The Three-Headed Dragon: A Viserys Targaryen Quest Continuation [abandoned]

Magoose · Feb 9, 2021

@Marlowe310811 just like to inform you that there are omakes here.

Magoose · Feb 17, 2021

Name: Viserys Targaryen, King of Westeros

Class: Rouge/Fighter Hybrid

Race: Human (Valyrian Blooded)

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

EXP: 100/1000

Languages Known: Common, Valyrian Free cities, High Valyrian, Lysini.

Strength: 10

Dexterity: 12

Constitution: 11

intelligence: 10

Wisdom:9

Charisma:16

HP: 100/100

AP: (Valyrian Steel Armor): 200/???

Weapon: Stormbreaker: Valyrian steel greatsword. (3d6 Slashing attack)

Skills:
Uncanny Dodge

Traits:
King
Etheral Sight
Seer

@Marlowe310811 I'm board here's a semi created DnD sheet.

Stardust&Scotch · Feb 24, 2021

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.

TBC

Swedish15 · Feb 24, 2021

Welp. Fuck. Though Davos and Aegon remain awesome.

KnightDisciple · Feb 24, 2021

Swedish15 said:
Welp. Fuck. Though Davos and Aegon remain awesome.

Indeed. They are the buddy-cop movie I didn't know I needed, until I read it. And now I need it.

Themarineguy · Feb 24, 2021

Marlowe310811 said:
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.

...Why does it seem like we may have a serial killer on the loose...

Alexander Sturnn · Feb 24, 2021

Themarineguy said:
...Why does it seem like we may have a serial killer on the loose...

Because we do. I just wonder who it is?

Magoose · Feb 24, 2021

Alright lets see... Oh... this is good.

Marlowe310811 said:
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.

I knew it, I knew every female companion was in on it.

Marlowe310811 said:
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.

Ned knows... he always knows.

Also, seeing Cat locking herself up in a tower is something I would pay money to see.

Marlowe310811 said:
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.

Good lord, we are getting milage on Aegon being Rhaegar story line... and it's awesome.

Marlowe310811 said:
Smiling at the mildness of the taunt, Arya drew her bravo's blade, and set out to do just that.

Did jon give her that blade?

Marlowe310811 said:
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.

I'm going to need a minute.

This is disturbing.

Marlowe310811 said:
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."

The Egg and the Onion, part of a balanced breakfast...

I do not care, that is amazing.

Marlowe310811 said:
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.

We have a serial killer on the loose.

Stardust&Scotch · Feb 25, 2021

Alexander Sturnn said:
The Bashers

Good fun - semi-canon, and a +10 to you, @Alexander Sturnn!

Magoose said:
Also, seeing Cat locking herself up in a tower is something I would pay money to see.

Perhaps that line is poorly phrased -- the intended meaning was that if Cat heard Arya say "I wanna be Asha Greyjoy when I grow up", Cat's immediate response would be "NOOOP" and then never let Arya out of her or the septa's sight, while longing for the days when her worst nightmare was just that Arya might turn out like a Mormont or a Dornishwoman.

Did jon give her that blade?

I was never able to find a non-hamhanded way of slipping the backstory in, and I dunno that the opportunity will organically present itself in-narrative, so I'll just say "sort of, yes" -- canon butterflies (not Naathi ones) mean that Arya actually received that sword a bit earlier. And it was a gift from Jon and Robb together. On the trip down from Winterfell, Jon and Arya would sneak away every once in a while for him to help instruct her. As a result, her initial training leaned more in the 'honorable knight' direction than the 'waterdancing' direction ... and when she started training with Asha, she had a similar experience of "oh, you want to fight fair? lolno". The mishmash of instructors, personalities, and philosophies of training and combat, mean that (should this continue into her being of an appropriate age) her character sheet and combat skill is going to look very interesting.

meri47 · Feb 25, 2021

The serial killers display made me think of the NBC Hannibal series. Which is to say, very well done and rather anxiety inducing. While serial killers are hardly a 21st century invention, I shudder to think how many of them could be creeping around in Flea Bottom alone; wretched hive that it is. The fact that the killer- or just a creepy voyeur- was actually drooling over it? He's going to be nasty to deal with. Here's hoping that we don't have to hunt for a "Willem of the Graham" or whoever to solve this!

Magoose · Feb 25, 2021

Marlowe310811 said:
Perhaps that line is poorly phrased -- the intended meaning was that if Cat heard Arya say "I wanna be Asha Greyjoy when I grow up", Cat's immediate response would be "NOOOP" and then never let Arya out of her or the septa's sight, while longing for the days when her worst nightmare was just that Arya might turn out like a Mormont or a Dornishwoman.

Does Cat have a poor view of the Mormonts?

Because they are loyal Bannermen!

Marlowe310811 said:
I was never able to find a non-hamhanded way of slipping the backstory in, and I dunno that the opportunity will organically present itself in-narrative, so I'll just say "sort of, yes" -- canon butterflies (not Naathi ones) mean that Arya actually received that sword a bit earlier. And it was a gift from Jon and Robb together. On the trip down from Winterfell, Jon and Arya would sneak away every once in a while for him to help instruct her. As a result, her initial training leaned more in the 'honorable knight' direction than the 'waterdancing' direction ... and when she started training with Asha, she had a similar experience of "oh, you want to fight fair? lolno". The mishmash of instructors, personalities, and philosophies of training and combat, mean that (should this continue into her being of an appropriate age) her character sheet and combat skill is going to look very interesting.

Oh...

Arya being the greatest warrior in the world when?

Orumon27 · Feb 25, 2021

Hmm, I think it's because Cat is too much a traditional Andal lady with active opposition to the idea of operating as a practical northern woman or Ironborn cuthroat. The Andals are perhaps the most cliche medieval culture in the setting.

Stardust&Scotch · Feb 25, 2021

Alexander Sturnn said:
Because we do. I just wonder who it is?

...okay, on the one hand, when I'm on the other side of it I kinda hate when QMs troll their readers and/or send them on a wild goose chase/Easter-egg hunt. But on the other hand, as a QM I can't help myself: there are little hints as to the identity of this person, going back almost to the very beginning of the present quest.

If people do figure it out, I'm not necessarily gonna let them know, but I would also hate to think I left breadcrumbs only for people to feel like the eventual reveal came out of nowhere.

meri47 said:
The serial killers display made me think of the NBC Hannibal series. Which is to say, very well done and rather anxiety inducing. While serial killers are hardly a 21st century invention, I shudder to think how many of them could be creeping around in Flea Bottom alone; wretched hive that it is. The fact that the killer- or just a creepy voyeur- was actually drooling over it? He's going to be nasty to deal with. Here's hoping that we don't have to hunt for a "Willem of the Graham" or whoever to solve this!

I am both deeply flattered and glad there's another fan of the show here! I won't pretend that the Shrike and Hannibal's copycat from the pilot weren't partially an inspiration here, but the imagery is just too evocative to not lean on, even if the psychology behind the guy is completely different.

I suspect you might enjoy the next installment especially!

Magoose said:
Does Cat have a poor view of the Mormonts?

Because they are loyal Bannermen!

Basically this:

Orumon27 said:
Hmm, I think it's because Cat is too much a traditional Andal lady with active opposition to the idea of operating as a practical northern woman or Ironborn cuthroat. The Andals are perhaps the most cliche medieval culture in the setting.

Cat has appropriate respect for House Mormont as loyal bannermen, and for Lord Jorah in particular given his efforts to shield her and her family from Littlefinger. And she was perfectly gracious and happy to host Lord Domeric and Lady Dacey at Winterfell for their wedding.

But when it was just her and Septa Mordane, she breathed a huge sigh of relief that Dacey Mormont would not be marrying her son. She respects them, sure. Values Ser Jorah immensely. Even likes Dacey in small, infrequent doses. That doesn't mean she wants a Mormont for a good-daughter, or (Seven forbid) to have wildblooded half-Mormont grandchildren driving her spare. And with Dacey off the market, the possibility of that just nosedived. (the telling thing is that even her "worst nightmare" was still a lady who is perfectly capable of presenting a noble image and behaving as a 'proper lady' does. her mind couldn't conceive of a woman like Asha Greyjoy being a potential good-daughter ... or that her youngest daughter might aspire to be like Asha. Cat still firmly believes that Arya can and will "grow out of it")

Elder Haman · Feb 25, 2021

To be fair to Cat, Arya probably would "grow out of it," at least to an extent. In a normal childhood, once Arya got to the age that boys started being interesting, and she realized that she's actually very beautiful (like Lyanna) Arya's activities would most likely start to shift.

She wouldn't become Sansa, but shifting more towards a slightly wild Northwoman who rides horses, goes hunting with a bow, has skill with a blade, etc wouldn't put her too much out of her societies norms, at least among Northmen that is. And Cat would probably end up making her peace with it too. The Starks are incredibly well adjusted compared to everyone else in the story. Even their family dramas are pretty normal and muted. Even the other well adjusted great family in the story (the Tyrells) are far more twisted up than the Starks.

Magoose · Mar 11, 2021

Desert Snakes:

(Doran POV)

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.

Yo @Marlowe310811 here's an omake.

Stardust&Scotch · Mar 17, 2021

Magoose said:
Desert Snakes

Thumbs up! Canon, one more +10 for your ever-growing horde.

Magoose · Mar 17, 2021

Magoose said:
Desert Snakes:

(Doran POV)

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.

Yo @Marlowe310811 here's an omake.

Oh goodie more things to kill littlefinger with

Alexander Sturnn · Mar 17, 2021

Magoose said:
Oh goodie more things to kill littlefinger with

I can get behind that.

Magoose · Mar 27, 2021

@Marlowe310811 I have a question for an omake I'm writing.

Does Jaime still have Brightroar?

Stardust&Scotch · Mar 30, 2021

Magoose said:
@Marlowe310811 I have a question for an omake I'm writing.

Does Jaime still have Brightroar?

He does; I'm pretty militant about keeping the character sheets up to date, partly so writers have as much complete information ~~as I'm willing to give them~~ as possible, and partly so I can double back and confirm tidbits of info for myself. To paraphrase Professor Jones, "I wrote it down so I wouldn't have to remember it."

Magoose · Mar 31, 2021

Marlowe310811 said:
He does; I'm pretty militant about keeping the character sheets up to date, partly so writers have as much complete information ~~as I'm willing to give them~~ as possible, and partly so I can double back and confirm tidbits of info for myself. To paraphrase Professor Jones, "I wrote it down so I wouldn't have to remember it."

Thank you.

i was just wondering, because I remembered in the last Quest, Gerion wishing to have Brightroar painted with Jaime as the one holding it.

It just makes sense. Also, Gerion does deserve to get all the money he got back from Tywin now that Tyrion is in command.

Magoose · Apr 2, 2021

Fear is the Mind Killer:

(Edric Dayne POV)

When you had heard of Gerolds Treachery, Edric immediately came to see the blade itself. To make sure it was not stolen by the Darkstar and his compatriots who had fled into the desert, with your men chasing after him, to make sure he was brought before the King's Justice.

Dawn was a blade as pale as Milkglass, and bigger than you were by a large margin, though, he was still just a boy, a boy who was not grown into the hight that his family knew he could grow.

After all, everyone around him said he just like Arthur and his father at his age. Arthur, the last Sword of the Morning.

Only a worthy knight of House Dayne could wield the blade, and call himself the Sword of the Morning.

Even as it rested in the Star Keep's great Garden, where the sun bathed the sword in it's light, it seemed to glow in an unnatural brightness that was very… calming. Like it's very presence brought something within you that you did not understand. You had been around the blade since you were a small child…

Yet whenever anyone saw the blade, they just saw a resting blade, not surrounded by the light of the glow that seemed to radiate from the blade.

They just saw Dawn.

That made you ask a question…

Was Dawn calling to you? Was it telling you that you were the next sword of the Morning?

It was a question that, as you grew older, wracked your brain and filled you with worry.

Were you even worthy of Dawn, the blade of so many great knights and legends of Westeros?

You didn't feel worthy at all. Just a terrible sense of dread, and fear… that you could never live up to the great legacy and demands that Dawn commanded, and needed for a new Sword of the Morning.

Try as you might, you were not a great swordsman… you were not a great knight… or lord.

You were just a boy who was afraid.

And as you looked at Dawn, you asking it a single question.

"Am I worthy of you, to become the Sword of the Morning?"

There was no answer.

But as you walked away, there was a sensation you had not felt before… the glow was brighter, the blade felt… sharper, even as you were far away, begging to be used.

If it had given you an answer… you did not understand.

Perhaps… when you felt worthy to wield the blade… you would ask again.

AN: So I've begun a small trilogy of Ned Dayne Tales... each showing one thing...

That he is worthy of being Sword of the Morning.

@Marlowe310811 here is an omake.

Stardust&Scotch · Jun 26, 2021

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.

Alexander Sturnn · Jun 26, 2021

...Not sure what exactly Tywin is up to here, but I do NOT like it one bit.

Swedish15 · Jun 26, 2021

Hello, Hannibal Lecter! Eh, Tywin Lannister!

Also, damn glad to see you back, @Marlowe310811 , and I hope therapy works out for you.

EDIT: And I mean this literally. The entire scene gets me very much Silence of the Lambs flashbacks, and if one recalls who, exactly, is behind Buffalo Bill....

The Three-Headed Dragon: A Viserys Targaryen Quest Continuation [abandoned]

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Love God. Do Right. Fear No Man.

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