There are very few fics that ASOIAF give ladies-in-waiting, so I'm pleased by this addition here, even if it's Selyse (though it is implied one is for Shireen if I read correctly?)
The talk of Jon Snow's legitimization and elevation to lordship had swept across Castle Black like a raging inferno, faster even, it seemed, than the news of Janos Slynt's election to Lord Commander. King's Men and Queen's Men alike crowed that the North was all but won, while the Crows muttered and kicked and cast dark looks upon the King's Tower.
The new Lord of Winterfell had not left the King's Tower since the morning Janos Slynt was chosen, and the reason for that was clear to any man with eyes.
Even one without, Aegon mused, thinking of Aemon.
The Black Brothers were less than enthused with the news. Stannis had saved them, yes, but he had facilitated a man of their number putting aside his oaths. Beyond that, he harbored another oathbreaker, with as yet no signs of an incoming execution. Some bore less ill will than others, but many were sour. And some, including their new Lord Commander, were all but murderous. It was all too clear that Stannis's men had begun to tread more carefully these days.
–Aegon felt the blow of an impact to his side, and fell to the muddy slush of the training yard.
"Dead," said Iron Emmett.
Aegon groaned. "Only if I'm not wearing plate," he retorted.
Emmett only laughed. "Get up boy. You won't get any better lying in the mud."
Aegon pulled himself to his feet, the heavy, ill-fitting, Crone-only-knew how many years old armor making it a tougher affair than it had any right to be. He used the tremendous hunk of metal that Donal Noye called a greatsword to push himself up from the ground. In Aegon's eye, it was a better cane than it was a sword.
The Eastwatch man eyed the large two handed sword. "Never trained with it, did you?"
He shook his head. "Sword, and lance, and mace, and even axe, certainly, but I never much liked greatswords. Too heavy. And I prefer to have a shield if I can."
Iron Emmett raised a brow. "A shield, with plate?" He laughed again. "A waste of strength! Your shield is all about you if you have the fortune to wear plate. Better to have the reach of a greatsword, I say."
Duck had said much the same during his years of tutelage, and at Jon's insistence, he had been instructed primarily in the use of hand and a half blades. It was the most they could force him to use, so long ago, and he had gradually grown used to Brightfyre, as much as he'd have liked to use a shorter sword.
But Aegon had seen the training sword resting in the armory, and for whatever reason, he had taken it. It was a monster of a blade, made even more monstrous due to the crude, heavy steel of its construction. It might very well have been the heaviest weapon he had ever held, and he was decidedly unpracticed in its use.
"It would be more even with my Brightfyre," Aegon replied.
Emmett shrugged, before readying his stance. "Aye, perhaps. But battle is rarely even."
Before either of them could strike a blow, however, a voice broke out across the training yard, turning both of their attention away from the aborted battle.
"Ho there," said the voice. "Might I test myself against you?"
Clad from neck to heel in worn, but quality, plate, the King's Man cut a formidable figure, despite his middling height and his less than fiersome visage. A weak chin, plain brown eyes, and reddened cheeks were made visible by his lack of helmet, but what stood out most of all were the large and protruding ears that any man in Castle Black could mark. If his ears did not give him away, it was the fox's head and bright blue flowers on a field of bone upon his shield that did it.
Aegon knew the man, in fact. For despite Jon's tightened leash, Aegon would always remain a flagrant socializer. "Ser Willfred," he said back, with a smile, "it would be my pleasure."
Iron Emmett eased his stance and was walking away with a spring in his step within seconds. Emmett enjoyed watching a good thrashing about as much as he enjoyed delivering one. Which was, to say, considerably.
Willfred Florent took the place that Emmett had occupied, sword and shield in hand. The King's Men and Queen's Men both took to the training yard at times, and though they did mingle with the men of Castle Black, they most often sparred against each other. Aegon would not let an opportunity pass him by.
Aegon raised the great hunk of dulled metal before him into something approaching a guard, and Willfred did the same. Fox and flowers glared at him from the Florent man's shield, even as the man himself did not; Willfred smiled still, though it had the set of determination to it.
There was no shout to begin, nor a flurry of motion and violence. Willfred simply advanced, shield raised and sparring blade ready. Aegon kept still, tracking the man's movements carefully.
The moment that the King's Man was within range, Aegon lashed out with his greatsword. A sword of such length's strength was its reach; letting the man approach too close would be foolish. Ser Willfred batted aside each strike with his shield and his own, shorter blade in turn, stalking closer and closer with each parry or block.
Aegon retreated calmly, but kept up his attacks, whirling the sword around to enhance the strength of his slashes, as he had heard some Lyseni bodyguards were wont to do.
The weight of the blade took its toll on the knight, Aegon could easily see that, but the man was practiced, and advanced all the same. Then, without so much as a warning, Ser Willfred pushed aside the blade with a mighty bash of his shield, and closed the distance in what felt like half a heartbeat.
Then Aegon was very much on the backfoot. Cuts came hard and fast and turning them aside was the most he could do. Only the years of sparring with Duck and Jon (and occasionally Haldon) kept him on his feet; for as much as he was unpracticed with a sword of this size, he was still well-learned in his footwork.
Aegon could only imagine Sir Wilfred smirking beneath his visor, and the thought alone was enough to encourage him to attempt to push for the offensive. He saw an opening between two of the Florent knight's swift slashes and countered with a sweeping strike of his own.
The strike slipped between the fox-and-flower and the blade that rushed to meet it, impacting along Ser Willfred's side, but despite the strength of it, Wilfred held firm against the cut.
Wilfred dropped his shield arm then, and holding the greatsword fast against his chest, he slid forward against it. Aegon made a futile attempt at ripping the sword from the knight's grip, before the King's Man was slamming into him bodily, knocking him to the ground.
He managed to hold onto his sword, but Ser Willfred's was pointed directly at a break in his armor. With one hand, Aegon could not swing the sword around before he would be–
"Dead," said Ser Willfred with a smile plain in his voice, before he withdrew his sword. "That's twice today, Tyroshi. Usually, you are not quite so ineffectual."
Aegon pulled himself to his feet. "Usually I use a proper blade." He shook the great hunk of dull metal. "This could hardly be called a sword… or even a mace I would say."
The Florent knight pulled up his visor, revealing plain brown eyes crinkled with mirth. "So you say, Griff, but Tywin Lannister's great Mountain wields a blade larger than that in a single hand."
That brought a frown to Aegon's lips. "Even in Essos… there are tales of the man," he replied. "but Gregor Clegane is a beast in the guise of a knight."
"Aye. That he is." Something that was almost a laugh escaped him. "I was on the wrong side of Robert's Rebellion, you see. I spent most of it attempting to starve out His Grace, outside his very own stronghold. We were the storm, we thought, but the king proved to us the name of his ancestral home..." Any mirth in his tone vanished. "...But even now, I recall the tidings that Eddard Stark brought to us. Of the Kingslayer, and of the Mountain that Rides." He spat. "Any man of us remembers that day well."
But before Aegon could respond, there was a shout.
"Will you stand there till the sun sets?" Emmett called. "Others would like to test their steel!"
Ser Willfred turned to the voice sharply, seemingly surprised. Then, he turned back to Aegon, his expression flat. "I would test you again, boy, but this is not the only reason I am here."
"What else, then?" Aegon replied, disquieted at both the man's words and at his countenance.
Ser Willfred looked up to the King's Tower, where even now smoke rose. "His Grace would see you, Griff." It was not a question.
Aegon stabbed his greatsword into the mush beneath his feet.
"Then take me to him."
-
The King's Tower had changed much since his own stay in it.
Aegon was given to understand that the Tower had been all but decrepit before the destruction of the Lord Commander's old quarters, and that it had been renovated even further pending their own arrival at Castle Black. Now though, it was an entirely new tower, or at least, it felt like it. Men patrolled or stood guard at every level of the tower, some wearing the burning heart proudly, and some few the old Baratheon stag. Each was armed, and each watched him warily even as Ser Willfred led him through.
Aegon had returned Donal Noye's armor to the armory, but Willfred retained his own. The knight's disposition had not quite become what it had been when they met in the yard, but it had eased some since entering the King's Tower.
They climbed each successive landing quickly enough, and in no time at all, they arrived at the very top.
Two guards stood vigil, both with the fiery heart of R'hllor at their breast. One was clean shaven, and the other bore a bushy brown beard. Aegon knew neither of them; both gave him a hard look.
Ser Willfred offered them a courteous nod. "His father is inside already, I take it?"
"Aye," said one, the clean shaven man with russet brown eyes.
"Ser Justin fetched him not ten minutes ago," added the other, before he pulled the door open slightly.
A boy's face poked through the crack in the door. The boy glanced over to Aegon, then to Willfred, then the guards, and nodded.
The watchman with the bushy beard promptly pulled the door open, and Aegon felt the rush of warm air full on, as all but a physical blow. Though, it was not pulled so far that he could clearly see the occupants of the room besides the boy who could only be a squire.
Aegon quickly crossed the threshold, and only belatedly realized that Ser Willfred had not followed him through as he heard the door slam shut behind him.
The rumbles of discussion that had been present in the room before his entrance swiftly ground to a halt as his presence was noted. He saw many familiar faces among the men gathered in the "king's" solar. Justin Massey. The man of the moths called Horpe, who had captured the Horn of Winter. Ser Gody the Giantslayer, who made his presence and his title known to any and all who would listen and heed, and his crony Clayon Suggs. A young man, with short-cropped blonde hair with hard brown eyes. He wore a surcoat emblazoned with a crescent moon hanging in a night sky above a forest. Fell, he knew, and Peasebury. Peasebury bore the green pea pod proudly, but he was a homely man. Almost common, by the look of him.
Standing apart from the rest was Jon, whose gaze was both worried and relieved.
Nearest the table, first among the king's retainers, was the newest of them. Standing shorter than the rest, the Lord Stark was nonetheless the most solemn of those who had pledged to King Stannis. Grey eyes, as stony as slate, stared out at him, with not a trace of the mirth (Or even sadness) Aegon had seen at other times. His black cloak had been traded for one of white and grey. Even when Jon Stark's eyes met his own, Aegon saw not even a hint of recognition on his long Northern face.
Last of all, seated behind the desk that Bowen Marsh had once interrogated him from, was the fiery stag himself.
Gaunt was the word that came to Aegon's mind most quickly. Gaunt, and harsh. Eyes of deep blue stared out accusingly from a hard set brow, as sapphires set within a skull. Tall, even seated, Aegon knew the "king" was the largest of them. Broad shoulders bore a clasp of his own sigil, of the burning heart of R'hllor, holding a cloth-of-gold cloak firmly against him. A crown of fiery gold points rest upon his bald head, a square cut ruby placed at its very forefront.
When Stannis Baratheon's eyes met his, Aegon fought the instinct that screamed at him to cower, to lower his gaze. Instead, he stood straighter. Firmer. He held the man's gaze. Then... He sank to one knee. "Your Grace," Aegon said smoothly.
"Rise," Stannis Baratheon barked back.
Aegon rose, and quickly closed the distance between himself and his father. Something flashed in Jon's otherwise frosty gaze as Aegon took his place alongside him. He felt Jon's firm grip on his shoulder as they together faced the king and his men.
You taught me well, he wanted to tell him. No other king would prostrate himself before a usurper. But from the very moment he'd been told of his identity, Jon, Lemore, and Haldon had impressed upon him the paramount importance of acting the way others would expect him to. He was a sellsword's son. A Tyroshi squire with a love of song and swordplay.
Not the son of the prince slain at the Trident.
It was Jon who broke the silence that ensued. "His Grace and I were discussing… our arrangement with the Golden Company."
It felt scandalous for Jon to even utter the name of Bittersteel's heirs in the company of Stannis Baratheon, but Aegon took it in as good a stride as he could. "Has Strickland seen the light at last, father?" he asked, with forced unsureness.
"Not likely," Jon replied, with something that might have been a laugh. "Homeless Harry–"
"–will reconsider his position," intoned the king as he rose from his seat.
The squat, oafish Ser Clayton Suggs voiced his approval. "The man would be a fool not to."
Ser Godry Farring and Lord Peasebury joined in the man's approval, as the other assembled men nodded or smirked in turn.
Stannis Baratheon watched his men-at-arms and leal lords with an expression Aegon could not identify, but when their grumblings of approval ceased, he spoke again. "No company of sellswords would come to these wastes on stories of dead men alone, no matter the debts owed to this father of yours," he said, to Aegon. "And why should they? When they might stay, and reap the bitter fruit of the Free Cities' never-ending wars over long despoiled land?"
"The king would see the lands of the exiles returned to them, and high positions for their officers not of the Seven Kingdoms," Jon added. Jon was not so skilled a mummer as Aegon, but still, his performance was a fair one. "Even Homeless Harry would find himself hard pressed to refuse this offer, no matter the opponent."
Finally, Jon Sn–no–Lord Stark spoke. "And he will not find himself alone." It was a lordly voice. Not one he had ever heard Jon the Crow use. "The North will be at his side."
Jon's eyes flashed at Lord Stark's announcement, but he said nothing.
Once, they had thought to snatch the North from behind their ill-fated king's back, while he wasted his manpower in the south. Harry had not approved of the notion, no more than he had approved of the venture to the Wall. Aegon knew little of the deal that Illyrio made with Blackheart, but it was clear that it alone (and vague promises of compensation) was not enough to pull the Golden Company to the Wall.
Aegon frowned despite himself.
Sellswords were a duplicitous lot. That much was known in the Free Cities as well as in Westeros. Only the Golden Company had risen above the tales told of others, but still, they fought for gold. They fought for compensation. If they came now, with promises of rewards from a man known for his word, with allies ready and waiting, whose men would they be truly?
Would they remember the promises to the dragon, when it was the stag who filled their purses?
"Thousands died at the Red Wedding," Lord Stark continued, "and the North does not readily forget betrayers. Roose Bolton and his men took part in the slaughter, engineered it even, perhaps." His eyes were slate; his posture straight. "There is no better time to rally the North than now."
Lord Peasebury turned a delicate shade of purple. "–But the Wildlings, Your Grace…." he said, addressing the king, "I cannot help but fear they will bring more harm than good upon your cause."
Wildlings?
Many among the king's council shared conspiratorial glances. One even laughed, though Ser Justin Massey bore the slightest of frowns.
He felt Jon's hand on his shoulder again, his grip tighter than before. "Wildlings, Your Grace? I was not informed of anything regarding Wildlings."
Lord Stark met Aegon's gaze briefly before looking to the king.
Stannis Baratheon rose from his seat in one swift motion, instantly overtopping even the tallest of them by inches. He looked from Lord Peasebury, to Lord Stark, to the rest of his assembled men. "Move aside," he grunted, to which his men dutifully assented.
He strode quickly to the hearth, his steps brisk yet heavy, and gripped the stone mantelpiece with a gloved hand.
None spoke as Stannis Baratheon stared into the fire.
Aegon had heard that the king had taken up with the Lord of Light, but…
The king's deep rumble cut the quiet like a blade. "All who would follow my laws are my people, no matter their origin. If they would not, then they will return to their old homes; to the cold, and the Others." He turned to the knight of the moths. "You will play your part, will you not?"
The pox-scarred knight of the moths frowned deeply. More deeply even than Jon Connington on his worst days. "Of course, Your Grace." There was conviction in Horpe's words; This was not the empty platitude of a sycophant, despite his expression.
The king had returned to staring into the hearth, and quiet had resumed its reign over the knights and lords. Aegon shifted. Jon loosened his grip on his shoulder. The fire crackled and spat. What part the lean knight was to play was left unsaid. Stannis Baratheon was not so willing to let outsiders into his confidence as his plans implied.
Aegon clenched his hand as he glanced about the room. A ruby glinted in the hilt of the sword that hung from a peg to the side of the hearth. Lightbringer, he calls it. But it was not the genuine article; it was a farce.
And yet, Stannis Baratheon had come. He had answered Aemon's call for aid. That was worthy of praise, even if the man grasped for the throne that was rightfully his own.
"Is it enough?" Aegon found himself asking.
The brawny man who called himself the Giantslayer rounded on him. "Is what enough, Tyroshi?" Clayton Suggs at the man's right sneered in agreement. "You presume to question His Grace?"
Aegon did not flinch, even as his father's grip tightened once again on his shoulder. "The Golden Company, the North, some thousand Wildlings… Is it enough to turn back the dead? To defeat the Others?" These thoughts had torn at him ever since the Black Brothers returned, and the tales of the dead became corporeal to him. "The Wildlings tell stories of the slaughter and horror of the cold."
Stannis Baratheon turned away from the fire, and his harsh blue eyes burned into Aegon's own. "It will have to be, boy; it is what the Lord has given me." And then, there was a vitality to him; a strength came to life on the grim-faced man's visage. "Ser Justin," he barked. "You will depart to Eastwatch within the week."
"Your Grace?" Ser Justain answered, his composure broken.
"You will cross the Narrow Sea at Griff's side, and ensure my sellswords find their way to my side." Then, Stannis looked toward the door, "Bryen," he called. "Soon, I will make a knight of you."
The young man was frozen, his mouth hanging agape; but quickly he gathered himself and bowed, "If it please, Your Grace."
The king's fiery golden crown glinted in the firelight as he crossed the room in several long strides. He stood before Aegon and Jon, a tall, gaunt, skeleton of a man. His cloth-of-gold cloak hung limply from broad shoulders.
"Wish your father well, boy, for I shall have need of you."
Jon's grip became a vice.
"Speak plainly, Your Grace." Jon said, now unable to quash his latent hostility entirely.
The lightest of smirks adorned the Stannis's sour visage. "I find myself lacking a squire," he said. "I have seen your son in the yard, and he knows the castle well. My lord of Stark has spoken highly of him. He will serve adequately enough once Bryen takes his vows."
Shrugging off Jon's hand, Aegon bowed his head low. "It is an honor to serve with a king, Your Grace."
There was no denying a king, of course. Whatever his answer, Stannis held their lives in his hand. It was better to smile, and suffer it. Kings had suffered worse before; the Dragonbane, for one.
"Worry not father," he said laughingly, "Duck will fare well enough without me to attend him."
A storm of emotions swirled in Jon's ice blue eyes. Fear, apprehension, anger…
You brought me up to survive worse, he wanted to say. The dragon does not fear the stag, perhaps... But that was not the truth.
Aegon had never been apart from his father, not since he first arrived in his life so long ago. Jon Connington had been at his side for near as long as he could remember. Pale blue eyes had watched him, and his broad, brawny shoulders had sheltered him from danger. He had taught him to wield a blade, to loose a bow, to skin a kill, and to remember his past. He had taught him to be a man, and he had raised a king.
When his father's face remained unmoved, he added, "I'm a man grown, father, don't forget."
Jon Connington's frown was fierce as he met Stannis Baratheon's gaze. "Your word–," he finally ground out, "–I would have your word of my son's safety."
"Father, it is–" Aegon began.
Stannis raised a hand. "From one father to another, you have my word."
Jon Connington extended his own, and clasped the king's arm. "Swear it," he said.
An even darker frown answered him."In R'hllor's light I swear it." When Stannis withdrew his hand, he added, "Fetch me the Golden Company, sellsword; ours is the only war that matters."
"They will come," Jon said. "This I swear."
A new chapter chunk at long last. I'm really sorry to have taken so damn long. Teaching has just absolutely slain me. I'm still 100% flooded with ideas for this fic, it has nothing to do with lack of enthusiasm. It's just time. It was a lot easier to find time to write when I was a substitute teacher than a full time one.
Hopefully the next chunk will come around quicker. I have a 3 week winter break at the district I work at, so I should be able to provide at least a bit. Though, fair warning, the next two POVs are new ones. They won't be super long, but I like to change stuff up every now and again.
Janos' hands shook as he fed the letter to the fire. Tywin. Tywin who had been his hope, his light, his salvation, had died. The letter had come but minutes ago, brought to him unopened by Clydas, with the Queen's own seal pressed into the wax.
Tywin had died. Slynt was not so foolish as to doubt the report. All men could die. A circle of metal did not make a man into a god and a bejeweled cuirass could cover a bleeding corpse as well as a live one. All his life, he had known this, and it had made him strong, it had let him rise. A man who knew the truth of the world would always have a place.
His lip curled. Now it was the Queen to whom he must ingratiate himself. The thought revolted him but nonetheless she remained his best option. A so-called 'King' was near at hand, but that bridge had burned. Even if Stannis could be made an ally, he'd be as warm as that heatless flaming sword of his. Worthless for the cold that was coming.
Not that it mattered much which way Janos turned. What was life worth, here on the edge of the world?
Enough. These thoughts were thoughts of defeat. Accepting death was for curs, not for men, and he had been lower than this before. So long as he drew breath there would be a path to greatness. He had to but discover it.
He needed to think, needed to get out. "Jerro!" He called, "Bring me my cloak! I need to take a turn about the yard." Cloak and greatcloak, boots and belt… all necessary to survive the icy hell that had become his domain.
As he stepped from out his tower, the wind cut through him. Not for the first time, he missed the heat of the capital. Fires and furs and whores could not warm his bed half so well as his wife had warmed the soft silk of their bed. He missed his sons, too. He would have little enough to leave them if he failed here. But perhaps that was for the best. They would still have money, at least, and the Imp was no longer in a position to threaten them.
Enough, no more sentiment. Attend to your eyes, not your heart. They have more value.
Colors split the yard. Baratheon yellow to the right, Florent foxes and flaming hearts to the left, and the Watch's own Black straight ahead. Three factions in the Castle. King's men, Queen's men, and his own men. There was something there. A struggle between three powers always spelled opportunity. It had before, after all.
Could he play a mummer's farce, and make a pretense at siding with the Queen against her own husband? He entertained the idea for a moment and shuddered. The Queen's men were the Red Woman's men, and even he had his limits. Only death and madness lay in that corner. The King's men were worse, being completely sane and completely in contempt of him. The Black Brothers he could control for now, at least, especially with the Stark bastard branded as an oathbreaker, but he needed more.
A flash of silver and blue crossed his vision, dividing the black in two. It was the Tyroshi sellsword's get crossing the yard, eager for a spar. Slynt felt a smile split his face.
Hard gravel crunched beneath his boots as he trudged forward, flanked as always by his guards. The boy was to be squiring for Baratheon, they said, little more than a hostage. He was young, impetuous, skilled with a blade and full of reasons to hate the would-be-king.
"Milord!" The call caught him off-guard, and he had to bite back a grimace as he turned to face the man who had pulled him away. But his annoyance turned to naught when he saw who it was.
The man was thin, cleanshaven, and walking gingerly, a steaming cup between his gloves. Slynt never forgot a name, or a face, and he was glad to be able to place the man. "Halfmaester," he said, his features schooled for cordiality. The trusted friend and associate of the boy was nearly as good as the boy himself. Scholarly sorts were naive, easily led fools, little better than children. "I am glad to see you away from Aemon's care. The service you rendered the Watch will not be forgotten." No one disliked a vague promise of reward.
Haldon replied with a smile that went up to his eyes. "Think nothing of it," Haldon said, putting his cup to his lips. "My pains are still considerable, but for the nonce I take comfort in rest and mulled wine."
Even in the wind, the smell of the wine was potent, and brought thoughts of happier times to Janos. "That is a Myrish vintage, I think?" Low as he was, Slynt knew how to take his pleasures better than most men.
Haldon nodded appreciatively. "We spent the first part of the summer in the service of a wealthy Vintner, and I took half my pay in wine. This is almost the last of it." Haldon put the cup to his lips again and then shook his head. "I did not have to heat it over fire when I drank it in the south."
"Before you got dragged up here past the end of the earth?".
"Aye," Haldon replied, "I never thought I should see the Wall before I die, but I confess that I have had more than my fill of it, I fear." He smiled. "Share this cup with me, in memory of flowers in summer?"
Slynt accepted the offer and drank deeply, letting the heat wash down his throat and fill him. The flavor was rich and bitter and full of life. He passed the cup back to Haldon with a sigh. "You had some matter for me, I suppose?"
"No great matter, except that I wished to requisition a few more logs for my fire. The quartermaster was most disagreeable when I raised the question with him."
"Happily, happily," Janos replied, "The Watch cannot be seen as close-fisted toward those who helped us in a time of need." He paused, suddenly, leaning in closer, "I fear we are still in a time of need, as it stands. This would-be king is rather overstaying his welcome."
"Indeed? It seems it is his nature to be at cross-purposes with those around him. You do not want him to stay, he does not want us to leave."
"Yes, good," Janos nodded. "I have more to say to you all at some point, might I return the favor of wine to you this evening?"
Haldon laughed, "I shall never pass up an opportunity to share a bottle, milord. Will you go to the others yourself or should I tell them for you?"
"Best if it comes from you," Slynt said, turning to walk away. "See you then."
He could feel his blood rising, filling his face with warmth. Tywin or no Tywin, the beat never changed. The gravel under his boots crunched the same here as it did in King's Landing. He still had gold, and these well-connected sellswords would be the perfect catspaw. Sellswords always made the perfect catspaws. Wise men didn't sell their swords for a handful of gold and an empty promise. Stannis seemed to have placed some faith in them, and that would be his undoing. This Haldon was already as good as in his power, he just had to bring the rest into the fold.
The brat had entered into a spar with Emmet, and in any case Slynt did not want to be seen going from master to pupil. The yellow side of the yard had many eyes and he did not want anyone to take note.
He'd need to meet with another of Griff's companions, but who? Where?
A smile touched his lips. "Call the winch for me, Jerro, I wish to inspect the men on the wall."
Creaking, grinding metal dragged him skyward. Even now after so many days the Wall baffled and terrified him. The thing was closer to a mountain than a castle. Had Northman savages really built such a thing? Had the Children truly had so much power? Was such a thing possible?
Of course it is you daft fool, you're riding up to the top of this fact at this very moment.
He braced himself as he came up to the top of the wall. A huge blast of wind slammed into him as he crested the edge.
"Step out at your leisure, Milord," The old winchman called, "D'you require an attendant as you walk the walls?"
"Spare your men the trouble," Janos replied. He wanted as few as possible to know of his business. Jerro and the others had been left earthbound for this very reason, though they were among his most trusted men. Never trust any man completely.
On the ground it had been cold, but up here the wind was like a knife, and for all Slynt's wraps and furs he might as well have been naked. At least, there was no danger of falling. The top of the wall was as wide as a street, and as covered in gravel as one. Had any ever tried to ride a horse atop the wall? It had to be possible. The Watch had possessed great power and wealth in the distant past. Not now, he thought bitterly. The Night's Watch he commanded was a barely twitching corpse.
"Hullo there!" He called as he came upon his quarry.
"Milord!" The sellsword turned and bowed, his bright orange hair practically a torch against the bleak sky overhead.
"You're a good man, Ser Duckfield," Janos said, approaching steadily. "The men greatly appreciate you volunteering up here. It isn't pleasant work."
The big oaf smiled and Slynt found himself smiling in reply. Ser Duckfield had an infectious air about him, it was easy to see why the men liked him so well. All the more reason to win the man over. "Ah come on now," Duckfield laughed, "You think I'd come this far North and miss out on the chance to piss off the side of the Wall?"
Slynt laughed. "In this wind? Sounds like a good way to freeze your cock off." His laugh cut short as a sudden pain cut into his gut. He forced his smile to remain steady. Had he been eating too much ham again? Usually he had a gut of steel. In a moment the pain lessened and he nodded, reassuring himself. He wasn't going to let a small amount of bowel pain stop him from his seeing his task through.
"I always joke that my da' would laugh if he knew how high his son had risen. You can't get much higher than the Wall."
Slynt joined him at the edge. "You jest, Ser, but 'tis no mean feat for a common boy to get a knighthood. What was your father's profession?"
"A blacksmith, milord."
"And my father was a butcher. The Seven bless some men with a noble birth, and other men, Ser Duckfield, they bless with ability."
Duckfield laughed again. "You make it sound like a song. For me it was a bunch of stupid fights that I shouldn't have started, but ended up winning anyways."
The pain in Slynt's gut returned, but he still found it in him to keep his smile. "Ah, that's how it always starts. I started much the same."
"A pair of fine birds we make then," Duckfield smiled, "A duck and a crow."
"My first fight, my first real fight, I used a belt filled with coins. What did you use?"
"Lord Caswell's brat said I wasn't fit for anything more than a hammer. So to prove him right, I broke both his arms with one."
"A hammer was good enough for King Robert."
"Seems that a simple weapon is as good as a fine one, if you use it right. And I've always favored a direct approach."
"You approve of King Stannis' strategy against Mance Rayder then?" Slynt gestured, marking the line Stannis had taken through the forest below. "Straight down the middle, breaking the horde in one blow?"
A shrug. "Strategy is for men like Griff and Haldon. But a straight charge like that is the kind of order I like, sure enough." Duckfield's face darkened suddenly.
"But you would not, I think," Slynt said, his smile turning sly, "Much enjoy taking orders from the would-be King."
Duckfield shrugged again, but his expression remained dark. "He's no king of mine. I left Westeros when I was barely a man."
Slynt scowled. "Stannis Baratheon. There's a man who respects blood more than ability. He'd rather seat an oathbreaking boy in Winterfell because of his blood rather than elevate one of his own loyal knights. How would you feel, to be one of his loyal servants?"
"I don't think as I would like it much," Duckfield supposed, stroking his chin. "Though his Hand's a smuggler, isn't he?"
Slynt blinked. He'd been trying to be too subtle by half, that had never been his style. "True enough. But I respect ability too, Duck. If you're interested, I could make it worth your while."
Duck looked over his shoulder, "Is that the reason you're up here alone? You didn't want Griff to hear of you offering me coin?"
"No, I have work for Griff as well," Slynt replied, "I'm more concerned with spies from another quarter." He winced, and a hand went to his belly. What had he eaten to cause this?
"So you didn't tell anyone you were coming to meet me then?"
Slynt managed a chuckle through the discomfort. "No, no, of course not. I'm more careful than that."
A great sigh escaped Duckfield. "Well I'm happy to hear that. Truth be told, I had been wanting to get you come up here to show you something."
Suddenly, the discomfort became agony, as though someone were screwing a knife into his gut. Still, he managed to reply, "Well, what was it then?"
"This."
Then Duckfield's hands were on him, strong as steel bands. Slynt reacted instantly, before he was even aware of what was happening, wrestling furiously, but Duckfield fought harder. The gravel crunched under Duckfield's feet as the big man turned, throwing Slynt bodily over the battlement.
The ground rushed up to meet Slynt. Think, he urged himself, think.
He thought of Stannis, and the bastard Jon Snow. He thought of Griff and his promises. He thought King's Landing–of Tywin, and Cersei, and Petyr Baelish and the Imp– he thought of his lady wife, and Morros and Jothos and Danos. He thought of his babe daughter that he'd scarcely known.
Duck watched the body bounce off the side of the Wall, once, twice, and then hit the ground as something barely human in shape.
Duck nodded. Aegon had wanted the Wall defended, and Janos was not the man to do it. As he turned to continue his patrol, Duck wondered whether he might get Haldon to share some of that mulled wine he had.
It was cold at the top of the world, and wine would do him well.
This chapter comes entirely from the hands of Strangebloke, a good friend of mine and fellow writer. Go check out Wounds if you haven't already, and thank him for it profusely, because he's really helped me out. I will have a POV up from my own hand within a week or so, I hope. And then another guest chapter from the ever witty Lost Carcosa/WhoaHeavy.
I'm sorry it's been ages. School and then quarantine have not been great on my psyche, but this story is in no way dead. It's on my mind at all times.
Excellent chapter. Managed to make Janos Slynt human without taking him out of character - he has a very cynical way of looking at things, and it makes his situation worse - he doesn't trust his allies, so ends up alone with his enemies.
I found it very amusing that he had already been poisoned - Widow's Blood, I think? I don't remember if you said in a previous chapter, but it fits with the symptoms, and would go into wine exceptionally well.
It's very amusing how the ending is basically Murder on the Orient Express.
But what I liked most about this chapter is the attention given to Janos that gives him some sympathetic traits despite being an asshole, like his love for his wife and children. Janos is absolutely sleazy and directly participated in the murders of Barra for example, but even in canon it is shown that he at least the redeemable quality of caring for his children. Tyrion threatening their lives somehow makes him the villainous one in the interaction lol.
