Dany the Dame: Dragons. (Inspired by FMA's Brothers)
Dany:
How can I repay you brother mine,
How can I expect you to forgive,
I've taken the one thing you loved
And have hampered our chances to live.
Though my birth was a joy, The cost was high
the price that was paid was not forseen
What the cost, I never knew...
For there is no cost but death
Beautiful mother, soft and sweet;
Once you were gone, our lives were incomplete
Back through the years, we clung to you
but alas it was not meant to be.
I wanted to make amends
Why the gods must be so cruel
For the terrible burden that yours alone
and I was not worthy of this.
Viserys:
Don't cry for the past my sister mine
My duty to you will never end
Your birth was a tragedy, yes I know
but the triumph that left me blessed.
Beautiful mother, soft and sweet;
Once you were gone, our lives were not complete
Back through the years, we clung to you
but alas it was not meant to be.
Our Path made me cold and cruel
Dany:
I long for the days of the door.
Viserys:
But I stole that choice away.
Dany:
But as long as I know I have you.
Viserys and Dany:
I know we have the will to live.
AN: @Marlowe310811 I'm such a freaking weeb, it's not even funny.
You had wondered what made the girl Beshka 'The Basilisk' so intriguing to you. It wasn't because she was a women warrior, you had been around Mormonts and other hill clanswoman who liked to fight, fuck and Battle just as much as any other man... some would say even more then their brothers and fathers because then they could get husbands who could provide for them. Even becoming wives to the Sons or Chiefs of the Clans themselves.
Or because the Mormonts hate the damn Ironborn enough to join their husbands in the murder of those who would threaten their lands and homes.
It wasn't because she was beauty either... she was as ugly and disfigured as they come. The massive scar on her face from her forehead to her eyes, and beyond was disturbing and, to most who had never seen battle, was hard to look at her. The other burn scar on her face was... well, you can safely say that it was not from playing with candles as a child.
She was a loud, hard-drinking, whoring fighter, who somehow found her way to the King's court, and had the trust of all three of the Royals who were the Royal family.
No... it was because you saw that little bit more, and she immediately made you her little brother because of it.
"Come on Little brother, you can't wear that kind of armor just to go to a whorehouse?" She drawled as you looked down to the plate armor of the Kingsguard. You were not wearing that ridiculous helmet, the great white cloak that signified your office, or any weapon, other than your longsword and your hatchet, the weapons that you had carried fighting for Lord Stark.
A quiet moment took hold before you answered. "Because anyone who sees us will think were on official business, and may think about getting a discount." You then gave your trademark smile.
Beshka gave a short, barking laughter. "Hah! I like the way you think, Little Brother. We may have a Job to do, but who says we can't get some benefits along the way?"
Asher continued to smile as the Whorehouse got closer. It would be a welcome distraction from the overbearing Arys, and Barristian, who insisted that days off were meant for training or catching up on the lost sleep from night detail at the kings door... or from the lackluster drudgery of changing the Prince and Princess' soiled under clothes with new ones when the King and queen were... well to exhausted to do it themselves.
Then he felt something was off. He looked around, remembering the lessons that Ser Jaime taught him when he first joined the Kingsguard. Always look for the things that are different then what you know... it may save your life.
"Beshka, quiet..." That was when you heard the movement inside the brothel. The Pimp,and other bodyguards that protected the girls, were gone.
The Hatchet was in your hand as you stood next to the door.
Beshka herself instantly lost her relaxed demeanor and drew her long-bladed Twin-Cleavers, readying herself for what was to come.
And indeed, soon enough...the door you stood next to burst open.
"Asher, please tell me this-"
You ignored her, as you kicked the door open, and saw the men inside. Three of them, holding up some of the girls... their guards and protector... dead, on the ground. "We've got to hurry, no witnesses, he's paying us to make sure no one can find a trail."
You frowned and allowed the men to see you.
"Fuck! He knows!"
Their Leader growled. "Don't just stand there, you Idiots!! GET HIM!!"
For a moment, you paused, wondering who the hell they were talking about? But then you remembered that your king was also a helluva spymaster... at least that was what you gathered from all the rumors around the man... and the ones that made the most sense...
You still didn't belive the Valyria one, if only because Viserys was fabulously wealthy enough to buy all the things he could have acquired for far less risk.
But you then threw your hatchet across the room, right in the head of one of the assailants.
Beshka growled, unleashing a roar as she bulled past you, blades in hand. The leader stumbled back, but the other mercenary blocked with his sword, growling and hollering in another language.
You on the other hand, took off after the leader, who fled further into the whorehouse, and as you jumped past Beshka and her assailent, you asked. "You got this?"
Beshka was unamused. "Fuck you!" she shouted as she pushed the mercenary off her, and bashed his shoulder with the hilt of one of her swords.
She would be fine. This was probably a good warm-up for the sex anyhow.
Running after the Leader, you eventually managed to corner him in a small Room with only one door. Seeing as he had no way out, the Man whirled around and drew his Sword, fear and desperate anger shimmering in his eyes.
You wondered what was going through his mind, as he drew his blade. "Let me live, and I won't kill you?"
Was he serious? He was threatening you with a fight, to let you live? Were you hearing that man correctly?
"Yet you have nothing to bargain with... Why should I not just kill you and deal with the fallout of me murdering you with my king, instead of the fallout of letting you get away?"
There was silence before you saw the man draw his blade.
Oh... so that was how it was going to go.
Fuck...
Now you had to explain this to Viserys... Hopefully he didn't mind.
A Few Hours Later...
King Viserys Targaryen looked at the report on his desk, and sighed. "Gods dammit... The Bashers are at it again."
Arianne smiled. "It's your fault for giving them days off."
"I know." He muttered. "But why did they need to whore for a few hours instead of report this to me immediately?"
"You know Beshka...", Arianne stated.
Right. "We'll talk to them tomorrow."
A.N.: Omake written by me and @Magoose in Collaboration. Hope ya'll like it!
Sorry to have been away for so long. Without going into too much detail, things have been ... not great. Hard drive crashes, health crises, and an uptick in work hours have made progress much slower than I'd like. But as long as I can write, rest assured that I will be. I will not commit to when the next update will come through, but it will come.
These will be a bit of a different exercise; instead of being Aegon's perspective, each part of the interludes will come from perspectives outside of him. I want to take a leaf out of Martin's book, and use this to try and flesh out the surroundings rather than just holding to a core cast.
content warning: the second POV includes mature material. "gruesome disturbing images" is the simplest tag, but a body is seen in graphic, aberrant display, and is discussed at length. the third POV features aberrant behaviour and unsettling thought processes.
ARYA
It had been a few weeks now that Arya found time to be instructed in 'dancing', as she described it to her sister and the unbearable septa. Both of them seemed to swallow the line with a smile, but whenever she said it in his presence, her father gave her the smallest of eyebrow quirks, and if the princess was working with him, she gave Arya a smile that looked just like Sansa's but felt like she knew exactly what the Master of Laws' younger daughter was up to. But if the princess did know, she gave no indication of it nor that she would tell Sansa, and that was enough for Arya.
In truth, her 'dancing' was instruction in combat from the many women within the Red Keep who could fight, and were willing to teach her things. Arya had already begun to learn things from the Sand Snakes, and hoped to ask Elia if she might talk to her father about some lessons. But most of her instruction so far was from the other two women who came to King's Landing with the Martells – the Basilisk, and the Sea Snake.
Asha Greyjoy was a tough teacher, but she was fast becoming Arya's favourite. It felt like they understood each other on a level the other women, excluding maybe Beshka, just didn't get. All the Sand Snakes were striking and charming in their own ways, and Arya knew from whispered stories and unsubtle insults from Sansa that the Red Viper's daughters were just as dangerous with their looks as they were with weapons or poisons. But her, Asha and Beshka weren't like that. Of the three of them, Asha was probably the prettiest, but with herself and the Basilisk standing in contrast to the Sea Snake, that wasn't saying much. Asha and Beshka didn't wear dresses, didn't pretend to be ladies or flirt with men, and they definitely didn't do needlework. They were a good bit older than Arya, but they never talked down to her or tried to treat her like a lady either.
Her father had given her a funny look when she said she hoped she could be like Asha someday, but she knew if her mother heard that she would find herself locked in a tower with Septa Mordane until winter passed.
It was with some annoyance then, that Arya heard her teachers being engaged with someone else when she approached the out-of-the-way area of the keep they used to train in. Rounding the corner, she found Beshka sparring with a silver-haired man in nice armor and a gold cloak, while Asha watched them go, circling like a shark. Then the man grabbed Beshka's weapon and spun around, pulling it from her grasp, and Arya realised that it wasn't a goldcloak but the goldcloak, Prince Aegon himself. She meant to quietly leave, and had started to turn, but the prince noticed her at the same time as Asha did.
"Good day, Lady Arya," the prince said. "Forgive my intrusion on your dance lessons. I, too, had hoped to learn from your teachers. If that is alright with you?"
Arya spared a glance at Greyjoy, who looked a little tense at the prince's words about what they were teaching her, but the older girl gave her a nod.
"I guess, Your Grace," Arya managed. She fumed at herself as her mother's words about courtesy and proper address had apparently fled out a hidden door in her mind and were nowhere to be found.
"I can find another time to work with them, if you'd like that instead," the prince continued. He seemed to be totally unaware of Arya's inner cursing of herself and her mother and her septa and her sister and her words, in no particular order.
"You've already come, Your Grace," Asha spoke, as diplomatic as ever. "We can help you, then keep Lady Wolf a bit longer. I don't think she minds."
Arya just nodded, glad that Greyjoy had her words and wits about her.
Prince Aegon seemed to accept that. "Most well," he smiled. He chatted with Greyjoy a bit more, but Arya didn't hear most of it, as she found her feet moving her over to the Basilisk.
"Am I going to get you in trouble?" Arya asked in a whisper.
Beshka shook her head. "The king likes me more than most of the people in the Red Keep, and Prince Oberyn treats Asha like another daughter. Between the two of them, we're alright. You're alright, too," she added, and Arya silently cursed herself again because she obviously hadn't kept that worry off her face if Beshka spoke to it. "The prince isn't going to tell on you to your sister or your septa."
"She'd like him to," Arya grumbled.
"Trust me," Beshka said with an odd look on her face, "talking about you isn't what your sister wants to do with him."
Arya shrugged, thinking that was probably true enough. She'd want to talk about how their wedding will have ponies, and flowers, and ponies …
It looked like Asha and the prince had planned things out, because the prince walked away a bit to remove his cloak and some of his armor, while Asha came over and leaned in, whispering things in Beshka's ear. The Basilisk nodded, and rose from her seat next to Arya.
"I've been around you for some time, Your Grace," Beshka said. "Even if we haven't sparred much at all, you know me, how I work. Mayhap you should test yourself against Lady Asha first?"
Aegon nodded. "I can see the logic in that. Thank you," he smiled at Beshka. He might not have noticed the mutual smirk that flashed across Beshka and Asha's faces before disappearing again, but Arya did. "If that's alright with you, my lady?" He asked Greyjoy, who nodded with a polite smile that looked wildly out of place on her in Arya's opinion.
Asha Greyjoy went to the small collection of arms that she and Beshka usually brought to train here, and took up an interesting custom spear that Arya saw her use often. Slightly taller than Asha herself, the top of it had a normal speartip, but also had a wicked-looking curved hook on one side, like a fishing gaff. Greyjoy quickly tapped either side of her belt, confirming for herself without needing to look that her throwing axe and dirk rested on either side of her belt, then brought her spear up to guard.
Prince Aegon watched her movement, and circled slowly in a mirror to Asha's pace. He made the first move, probing her defences slightly. She batted his attempts away easily, then after a brief pause tested his in turn. This went back and forth for a bit, each trying to better gauge the other. Then Aegon engaged fully, and the two of them made stabs and blocks, lunges and backpedals, moving to and fro looking rather evenly matched. After a few rounds of this, Asha moved in, speartip coming in high, then the blunt bottom spinning around to be caught by Aegon's lower guard. Arya watched as the prince parried each of Greyjoy's strikes, one after another. He smiled, clearly enjoying the spar.
Arya smiled, too. But for a different reason: she'd been on the receiving end of this before, and she knew what was coming next.
Greyjoy made another stab at Aegon's guard, and as he devoted his focus to that block, she then whirled the hook on her spear around to his ankle. It caught, and she pulled him off his feet. His sword clattered away as he landed hard, and the tip spun back around to point at his chin.
"Concede." It wasn't a question in her voice.
The prince nodded, then rose with a small glare, brushing himself off. "That was cheating."
Asha was completely guilt-free. "Yep."
"You know that in an honest match, I'd win."
"Well, now, that's some piss-poor incentive for me, isn't it?" Asha japed, before she offered an observation. "You look like a Targaryen but you fight like a Stormlander."
"I take that as a compliment."
"Your Grace may take it however you wish," Asha said, the smirk of her mouth tearing all civility from her words and tone. "You trained with Connington, right? And with Strickland, and now some with Selmy."
Aegon nodded. "And Lord Stannis. They're all good, honourable men. Is there something wrong with that?"
"No. So long as you mean to be going into a match with one hand behind your back. Would you train only one arm, run with one leg?" She twirled her spear before driving the butt of it into the ground beside her. "This is what you would do if you fight only in one way."
"And this is why I wanted to train with you and Beshka," Aegon picked up his sword. "Neither of you fights like a knight, and I should know what that's like."
"You should train with your cousins, too, if you mean to challenge yourself," Beshka said as Asha tossed the spear to her. She caught it one-handed, then brought it to rest on her shoulders as she circled the prince, slow and seeming bored, like a cat who had been roused from hours of lazing in the sun. Arya knew better, though; like a cat, Beshka could pounce with hardly a moment's warning and leave you hurting for your mistaken assumptions.
Apparently the prince knew better, too, for her lightning-fast attack was caught partway, and parried away. "I mean to, eventually. Once things are less tense betwixt them and the Watch."
"Am I practice, then?" Asha prodded his defenses with her axe. "You think they taught me everything I know?"
Aegon smiled, his a warm expression that made Arya want to like him. "I know better than to think they taught you everything you know." He grabbed Beshka's spear and redirected her assault to block Asha's incoming blade. "Or to think that they taught you everything they know."
"Good," Asha smiled back, hers a wicked thing that promised barbs beneath it. "You know not to underestimate women, you likely won't catch a knife in the ribs from a whore or her keeper." Her dirk came up quickly, but Aegon broke the lock of their weapons and backpedalled away, easily avoiding the blade.
"Why do you care about honour?" Beshka asked, blunt as ever.
"Because my father did."
The Ironborn woman nodded, pursuing. "Your father had honor. Your father was noble, your father was decent, your father was valiant." She entered Aegon's guard, and instead of swinging a blade, she swung her elbow upward into his jaw. It slammed shut with an audible click, and the prince was once again laid out on the ground.
A shadow passed over Asha's face. "Your father is dead. And if you go into fights expecting honour and honesty, you'll be dead, too."
Then she offered a hand. After rubbing his jaw, Aegon took it, and let her help him off the ground. Once he was up, she immediately tried to sweep his legs out from under him, but he dodged the attempt.
Asha nodded to him again. "So you can learn. This might not be hopeless after all, Greenlander." Her tone was as cutting as ever, but there was a look of respect in her eye that hadn't been there before. "Again?"
Prince Aegon nodded as well. "Only a few more, though. I don't want to keep you from your other student."
But the prince didn't get his few more, for he was only partway into a second bout, with Beshka this time, when another goldcloak appeared in a rush, breathing hard. He didn't look any older than Asha, but his hair was shot through with grey, and his long, mule-like face would have forever silenced her sister's horseface taunts to Arya if she could see the watchman now. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, but we need you in Fleabottom. There's been another," he said with a significant look that the prince seemed to understand, but Arya did not.
Aegon sighed, and began to retrieve his cloak and discarded pieces of armor. "Another time, my friends?" Beshka gave him a warm nod, though Asha was less committal, giving only a wave as the prince was already departing. The prince stopped partway, though, and turned to face Arya. "I'll remember your generosity with your time, Lady Arya. Perhaps some time you and I might dance."
Arya somewhat mechanically nodded, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that apparently she didn't mind it when the prince called her a lady. In his voice, it didn't sound mocking or ill-fitted to her, like trying to wear her mother's dresses. By the time her wits were collected again, he had left.
"You ready to work now, Stark girl?" Greyjoy said, in a taunting voice that reminded Arya so much of Theon it nearly loosed her wits once more. Beside her, the Basilisk pulled deeply from a skein of water.
Arya felt brave, though, and asked a question. "I've seen you both fight the Prince, and you've fought me, but I never see you fight with each other. Is it different when you do it with each other instead of someone else?"
Beshka must have swallowed too much water as she drank, because she began to cough furiously as a weird smile came across Asha's face. "It can be," the Ironborn woman answered her. "Did you want to see?"
"Asha," Beshka forced out over her coughs.
"Just a quick match," Greyjoy set down her spear near Beshka and began to pull out her dirk and axe. "She wants to see if there's a difference when it's us, she should be able to learn."
Grumbling something in a language that Arya didn't recognise (but she could guess from the tone that it was deeply profane) Beshka snatched the spear from the stone and leveraged herself up. Greyjoy paced around, keeping the spear's length between them, and it was obviously frustrating Beshka. "Can we do this quickly so we can get back to teaching her?"
"We are teaching her," Asha said with that weird smile again. "Don't you think she can learn something from watching us?"
Arya couldn't guess what in that sentence might set the Basilisk off, but something did. With a growl, she moved in fast, her spear jabbing into the other woman's guard almost as fast as it was withdrawn to test another possible weak point. The Sea Snake quickly hooked the beard of her axe around the spear tip and forced it away to start poking at Beshka's defences in turn. The once-gladiator was an expert with the back-end of her spear, apparently, for even with the tip in Asha's control, Beshka could still ably block the probing stabs of the dirk. A quick kick to the axe sent it flying out of Asha's hand, and Beshka retreated back to a spear's-length away.
Sparing only a brief glance to it, Greyjoy caught the axe on its way down, and Arya was reminded of Theon telling the Stark children about the finger dance his siblings used to play. With a little flip, the handle was back in her hand, and she paced around Beshka again. "Come on, if you want this to be quick, can't it at least be fun?" Another unknowable grumble from the Basilisk, then she closed the distance once more.
The energy was different between them than it was when each of them had sparred with the Prince, but Arya couldn't put a name to it. She just watched their footwork, how fast their blades moved and how well they had seemed to learn each other's manner of combat. Some of their attempts were things she meant to remember, so as to try them herself or to know that this teacher liked that probe or parry, but there were other things that she knew she didn't have the skill or speed to pull off.
Like the finishing move that Asha just made. Her focus had been on their footwork in that moment, so she didn't see what the winning blow was. She just saw Beshka's spear spin away and clatter to the ground as Asha pinned the other woman to the wall. Her axe's beard had hooked around the back of Beshka's neck, and her dirk rested close to Beshka's throat. Asha said again, "Concede."
"Never," Beshka answered, her eyes never leaving Asha's. Both of them were breathing very hard. "You like the challenge too much."
"Think that's all?" Asha's tension seemed to slack, and with her wrist losing some tension her dirk slipped a bit and parted two buttons from Beshka's tunic.
"Asha, jēda se ālion," Beshka replied. Arya had heard enough Valyrian around the Red Keep to recognise the language, but not what was said. She supposed it meant something to do with her, though, because Asha glanced back to her, then moved away from Beshka with a sigh much like she heard from Septa Mordane when she handed over her needlework.
"Come on, then, wolf girl," the Sea Snake teased as she circled around Arya, "let's see if you can do better than the princeling."
Smiling at the mildness of the taunt, Arya drew her bravo's blade, and set out to do just that.
DAVOS
Fleabottom could be relied on for a lot, Davos Seaworth often said. It could be relied on for its packed streets, its mess of criminal behaviour, and its fucking stench. And it could be relied on to not tell its secrets easily. This last quality was what brought Davos the strongest headache this day, though the vision in front of him was definitely a close second.
A woman who may have once been pretty, once been gifted with flowing hair and lively eyes, possessed none of those things now. Someone or something had taken them, and very gruesomely displayed her remains mounted upon the rack of a stag, her body pierced throughout and … arranged. Whatever her hair once was, it was soaked through with blood; her eyes had been gouged out from behind, two prongs having been driven through the back of her skull; and while Davos hoped that had been the killing blow and that it had come early, the sheer amount of blood and the agony permanently etched into her face made him doubt the gods had been so merciful. If they'd been watching at all.
And somehow, this horrifying display had been made and placed in this part of Fleabottom without anyone being any the wiser before a pair of goldcloaks had stumbled across it. Davos found the chances of that unlikely, at best, as he looked away from it. Not for the first time nor the last, he regretted agreeing to help the prince with this work.
A small group of fresh goldcloaks was holding back any smallfolk of the city for a block in each direction, and the original pair was making their way around the homes there, asking questions of those who answered and making note of the places where someone did not. Idly, Davos was impressed at how well many of the goldcloaks were taking to working this way, instead of cracking skulls and soliciting bribes, or ignoring the incident completely beyond dumping the horror into the bay. Then again many of the newer goldcloaks were, for lack of a better word, imports; men recommended from House Stark, from House Royce, and a few from Stannis' ranks. Men who wouldn't be likely to think of doing things the old way, or see appeal in it.
One such recommended young man, long in the face and greyer in hair than Davos was, was making his way through the barrier ranks, having returned with the Lord Commander in tow. They had been talking together about something which made the Prince smile, though his smile fast fled from him once he caught sight of their newest problem.
"Ser Davos," Aegon sighed in greeting, "it's as if you design to make as other nobles claim to do, and emulate the nature of your sigil."
Davos frowned. "I'm afraid I don't follow, Your Grace."
A humourless smile now crossed the young prince's face. "Like an onion, you mean to see me weep at the sight of you." The smile left, as did any lingering sense of mirth. "And I was having such a nice day, too."
Davos knew the prince wasn't looking for a response to either comment, so he turned to his companion. "Good work as ever, Tollett. Now I would have you aid the two watchmen asking questions."
The goldcloak nodded. "Worry not, my lord. I'll help them look so much better to talk to, for the possibility they might have to talk with me instead. Your Grace," he finished with a bow to the prince, and departed.
"Any notions occur to you yet?" Davos asked.
Aegon began to circle the grim display, the way Davos supposed a dragon might loop around in the air searching for signs of prey. Nearby, a goat brayed in its enclosure, insistent voice carrying over the sounds of the crowd and the guards farther down the road.
"A few," he answered, after a moment. "She wasn't killed here. All this," the prince broadly gestured at it, "was done somewhere else, then brought here."
Davos made himself look at it again. "I'm sure you don't think that because the people in this part of the city would have seen or heard something, and as a part of their civic duty, come and said something to us." The sarcasm dripped from his voice like water from a raised anchor, enough apparently to make a small smile return to the prince's face. "So what makes you think that?"
"Not enough blood."
The old sailor felt his eyebrow jump. "Begging forgiveness, Your Grace, but to my eye there's blood aplenty here."
Aegon bobbed his head in an answer that was neither yes or no. "On her, yes. But something like this? Between the animal's head, how she was placed on it, and her being alive at the time? There'd be blood all down the street, on the walls," he indicated down towards the main road and the buildings beside them, "not solely on her."
Davos swallowed roughly. "I'll thank you not to tell me what makes you sure she was alive. I doubt I need that to be something I know."
"Worry not, my friend," Aegon sighed, "it's more than enough for me that I know." He crouched, looking closer at something. "This needed privacy for the doing of it."
Without thinking, a scoff slipped his lips. Aegon glanced up to him, and Davos dipped his head in self-rebuke. "Apologies, Your Grace. It's just that, in this city, a woman's screaming never seems to necessitate privacy. No one comes."
The prince chewed his lip. "No apology needed. Maybe we can change that someday, but for today you're right. About this and any other city I've ever been in. But," he rose from his crouch, "while screams might not draw attention, this much blood might. This needed a solid home for its creation. No blood creeping out into the street or leaking into the neighbour's place."
The goat brayed again. A thought struck Davos. "Maybe not. If I were the sort to do this – "
"You'd tie yourself to an anchor and jump in the Blackwater," Aegon remarked with a knowing smile.
Despite himself, he did chuckle a bit. "Aye, I'd rather not be alive if this is what I felt driven to do. But if I were that sort, and liked what I was doing, it would serve me well to be in plain sight, where no one would think twice about shrieking cries, tides of blood, me looking a bloody mess or moving about with dead things."
The prince's smile faded once more as he looked to the old smuggler. "…that's clever, Ser Davos. How far to Butchers' Row?"
Davos didn't even have to look. He pointed over the prince's shoulder, "Two minutes to the southeast by horse, eight by foot on a good day."
Aegon nodded. "Send some men. Maybe Tollett and the other two again; they look to have a good grasp of asking questions and not getting stabbed for the trouble."
Davos dipped his head in acknowledgement this time, but took one look at Aegon's face and knew he shouldn't leave yet. "Something troubles you, my prince?"
The Lord Commander toed at a loose stone. The goat brayed once more, and in the next moment a sharp kick sent that loose stone flying for the animal's head. It missed, but only because the thing apparently grew a brain, scarpered, and fell silent. Aegon sighed, long and deep. A tired sound that would've seemed more natural from a man Davos' age.
"You know what else makes that idea clever?" Davos knew the question was one Aegon had an answer to, so he waited. "Butchers' carts pass through this way all the time. It's the safest route to the highborn on the other side of the hill. No one would think twice about a cart passing through here at an odd hour or taking a pause."
The old man squeezed his eyes shut as the weight of that thought settled on him. "And the butchers travel all over the city. The other dead girls could have been dropped that way and we'd never be the wiser. And of course his blades are covered in blood, so why would we suspect a meat carver. How would we even go about finding the one in question."
The prince's mouth set in a grim line. "It's very clever. A man that clever won't be easy to find. And he won't be inclined to stop."
"I could be wrong, Your Grace," Davos tried.
"Aye, you could be," Aegon rubbed at a red welt on his forehead, poorly hidden by silver hair. "But I'm rarely that fucking lucky."
As they walked back towards the larger group of goldcloaks, Davos had a question of his own. "We've been focusing on the girl, but do you think the stag means anything?"
"What, like a message to House Targaryen?"
"I was thinking more of a taunt, but sure, 'message' works, too." The old man rubbed at his balding head. "That seem possible to you?"
The prince tried for a light and japing tone. "I've just seen a girl mounted on a stag, my grasp of what's possible may need some work." From the Kingslayer, that might have worked, and Davos might have walked away or felt put off. From Aegon, though, it felt like it was hiding something he didn't have words for yet. So Davos walked with him a few more paces in silence. "I suppose it could be," he said eventually, "but I don't know who it would be. Or why."
Davos offered, "The Royal Family, successful as you've been, doesn't lack for enemies. The Usurper had friends, even at the end. Suppose someone wanted to make you look bad, wanted to draw you out, but didn't have the strength to challenge you direct, like a man?"
"If he doesn't have the strength, be it in money or men or himself alone, that's not much incentive for him to challenge me direct, is it?" Aegon said, with a tone heavier than Davos had expected. "I'm afraid I don't have any good ideas here, my friend."
Were they still in the alley, Davos would have placed a hand on the young man's shoulder. In public, though, the best he could do was try to do that with words. "D'you have any bad ideas, then?"
The prince nodded slowly, glancing southward towards the Red Keep. "One or two of them." Turning back to Davos, he continued, "Let's see what Tollett and the others get from the people here and on the row. Meanwhile," he gestured briefly behind them, "have some men take … that … back to the barracks. We shouldn't leave her for the flies and the vermin."
Davos Seaworth didn't have the heart to tell Prince Aegon precisely what vermin would be likely to set upon a body like that, so instead he gave a quick, "By your command," and left the Lord Commander's presence. As he moved towards the cluster of goldcloaks to assign men to the work, a chamberpot was emptied from an upper window, down to perhaps a few feet away from him. This part of town will never change, Davos thought to himself. He wasn't sure if he took comfort or despair in the thought.
From a rooftop, he watched the chamberpot contents slosh to the ground. Some of it might have ruined the old man's boots, but nothing else had reached him. More the pity, he thought. He also watched the dragon prince go back into the alley again to examine his good work. The building he lay atop of had perhaps the only perfect view directly into the alleyway. He hoped his message had been received. Beneath him, he heard frantic pacing, whispered mutterings, the occasional gasped sob. Not as close to the pain as he liked to be, but even this was enough. For now.
His eyes glittered, unseen in the midday light, as he watched a group of goldcloaks take a canvas from one of their carts before making their way into the alley. Before they covered his work, he took one last good look at it. Then he wiped at the drool on his chin, and began to carefully climb down off the roof. It wouldn't do to fall and have all this work be for nothing, after all.
It had been a long time since you had seen Mellario in the Water Garden. Her guards always escorted her, placing her into a veil of secrecy, a wall in which only she demanded and sought were allowed to enter, or her retainers whispered, distracting, and confusing, so she would remain with the upper hand. And even Trystane and Quentyn, both joyful in her return to Westeros, could not stand close to her to see the bitterness she had been hiding since she had arrived.
The bitterness that you shared as well. For far too long you had dared to hope to never see her again, to near reopen the old wounds that had plagued your marriage for far too long. The pain and the anger were long gone.
Only the regret was all that was left.
It made you think of what could have been, the moments when you were both alone, contemptuous and loathing, where you could have changed things for the better. Where you could have tried to desperately… understand one another, like you had when you first met, all those years ago.
The wheels rocked and bumped around as you were rolled to her by your guards. You had nothing to fear, but you were tired of this… charade she had been playing. For months, she tried to remain aloof, unreconciled but active in the family. She met with her sons, she complimented them, shared stories of happier times or of Norvos, where her family hailed from, wrote to your daughter… letters you never allowed to reach her. You would not have her manipulate Arianne with her emotions, not when she had more important responsibilities. But one thing you did not miss was when Mellario showed contempt to you whenever you were around her, and it always ended the same way, quietly taking leave back to her room, or with her servants on a walk to Plankytown or the River.
Not this time. "Mellario." You said her name softly, reaching deep beyond your bitterness for the love you once shared.
"Prince Doran." She was courteous, keeping up the charade for her retainers. "Forgive me, I shall leave you be."
"No Mel." You said her favorite name when you both wished to remember the happy times, when you had first danced with her in Norvos, all those years ago. "I wish to speak to you. Alone."
Her surprise was hidden by an indifferent stare, and a smile rose on her face. Practiced and perfected with every wrinkle on her face. "Of course, my husband."
Her retainers curtsied and your guards escorted them away, leaving you alone with the woman you once loved.
She rose to her feet and for a moment she held firm, raising her hand as if to strike you. But instead, she fell back to sitting looking away from you with a frown on her face. "How dare you-"
"How dare I?" You questioned. "I did everything for our children when you left. Do you know how many times they asked when you would come home? How many times I had to lie to them, as they cried themselves to sleep because of your selfishness."
"You should have let them stay home, be with their family." She shot back.
"And risk losing the trust of my bannermen? Whom I have a responsibility to-"
It was the same argument all over again. Shouting, arguing… not being able to understand what needed to be done.
But then you stopped, your hand reaching out towards hers, and she pulled away. "All those years wasted, fighting each other. Not understanding each other like when we were young." A sad thing. "I wish we could have a precious few of them back."
You were trying to pick and probe… find out if she was here for her family… or something else. Play on her emotions, and gain some closure at the same time.
Arianne would be protected. Even if she did not want to be.
And you would be the one who would hold all the guilt for running your family.
Mellario looked at you, guilt in her eyes. "I know. But we are so old now." She looked to your crippled and gout-ridden legs. "I am not the woman I once was."
"And I am not the man you fell in love with, dashing, strong, and adventurous." You found yourself smiling. "Just a crippled old man who can hardly walk, who is far too old… but carried on anyway, because justice has been done."
You nodded to your men, and you knew what was going to happen before you asked. "But I am not feeble." You hated yourself… hated yourself for what you were going to say. "I want to know why you are here Mellario."
She was frozen, first in shock than in anger. Her slap barely flicker in your mind, even as her hand sailed across your face. "How dare you?!" She wept. "Trying to manipulate me."
"All I want is the truth." You felt the tears on your face. "You can hate me for the rest of our days, but at least let us be honest with each other one last time."
She froze. "I came back to support our daughter, to make sure she does not make your mistakes. To see if you had changed from the man who sold our son for your debts… but now it seems even time cannot change a viper. Only agony."
She stood and left you alone, walking away as you stared at your reflection in the water.
She was lying. Just like always. Crying tears of manipulation and falsehood.
You wanted to believe her. But your heart said differently.
Someone had sent her… for her sake, or for Norvos… the bearded priests… the Magistrate of the city… you did not know.
But she wanted Arianne's ear for her own sake, not for her daughter… and you would not let her have it. Not while you still drew breath.
Not without making sure that you profited… of course.
soooo four months was a much longer hiatus than I had anticipated.
Again without going into oversharing: physical therapy and recovery was, and is, a bitch. Most of the last four months I've had trouble enough thinking about and doing what I needed to do to keep being alive and functioning, never mind write. I'm not fully recovered, but I can write again. For me, that's almost equally important.
Hopefully some if not most of you have stuck around. Regardless, take care of yourselves in this, our tottering state. Especially if you aren't in a country with real healthcare.
WARREK
The Black Cells were one part of Warrek's duties as the King's Justice that he genuinely despised. There were few inside these days, as the maesters had tended to those victims of the Screams who could be saved, and arrangements had been made for the rest. Viserys did not seem overly inclined to have people put into the infamous prison, and it was a practice that the City Watch had been adapting to, slowly but surely. It meant, though, that there were few buffers or other prisoners to tend to before he would have to go to mind the highborn prisoners.
Without contest, the worst to deal with were Rosby and Redwyne. Warrek found the Crownlander to be the most irritating; Rosby without fail made a grand display of snivelling penitence, hacking that wet and disgusting cough, begging for an audience with the King or the Prince or the Hand or the Master of Laws … though Warrek did take note that the Princess had begun to join the lineup after the first week of the trials. Redwyne, however, was simply unpleasant.
Warrek was born a common man, lived as a hedge knight, fought in armies and been a captive of others – he knew that the highborn pretensions of 'quiet dignity and grace' in captivity were horseshit, and that the experience changed everyone under the eyes of the gods, especially captivity such as the Black Cells. If any noble lord ever wanted to talk his ear off about their natural poise and gods-given station, he would make sure no ladies were present and then tell such a lord in great detail the behaviours of, and the measures he had needed to introduce because of, Paxter Fucking Redwyne. Slots in the walls for passing things to the inmate that could only open one side at a time, rules for restraining a prisoner while searching his cell, markings of how close to the outer wall to walk lest an inmate try to piss on you … Paxter Fucking Redwyne, Warrek snarled inside his head.
He was half-seriously contemplating a request to the king that the man's grave be so inscribed (I know he wants to keep the Reachers mollified … but he likes me more than them, and he'd probably find the idea hilarious, he thought) when his routine was interrupted by a single goldcloak appearing down the hall, paying the King's Justice no mind while moving towards the block where the last of the highborn prisoners was.
"Who enters?" Warrek called out. Immediately, the goldcloak froze, and Warrek quickened his pace towards the man. Then the goldcloak turned towards him, and he found his pace relaxing, though he continued to walk over. "You should announce yourself rather than linger in the dark alone, Lord Commander," he chided gently.
"My apologies, Ser Warrek," Prince Aegon gave him a nod. Warrek had seen the prince infrequently since they both took on their respective positions, but he had seen many other goldcloaks and it seemed to him that the City Watch was improving under Aegon's care. They still had a ways to go, however, and Warrek thought he could see the weight of that sitting on the prince's shoulders, along with a few other considerable burdens.
"Did you escort someone in already, Your Grace?" Warrek asked. "I usually try to keep a close account of who gets brought in."
The prince shook his head and gestured to the cell block ahead. "Are there people in there?" Warrek thought he caught a scent of something flowery, almost like overripe fruits. Likely a bit of protection for the prince's nose. He'd done his best, mostly in an effort to make the place bearable for him and his men, but Warrek knew the place still smelled like two or three hells put together. "I see torchlight but hear nothing."
"Only one man is in there," Warrek answered. "He stays isolated from the others. For their sake as much as his own."
"…it's who I think it is, isn't it."
Warrek nodded.
"I want to see him."
He stood very still. "Is that a wise decision, Your Grace?"
"Almost certainly not," Aegon breathed. "But wise decisions haven't gotten me what I need, so I'm giving the unwise a shake."
"And the king approves of this?"
The prince gave him a long look. "The king has not made any disapproval known to me."
Warrek suppressed a groan at the familiar ploy. 'Explicit permission and lack of explicit forbiddance are of the same standing' was grounds he might have attempted to argue as a green squire or with a friend or a wife. He was less prepared to do so as an aging man, with Viserys. Just because the king would in all likelihood respect the audacity of whomever made the argument to him, that did not mean they would be easily forgiven.
"I can safely say I encountered no resistance if you depart now, ser," Aegon offered. This, too, was familiar to Warrek: 'Give me room to leave you out of it should there be consequences.'
Another groan came, which Warrek did not suppress. "No, better to be in the same mess as you than to be a poorly chosen Justice past whom anyone could slip." 'Better' might have been the wrong word in his opinion, but semi-informed participation at least felt less shit than playing the hapless fool and implicitly failing Viserys.
"I will accompany you," he told Aegon. "Before we go, there are rules for how we interact with any highborn held in here." At the prince's nod, he continued, "For your safety and theirs, we require that you do not touch or approach the bars of their cells. Do not pass anything to them that we have not pre-approved. If you are to pass them something, use the slot at the side of the cell – it cannot be opened at the same time from both ends. If they attempt to pass something unapproved to you, do not accept it. Can you work with these rules, Lord Commander?"
A second nod, before "I have some papers I may provide him to read. Are those included?"
"If they are bound in any way, that binding needs be removed." Aegon showed him a small stack of scrolls, some rolled, only two held closed with twine. He nodded at the offending items, which the prince removed from the scrolls.
As he walked towards the door, Aegon spoke up again. "Are you not going to inspect them, ensure there are no hidden messages, bribes or threats?"
He arched an eyebrow. "Are there hidden messages, bribes or threats, Your Grace?"
"No."
"Then I'm not worried about it." Common goldcloaks, even captains he might have given a hard time. Not the Lord Commander, though. Not this one. Placing his torch in a sconce by the door's frame, Warrek then withdrew his keys. A quick twist unlocked the door, and a tug brought them free and moved the door open.
Warrek took back his torch and nodded for Aegon to go ahead. Toeing the door closed behind them, he walked a half-pace behind Aegon's left side as they made their way to the end of the cell block.
Within the last cell, dim torchlight cast twitching shadows upon the stone slat which ran along one wall. Laying down with the crown of his balding head facing them, Warrek could see Tywin Lannister's white hair and plain yet well-made clothes. He did not seem asleep, was not laying on his side, but he gave no obvious indication he knew they were there. Warrek glanced at Prince Aegon, who plucked at a top button on his tunic. Still nothing from within the cell.
After a moment, he spoke. "That's the same execrable perfume you wore to the coronation."
Himself, Warrek didn't think it was that bad, but perhaps the Old Lion's nose was sharper, more refined than his. The prince answered, "It comes periodically with others as tokens of goodwill from House Tyrell. Ser Imry thinks it would be noticed if we refused to wear them."
"The things we endure to keep petty nobility in line." He finally sat up, then, and met Aegon's eye. "Hello, Lord Commander."
"Hello, Lord Tywin."
"I've been wondering when you would come."
Aegon gave a bemused look. "Have you?"
The old man rubbed at his neck. "Vengeance is a powerful motivator, one of the few capable of overriding fear. It is why I made certain there would be no errant Reynes plotting to stab me in my sleep. Would that I had continued that diligence into my age." Warrek blinked at the open if empty threat.
"I'm not here to torture or kill you, Lord Tywin."
"Aren't you."
The prince shook his head. "I'm here for some counsel."
It was the Old Lion's turn to blink in surprise. "You jape."
"Frequently, but not in here. Not with you."
Tywin seemed to consider the thought for a moment, before speaking again. "Interesting. What counsel would you seek?"
Aegon produced his small bundle of scrolls. "A problem within the city I am unable to solve. Someone is murdering people and then," the prince seemed to chew his tongue for a moment, searching for the right words, "performing streetside mummery with the remains. I need to find this man."
"Your Grace has a small army of goldcloaks to aid in such efforts," Tywin answered. To himself, Warrek rolled his eyes. Lannisters all seemed to be too happy to be clever and cutting with their words regardless of their circumstance.
"None of them know this city the way you do. And at any rate, this man we seek is cleverer than all of them. Cleverer than me. So I need someone better than him."
Lannister gave the prince a droll look. "If you imagine you would persuade me with appeals to my vanity, you are talking to the wrong Lannister."
"I don't imagine I would persuade you at all, Lord Tywin. You'll either help or you won't." A moment passed. "I do not idly flatter. There are perhaps half a dozen men in the world as clever as you, and none of them can help me right now."
Tywin stepped forward, almost to the grates of his cell. "And what will you do for me if I help you?"
"Not let you out."
"I would need to be a great fool to imagine that was on the table." The prisoner clasped his hands behind his back, his piercing stare feeling like it could see through to the backs of their skulls. "But you must have some variety of lemon cake in mind, if the lash isn't your preferred source for compliance. So," a hand came forward, as if to accept an offer, "enlighten me."
Within the confines of his own mind, Warrek admired the steel that the prince must surely have possessed in place of nerves and bone to stand unflinchingly in the Old Lion's gaze. "Your time here could be more befitting of a man of your station," Aegon replied after a moment. "Books could be procured. Better food, wine. More torchlight."
"Surely you don't expect to buy me so easily as that."
Aegon shrugged. "As I said, I hold no expectations. Only the potential to see your imprisonment be less unpleasant. Whether that motivates you or not isn't my problem."
Lannister slipped his hands through the bars, to better lean against the metal framing of the door. "Oh, but the audacity of this pleases me. Your family conspires with mine to place me in chains before putting on a mummers' farce of retribution and having the audacity to call it 'justice' … and yet you come seeking my counsel."
"The mind is a blade like any other; sharp or dull, well-tended or neglected. A mind needs work like a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge." The prince met the Lion's cool gaze. "You have nothing but time on your hands, my lord. How else are you to keep your edge?"
Tywin gave a small, predatory smile. "You have an odd way of not appealing to my vanity, quoting me to myself."
"If you aren't going to help, I don't need to stay. Ser Warrek." Taking his cue ably, Warrek gestured to the Prince to follow him towards the exit.
"Do you keep your blades sharp, Prince Aegon?"
Aegon was no longer looking inside the cell. "Goodbye, Lord Tywin."
They made it only a few steps before the prisoner raised his voice. "Let me have the papers, then. I'll take a look and tell you what I think." He wasn't sure if Tywin had simply tired of playing games, or if he actually wanted something to do, but Warrek stepped back over with Aegon regardless.
Warrek watched, eyes wary, as the prince tightened the scrolls together and passed them through to the Old Lion. The torchlight gave his eyes a reddish tint for a moment as he looked through the papers. "There's rather more detail here than I anticipated, Lord Commander. Permit me an hour."
The King's Justice felt the eyes of the prince upon him as he took a step towards the cell. "There will be no mummery or tricks with this, my lord. Just as the prince might make your cell more comfortable, I can make it unbearable. You will not give me any reason to do so?"
Tywin gave him a thin-lipped smile. "Charming as ever, Ser Warrek. Very well, I'll supply you no reason to hand out petty torments." Warrek held his ground, but he found it was difficult to do, even with the bars and relative power protecting him from the Lion. "An hour, Your Grace?"
Warrek saw the prince nod, then step over to tap him on the arm, a gesture to join him in leaving. As they left the cell block, it looked to him like the Lion was as good as his word, looking over the papers and not obviously devising mischief. Then he sealed the door behind them and he led Aegon further down the hall.
It was then that Warrek let out a closely-held breath. "I make a point of searching prisoners' cells regularly, Your Grace, ensuring they don't fashion themselves a little dirk or find a loose stone to try and lash out with. I do my best to make it clear, especially to the highborn, that they hold no power here and that I more or less control their fates. Yet," he added, "every time I speak to that man, I am left feeling like I am the one unarmed and in a cage."
Aegon nodded sharply. "You're not alone in those feelings. If he weren't the king's prisoner, or such an absolute shit, I'd want to learn how he does that." The prince turned to face him as they walked. "Would you do me the honour of a bout while we pass the time, Ser Warrek?"
Reluctantly, Warrek agreed. "It's like to be a short one, though, Your Grace," was as close to pushing back to the request as he came. He was improving, slowly, but he was not yet the equal of most goldcloaks, never mind the Lord Commander himself. Or, he thought ruefully, even the moiety of my old self.
"Lucky for you, I'm not looking for long," Aegon replied. "I'm looking to shake off that feeling before I go in again."
In that context, at least, Warrek felt less conflicted about going out to make a fool of himself.
JON
Like any respectable castle, the Red Keep had a master-of-arms who would oversee the armory and training with weapons inside his walls. Unlike most others, the Red Keep also housed dozens of veterans from as many as three wars, and even a few who had fought the Ninepenny Kings. With that in mind, it was just as likely to see veterans overseeing weapons training and sparring as it was to see the aging Ser Bonifer Hasty doing the job. With men from newly-recruited goldcloaks all the way up to the Small Council working in the courtyards and doing their best to stay sharp, it wasn't hard to find a teacher or a sparring partner if one so desired.
It first struck Jon Snow as odd, then, that he would see Prince Aegon sparring with the King's Justice, Ser Warrek of the Hills. Watching from a window above the courtyard, their bout was almost painful for a trained fighter to watch. The maimed hedge knight simply wasn't close to the kind of challenge that the prince was known to be seeking out, like with Arya's instructors or inclined members of the Kingsguard. His strikes were obvious and awkward, the loss of his sword hand having a clear impact even now. Frustration was easy to see on Ser Warrek, even for the laziest of observers.
A moment of attention, though, told Jon much more than the first impression would have supplied. He watched as Prince Aegon made thrusts and swings of his own, almost as obvious and awkward as his opponent's, and Jon could see that they were being made with his off hand. Was it a favour to the older knight, a kindness on the part of the prince? Warrek doesn't seem the type to appreciate that, Jon thought, he'd be more like to feel patronised and resent it. Indeed, it looked as though the prince was as frustrated as Warrek was. Watching longer, Jon could see that their frustrations were directed inward, not at each other, and each would offer the other counsel at infrequent moments.
Jon was unsure of how to feel about Prince Aegon. He felt unsure of a great deal these days. In his defence, Jon thought, uncertainty was only natural after having his entire world upended. Over the course of one evening, he had learned truths beyond his wildest imagination: learning that his father and half-siblings were in truth his uncle and cousins; that his true half-siblings were a long-lost prince and a long-dead princess; his other cousins were the princess called the Dame and the bloody king himself; the architect of both families' woes were his mother's intended and the uncle of little Jacen and Joy … it would have been a great deal to take in over the course of a year.
For most, anyhow, Jon mused. Prince Aegon had taken to the changes in his world and his history like Robb had taken to horses: with a quickness and an enthusiasm that seemed to worry his elders. Like his brother … cousin? … brother, Jon settled on firmly, Aegon was eager to go faster and farther than those same elders were comfortable with. He had already entreated Lord Eddard to include Jon in their meetings (infrequent as they were, with both the Prince and the Master of Laws being consumed by other work of late) and invited Jon to join him on hunts in the Kingswood or patrols of the city.
As conflicted as he felt about everything else, Jon had come to feel even more grateful to Lord Eddard than before, both for his past (understanding better now what had been done, had been risked, to protect him and keep a promise to his mother) and for his present. His lord father … his uncle … Lord Eddard had expressed no desire that Jon change how he addressed him, nor had he commanded Jon to accept the prince's invitations or indeed do anything that Jon did not wish to do. The prince had not forced the issue, either, merely continued to extend the offers as before.
Below, he saw Aegon twirl his blade in an attempted flourish in his off hand, then drop the blade with a clatter as his hand rebelled at the unfamiliar effort. The prince glared at the sword for a moment, before saying something Jon couldn't hear. Then he was laughing and clapping a hand to Warrek's shoulder, who himself was smiling through an easy laugh. Prince Aegon (your half-brother, Jon tried to square the two terms inside his head) had an awkward presence, but somehow got people to like him with an ease that Jon envied. Perhaps his sharp wit and his willingness to point it at himself helped in that regard. That wouldn't help Jon; he had a bastard's wit, kept mostly inside his head and always close to himself, revealed carefully and only to those he felt safest with.
Jon hadn't felt safe since his party had crossed the Neck months ago. Truthfully, perhaps not even since leaving the walls of Winterfell.
Perhaps that was why he still felt uncomfortable about taking the prince's invitations. Or perhaps the stories of bastards long whispered to him quietly and not so quietly, could also have been whispered to the prince and Jon was possessed of fears that the young dragon viewed him as a threat. Or, Jon thought, mayhap it had to do with the sense he tried to ignore, of being on a boat whose anchor was cut and the rudder was lost -- untethered and directionless.
"Hello, Jon."
He blinked, silently cursing his self-pitying. Stuck inside his head, he had not seen the two men leave the courtyard or approach the stairs that led to his window overlook. Yet here they stood, Ser Warrek as grim and stoic as ever, and Aegon looking princely and glorious, and directly at him.
Jon bowed deep enough to hide his face and emotions from the men. "Your Grace," he answered.
"Ser Warrek, don't feel obliged to tarry on my part," the prince said without looking away. "I know my way back."
"Yes, Your Grace," Warrek replied with a bow of his own, and left their company.
Aegon's gaze didn't leave Jon as the knight walked back down the stairs with steady clank-clanks of his armored boots until his steps no longer echoed in the stairwell and Jon presumed he had gone back to the Black Cells. Then Aegon said, "You don't have to call me 'Your Grace' all the time, Jon. Even 'Prince Aegon' is fine with me."
Jon swallowed. "Is that safe to do around…?"
"What, Ser Warrek?" Aegon scoffed lightly. "He knows I'm not one to trouble with unnecessary formalities. Most anyone in the Red Keep who has an office or title knows that about me."
"It's not that, Your Grace. It's, erm, the other thing," Jon ended in a mumble.
The prince shook his head. "Ser Warrek doesn't know anything about that. But it would be safe to speak candidly in his presence; he has given up more than a hand in my family's service. His discretion is there, and his loyalty, should you ask for it."
"Can I ask why you waited until he was gone, then, Prince Aegon?"
His half-brother offered a small smile. "I don't want to push you into anything, Jon. I wasn't going to take the first step if you aren't comfortable walking with me yet."
"But it is what you want," Jon said, half-observing, half-enquiring. "It isn't something you feel obligated to do, or ordered into it?"
Aegon nodded. "I have no orders nor obligations … though given who I take orders from, I can see why you'd imagine that."
In his heart, Jon did not really think that Lord Stark would order the prince to talk to him. But he also did not think that his father … Lord Stark, he tried to correct his mind, would spend half his life keeping secrets of the magnitude he did, or that he would raise banners against the king that he used to talk about like a brother. Perhaps Jon did not possess the skill of predicting what men might do, or perhaps he did not really know Lord Stark at all. Neither seemed good to him.
The prince continued, unaware of Jon's darkening thoughts. "If none of the others have reached out, you shouldn't feel offended. The rest of my family is more cautious than me -- not because you're a bastard," he added hastily, "that's immaterial. They're slow to let anyone in, at first." He shrugged. "I don't fault them, but I can't join them in that."
He sounded so certain, so confident in that, and in truth Jon envied that surety above anything else about the prince. Trying to lend himself some of that confidence, Jon asked, "May I ask another question, Prince Aegon?"
"Of course."
Jon studied him. "Why is it that you don't join in their caution? When I was a boy, stories of the Blackfyres were told to us almost as often as tales of snarks and grumkins." Jon was well familiar with others being slow to trust; distant as they grew, he could still remember the days when Lady Catelyn had looked at him with suspicion and barely-masked contempt. As children he and Robb could recite the tales of Daemon Blackfyre before they could remember the same for Mad Axe.
Aegon blinked. "I'm sorry, what and whats?"
"Snarks and grumkins," Jon answered.
"No, I heard you," Aegon said, "but what in seven hells are those?"
It was Jon's turn to blink. "They're … they're creatures of legend, nightmare and myth from beyond the Wall. Children in the North hear those stories more than any other by far."
The prince's face did not budge from its expression of bemused scepticism as he simply uttered "huh."
"Are there no stories of those in Essos, Your Grace?"
Aegon scratched his head. "Gods, there could be. If there were, I never heard them." He shrugged. "Makes sense, though. I suppose my guardians were more concerned with filling my memory with histories and family lines rather than stories about the Wall." Then his eyes focussed on Jon. "I think we've wandered from the original question. You were telling me you heard stories of House Blackfyre … as a boy? Really?"
"It is important to know our history, Your Grace," Jon echoed the answer Lady Catelyn once gave about why he and Robb knew those stories so well. It had not satisfied Lord Stark at the time, but it had made him silent. That must have been worse, because it had not escaped Jon's notice that the stories tapered off not long after.
"I grant that you aren't wrong. But as a bastard child…" Aegon sighed. "I'm drawn to think of telling a fish the finer points of a banquet menu and how other fish feature in it; needlessly cruel to something that like as not doesn't even understand why you're telling him this." He shook his head. "Anyroad, the direction of your thoughts with mentioning the Blackfyres was…" He gestured for Jon to finish.
Taking a breath, Jon obeyed. "Your family has more reason than most to be distant, distrustful. Why, then, are you so eager to bring me into your world?"
A moment passed, and a sad look fell over the prince's eyes. "I spent most of my life certain I was alone. My sister, cousins, parents and grandparents all lay cold and dead and I was the only one left. Imagine it if you can, Jon, being the last of your family, the world having taken everything else and standing against you alone, with only a few strangers at your side you might or might not be able to trust. And then you learn that one of your blood yet lives. Would you not try to come to them, or bring them to you? Would you not desire them nearby, that you could have them in your life, hope to be in theirs? Is there a nicety you would not breach, a line you would not cross, an oath you would not break … is there anything you would not do, for your family?"
Jon thought of his siblings then, not the prince and not the princess long since lost, but of Robb and Arya and the rest, and he could not think of anything or anyone who he would allow to stand in his way.
"So," Aegon said, "yes, Jon. I do want to bring you into my world, if you'll come to it. I lost all my family once. I am of no mind to lose anything again, not without trying everything I can first."
Something in the prince's words pressed at Jon in the wrong way. "I mean no disrespect, Your Grace ... but even when you were alone, you knew who you were. Learning about the king and the princess, learning about me, it didn't change your name or your parents or your past. You didn't lose anything in the process." Jon knew it was petulant even as he said it; he hadn't lost anything either, not really. His family was still there, and it had grown by five more members rather than being only his relations through Lord Stark. But the certainty of being what he had always been told he was, the certainty that Robb and their father either had or would find a place and a purpose for him ... it was all too much to think about now.
"No disrespect was taken. But you aren't entirely right." The prince's words shook Jon from his musings. Aegon leaned on the ledge to look out the same opening Jon had watched him from, but rather than the courtyard below he looked up, at the Red Keep. "When I was raised by my guardians, I knew what they knew -- that I was the last of the Targaryens, born to be a king and a conqueror, destined to reclaim my rightful seat on the Iron Throne. Then Viserys came and I was none of those things anymore."
There was no bitterness in his tone, no resentment in his manner, only a wistfulness, and it confused Jon. "Your Grace has never seemed wanting of the throne," he observed.
"Well, I already draw comparisons enough to Prince Daemon; it would invite more of that and worse if I ever appeared to desire it. Which," he added, "I don't."
There was little reason for Aegon to be honest if he did covet the seat, but Jon found himself wanting to believe the prince. There remained about him that vague sense of longing, though. It took Jon a moment to think of why.
"Do you miss knowing what your path is meant to be?"
The prince gave Jon a careful, evaluating look. "You don't miss much, do you, Jon? I would I had more men like you in the Watch."
Before Jon had too much chance to think on the prince's words, he continued. "I suppose you're right, I do miss the certainty. But I think it's better not to have it. The confines of that path being lifted, I can find out what I want to be, make some choices about my destiny for myself."
"Do you know what it will be, Your Grace?" Jon asked, trying not to sound too curious or probing.
"Not even a little," Aegon said cheerfully. "But I have a few ideas, and that's working well enough for me right now." His eyes peered into Jon's then, even and indigo and alight with something Jon couldn't put a name to. "You can have ideas, make choices of your own, too. Take some time, Jon, to think less about what you're going to be and a little more about what you want to be. I'll ask you about your ideas, sometime."
Jon nodded somewhat dumbly. Even with the knowledge in his head of their relation, it still felt wildly strange to have a highborn, the Prince of Westeros no less, care about such things.
"Do you spar, Jon?"
Not gently does the prince's focus shift, Jon thought. Aloud, he said, "Yes, Your Grace."
"You've trained with your brother, before." He nodded in answer, wondering where this was going.
"Would you do so again?" He gestured to the courtyard below. "I've been training with others, but no Northmen besides one or two bouts with Ser Asher, and like as not you've trained mostly with Northmen. I imagine we could perhaps show each other things we don't yet know."
He was no lord, no southron courtier or anointed knight, but even Jon could tell Prince Aegon was not speaking solely about sparring or swords. It was less intimidating than the other offers previously made, at least. "I would be honoured, Your Grace."
Jon had the strongest impression that the prince was trying to not seem over-enthusiastic. He was not especially successful. "I'll speak with the master-at-arms and send word of times I will be training. It's reasonable that Lord Eddard should know that information, and he could inform his household as he sees fit."
Jon gave a small smile and nod and hoped he did not seem too nervous or ungrateful.
It was hard not to feel a little warmed by Prince Aegon's manner, though. "I'm grateful for this, Jon. It makes what I'm off to do next that much less unpleasant."
EDD
Getting suckered into work he hadn't intended to do was becoming a defining trait for Eddison Tollett. As a boy his brothers were ever devising clever ways to trick him into doing chores for them, their father laughing and saying nothing to stop them. As a young Valeman he was conscripted into King Robert's service by threats of a war coming to his homelands if nothing were done, realising later he was trading the potential of a conflict later (if at all) and on home turf, for a certainty of battle immediately and on someone else's lands. As a surviving veteran with no greater crime to his name than serving under the wrong banners he got talked into joining the City Watch of King's Landing as a way to help the Vale out from under King Viserys' vengeful eye, and besides the service to the Vale he'd be doing, "women can't resist men in uniform," the fucker had lied full well knowing how reviled and distrusted the Watch was among the smallfolk at the time.
And now here he was, escorting one of the smellier men he'd ever met into the Black Cells after being told the Lord Commander was known to be going there as well. "I expect he'll be wanting you," Ser Vardis had said, "and as you're heading up the hill, you can escort this rat along the way." The day was hot and the air was rank in the city outside, yet as he pushed the man ahead of him to the stairs he found himself longing for the comparatively fresh air.
"Prisoner for the Black Cells," Edd announced to Ser Warrek upon entry to the man's offices before the cells, as was the Justice's requested protocol.
The scribe sitted at the table in a corner near the heavy wooden door to the Cells beyond did not look up from his books. "Name and offences?"
"Timm the Tramp." Edd pulled the man's shoulder and pushed down on his manacled wrists, that his face could be clearly seen for the brief description the scribe would enter of his appearance. The movement also had the effect of shoving the smelly and almost unquestionably soiled scarf almost into Edd's face, and he fought back a wretch. "Brought in for theft, suspected of rape, murder and false coinage." Then he added, "Unquestionably guilty of fouling himself and never cleaning it up." The scribe's quill paused with an annoyed glance, but Ser Warrek chuckled a little from his post.
"Do not record me with that name," Timm said in his Dornish drawl. "It is a slander on the name offfmmmph," his words cut off as Edd stuffed the stained red fabric into the man's mouth.
"Be grateful that's the name the streets know you by," Ser Warrek spoke up as he walked around the man, "and not one based on the smell of you. He reeks," Warrek jabbed a thumb towards Timm as he looked at Edd. "Did someone throw him in the sewers before you brought him up?"
"You're looking at him," Edd jostled the manacles with a glare at their occupant. "Suppose he thought either the goldcloaks what chased him didn't care enough or weren't fool enough to chase him. Sorry to disappoint you, Timm." Over continued grumblings from the muffled mouth, Edd looked to the scribe and added, "He calls himself Timeon if that matters to you lot. Doesn't matter to anyone else, I promise you." The scribe made a small notation.
"I'll take him from here, Tollett," Ser Warrek said as he gestured for a gaoler. One of the five men stood from their table at the other side of the room and took the chains from Edd with a nod. Warrek unlocked the heavy door, allowed the gaoler and gaoled to walk past him, then locked it again with all of them on the other side. He pocketed his keys, took up a torch, and led the way out of Edd's sight.
"Mind my sitting?" Edd pointed to the vacated seat. At the half-hearted shrugs, Edd took the seat and removed his much-detested helm.
As he ran his fingers through grey hair streaked with sweat, the scribe cleared his throat. "Is there something you require, Tollett?"
"I was told the Lord Commander meant to come here and I was to attend him."
Two of the gaolers looked at him with the same confusion as the scribe, who said "The Lord Commander has been here and hence again, and made no mention of expecting anyone."
Some damn time, Edd, he thought to himself, a man's due to stop falling for the same trick over and over again. He wasn't sure if Ser Vardis specifically had it out for him, or just didn't feel like the long walk up the hill, but regardless he once more had been had for a rusty stag.
He sighed aloud, and more quietly grumbled, "fucking Egen." It was quiet enough the scribe didn't hear him, but the gaoler opposite him must have. A tankard was pushed in his direction. Edd gave the man a grateful nod, and took a drink before grabbing his helm. "You don't expect him back?"
"No word was left with me," the scribe said acerbically.
Well. Best get back down to work, Edd sighed inside his own head.
With a timing that professional mummers scarcely dared to dream of, the outer door opened, and Lord Commander Aegon Targaryen appeared. The gold cloak he wore clashed somewhat with his black-and-red garb below, but it was hard to notice that much when that silver-white hair was free of its helm and he was in such an obviously good mood. In more ways than one, Edd thought, Targaryens can oft get away with things the average man cannot.
Then Prince Aegon looked at their table, and that dreadfully cheery mood turned in his direction. "Tollett," the prince said with warm surprise, "one of Ser Davos' men, right?" At his answering nod, "Pleasant surprise to see you here. Are you assigned to any duty?"
"Escorted a prisoner up, Your Grace, and was told to remain and attend you."
"I would be most grateful," Prince Aegon said smoothly, though Edd thought he saw some confusion in him. "Merrit," he said to the gaoler sat across from Edd, "would you let us through, please?" The scruffy, heavyset man lumbered up and over and unlocked the doors, allowing the prince through as Edd scrambled to attend him.
The prince took up a torch and led the way, a different direction than Edd recalled the King's Justice going. Once they were in a deserted section, Prince Aegon turned to regard him. "I will be going to a cell to have a conversation with the man inside. If you're to come with me, I need your word that none of it leaves the Black Cells. Not the prisoner, not the particulars, none of it." The earlier mirth and good mood had apparently sounded retreat.
Edd nodded, "I swear it."
The prince continued, "On the other hand, this prisoner could be a bit ... much. Davos tells me you have a good head above your shoulders and I'd be pleased to have it with me in there, but I'll not order you to attend me, nor find you lacking if you don't wish to stay."
"That's fairer than I'd hope for, Your Grace."
Prince Aegon looked away, then, over Edd's shoulder and into the shadows. "I would say your hopes are aimed too low, if I weren't becoming more familiar with the great houses and what they conceive of as fair."
"Is that who we're going to see? Someone from a great house?"
"From the great house, if you asked his opinion," Aegon said. "I would advise you not to. Or to say anything to him, for that matter."
"As you say, Your Grace." That only left two options in Edd's mind -- Redwyne, whose opinion of himself was well-known, and Lannister. And the prince's clothes looked too nice for him to be planning on visiting the Reacher lord.
The prince gave a sigh. "One other matter before we go on. I am glad of having you for company, Tollett, but I gave no word for it. Who sent you up here?"
"Ser Vardis Egen, Your Grace," Edd answered reluctantly.
"He's a Valeman, too, isn't he." Prince Aegon's eyes narrowed when Edd nodded. "I partly know the man. He has old ideas about who serves who and how the Watch works. I don't know that he intends to be a stone in my boot, but he has more natural talent for that work than the work I would have him do."
"If Your Grace would be so kind," Edd hesitantly spoke, until Aegon gave him an inviting nod. "It would be a kindness if you didn't hear of that from me." Egen seemed to Edd as someone who absolutely would turn around and deal out any rebuke that he had just taken in.
Prince Aegon shook his head. "I'll not be acting on that today regardless, but I will keep you out of it. I haven't lived in this city long but I'm already discovering there's more reason than one why they are so fond of saying here that shit rolls downhill."
"And it only seems to get worse the farther down it goes," Edd agreed.
Aegon had nothing to add to that, but he gave Edd a half-smile and that was enough for him. It wasn't long for them to continue on again until they came to the prince's destination.
"Remember what I said, Tollett," Aegon said without elaboration. Edd gave him a silent nod. Then he opened the door, and they entered into the cell block.
Inside, Edd saw that it was empty, save for one man at the end of the row. He hadn't seen the man before, but from the tales alone every man with half a working brain would recognise Tywin Lannister when they saw him. The Old Lion seemed deep in thought, and gave little indication he noticed their arrival. He paced over to a side of his cell, then closed a small opening in his wall which had a brother on the outside of the cell.
"I'm rather confident that was longer than an hour, Your Grace." Lannister's voice seemed raspy, perhaps from lack of use. "I hope I am not keeping you from some other engagement."
It looked to Edd like the prince would rather be personally sifting through the sewers of Fleabottom for a sewing needle than be here, but if it was the case Aegon said nothing of it. "Thank you for returning the papers, Lord Tywin." He retrieved what were apparently scrolls that he had left with Lannister from the slot.
"I didn't think I would be permitted to keep them. Best to not cause Ser Warrek the unnecessary fuss of coming in here to take them from me. I understand Redwyne causes trouble enough for the both of us put together."
"His trouble isn't what I'm here for, my lord."
Lannister sighed. "How I had hoped that my imprisonment would at least shield me from the pestilence of attempts at clever segues."
Prince Aegon looked unamused. "I'll be sure to file your protest with Ser Warrek. Have you anything useful to offer?"
"Possibly," the Old Lion answered. "I have thoughts and insights. Only time will tell if they are useful or not. And time is the thing in question here, isn't it, Lord Commander?" Edd looked from man to man, unsure of the meaning. Lannister apparently liked to talk, though, and more parts of the picture became clear to Edd. "Time until your man gets to work again, time until my trial commences. What can my time get me?"
"I can offer changes to your confinements, Lord Tywin, and I can speak to the king against having your head upon a spike. I cannot offer much else."
To Edd, the prisoner seemed dissatisfied. "I would like to keep my head altogether, Your Grace. And I would like to see the Hand before whatever predetermined sentence of mine is carried out."
"Make yourself useful to me, ser, and I will argue not just for keeping your head but for keeping it out of the cold as well," Aegon said.
Lord Tywin looked just as surprised as Edd felt. "I would have thought your roles reversed, Prince Aegon; you the zealot demanding blood for blood, and your uncle the one to connive and scheme and try to make use of me."
"The king can personally remember the crimes for which you are accused, I cannot. I care more for what you will do now."
"Very well, Your Grace," the Old Lion said with a pleased smile that made Edd feel like he and the prince were spring lambs cornered in his den. "I have some ideas that might help you."
The prince leaned back against the wall, opposite Lord Tywin's cell. "I would learn of these ideas, then."
"The first thing you should learn of me is to also learn from those who came before. Other Commanders of the Watch, Hands of the King, Lords of the Council, even a few kings themselves. You should find time to read from Ser Tyland. It would prove most instructive for you." Edd didn't recognise the name, though the lord's tone suggested he should.
"And what would I learn from that?"
"First principles, Your Grace," Lannister said. "Of each thing ask: what is it in itself?" The old man folded his hands together. "What does he do, this man you seek?"
Prince Aegon answered, "He kills women."
"Yes, but why? What purpose does that serve, what need does he satisfy by doing these things?"
"Killing isn't enough?"
Lannister shook his head. "Not to fit this. If killing was all he wanted to do, he'd kill people and you'd never be the wiser. People disappear all the time in King's Landing. Most are never found." Edd couldn't prove a lie in any of that, much that he knew his fellow goldcloaks were mostly trying to make the numbers less grim. Fewer of us contributing to those numbers, too. Lannister continued, "So he kills women, he kills them with savagery, and then what?"
"He leaves it where someone will find it."
"Why?"
"To make the smallfolk afraid?"
"Was that a question?" A smirk crawled across his face, the dancing torchlight making Lord Tywin almost look demonic. "If that was his goal, he would leave them in the square, where everyone could see. He does not."
"So he might be trying to make men of the Watch afraid?"
"Unless the goldcloaks have changed drastically under your brief supervision, Your Grace, there's precious few who would be put-off by a brutalised corpse." Even Edd could sense the sarcasm dripping off of the words.
Aegon asked, "Could this be directed at me, then?"
The Old Lion gave a sigh that spoke of decades of prolonged suffering. "Targaryens. You always think everything is about you."
It looked like that made the prince angry. "People in my city keep turning up dead. Women keep getting hurt. The longer this goes on, the worse my goldcloaks and I look to the smallfolk, the more the highborn whisper and scheme. I'm not supposed to think it's about me?"
Lannister's answer came more casually than the question had. "If it was about you, Young Egg, he would not have killed some whore you've never cared about or even met."
There came a sound from Aegon that Edd recognised, yet hadn't heard from the prince before. It was fully familiar to any man who had the misfortune of training under the Master of War's care. "What about this situation," Aegon stopped grinding his teeth as he indicated the cellblock, and his coming to it, "tells you that I don't care?"
"You misunderstand this killer as you misunderstand me. If his actions were directed at you, you would know. You would find not strangers in the street, but your favourites among the Watch, whores you've frequented, even friends and family if he were daring enough."
There were whispers about how the Lord Commander spent his off hours, though whoring almost never came up as a possibility. Yet the notion of what the Old Lion suggested did seem to affect him. Lannister continued, "You don't know these victims; their effect on you and your reputation is, at best, secondary to his goals."
"I struggle to imagine who else such a message could be intended for."
"Clearly."
To his credit, Aegon did not rise to the bait, and Lord Tywin seemed to respect that. After a moment, he added, "But you do think they are a message?"
"I think they're a threat. I just don't know of what."
Lannister paced in his cell a bit. "Threats are the language of someone who has power. The people in the realm who have power over you would not sully their hands with stag heads and whores."
"So how do I find this man?"
"You find who he does have power over."
The prince shook his head. "And how do I find them?"
Lord Tywin gave them another predatory smile. "I've read your papers and scrolls, Your Grace. Have you? Everything you need is there, if you're attending carefully."
"I haven't wasted your time, Lord Tywin, do me the courtesy of returning the favour."
"Very well, Lord Commander." The pacing stopped then, and the prisoner's gaze felt more piercing than nails through the eyes. "Your victims were not dropped at random, they were found in specific places. That is only worth the attendant risks if people near or frequenting those areas are the intended recipients. You discovered them on dates without an immediately obvious or rational pattern. Look then to irrational patterns of dates. Your man has had a taste of power before, perhaps even recently. He has found a need for it, and he cannot acquire it in the manner the highborn can. He has killed before, perhaps not in so performative a manner, but he is no stranger to taking life. He has a fondness for cruelty and likes to display it. What manner of man would fit this description?"
Lannister sat down on his stone ledge then. He seemed smaller even as he made to sit, Edd thought. Like speaking that way for that length was a taxing exertion, and more air had gone out of him than he could take back in.
Prince Aegon looked ready to press further, but then the cell block door opened behind them. Ser Warrek appeared with a chagrined face, and said, "Begging your pardon, Your Grace. The Master of Laws is asking for you. It seemed urgent."
Edd looked back to the prince. It was clear even to him that Prince Aegon wanted to remain, to press, but he could not ignore his summons easily. "Thank you, Ser Warrek. We will accompany you back out." The King's Justice nodded, waiting at the door with his key in hand. The prince looked back into the cell. "Recover yourself, my lord. I will return soon to continue our talk."
"You have all you need, Your Grace," the prisoner answered. "If you cannot proceed with what you have, perhaps you need me more than you imagined." He's fishing for improvements to his deal, Edd realised. And if what he had supplied the prince didn't help enough, he had made the prince's failings into the culprit rather than his own. Any reappearance would be tacit admission of Lannister's position. Crafty fucker. A fox would fit his sigil better than a lion.
"Time," the prince said heavily, "will tell."
TBC
Update forthcoming. It won't be in the next four days (I'm back, but not that back) but it won't be four months again. Also, character profiles have a few updates, feel free to take a gander if you like.
King's Landing smelt of shit and people, and yet, you still came to this fucking city looking for work. It was a stupid thing to even think about. The war was over, and every lordling and their fuckwit sons were tired of fighting and killing each other, and left you out of work.
You were getting older, and you were not as young as you were back during the last rebellion, but you knew you wanted to retire, or at least find a way to die well. With enough gold, you could sail to the Summer Islands, build a home on some beach with some beautiful summer lases, and enjoy what little time you had left in comfort.
Unfortunately, this shit hole still had spies and secrets.
The toad was following you for the past block, and you felt like that meant he was either trying to talk to your arse, or he wanted to put a blade up it. Now both were a truly great possibility, you had been a sellsword for a long time since you put an ax in your father's head all those years ago… After all, you were Bronn, son of...Well, you still didn't know him, even after all those years thinking about it.
You stopped, finding a perfect place to make your stand, get some information, and then, hopefully, sell it to the highest bidder.
As you reached for the knife on your back, you heard the voice speak, and the toad revealed his face. "Hello, Bronn."
Your eyebrow raised. Your hand trembled for a single moment before the blade was drawn. "Who the fuck are you, and how do you know my name?"
The man stepped into the light, allowing you to see the greying hair and the face of a man you knew from experience was a thief. They were dime a dozen, always looking at marks that were easy, or looking for wealth that was worth the risk.
He was a Dragon seed you think, with white hair and purple eyes, tall, yet graceful in his steps, unlike most men.
He was dangerous. Yet you calmly remained assertive in your stance.
The man was different. He was something you had only seen a few times… Beyond the Wall with a merchant Caravan at Hardhome.
He was a predator, but not one that would murder you. No he wanted something from you, and that terrified you in a way even the snows of Beyond the Wall, and fighting men for a few scraps of coin failed to do.
"Well, my master does things his own way, and I can't really fault him for that, and looking for good sellswords is quite hard to do when all of them just flee east looking for work." the man stated, looking at his nails. "So it's rather easy to find a sellsword... " He paused. "As for how I know you… I know about your work, your ruthless nature, and even how well-traveled you are in Westeros and Essos."
"Who the fuck do you serve then?" You asked.
"Master Valarr Vealtigar of course, the greatest merchant of the east." The thief replied. "And is in need of a sellsword captain for his new company."
You had stories about the man, some upstart merchant that was the talk of the Nobility of Westeros, playing host to the Targaryen king for a few years, so he heard… going into Valyria itself, surviving. Then he just fell off the map, everyone claimed he died. You didn't believe it of course.
You always thought that man was a criminal, and now was just slinking back to the underworld, to become its king. "And he chose me? Must feel special?"
"You aren't. But he needed someone that was… well, not special. Someone who is a good killer… and values his self-interest enough to follow his orders without question?" The thief replied.
"Is that really what he wants?" You asked.
"He wants a man, who, without question, will do anything to protect his investments. To protect his family… to kill indiscriminately, without question. Would you do that?"
"Without question?" You said. "No."
"Than-" The Thief started.
"I'd ask how much." You replied.
That made the Thief smile. "Excellent. You will hear from me again, through an associate of mine."
Curiosity made you narrow your eyes. "Wait a moment… Are you Vealtigar?"
That made the Thief chuckle. "Now why would I be him… He's rich and powerful after all?"
You still didn't feel comfortable as the thief disappeared into the crowd, leaving you alone in the city.
AN: Or, Viserys Trolls Bronn, while also testing him.
Just to be clear, I'm not abandoning or leaving unfinished the "Prince of the City" interludes. Those will continue, and update as this arc also takes place, but I wanted to offer an arc that involved more player input and choices than simply reading about one vote selection from quite some time ago. That, and I also wanted to try my hand at another of GRRM's story-telling devices: switching perspectives altogether to a different plotline, see if I can manage it without regretting the decision.
Enjoy!
You have a very particular brand of diplomacy. In your more reflective (and occasionally self-critical) moments you would call it "demoralizing", though you usually settle for "ruthless" or "piercing": you find your opposite's weak points, one by one, and then strike as many as you deem necessary until your victory is unquestionable. In the past, you have not shied away from going beyond the weak points of the opposing argument or position and striking at the personal shatterpoints of your opponent. Simply put, you break things – positions, pretenses, philosophies and people alike. Brutal as it sometimes has been, this method has served you well, kept you and your sister alive, even put you on the Iron Throne.
"All other words have been for naught. Displeasing noise to you, and nothing more. I'm now reduced to begging. Does this bring you happiness?" You say, almost hissing the words.
It is failing you completely now.
"For the love of the gods, please,please eat your food, jenitītsos," you plead with your uncooperative shit of a son.
For his part, Aemon offers you a guileless smile of cuteness and innocence that would certainly work on people that aren't wearing several previous failed attempts at feeding the future king. Unfortunately for both of you, you cannot be counted among those people.
His smile remains in place as he inexplicably wriggles out of your swaddling grasp yet again. You're getting enough experience in this, at least, that this time you don't lose the spoonful of soft food. Across from you, Arianne laughs at your most recent failure, and she laughs harder when you look at her with what you try to show as hurt in your eyes.
"I cannot take you seriously covered in Dornish plums, Viserys, I simply can't," she manages as her laughter lessens, but doesn't stop. Switching Elaena to her other hip, she decides to take pity on you and hands you a clean cloth. Your other, angel child has been eating her mashed pears without complaint and with minimal help from her mother, and she burbles happy nothings at you as Arianne bounces her a bit before sitting back down. You know you felt the opposite three days ago, when Elaena had emptied her muddied-with-food water onto your head with a skull-shattering shriek and Aemon had been perfectly willing to eat whatever you gave him, but in this moment (as you try to swaddle him again and a pudgy foot kicks your hand in response) you have a hard time judging yourself for it.
You wipe away what you hope is most of the Dornish pear mush, and spare Arianne a thankful glance. Then, you decide, it's time to rely on some of your other skills. While your primary and best option, words are not the only weapon in your armory – you trained long and hard to be good with a blade, and while Jaime wasn't the best teacher in the world, he was certainly one of the best swordsmen. You learned a lot from him, things that even now are useful.
You aren't going to stab your son (fleeting appeal that a minor poke might hold) but you are very, very fast with your hands, and Aemon learns this the hard way as he opens his mouth to let out the smallest of coos only to find you are already getting the food in his unsuspecting face. He doesn't scream much in general, and he doesn't scream now either, for which you are grateful, but he fixes you with a look that conveys such betrayal that you almost feel bad. Almost.
"Just think," you say to your uncomprehending son as you spoon a small dribble of escaping plum back into his mouth, "you may be blessed by the Seven to have me live long enough that I become feeble and helpless, and you can force food upon me and take pleasure in my discomfort. Vengeance delayed yet still is vengeance fulfilled."
"You are spending too much time with my uncle," Arianne chides you gently. It's hard to feel truly rebuked with the softer, more affectionate smile on her face that has emerged from under her fading laughter. As she comes around Arianne's chair, Tyene Sand lets out a soft laugh of her own before she takes the offered-up Elaena from your queen. It's just the three of you right now, enjoying one of your painfully infrequent calm afternoons in the Queen's official chambers. And you can admit to yourself, even as Arianne walks over and wipes some plum bits from your ear you've missed, that you do enjoy this. Much as they might take turns disliking it now, you hope that your children will think back on this fondly, too.
You have no trouble at all telling that Tyene likes this, not that she makes even the slightest effort to hide her joy as she echoes Elaena's coos back at her. Without fail, at least one of the oldest three Sand Snakes is with Arianne, but Obara and Nymeria almost always discover something that needs attending to if they know activities with the little ones approach. It doesn't come as much of a surprise to you; they seem to you much more like their father in temperament, coils of energy and tension that almost need something to lunge at, while Tyene resembles Doran, observant and methodical and (crucially, for handling small children) patient.
"It isn't the king's fault my father makes for good company," Tyene stops mimicking Elaena long enough to say. The dark-haired princess in her arms makes a clumsy grab at Tyene's blonde curls, to no effect. "And it shows His Grace's wisdom to spend time with a man who has done so well in raising children," she adds. Then she's right back to cooing at Elaena, as if the princess were the only other person in the world to her. She does notice the thankful smile you offer her, though, before you both return to minding your respective little ones.
You feel more than see Arianne bend over from her spot behind you to make faces at Aemon with you, and you can't help relaxing a bit more with her closeness. She presses a kiss into your hair, then crosses the room to slip an arm around Tyene's waist and joins her in holding Elaena. Meanwhile, you let your instinct take over in caring for the little prince as your conscious mind wanders to your upcoming trip.
You want to take as much time as you can with the children before you depart for Dragonstone; you aren't sure how long you'll be there, and while the island isn't a terribly long journey (especially for a dragonrider) you don't like the idea of being too far away from them for any great periods. You've only just gotten your family all together again, and now you need to leave them behind. It frustrates you more than a little, even if you agree with the Grand Maester that it is a necessary trip. Jacaerys has done his best, but the Citadel never had a great deal of information on the rearing and training of dragons anyhow, and even Archmaester Marwyn has been forced to concede that they do not possess the knowledge you seek. He concurs with Jace's opinion: if there is any dragonlore yet surviving in Westeros, it is on Dragonstone.
Theoretically, you don't have to go. You could simply send the Grand Maester, or even have him send any of his trusted acolytes and servants to fulfill the task. But he trusts precious few minds in this labour beyond his own, and even if Marwyn were here and able to go with the Grand Maester, you have your own reasons for wanting to go with him. Ever since your family reclaimed the Iron Throne and Lord Stannis took over Storm's End, the island and castle have been your responsibility. While traditionally the Prince of Dragonstone is the next in line for the Throne, Aemon is a bit unprepared for the work, you feel … and even if your nephew Aegon could manage in the role you really do not want to invite future succession crises with your House still fragile and unsteady. So, while the title remains ungiven, its attendant duties fall to you.
And then there's the matter of the last time you were there.
Your mother's crown, one of your most treasured keepsakes and your sole remaining connection to her outside of Dany, should be returned to her in her final resting place. In a move that you're sure earned him no favours from his brother at the time, Stannis had seen Rhaella's ashes interred with those of her ancestors, a respectful gesture that you explicitly thanked him for after learning of it. You'd had to stifle a laugh at his confused face afterwards, as if he had no idea what to do with your expressed gratitude. Your mother's crown, and your promise to her, no longer need to weigh on you personally … and this is a task you could assign to no other, so you will place her crown with her remains yourself.
You're pulled from your reveries, then, as there's an unwelcome warmth spreading from Aemon into his swaddled cloths. At least it wasn't on any of us this time, you think. Or at us, you add internally as you take care to prevent that indignity from happening to you again as you begin to change the future King of Westeros. It's a mercy no infant recalls these earliest of days, in your opinion; the indignity and accompanying embarrassment would probably have been the death of you long before Dany was even born.
The day of your trip to Dragonstone arrives, and even with the planning and preparation it still feels like a mad rush to finish last-moment things before you depart. Thankfully several things lined up so that your absence could be minimally felt: the Dragonpit Trials are taking a three-week pause, allowing your fellow judges (and the prosecution, for that matter) time to attend to their own problems and concerns, or to simply relax a little, as much as one can in King's Landing; Sers Jaime and Brynden have returned from pacifying the Riverlands; Prince Oberyn is more or less waiting on word from some of his contacts and informers; and Arianne has the Grand Maester's approval to leave the Red Keep at her leisure (though he still recommends she not overtax herself on "Royal duties", as he politely puts it).
Aegon has been preoccupied with some difficulties in the Watch, but he is able to take the time to see you off, and jokingly promises not to burn the city down before your return. As the prince walks off, Jaime promises to make sure Aegon doesn't get in over his head with his work, before he bows and departs himself. A few final goodbyes and well-wishes are exchanged before you join the Grand Maester on your new ship. Lord Stannis and Lord Rodrik collaborated on this unique vessel, a ship built of deep red wood the colour of blood, which is long and broad (and sturdy) enough to allow a dragon or two to take off and land on the deck, which Ebrion quickly demonstrates by gracefully landing, and then ungracefully plopping down like a satisfied cat. You exchange an amused look with Jace, before following him into the comfortable quarters below-deck.
All too soon, your final preparations are made, and your ship departs for Dragonstone.
First things first,
What is your ship named? [ ] Blood of Valyria
[ ] Crowsbane
[ ] Errant Venture
[ ] Pride of the Crown
[ ] Red Dragon
[ ] Royal Vagabond
[ ] Write-in (subject to QM approval)
While on this journey, Jacaerys is attending you in his role as Grand Maester, and with him you are bringing along some companions, be they loved ones who want to keep you company, friends you don't get to see enough of these days, or friendly acquaintances you wish to know better.
[Vote for a total of five companions, please!]
Kingsguard (choose two or three): [ ] Barristan Selmy
[ ] Brynden Tully
[ ] Arys Oakheart
[ ] Imry Florent
[ ] Robar Royce
[ ] Asher Forrester [ ] Jaime Lannister needs to remain in King's Landing to fulfill his duties as Hand while you are away
Other Companions (choose three or two): [ ] Arianne Martell is willing to leave the children with their wetnurses for a few days to travel with you. [ ] Tyene Sand is Arianne's closest friend and surrogate sister, a sharp mind and a wise soul. [ ] Daenerys Targaryen is enjoying the lull in the Dragonpit Trials, and she could join you on your trip or remain in King's Landing if you wished. [ ] Willas Tyrell has the same lull in the Trials as Dany, though he is a newcomer to your personal company and will not be offended if you don't ask him. [ ] Oberyn Martell has the most flexible of Small Council seats, and if you have him join you, he trusts Obara and Nymeria to act in his stead in King's Landing. [ ] Garret of Saltpans has been operating from Driftmark, and could easily take a ferry to Dragonstone and join your company.
Twelve-hour vote moratorium for discussion of options (and if anyone wants to contribute a write-in for the ship's name).
You reflect, as the ship begins to pull away from the docks, that it is an interesting bunch that have joined you on the Royal Vagabond, although perhaps not surprising in retrospect.
Dany had asked to come as soon as she realised she would be able to with the lull in the Trials, and you could not deny her the chance to see where she was born and where your family comes from … or to help you lay the last of your mother to rest.
Willas had approached you hesitantly the next day, asking if you would permit his company on your travels, as he hopes to improve relations between your houses, and you were only too happy to bring him along in that case. In a sarcastic thought you later express to Prince Oberyn, you're sure it has absolutely nothing to do with wanting to spend more time with Dany, isolated from any other would-be suitors.
It's at that point that Oberyn more or less invited himself along. He pointed out that he has maintained a long correspondence with the heir to Highgarden, and could help if things became uncomfortable or awkward. And if things go well, he added, it has been some time since his last opportunity to casually threaten someone wooing a family member to ensure good behaviour. You'd rather he didn't ruin a cordial relationship with Willas over a moment of petty self-amusement, but you won't deny him either.
At the end of the day, you really have Oberyn come along because you know that Mace Tyrell is going to lose hair and sleep thinking of his firstborn son on a ship with you and Dany, and Oberyn is the only other person in Westeros who could worsen the effect on the fat flower.
You never bothered to pretend that you were above petty self-amusement.
It is late afternoon when you gather your companions to have an early supper. The last glimpses of King's Landing have since dipped below the horizon, and nothing but clouds can attempt to block the setting sun from coming in your windows. It's your cabin, the most spacious and well appointed, that strikes you as the most comfortable place for you to gather everyone; the wardroom would do fine for officers of the vessel, but you want your companions to have elbow room. Food is brought, wine is poured and your table set, and soon enough your friends arrive.
Ser Barristan appreciates your generosity when you ask him to join you, but he insists that he'll eat later, as he's never cared for sailing and prefers to eat lightly and infrequently if onboard. So Ser Barristan stands at guard, allowing young Ser Asher to join your table, where he sits quietly but firmly next to Dany, blocking the captain from taking that seat. You sit on her other side, Oberyn next to you and the captain sitting closer to Oberyn than Ser Asher (perhaps he mistakenly thinks Oberyn to be the friendlier option). That leaves space for the Grand Maester, who arrives with his own bottle of wine to offer for later, and the last of the party, poor Willas Tyrell.
As it turns out, Willas is the only one of your group liable to seasickness, and if it weren't so plainly interfering in his designs to be charming and attractive to Dany, you'd probably sympathise. Instead, you share a vanishingly fast smirk with Oberyn when the young man walks in, no longer as green as his family sigil, but closer than a person ought to be. You admit to yourself, however, that you're impressed at how well he moves around despite having no stomach for the sea and a leg that you'd imagined would likewise disagree.
Then Dany stands up and goes around Ser Asher to pull the chair out for Willas, and you're reminded why people like her more easily than you.
He makes no comment at the gesture, but you have sharper eyes than the average person, and you catch the warm look he gives her as she passes back to her seat at your right side, and the hint of pink on her cheeks once she's beyond his sight. In the corner of your eye, it looks like the captain might be inclined to offer a comment of his own, so you immediately raise a cup and give an expectant look across the table, as everyone else catches the cue very quickly. It seems he thinks better of it, and crumples slightly as he raises his cup as well.
"To a safe voyage in fine company and fair seas," you offer. Pithy, but appropriate. A murmur goes about the table as they join you in the toast, and drink.
You immediately glance to Willas and Ser Asher, as you recognise the wine as a Dornish red. A respectable vintage, to your palate, but richer and much darker than what either of them would be used to, and you just know this was another of Oberyn's little tests. To their credit, the only reaction you notice is a twitch from Ser Asher, and nothing further. Dany has a similar reaction, though you imagine spending time in Dorne helped make the wine less potent to her.
"A fine vintage, Your Grace," Willas offers. "One of yours?"
"One of mine," Oberyn answers.
Asher looks to his wine with an openly sceptical look, as if it might bite him now that its master is revealed. Not the most unreasonable of suspicions, you feel. Then he shrugs and downs the rest of it.
Willas turns slightly more towards Oberyn, as if nothing had happened next to him. "Ah, one from your collection, or one of your own making?"
"The latter," Oberyn smiles. Subtly, so much so that no one but Dany notices, you now glance to your cup with a sceptical eye.
Willas leans forward a bit, seeming to improve with a distraction from the motion of the ship. "I confess I'm fascinated by the process, the incredible differences even the slightest alteration can make farther down the line. The choice of barrel, for instance. Many of our bannermen rely on oak barrels to age their wines, but even an oak from a different forest than they usually source to can change the palate." He looks to his cup, then back to Oberyn. "What barrels do you use, my friend?"
"Snakewood," he answers without a hint of irony.
Across the table from you, Willas turns slightly pale. Doing your best to suppress a laugh, Dany speaks up instead of you. "You must be japing, Prince Oberyn."
"I am most certainly not." There's a twinkle in his eye that you know to mean trouble.
Jacaerys clears his throat. "Do you age it long in your barrels?"
"Oh, no," Oberyn answers breezily, and you see Dany unwind a little next to you. "This wine ages only two weeks in snakewood, just to take up some flavour, then the rest in red oaks." You see Willas and Jace unwind a bit, too, and feel like there's something you're missing.
Ser Asher pipes up. "Is there a reason that matters, Ser Oberyn?"
A shadow crosses over his face from the late-day sun dancing over the window frames. "I assure you," the Red Viper says, "the wine that ages fully in snakewood is not one I would bring casually. It stays in reserve for special occasions."
You make a note to yourself to ask Dany, when you can get a moment, what had her worried. It's at that point you notice that apparently she and Willas had both noticed the other's concern and relief, the two of them exchanging glances that don't seem romantic, but nonetheless have an understanding you aren't privy to.
You don't like it when that happens.
Taking a leaf from Ser Asher's book, you finish your cup and pointedly ignore the look that Dany directs at you.
The tension does not diminish throughout the meal, though it does fade into the background. Some more polite chatter is exchanged between Oberyn and Willas about horses, which Dany takes some part in, though mostly in asking questions and listening politely (and you note, very attentively) to the answers. Asher and Oberyn debate the merits of various weapon choices and combat philosophies, which steadily devolves into ever-less-subtle puns about skill, stamina and virility, and more than once you have to remind yourself that you are the king, and not supposed to try and one-up their wordplay to see who you can make snort their wine.
Grand Maester Jacaerys chats up the captain, Allard Seaworth. He's very amused by the origin story of the sigil of House Seaworth, and this quickly develops into a table-wide discussion on sigils. You stay out of it for a little bit, as you don't quite trust yourself to not make uncomfortable observations.
Since retaking the Throne, you've provided for all your Kingsguard a minor update to their armor: they retain their white scales and unadorned shields, but you now permit for them to wear pauldrons over their white cloaks, the right shoulder bearing the Kingsguard standard, the left their personal or family sigil if they desire it. All seven of them have done so (and you think that it probably helped sell the deception Jaime masterminded to pose as Ser Asher when riding out with Ser Brynden). It has not escaped your notice that Ser Asher wears a black tree embedded with a white sword, an inversion of his family's traditional arms. To your knowledge, no one has asked him about it yet.
Then Willas opens his mouth.
"Are heraldry standards different in the North, Ser Asher?" he asks amiably. "I confess that I know very little about how Northern culture interacts with Andal traditions, like knights and so forth. I've never been able to visit, nor do I have any family members that have, so my sources for information are limited."
"Precious few flowers in the North, my lord," Asher says with what sounds like a friendly tone … but you notice his knuckles look a bit whiter around his cup. "Delicate things don't do well in the cold. What does endure with us," he breathes, "only does by adapting." His air comes short, like it's being held close on a tight chain.
"I'm sure that tends to be the case," Willas answers mildly. "On the other hand, some hardier things from the North flourish south of the Neck. The change in climate and surroundings lets them grow beyond what they could be in their homelands." You notice that his timbre is lower and his speech more relaxed in pace, and only just suppress the urge to slap your forehead.
Willas is a smart man, certainly one of the most knowledgeable you've met in your age group. You think he easily could net himself a chain to surpass Oberyn's, if his father would ever allow for him to follow a path that bore the slightest resemblance to that of the Red Viper. You also know that he is especially knowledgeable about horses, and even in his condition has taken a direct hand in the care, training and maintaining of the Highgarden stable.
So it probably shouldn't surprise you that his method of responding to hostility seems borne from that. It's still quite something to see in person, though. It's even more surprising that it looks like it might work: Asher's knuckles regain some colour, and his breathing is starting to even out a bit more.
Perhaps it's only fitting that now you discover that Allard Seaworth has all of his father's seafaring skills, and none of his sense of tact. "The Blackfish wears a different sigil to his family, too, doesn't he? Past the Mander, m'lord, sometimes men go their own way." You regret not sitting him closer to you, that you might have the ability to kick him under the table. A hope lingers briefly in you that Oberyn might do it for you, but one glance at the Red Viper tells you that he's being amused by the whole thing and isn't liable to put a stop to any of it.
It isn't often, but every once in a while you regret having so many friends and allies that are just like you.
"Aye, and sometimes you're pushed off the boat to sink or swim on your own," Ser Asher says in a waspish voice.
"Best way to learn to swim, ser," Allard smiles. "M'lord father taught me and my brother just so."
"How wonderful for you." Asher's deadpan is impressive, even if it's completely lost on Allard.
"I had only wondered if, perhaps," Willas tries placidly, "men of the North hold a different meaning to what inverse arms mean to Andals."
Asher says only "Nope," and then takes a long, long pull from his cup.
"I see," the heir to Highgarden says, a little lower and slower.
Allard blinks. "I don't think I do."
"Young man," the Grand Maester places a hand on young Seaworth's shoulder, "your mouth keeps opening. You might look to that."
"Aye, m'lord," the captain says with a little bit of strain in his voice. A look in that direction confirms to you that Asher's aren't the only white knuckles at the table.
"Can you tell us anything about your arms, Grand Maester?" Dany says, as if she's only just entered the room and is aware of none of the tension. "Before you swore your oaths, I mean to say."
"Alas, Your Grace," he offers her a rueful smile and casually lifts his hand from Seaworth's shoulder, "arms are put aside along with family names when our oaths are sworn. My sigil is links of knowledge," he runs a finger across his chain, "my brothers the men who forge them. I know some of them claim to forswear their family names yet keep their loyalties all the same, but I should be a poor Grand Maester indeed if I number myself among them."
Daenerys nods, unoffended. You see she has a contemplative look to her. "The Faithful do the same, yes, forswearing families and titles to their calling?" There's a sense of building to something about her.
Jace gives her a crooked smile. "They certainly say so, Your Grace."
There isn't a moment of pause before she springs her true query. "Is there a reason we do not see the same in the Night's Watch or the Kingsguard?"
A finger twists in Jacaerys' chain as he thinks at that. Eventually, he says, "I can't say I know a reason, Your Grace. I have a few ideas, but they are only thoughts, not proven truths."
"Proven or not, I imagine your thoughts are rather better informed than most," you smirk before leaning towards him a little. "Please, Grand Maester, I'd hear your theories."
"Well," he finishes his wine, then wipes idly at his mouth, a display of gathering thoughts or stalling for time? You're unsure which. "I believe that, while men of the Watch take similar oaths to us of forgoing titles, lands, wives and children, there is a difference between us. My order serves the realm, a duty greater than any one family. Now, many within the Night's Watch have families, siblings, parents." He folds his hands in his lap. "They, too, serve the realm, but stand in defence of it, or so they say. I imagine it might help, sometimes, standing in the cold and the dark and in the company of undesirable men, to have names and faces to think of defending, rather than something as intangible as 'the realm'. As to knights of the Kingsguard, well," he smiles politely at Ser Asher, "their service is to one family, one man if we are unforgiving in our reading of their oath – not the realm, certainly not the gods. And to get there, men gather honour and glory to their name. It might," his smile returns to Dany, "be understandably difficult to ask them to forswear the name they've worked to elevate."
Willas looks put off a bit. "Knights swear oaths of service before the gods, Grand Maester, to serve them and the realm, not to glorify themselves."
"Yet how often they seek the latter and not the former," Oberyn offers dryly.
"It's only my private observations, Lord Willas," Jace pours more wine into his cup, "not a statement on the institution."
Dany looks to Willas, an odd expression on her face. "My lord, you've spent the past several weeks sitting in judgment of many men who swore such oaths. Do you truly believe that all who make them hold those oaths to be unbreakable?"
"Or that such oaths might not embolden men to act in those ways?" You add, taking the decanter passed to you from Jace and refilling your own cup.
The Tyrell heir seems to have moved past 'put off' and makes for 'unsettled', with 'distraught' in sighting distance from there. "The oaths of knighthood, of chivalry, my lords, are born of righteousness and set in godly justice. What ill can come from this?"
"I have travelled across much of the world, my lord," the Grand Maester murmurs, "seen and learned many things. And I have seen as much misery brought from them who feel righteous, or look to justify themselves, as them who set out to do harm."
And it is in that moment that the servants bring in desserts, and the topic is dropped. Honeyfingers and apple tarts are handed out, and most everyone seems to relish the opportunity to leave the conversation behind to focus on these delicacies. Most everyone, you think as you glance once more to Oberyn, reclining back in his chair with the lazy grin of a cat that had a canary fly directly into his dish.
Sometimes, when you're feeding and playing with the children, you've heard Tyene refer to Aemon as a 'chaos grumkin' with a smile of fond exasperation after some of his more clever tricks that result in the adults wearing more of his food than he has eaten. As you nibble at your apple tart, you wonder if chaos grumkin might not be better applied to Aemon's great-uncle.
Dinner was a bit more tense than you had hoped, but the evening isn't quite over yet, and you have a few days yet before arriving on Dragonstone, so this won't be the running theme of the trip. You hope. Enough time has passed that your table has been cleaned up, your companions have been able to do the same, and everyone is feeling (hopefully) a bit more settled in. You open the door to your quarters, and Ser Asher is there, ready to bring you anyone you ask for.
You'd like to meet with one of your companions tonight. Who is it?
[ ] Jacaerys. The Grand Maester has been meaning to teach you about the higher mysteries. There is much to learn, and he has intimated that the privacy of a ship is well-suited for the beginnings of such an endeavour. [ ] Oberyn. The Red Viper has seemed, well, a little more ornery of late. Maybe an evening to unwind is what he (and you) could use … and you could get to the cause, if Oberyn knows of it. And there is the question of that 'snakewood' exchange… [ ] Daenerys. Your sister had good insights at dinner, and you are well-known for liking to hear smart people talk. You also could prod her a bit about Lord Willas, if you were so inclined – as Oberyn tells you, it's what brothers are for. [ ] Asher. The youngest of your Kingsguard is perhaps the one you know the least. You could try to change that with this trip, and see if there's something more than a loyal knight (and Beshka's bar-brawl buddy) to know.
It is a three-day journey to Dragonstone, so you have two more days and nights after this one. You won't necessarily lose the opportunity to speak to someone, but tonight it is these folks who are most present in the forefront of your mind. Willas would be, as well, but after the whirlwind that was dinner you think he deserves some comfort and contemplation.
I'll tell you a story from many years ago,
When Scoundrals and Braggets had sunken so low
When Pirates had taken the Great Vallar the Bold,
And sent him off to the great fires below.
In chains they had taken him hold of
But below deck a lion waited,
beaten and starved Hallucinating!
His mind was still sharp but the chaos had wasted, until Valaar rose above!
Valaar the Bold, cunning and sharp,
Able to escape from nefarious cunts!
So let the world know, of our masters strength,
Valaar the Bold escaped oh YEaY!
Deep in Valyria, the Lion swam him,
And through Valyria they were dound again,
And deep into mists of Fire and stone
Valaar proved he was a master of storms!
Valaar the Bold, cunning and sharp,
Able to escape from the wildfire Fog!
So let the world know, of our masters strength,
Valaar the Bold escaped oh YEaY!
With plunder and steel from Valyria old
Our Hero had was rescued by Lions of Old
But Krakens had come to murder them all…
You know what he did!
(WHAT DID HE DO!)
He Screamed Louder than the DOOM and tore the Kraken arm off!
Valaar the Bold, cunning and sharp,
Able to escape from the Kraken's Arms
So let the world know, of our masters strength,
Valaar the Bold escaped oh YEaY!
[X] Asher. The youngest of your Kingsguard is perhaps the one you know the least. You could try to change that with this trip, and see if there's something more than a loyal knight (and Beshka's bar-brawl buddy) to know.
"Actually, Ser Asher, would you care to join me?"
The Northerner's expression can only be described as 'gobsmacked'.
"Erm."
"Please, step inside," you walk away from the door without looking to see if he follows you. "More of an ale man than wine, yes?" Conveniently, there happen to be a few barrels of Wolfden Stout aboard, and you have already taken the liberty of having one brought up. You'd liked it the most out of the beers you'd tasted the last time you'd been in the North, and you like it now as a sometime-alternative to wine.
You're already pouring a cup when you notice you're still the only one in the room.
"Asher, please," you gently say to the still-dazed-looking knight. "Come and have a drink."
It takes him a moment longer to shake free of whatever's in his head, and he joins you. "Thank you, Your Grace," he eventually manages.
"No, no," you answer. "This is just a courtesy. What you should thank me for," you catch his eye as you hand him the cup, "is that I won't let Beshka find out how long it took you to take up an offer of free ale."
Your timing must be getting rusty: normally you can stick the landing just as your companion is downing their drink and see if they have the constitution to not snort it back up. Perhaps he's gotten too familiar with your habits to fall for it so easily, as he hadn't yet taken a drink before you finished your sentence.
He chuckles into his cup. "That I will thank you for, my king." You let him get a good long drag down, then gesture to the table. This cue he picks up on easier, likely as it's a much more familiar one for him. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I would not have expected you to have a Northern stout in your care."
"I visited the North several years ago, actually." He does start a little at that, so you think he's not as familiar with your habits as you feared. "Before marching through Essos with Stannis, I made contact with Lord Stark – well," you wiggle your hand a bit, "more that he made contact with me, and I met him there to talk about the future."
You're pretty good at reading men, how they're reacting to you, how they're feeling in the moment, and knowing what you'll need in a given situation. So you trust the instinct to push the pitcher towards Asher, and he in turn instinctively starts to refill his cup. "That isn't common knowledge, Your Grace," he says over the slosh of pouring ale. "Most folk think the Restoration was your first return to our shores."
"And any history written of it will say as much," you nod. "Perhaps as many as a dozen people in Westeros know about that trip." It's a minor confidence, not one that has any great impact on anything, but it would make for a rather messier portrait of the Northern lords who did know. So it matters more for young Ser Asher that you offer this, than for you to offer it, really.
For all the talk you'd heard of hotheadedness, Ser Asher does possess a cunning enough mind to catch something in those details, and teases out just what you'd hoped he would. "My lord father not being among those numbered," he murmurs in not quite a question.
"I don't believe he was privy to some of Lord Stark's work during that time, no," you answer diplomatically.
"I appreciate Your Grace's confidence," he says, a sincere note to his voice.
Conversations, you had learned from an early age, could be simple conversations … or they could be tactical engagements. You had learned a bit of this from watching Lord Tywin when you were a boy, seeing him engage in what seemed like casual talk but was all about positioning things where he needed them to be before he made his move, much like a cyvasse game. It frustrated your father almost as often as it confounded him, and you had little trouble deciding which man to learn from in that instance. You had gotten your pieces in place, now came the strike.
"I know reliable people when I see them," you say. You take a drink of ale. Then, "Any confidences you had in turn would be held as closely as you wanted it to be."
Asher looks into his own ale, as if he might find some answers at the bottom. He takes a swig, then sighs. "I suppose you're wondering what that was about, with Seaworth and Lord Willas."
"Not particularly." He looks at you, surprised, and you go on, "Willas tried a roundabout way of asking you a personal question, and you were less than pleased when he pursued it. I think most of us were annoyed at Seaworth – thank you for seeing to it that neither he nor Willas found the seat next to Dany, incidentally."
He smiles, tension forgotten for a moment. "I've been an older brother before, Your Grace. I'm well-practiced at interfering with young lords' intentions and not looking like I'm doing it."
"And are you still one now?" You set your cup down. "That's the direction of my thoughts: that you talk of things like that as being in your past, you wear inverted arms, and seem instinctively hostile to the mention of your father."
Asher goes to set his cup down, too, before thinking better of it and downing the whole thing. When he does set it down, he nods. "I am still an older brother, Your Grace. Nothing of that sort came out the last I spoke with my father."
"What did, then?"
He has an interesting tell, your youngest Kingsguard: when something puts him under real stress, he grits his teeth, then slides his jaw to one side, as if he were physically chewing on the stressor. It's on full display now, as Asher works his jaw a moment before finding words. "Father made a lot of things clear to me before he left. Like that I would not return with him, and my choices were to take up a white cloak or a black one, and serve with distinction, or be exiled to Essos to live out my days. That it was a great favour to him to even have the option of a white cloak, and that it would do great honour to him to have me here." He scoffs. "So I wear an inverted sigil to acknowledge my family, but spite him, with every day I wear it."
Evidently, this has been brewing in him for a little while, and he has a lot to get off of his chest. And here you thought that everything just stemmed from a problem with a girl.
It seems that Asher mistakes your contemplation for disquiet, and he holds up his hands. "Please understand, Your Grace, I didn't take my oaths out of spite, it is an honour to wear this cloak and I'm proud to serve you. It's just that I don't do it for him."
You nod. "I understand, Ser Asher. No offence was taken." In other times, you might have restrained your curiosity, but the young Kingsguard is being fairly open with you already, and you're feeling slightly less restrained than usual. "While clearly not the cause, I understood the tipping point of this to involve a woman. Was I misinformed?"
He shakes his head. "Gwyn Whitehill was waiting for me, back in the North." You blink in surprise at the name; you aren't well-versed in Northern politics and drama (especially as they tend to coalesce whenever outside threats arise, so clearly most of the petty squabbles don't mean that much in the grand scope of things) but even you know enough to grasp that a Whitehill did not belong anywhere near a Forrester in a sentence about affairs of the heart. Asher continues, unaware of your bemusement, "I don't know how Father discovered it, but I knew when it was – he started treating me different almost right off, started talking about white cloaks and honour and the needs of the family not long after that. We would butt heads before, but the arguments got…worse," he finishes.
"I see," you say, though in the moment you really don't. "You say she was waiting for you; had you intentions to wed the girl?"
He looks a little sheepish. "I don't know if we were thinking that far ahead, Your Grace." His face falls a little, though, as he thinks on it. "… but I wasn't looking to marry anyone else, and I don't know of anyone she considered. Not that it would have mattered much what we looked for or considered."
"Because of your families?" You are only passingly familiar with Lord Forrester, but commonly, lords aren't given to thinking of what their children want or think in such matters, and in your brief interactions Lord Forrester did not strike you as an uncommon man. You've not met Lord Whitehill, meanwhile, but many of the accounts you have heard are, well, uncharitable. And those are the kinder ones.
"I mean, we aren't the Brackens and the Blackwoods," Asher shrugs, "but I think both our fathers would rather seek the centre of Sothoryos, with nothing but training swords, than see such a union take place."
"I have idly thought about what might be involved in trying to fill in the edges of the map around Sothoryos," you remark. "If I knew it would be that easy to arrange…"
Asher gives a mirthless chuckle. "Well, maybe not that easy; Lord Ludd would be happy to command men to do this for him, but to do the work himself … he'd likely need a much richer prize than keeping me out of his family tree."
Your turn to shrug now. "Worth at least asking. And few would be as honest about the prospects with me, or the details," you catch his eye before it can study the bottom of his cup again. "It's an honesty I appreciate, and respect."
He looks unsure of how to take the words, settling for a "Thank you, Your Grace" that for its clunkiness feels more genuine than most of the ones you've heard while sitting on the Iron Throne. "And thank you for not holding my behaviour at dinner, or towards my father, against me."
A finger leaves your cup to point at him, while the rest maintain their grasp. "So long as it's not occurring again," you say, letting a bit of imperiousness enter your tone. "Lord Willas is far too soft-hearted," and Seaworth too dense, you almost add, "to hold it against you … but others that might encounter it will. People will understand being young and far from home, for a time, but that is a grace period from them that will not long endure. And if you mean to keep these personal arms, you should be prepared to face questions from people you cannot glare or beat into submission."
Appropriately chastened, Ser Asher nods. "Yes, Your Grace."
You gently clap his arm as you slowly stand. "That's a good lad." He rises to follow you, and you feel mildly envious that there isn't even a hint of hesitation or wobble to him. Northerners have just the most unfair constitution for drink, you grouse to yourself as he opens the door ahead of you.
Before he steps outside your door, you gently catch his arm again. He turns for you to whisper in his ear, "It would be a friend who ensured Lord Tyrell enjoyed no private conference, of what degree soever, with the princess."
He whispers back, "Your Grace's pardon, I had for my own amusement already meant to see to that until asked or ordered otherwise."
"I knew I liked you for a reason," you smile before leaving him to his duties. In fairness, you know you don't really have cause for concern or for interference. You do, in theory, have a purpose in seeing who will break first: the unfailingly polite Willas, or your demure sister; if he breaks, when and how could tell you just how much he understands of his place and what would be expected of any husband to your sister; and if she breaks first it tells you she has genuine interest in him and you'll see about things progressing from that point.
But if you're really honest with yourself, you're just curious to see who breaks first, and how long you and Ser Asher (and whomever else you loop into this) can amuse yourselves for.
