by a sage, then been thrown from his horse on the way to the battle. And that lead to a costly defeat for the Rock, she thought.

Renly was young, he loved glory and people fawning over him… It could be him. But… it could also still be Tyrion. Or… The more Cersei looked at it, the more interpretations it had. Ser Cortnay… Ser Lomas… Ser Brynden… Ser Lyn… By the Gods, the world is awash in younger brothers! No, this path just lead to further bafflement. She needed a clue. The queen of winter… she had never truly thought about that part, thought that Maggy had just meant that winter would come and she would… And it struck Cersei, all at once, that Ned Stark, whose cousins she was now traveling with, was a younger son, and that it seemed not unlikely that he might have some relation to a queen of winter.

She took a deep breath. It was… it was a great deal of guessing. It might be nonsense. There was a part of her telling herself that Tyrion was the most likely culprit. But she now had an idea to look into. A way to keep my children safe…

"Are you all right, Your Grace?" asked Marya. "You look… pained."

"It is nothing, Lady Marya," whispered Cersei. "I am fine." A smile came to her face. "In fact, I am feeling much better now than I have in a long time."

 

[bookwyrm]

It's amazing how many layers of trauma and denial Cersei is operating under, like, if it wasn't for little Miri and the rest constantly engaging her, it would have been Ilyn Payne's tongue being removed and Aerys' victims burning that would have come to mind more than pushing Melara and watching her drown, and likewise Cersei rationalizing all of it, when she was just a little girl in dire need of therapy, as like the Sansa of her day in the Mad King's court.

 

[Temes1066]

Oh, that is Spyne Tower, of Castle Spyne. My family's castle. It's very old, and quite tall. Not Hightower or the Wall tall, mind you, but tall. Seven stories. And even more floors below. Ever so many. Nobody knows the precise number. Some of my family have tried to see how far it goes into the earth. Usually, they disappear. Sometimes they go mad." She shrugged. "Occasionally both. And so we continue to have no idea."

"Sounds like an unpleasant place to live," said Marya.

"It is," replied Gwyndolyn. "So we haven't even tried for the last six centuries. Spyne Keep is where we actually live. It's much smaller, and far less interesting, but people don't vanish mysteriously, strange things don't come up from below and there are no rooms with enigmatic bloody handprints. Sometimes one must sacrifice romance for comfort."

Click to shrink...

It appears the the Gaunts are wise, when it comes to what to do with cursed castles: Move out of the castle and build a new one elsewhere. I do wonder if such a technique would work if you were granted Harrenhal.

 

[Space Oddity]

It appears the the Gaunts are wise, when it comes to what to do with cursed castles: Move out of the castle and build a new one elsewhere. I do wonder if such a technique would work if you were granted Harrenhal.

Click to shrink...

Note that it took them millennia to do this.

 

[Space Oddity]

THE FOUL-SMELLING FLOWER

"War stalks the roads and rivers! Death sweeps over the lands! The Seven Kingdoms know not who their king is! The father buries his child! The child buries his father! The husband his wife, the wife her husband! Around us everywhere ruin rampages and wrests relief from ruler and reigned o'er alike! My children, who is there who has a soul so strong that the idea that the Gods have abandoned us in these times will not cross their mind?"

Garth frowned inside his litter as he glanced out at the barefoot septon preaching to the crowd. The septon was a severe-faced man, brown-haired, with a beard that was going grey. His face wore its expression of self-righteous rage quite naturally. He was standing on grain bags, piled on top of one another, flanked by ragged men and women with dead expressions. The man's eyes darted over the crowd, doubtless measuring their reaction. He must have found it measured well, for he spoke again. "And yet to do so is to sin! For it is not the Gods who have abandoned us, but we who have abandoned the Gods!" He looked the crowd over. "Men and women care more for the pleasure of the flesh than the worship of the Seven! Taverns lay full, while septs lay empty! It is our vice that brings forth the wrath of Heaven, our weakness that breeds the misery we suffer!"

The man gestured around waving at all of Oldtown. "Look you, people, look you! In this city did the Seven establish their Voice - and you have turned it into a den of iniquity! Oldtown has ten times as many whores as it has septons! The Starry Sept lays all but abandoned, deserted by the Father of the Faithful for the glittering trap of Baelor's Great Sept!" He clenched his fist, and raised it to the heavens. "How can any complain of Heaven failing when we have failed Heaven? When we have allowed this most holy of places to become choked with sin, and let the very embodiment of the Seven that was its charge to be stolen from it? How?" The crowd murmured in approval.

Garth pulled back the curtain, and glanced at his brother. "Well, I've seen enough. Let's move on."

Moryn nodded, and signaled to the litter-bearers, who soon had them back on their way. "What did you think?" he said to Garth.

Garth snorted. "A trifle dull, to my mind. And unoriginal. It's a very poor lot of ranters we have these days. Oh, for a Septon Moon!"

His brother laughed despite himself. "I should have known he'd not measure up to your standards, Garth." Moryn shook his head. "Would that the public agreed. He arrived in Oldtown a few weeks ago. Since then, he's become the most popular of the ranters. Indeed, some others have begun to take direction from him."

Garth sighed. "You are Lord Commander of the city guard, Moryn. Do something."

"The Sacristan is giving the ranters his protection," said his brother. "The Sacristan has ordered many hostelries emptied so they may host pilgrims. He has this authority by long custom. The hostels are being paid, but well short of what they would normally make. I hear their complaints. And yet the pilgrims still come, and then they listen to the ranters out in the street." He sighed. "I hope the High Septon's coming visit calms things, but…"

"Yes, well…" Garth shrugged. "I wouldn't expect much from Grayence Rykker. Officially, this is simply about him celebrating his fourth septenary. Unofficially, he's like to try and pressure the Throne to do something about the war, but… well, I rather doubt he has any idea what it is."

"Don't underestimate the man," said Moryn. "He got Aerys to forswear lechery. If that wasn't a miracle, then there are no miracles."

"That was over a decade ago," noted Garth. "Since then… the decline is noticeable. The last time I spoke to him, on the matter of the repairs to Highgarden Sept, he mistook me for one of his nephews. And then for a different nephew." He shrugged. "That is who we will have to truly deal with – his nephews. One in particular. Daeron Langward handles most matters for his uncle."

Moryn nodded. "What is he like?"

"Fat, worldly and venal," replied Garth. "He haggled with me on those repairs like a merchant at market."

"I recall you being quite vexed at that," noted his brother.

"It was quite vexing," he replied. He spread his hands. "Still… he is nothing to be worried about. A man who can be bought, if he must be." Garth chuckled. "And frankly, I rather doubt that will happen. He is an obliging man at the bottom of him. Simply a bit greedy at times."

Moryn shook his head. "You think too little of them, Garth. Comes from all those years being petted in the Citadel. You may see the Most Devout and the High Septon as nothing more than a bunch of silly old men. By the Seven, I may see them as that as well. But for many, they are the voice of the Gods given flesh."

Garth suppressed a snort "If so, the Seven are inordinately fond of coughing midsentence. And repeating themselves." The litter stopped at the Starry Sept. "So, we go to…"

"The Shrine of Saint Anzyka," said his brother, stepping out. "Something of a patron for the city. Used to be quite popular but… well, that's the problem for saints. The Seven always win out in the end. It's a decent place to meet… in privacy."

"Which one was she?" asked Garth. "The one who died horribly?"

"That's all of them," replied Moryn.

"True, true," agreed Garth. "Well, is she the one who was beheaded?"

"That barely narrows it down," answered Moryn as they climbed the stairs.

Garth grumbled. "Beheaded after miraculously escaping a pyre, or beheaded after being dragged to a brothel?"

"The second," replied Moryn.

"Thought the name sounded familiar," said Garth. "And the Faith wonders why all their interchangeable virgin martyrs see their cults fail." He turned to his brother. "You know what I would like to see? A woman sainted who during her life didn't act as if it was a mortifying indignity to ask her to enjoy a cock." Moryn winced. "I'm not saying she had to be a whore, mind you. But simply a woman who enjoyed matters, while living a decent life. Not even the Faith wants a world filled entirely with women pledging themselves to eternal virginity unto pain of death, after all…" He glanced at his brother, and saw that Moryn looked even more mortified. "Oh, come now. You know I'm right." Moryn pointed behind him. Garth turned and saw the Sacristan of Starry Sept coming towards them. "Oh," he said, and coughed.

"Ahh, Lord Seneschal," came the clipped tones of the Sacristan, his strangely militant form striding towards them. "So good to see you here of all places. I have hoped to speak with you."

"Septon Stefan," answered Garth. "I had heard of this." The man stared at him pointedly. Garth felt no need to elaborate. He looked at the man with his long, very white robe, threaded with silver and gold, with the right sleeve longer than the left so that it covered his entire arm. You are so sensitive about that arm, aren't you, Stefan? I don't know why. Without it, you'd just be another one of the White Bull's interchangeable former squires, being utterly unremarkable at tourneys and forcing people to fish for compliments as regards you. But because of it, you have had quite the successful career in the Faith…

"His High Holiness is coming, seneschal," said Stefan.

"We are aware of this, septon," answered Garth.

"This is a great event for Oldtown," continued the Sacristan, as if Garth hadn't spoken. "We have not hosted the High Septon since the reign of Aegon the Fifth."

"A considerable length of years," noted Garth, thinking some response was warranted.

Stefan's reply made him wonder if he had misread the man's cues once again. "The Seven-Pointed Star tells us the presence of the Seven is like onto the sun and the rain." The Sacristan stared at Garth significantly.

Garth gave an uneasy nod. "Yes, I believe I recall that bit," he said, shifting on his feet.

Stefan's face settled in what looked like a rather rough approximation of a smile, done by a person who had never seen it done, and was going by rumors and second-hand reports of the process. "Great things are afoot, seneschal," continued Stefan. "The will of the Seven shall be made manifest, like the wind and the thunder. It shall reveal, like the rising sun. It shall humble, like the tremors of the earth."

Garth realized his part in this conversation was apparently to make noises to which Stefan would speak in response to in ways that had no bearing to what he had said. "Indeed," noted Garth. "Very grand."

"The glory of the Gods shall be made manifest and the sinner shall tremble," stated the Sacristan, giving a rather stiff nod. He started to walk away, then turned suddenly. "Let all men know, the hour approaches, and its coming lies in the hand of the Seven-Who-Are-One!"

Garth glanced at his brother. "Is he always this unnerving on close examination, or is this a recent development?"

Moryn sighed. "Somewhere between the two, I find. You're fortunate you've only had to deal with him in short intervals." He turned and started to lead Garth through the Sept's halls. "He has been a bit more… strident of late, mind you. But his affinity for the ranters… it's not all feigned."

Garth shuddered. "Just what we all need." Moryn gestured to the doorway to Saint Anzyka's shrine, and the brothers stepped through. "I tell you, Moryn, sometimes I fear every visit to this city only obliterates my pleasant memories of its past with more awful ones…" He realized that someone was snoring in one of the pews. "Hello?"

A figure clad in silver awoke with a start, fell off the pew with a shout and then unsteadily righted itself. Garth recognized it swiftly on closer examination. Selyse Florent. Well, at least she doesn't lack for rest. The girl looked about in a panic. "I was praying. In silent meditation. There are great mysteries to contemplate here. In prayer!"

"Certainly, Your…" began Moryn but the young Most Devout was already sprinting for the door. They watched her leave.

"I think she was given to the wrong deity," said Garth. "In Faros, they are always looking for women who are fleet of foot to serve the Stone Cow."

"They ask them to race through the streets of Faros naked, Garth," said a familiar light voice with a faint accent. A mantled figure stepped out of the shadows. "Something I rather doubt the Most Devout of the Maidenshrine is eager to do." The figure lowered her hood, revealing the pale blonde hair and refined face he knew so well, with its high forehead and slightly large nose.

Garth managed a bow. "Lady Malora. You look exquisite."

"You do not, Garth," said Malora Hightower, looking him over with her sparkling deep blue eyes. "You're a mess, dear. Too many rich meals, I suspect." She shook her head. "You've always been well-padded, but now your padding has padding. A pity."

Garth chuckled despite himself. "Well, I meant what I said. It is a pleasure to see you here."

"But I'm not here," said Malora, sliding up to him. "I am in my room, having a fit. People are debating whether I think I am a bird or a cat, or something else." She shrugged. "That is the great thing about being mad. People do not expect to see you, so they do not see you." She glanced at Moryn, who Garth noted was looking apologetically at Saint Anzyka's statue. "You may leave us now, Ser Moryn."

"Are you sure?" asked his brother.

"Oh, yes," she replied. "Why, the Lord Seneschal is like an old uncle to me." She pinched Garth's cheek. "I used to bounce up and down in his lap at times."

"For hours, as I recall," laughed Garth.

She gave a snort. "Your memory exaggerates greatly," she said.

Moryn sighed and shook his head. "Very well, though I shudder at the thought of leaving the two of you together in a holy place."

"We will try to be only mildly blasphemous," said Garth.

"Moderately blasphemous at worst," added Malora. Ser Moryn gave another regretful glance at Saint Anzyka, then headed out. Malora turned to Garth. "You've come to ask, politely, perhaps without even really asking it, about moving the King here. After all, the Stags seem to be coming dangerously close to Highgarden, and while the castle has many benefits, defense is not one of them. The answer, which you will not be formally given, is no."

Garth nodded. "Very courteous of you to tell me outright. But we will have to go through all the rigamarole this evening, won't we?"

Malora spread her hands. "What is Oldtown without it? We need something to pass the time!" She leaned forward. "You can see why we can't take young Viserys, can't you?"

"Your city roils, yes," agreed Garth.

Malora nodded. "We are doing enough accepting the Red Viper's Free Companies," Malora continued, the accent she had from her mother and her aunt sounding especially strong. "We will need him to come soon, and take them away."

"He is planning to do so," replied Garth.

"Mind you, certain individuals are still complaining about having to host a Dornish prince," she noted with a shrug. "But then, they are the sort to complain about everything." She glanced at him. "What's he like? He and Elia met my brother once, but I was not there, and dear Baelor never speaks of it."

Garth chuckled. "I find him quite amiable," replied Garth. "Of course, I have had to watch him for my family, but then I am fairly certain he has had to watch me for his family. We both appear to have decided that the other can be trusted, at least in the present matter. And that we have other concerns to occupy our attention now."

"Yes, well you knew what your 'other concerns' was when you made him Hand," muttered Malora.

"Unkind words for a relative by marriage," noted Garth.

"I can say unkinder words still," replied Malora. "Lord Tarly is a brute. In addition to everything else he is."

"Sometimes, one needs a brute," answered Garth. "Even if that brute has… shall we say questionable politics." He glanced at her. "How is your father?"

"The Lord Leyton is doing well, by his standards," said Malora. "He managed to accompany the Lady Rhea out for a horse ride the other day. He was positively giddy about it this morning."

"Well, let's hope this present mood lasts," said Garth. "If he has another… dark one, your brother will have to greet the High Septon when he arrives."

Malora shut her eyes. "If that happens Baelor will manage it." She opened them again and looked at him. "You do realize that I didn't call you here simply to gossip and tell you what will be done at dinner tonight?"

"And you said I looked a mess," chuckled Garth.

Malora crossed her arms. "Still letting your hopes drive away your good sense, I see." She turned away and sighed. "The stars are wrong, Garth."

"What, have they been misplaced and another set substituted, or…?" he began.

"Do not mock, Garth," she said. "I am being serious." She glanced at Saint Anzyka. "She was a relative, did you know that? Her uncle was the Voice of Oldtown and had her dragged naked to a brothel when she refused to wed as he wished." She chuckled. "They say her hair grew to cover her nakedness, a miracle of the Seven. I suspect that's simply people trying to tell themselves that the awfulness of it all didn't happen. But even they admit she wound up dead. I suppose there's a limit to how much delusion we allow ourselves…" She bowed her head, and once again, Garth was struck by what a lovely woman she was, with her high cheekbones and dark lips. A child of the West and East joining in near perfect balance, you looked at her, and you wondered why the Iron Throne hadn't considered her as a bride for Rhaegar.

Ahh, but she had a reputation even as a child and there's bad history from the last time a Hightower wed a Targaryen… Not a connection they're eager to make again… "You were talking about the stars," he said at last.

"They're bad, Garth," she snapped. "Bad and wrong. Measurements come out in ways they shouldn't. Not in major ways, mind you. Little things around the edges. But always there, and getting worse. When you add it all up… It's enough to convince me that things are awakening that would be better kept sleeping." She turned towards him. "Nothing to say?"

Garth took a deep breath. "Malora, you know I am not a man to simply deny what you are staying. But…" He shook his head. "I turned from those paths years ago. I had not the skill for them, and after what little I saw… I was glad of it. The Higher Arts take as they give. I do not doubt what you have seen. But I doubt much good can be done with the knowing of it." She gave a scornful shake of her head that Garth chose to ignore. "Besides, what has it to do with me?"

"Everything," she said. "The war…" Malora turned on him suddenly. "Fools like the Starry Wisdom play at being nothing more than game pieces to salve their guilty consciences, but I tell you this… as the stars affect us, so we affect the stars. When we let horror and bloodshed loose, we harvest it back again." She looked at him pleadingly. "All things have a time, but when those times come… we can make them come quicker or slower, based on our acts."

"And again I ask, what has that to do with me?" asked Garth quietly.

Malora gave a mirthless chuckle. "You know precisely what it has to do with you, Garth."

Garth sighed. "Malora… I did not make this war. I did not make Aerys a mad tyrant. I did not make Prince Rhaegar throw away everything he had tried to build because he took a fancy to a girl. I did not make Robert and Rhaegar both dead on the Trident, and I did not make my nephew decide that it was worth storming a castle that had never been taken by storming to try and get his hands on Stannis, and I did not make Stannis a stiff-necked fool who made demands that could not be in good conscience accepted. All I have done is what I have done for much of my life. Seek to keep my family secure."

"Sometimes, Garth, that is all that is needed to give you your share in the horror." She crossed her arms. "Well enough of this. I have warned you. So do not say no such thing was ever granted you." She leaned back against Saint Anzyka. "So, back to the Red Viper. I hear his paramour travels with him…"

"She does," said Garth. "A most enchanting woman. I'd think you'd like her."

Malora smirked. "It sounds as if I really must make both of their acquaintances."

"You are better equipped than I to do it, these days," noted Garth.

She wagged a finger at him. "I told you, Garth, too many rich meals."

"And you are right, you are completely right," he agreed. He sighed. "And speaking of meals…"

"No, I will not be at the dinner," said Malora. "I will be, oh, likely declaring that I am made of glass. Or some such thing."

Garth nodded. "Very well. Until our next meeting."

She looked at him then, very sad. "That will be sooner than you think, I fear. Unless I've misread things." Malora took a deep breath. "Perhaps I have."

Garth shut his eyes and nodded. "Perhaps. And yet if it means I see you sooner…" He opened his eyes, and she was gone. Garth wasn't surprised. He shuffled out of the shrine, and saw his brother, puzzling at a large mural showing a man holding a dove as he was struck by three lightning bolts, surrounded by a crowd of figures.

"Ahh, so you're finished," said Moryn. "Say, Garth, what do you suppose…?"

"That is Robeson Leygood achieving divine union with the Seven, thus becoming the first High Septon," replied Garth. "It is symbolic."

Moryn looked it over and nodded. "Ahh, yes. I see it now." He glanced at his brother. "What…?"

"My hopes have been dashed," said Garth.

"But we are still going to have the meeting," noted Moryn. Garth nodded. "Right. Of course." The pair started to head out of the Starry Sept.

"Also," said Garth, "Malora has been having dreadful readings of late in the stars. Old evils wakening, it seems."

Moryn gave a cynical snort. "What are we, Essosi to listen to the babbling of fortunetellers?" He shook his head. "Too much of her mother in that one. And that aunt they snuck in the deal, the one they'd never managed to marry off. I told Leyton that woman was trouble, but he let her fill his daughter's head with her nonsense, and now look. His own version of it. He'll never get rid of the girl now."

"You know he doesn't want to, Moryn," replied Garth. "Come. Let's go back to my apartments. I've a completely useless dinner to prepare for."

The litter took them over the same paths they used to get to the Starry Sept. When they passed where the barefoot septon had been preaching, he saw the man was gone, along with the crowd. But the bags of grain that had been piled up to make his platform remained. Rats and pigeons were tearing into the bags, gorging themselves on what they could get. Garth sat back in his seat, and felt very old, and very tired.

 

[bookwyrm]

It seems that a great deal of the Westerosi highborn are very much sleepwalking into what's likely to be a proper kickoff of something like the Sparrows if the interminable bloodshed of the Usurpers' War/Prince's Rising doesn't resolve itself. It's not been quuuite as bad as in Tywin's campaign of despoliation of the Riverlands and the War of Five Kings, but between the outrages Balon and Euron are committing on the Septs of Lannisport, the general breakdown in feudal oaths and respect for hospitality and chivalry and so on represented by the murder of Elia and the Targaryen children, Jaime's kingslaying, the breakout and ambush of the royalists pledged to the Watch in Harrenhal, whatever wedding murder plot Walder Frey and Shawney and the remaining royalist segment of the Riverlands are brewing up, and the general rise of broken men preying upon the kingsroad...

More and more elements of the Faith are bound to feel more and more compelled to assemble and organize themselves in the place of the King's absent Peace, and to rebuild civil society with moral rectitude; the complete destruction of thralldom and crofting tenure, prostitution and visible female sexuality, and extraordary levies and duties beyond the King's rate of one copper Star a bushel of salt.

 

[Space Oddity]

It seems that a great deal of the Westerosi highborn are very much sleepwalking into what's likely to be a proper kickoff of something like the Sparrows if the interminable bloodshed of the Usurpers' War/Prince's Rising doesn't resolve itself. It's not been quuuite as bad as in Tywin's campaign of despoliation of the Riverlands and the War of Five Kings, but between the outrages Balon and Euron are committing on the Septs of Lannisport, the general breakdown in feudal oaths and respect for hospitality and chivalry and so on represented by the murder of Elia and the Targaryen children, Jaime's kingslaying, the breakout and ambush of the royalists pledged to the Watch in Harrenhal, whatever wedding murder plot Walder Frey and Shawney and the remaining royalist segment of the Riverlands are brewing up, and the general rise of broken men preying upon the kingsroad...

More and more elements of the Faith are bound to feel more and more compelled to assemble and organize themselves in the place of the King's absent Peace, and to rebuild civil society with moral rectitude; the complete destruction of thralldom and crofting tenure, prostitution and visible female sexuality, and extraordary levies and duties beyond the King's rate of one copper Star a bushel of salt.

Click to shrink...

Note that our friend the barefoot septon (gosh, wonder who he could be) is tossing in the "THEY stole the High Septon from you" to give his message a little more kick with the locals.

 

[Space Oddity]

POSTSCRIPT--You know it kind of surprises me at times the extent of the whitewashing the High Sparrow gets in some quarters (at least partially as a response to the blackwashing he got on the show, I admit). "Oh, he was one of the few people who was nice to Brienne!"

...

He said a halfway polite sentence to her, this after his initial attempt to recruit the hedge knights she was travelling with nearly went sideways and only didn't see his band of sparrows throwing down with them because he calmed things down, after first stirring them up to begin with.

 

[Space Oddity]

THE SHE-WOLF ON THE WATER

Lyanna and her son raced through the black trees, fast as they could. She held his little hand tightly, oh so tightly, because if she let go… no, she couldn't think about that. There was a beast chasing them, and they had to run, or it would catch them. She could hear the hideous panting following her, behind her, to the left, to the right, and then…

Then right in front of her was a great black goat, lying on the ground. It was of immense size, larger than the largest aurochs, and when it opened one of its huge eyes, the size of a lantern, that eye was red. The creature sniffed at her curiously, rising from the ground. It paced about her, and Lyanna saw its sides were bloody with great terrible wounds. It paced around her and little Rhaegar, and she heard the click, click, clack of its hooves on the ground. Click, click, clack. Click, click, clack.

And then she awoke. Rhaegar was lying next to her. She turned and saw the source of that noise. Varys was performing his exercises. He did them every evening and every morning. They consisted of a great deal of stretching, squatting, and then this one, where he lifted himself off the ground, first with both his arms, then one of his arms, then the other arm. There was something strangely hypnotic about watching them actually. He finished them up and glanced at her. "Ahh. You are awake." He turned and went to the small desk in the corner. "If you will give me a moment, we may do our first walk of the deck." He produced the water jug and the basin, and poured it out, then, from somewhere, produced that small knife. She had thoughts of using that knife to win free of him when she first saw it, but she could never find it when he was done with it.

As she watched, Varys meticulously began to shave his head, rubbing it after going over each section to make certain it was smooth. When he was finished, the knife vanished and he produced a small bit of burnt cork. He rubbed it carefully over his eyebrows, then glanced in the basin and nodded. "Very well," he said, turning to her. "Let's go then." Not for the first time, she noted the air of desperation that clung to the eunuch in his dealings with her. Something has gone amiss. And it is not simply what happened with Aerys. She knew that sort of feeling, knew it from all that had happened to her since… Since Harrenhal. Her mind flashed back to those long weeks spent in Harrentown Hall, with Brandon stopping by to check on her, on father's instructions no doubt. And that brought back all the tangled web of feelings about her eldest brother that had started at Harrenhal tourney, and only gotten worse, so she banished it from her mind. Do not give the Spider a lever into you if you can help it. He will use it. It is what he does.

They left the cabin – which, while not overly large, was far from cramped – and walked out onto the deck. Varys tossed out the water in his basin, and then that vanished. He then took her arm, and she, Varys and Rhaegar began to walk around the deck. She glanced at Varys. She had asked him why they did this, every day, and he had replied that he had no wish for her and her son to lose use of their legs.

She supposed she should feel some level of gratitude for that. And yet somehow, she could not. Still, nice to get fresh air. She breathed it, and scowled somewhat. Fresh was perhaps a misstatement. The air on deck was briny and fishy. And yet it was still a comfort after spending her time cooped up in the room.

The Silken Spirit was a great galley, with a large crew and many passengers. And nearly all gave them a wide berth. Varys stated that this was because they believed her to be a lady of quality and he a eunuch slave escorting her to either a marriage or a brothel. As with everything he said, she had her doubts, but didn't feel in a position to test it.

As opposed to his first sea trip, little Rhaegar seemed enchanted by everything, pointing at birds, at people passing by, at dolphins swimming near the ship. Old enough to actually appreciate things, thought Lyanna with a smile. As they headed to the bow, one of the sailors began to sing a low lilting tune in his native tongue. Her son turned, fascinated. Lyanna brushed her son's hair. A musician like your father, perhaps? They paused to listen to the music. "A very nice song," she said.

"An old sailor's tune," replied Varys. "Sea of Myrth, it's called." After a moment, he gave a nod and they moved on. As they went ahead the sound of the music slowly faded into the distance. Lyanna noted a pair of figures standing at the bow. She recognized them as the two Qohorik who had recently come aboard. A man and his son, she believed. It was strange to look at the pair – the father was dark, the way most Qohorik were, but his son… Valyrian fair. But they are Valyrians, in the end, she thought. They've just… bred out some. And that was when she heard the pair chanting.

Their voices were strange. They brought to mind the hissing of snakes, the snarling of dogs, the chirping of insects, and they sometimes seemed to make several noises at once. She heard a whimper and saw Rhaegar looking fearful. She lifted him up, and gave him a cuddle, as the pair continued to chant. Something – perhaps her son's cry – attracted the younger Qohorik's notice. He turned towards them, still keeping up the chant, blinked, then tugged on his father's sleeve. The older man turned. He had a rather striking mustache, Lyanna noted, and like many Qohorik, very large eyes that seemed to pop out of his skull. Glancing her over, he nodded at his son. The pair then hurried through their chant, something that did not make it any less disturbing. When it was finished, they gave her a cheery nod, and began to head away.

"Have a pleasant day," said the father, in a stately High Valyrian. Lyanna noted he had a sword on his side and carried another one, still sheathed, in his hands. The son waved at her, as he accompanied his father down the deck.

"What was that?" Lyanna asked Varys.

"A prayer," he replied. "They are invoking their Black Goat."

She remembered her dream and shuddered. "You speak Qohorik?" she asked.

"No," said Varys. "Only Qohorik speak Qohorik, and frankly I have no idea how they manage it. But I do understand it, somewhat. And that is one of their most beloved prayers, so it is easy to get the meaning of once you have enough words down." He smiled at her. "It ends 'There is a light shining in the darkness. And the darkness has not yet overcome it.' "

Lyanna bit her lip. "Not what you expect from followers of the Black Goat."

"He is a strange god," noted Varys. "For a strange people." He turned to look at the pair as they continued away. "That man… he is important, among the great of Qohor. He's the Bringer of Woe."

"That's what he calls himself?" she said, almost having to suppress a chuckle.

"It is what he is called by others," he answered. "A hereditary styling, as I understand."

She nodded. "Well, that does sound more like Qohor."

Varys chuckled. "You should hear their family motto. It's suitably ghastly."

Something about that chuckle made Lyanna's ire grow. "Varys, don't pretend that we are friends of some sort," she said. "You've kidnapped me and my son…"

"For your own good," he stated.

"...And are taking me to Pentos," she continued. She noted, with a small sense of satisfaction, that he wasn't bringing up Harrenhal the way he had the last time she had confronted him on this kidnapping. That was… annoying. Though good to know he had it as wrong as just about everyone else. It's all more proof that he doesn't know everything.

He eyed her with interest. "Why Pentos?"

"Because you are from Pentos," she said.

The eunuch's gaze narrowed. "I was born in Lys…"

"And you traveled all over the Free Cities when you were a young boy," said Lyanna. "But you settled in Pentos and became powerful there." She leaned forwards. "I told you, my husband taught me of you, Varys. Everything he'd learnt of you. Because he didn't want me coming to court ignorant of his most dangerous enemy."

"Rhaegar was Rhaegar's most dangerous enemy," replied Varys.

"Everyone is their own most dangerous enemy, if you want to play that game," said Lyanna flatly. "But you were the most dangerous one without him."

The eunuch gave an appreciative nod. "Well, I'm glad I enjoyed such a high status in his eyes."

"You shouldn't," she said. "He hated you."

"It was not mutual," said Varys with a smile.

"He knew that," replied Lyanna. "It made him hate you more. You, plotting all the time, and not a drop of spite, not an ounce of human feeling, just as dreadful and inhuman as the spider everyone called you. All those other men around his father, he could understand them, even those bloody, horrible alchemists or that vile bastard Lucerys. But you…" She shook her head. "Nothing human. Not even malice."

That seemed to offend him. "I am not so bad as that," said Varys. "All I did, it had an end. A great end. A good end. An end your Seven Kingdoms… perhaps even the world needed. And still needs."

"Duskendale was to a good end, was it?" said Lyanna, stroking her son's head.

Varys seemed surprised. "Dusk… he knew of my involvement with that matter, did he?"

"He guessed," she replied. "Denys Darklyn didn't get the money he needed to try his hand at rebellion by finding a grumkin and wishing. You needed an incident that would convince Aerys he needed you. So you helped create one."

"I was hardly the only one to use that obliging fool," said Varys.

"Yes, and the other one all but declared it," noted Lyanna. "Tywin Lannister set the fire. Let Denys think that if he did it, Aerys would give him what he wanted to spite Tywin. But you doused it with oil, with your gold."

Varys shook his head. "It nearly went better for Tywin than I," he muttered with a sigh. "If they'd not gotten Aerys out… It was quite an ordeal for me, waiting to see how it would go."

It struck Lyanna that she had come to a complete agreement with Rhaegar on the hatefulness of this man. "It went far worse for Lord Darklyn," she said. "And his kin. And his wife."

Varys did not even flinch at this. "I did not call on him to seize the king," he replied. "I funded a small rebellion. That idiot turned it into…" He shook his head. "I do not know a word for what that thing was." He sighed. "I'll admit, lady, my plans… have not gone as I wished. Not from the very start in truth. But… I did not mean ill. Aerys… I did not realize how much madness there was in him. How quickly things would spin out of my control."

"You took a poisoned mind, and poisoned it more," she spat out. "You can't justify that. Nor can you apologize for it. You shouldn't even try." Rhaegar began to cry. Varys watched as she soothed him. He seemed strangely intent. "What?" she said at last.

"My… pardon," said Varys. "Looking at that... I'm reminded of my mother…"

She looked at him suspiciously. "You knew your mother?" she asked, curious. He is aiming for your sympathies. Still, there would likely be some truth amidst the dross. It was worth trying to draw him out. It's somewhat dreadful, the way he wants to be… liked on some level. To have people say, 'Well, you are bad, but you have your reasons'.

"Somewhat," he said. "They allowed children to see their mothers in the place I was born. It made raising the children easier and kept the mothers… happier." He looked wistfully out at the water. "I would come to her chamber, and she would talk to me. Some in Lysene, some in… well, I couldn't make heads or tails of it at first, but in time I realized it was her native tongue." He gave a sad laugh. "Of course, that was years later. And when I learnt it… I had forgot what it was she had said to me in it." He shook his head. "Ahh, well. She was always happy to see me. When I showed my gift for tumbling, she encouraged it. Bid me practice when I could. Praised me to the people who owned us." He emitted yet another sad sigh. "Of course now I see what she was doing. She wanted me out of that house. Out before they sold the use of me to some nobleman who fancied... that." He glanced at Lyanna. "I was no great beauty you see, so it would not have been worth very much. She knew that, knew that if she could find something that would have been more valuable than…" He took a deep breath. "Ahh, yes, but what did she know? The life I was sold into was not the innocent one she imagined. And from it, well, I was sold to the man who gelded me." He shook his head. "But… she could not know that. She did as best she could. With what she knew."

Despite herself, Lyanna felt sympathy for the man. As he was doubtless hoping. Still… it sounds a true telling. The lies… the lies are in what is not told. The gaps. You can sense some of them. This is a story he tells himself, and he is having to leave parts out when he tells me, and it shows, it shows… "She sounds a great woman," she managed to say, at last.

Varys nodded dimly. "I… when I made my fortune, I hoped to buy her freedom. I sent agents to look for her. And I learned she was dead. That she had died, oh, not long after I was sold. She… she'd had another child. And after it was born… she had asked to hold it. And then… she had dragged herself off the bed, and thrown herself and… and my sister out the window." Lyanna gulped as he turned to look at her. "That way… both of them would die free, you see."

"Why do you tell me this when I could do as she did this very instant?" Lyanna whispered.

"Because you desire that you and your child should live," replied the eunuch, "as much as she desired that she and her last child should die free." He wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "Come, let us go back." As she followed his lead, he chuckled. "You were wrong, you know." Lyanna blinked in puzzlement. "We are not going to Pentos. We've passed Pentos. The Bringer of Woe and his son boarded at the Bay."

"Then where are we going?" she asked.

"You heard them sing of it," answered Varys. "We have entered the Sea of Myrth and we go to Myr." He frowned. "It is a city I have little love for. The place I was gelded. And left for dead. A place that I had to flee to Pentos from." He frowned and bit his lip. "But it is also a place where I know of a safehouse that will protect you very well."

"What is it?" she asked.

"I've answered enough questions for the day," said Varys. "You will know it when you see it." As they walked back Lyanna realized the sailor was still playing Sea of Myrth. She didn't know why this struck her, but it did. A long song, it seems. It somehow felt good to know that. And good to have some idea where she was going, small as it was.

 

[bookwyrm]

Hmm... oh wait! The Bringer of Woe is the Qohorik high priest that's definitely not Gomez Addams right?

 

[Space Oddity]

Hmm... oh wait! The Bringer of Woe is the Qohorik high priest that's definitely not Gomez Addams right?

Click to shrink...

The Bringer of Woe is the head of House Waeyte, and father to a certain young Qohorik noblewoman, yes. The High Priest is his brother.

 

[Space Oddity]

Right, another chapter coming soon and this one, I warn is a monster. I split the thing and it still wound up enormous.