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Chapter Text

The sun was rising as King’s Landing died. Screams of women and children mingled in the air with the din of battle as the column of chosen men rode through the streets towards Aegon’s Hill and the Red Keep standing strong upon it.

            These men were knights and men-at-arms ,some of the finest in the Westerlands, and specifically chosen by their lord Tywin Lannister for the task at hand. Lord Roland Crakehall took pride of place at the front of the column as it moved through the streets with many others close at hand. Ser Elys Westerling rode at his right hand and Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides, rode at his left. Ser Amory Lorch rode just behind, licking his pale, piggy lips in anticipation for what was to come.

            Lorch had known from a young age he was made for killing. That he enjoyed killing. When he was a younger man, he had hunted in the hills around his father’s holdfast, if it could bleed he would bring it down with spear or bow. Some men hunted for sport, for the challenge of hunting something that could be dangerous or quick or clever. That was not the type of man Ser Amory was, he hunted because he enjoyed the blood and the power it gave him. He enjoyed seeing some small, weak thing quivering and bloody beneath his blade as it took its last feeble breaths before he stole its life away. 

Amory had enjoyed this life of leisure, few of the burdens and all of the privileges that came with being the second son of a landed knight. Then, as all good things did he supposed, it came to an end when his father died of a burst belly. His brother had inherited their father’s lands and power. Amory young, lost and adrift in the world, had needed to find a way to his own wealth and power in the world. Lorent had made it clear that he would abide Amory's lifestyle for a time, seeing as he brought in a certain amount of game with his leisure, but that that too would come to an end and Amory would needs earn his keep in truth. 

            One day after that, when it felt as if that time was coming nigh that Amory would need to earn his own keep, Amory went hunting in the hills for a particularly large hind rumored to be in the area. Amory and the hind had my by chance drinking from a pool. The hind’s rack had been marvelous to see and would have looked more marvelous still mounted over a hearth. Amory remembered the taste on his lips as he aimed his crossbow, he would savor watching something so pretty die at his hands. Just as his fingers, clad in kid skin, tightened on the lock of the crossbow a moan from a nearby bush. The hind started, the bolt went wide and Amory's game got away. When he rode over to the bushes he found a pair of smallfolk, a boy and a girl, the boy at least five and ten judging by the wisp of a 'stache on his upper lip, the girl no more than three and ten to look at her. 

            Oh, how they had begged forgiveness for ruining his hunt! Oh, how they had screamed when he gave them his wroth! He had grabbed the girl by the hair and pulled her naked in front of him on his horse; she had wept and screamed as he chased the boy through the hills and trees riding him down again and again, cutting at him enough to bleed him but leave him able to keep up the chase. When the boy was in ribbons and could run no more Lorch rode him down one last time, cutting him from groin to gullet spilling guts and gore all over the field. Amory Lorch had thrown the peasant girl down as the boy lay dying and taken his pleasure from her before riding off as the sun set. It wouldn't do for him to be caught out at night when the shadowcats started to prowl. 

            Hunting game had grown boring for him after that. Fortunately, not long after that Tywin Lannister called his banners to put down the over mighty Lords Tarbeck and Reyne and Amory had gotten to kill again.

            The pig-faced man licked his lips again and smiled at the memory of pushing little Lord Tarbeck down a well while watching his men cut the tongue’s from his older sisters’ mouths before sending them to be brides of the Stranger. It had been that enjoyable work for the Lord of Casterly Rock’s son that had earned Ser Amory his lands and wealth. There were always people that needed to be murdered and smallfolk who needed despoiling that the Lords of Lannister could not be seen doing themselves.

            Other men would have done it for the gold, the land, or the women. Ser Amory did it for the pleasure of killing.

            True, there were some who would say he was not a ‘true’ knight. Not the kind of knight singers would write songs about that maidens would swoon over. Some would say that he had broken his oaths taken as a knight. Amory Lorch was not the type to think deeply about such things, but if pressed he might have said that he kept his oath to serve his liege lord faithfully.

            Which was why he now rode to murder a widow, her three year old daughter, and her suckling babe at arms.

            He was not the only one on his mission of course, Lord Tywin was nothing if not thorough and the Mountain that Rides would make a good companion in this work. A young man, scarcely eight and ten, he was the largest of the chosen company closer to eight feet than seven and with shoulders as broad as a castle wall. He was garbed in thick plate, grey steel unadorned and simple. Ser Amory Lorch wore much the same. It was the only thing besides their secret mission to separate them from the others. 

            The walls of the Red Keep came up quickly and suddenly the fighting was begun. They had been told that Ser Jaime had been placed in charge of the defenses for the Red Keep and it seemed that he had not slacked at his duty. Arrows and rocks began to fall amidst the riders, bouncing off the plate of those who had it and lodging in the shields of those who did not. Occasionally a horse would scream when struck and send its rider tumbling with it when it fell.

            Still the Westermen came on up Aegon’s Hill disdainful of the defenders attempts to slow or stop them. Grappling hooks appeared in the hands of some and ladders were hefted over the shoulders of others. With a shout the grapples were tossed, and the ladders were brought to the walls.

            Dismounting hastily Ser Amory moved to climb up the ladder, not hurrying to be the first up the ladder but not necessarily holding back. It would not do for him to seem a craven at a moment like this.

            Ser Gregor was the first upon the wall of course, the defenders’ weapons merely bounced off of his armor and then they died screaming cut down like wheat in a field with a swing of his giant great sword. Hot blood splattered on Ser Amory’s face as he climbed up onto the wall a smile blossoming across his piggy face. Ripping his sword from its scabbard he stood side by side with Ser Gregor and some others cutting their way through the fools who did not run shitting themselves in terror.

            The defenders did not stand before this onslaught long, quickly routing and yielding the walls to the Westermen. Two men-at-arms moved to lift the gate and allow more of the attackers to enter as the knights moved down the steps swords red with blood hacking down any misfortunate fools who found themselves within reach of their blades.

            Westerling and Crakehall had already broken through to the Red Keep with several knights of their entourage forcing their way up the steps the large doors.

            “Lorch! Let’s go!” Clegane roared pointing a blood stained sword at Maegor’s Holdfast where the draw bridge was down and the door on its other side unguarded.

            Lorch grunted in answer unsheathing his sword from the guts of some poor, foolish boy whose leather armor gave little protection against his steel. With the Mountain in the lead the two butchers forced their way across the yard wherelast of the Targaryen Loyalists formed a weak semi-circle trying to stop any more Westermen moving passed them.

            Leading the small portion of fighters before Lorch and Clegane was a lord in a black and grey surcoat with black wings on white in the center. Lord Symond Staunton, master of laws.

            Perhaps the Lord of Rook’s Rest had had no way to honorably flee from the city like many others, perhaps he had finally grown some balls, whatever the reason he stood between the Mountain and his goal. He did not stand long.

            Leaping into the center of the two man deep line in front of him the Mountain slammed the edge of his shield into the face of the first man in the line and took the head off of Lord Staunton in one swing of his great sword. The others in the line screamed and began to run denying Lorch the pleasure of killing any of them.

            It doesn’t matter, there are plenty to be killed in there. The pig-faced knight thought as he and the Mountain crossed the drawbridge of the Holdfast, the first foes to ever take the Holdfast by storm in history though neither would care. Beyond the bridge there was only a door of oak and iron keeping them separate from Elia Martell and her children from them. It would take multiple strong men with a thick battering ram quite some time to bring down that door. Gregor Clegane took a step back to kick it down in an instant.

            A spear sprouted from the oaken door buried up to its shaft into the center of that door, a hands breadth to the left or right and it would have struck Ser Amory or Ser Gregor.

            “Gregor! Hold!” A voice shouted out with authority from across the drawbridge.

            Ser Amory turned quickly lifting his sword with a smile on his face wondering who had come to give him the opportunity to kill him.

            That smile died faster than Lord Staunton had.

            Standing across the drawbridge in a lion’s head helm with golden armor and a white cloak was Ser Jaime Lannister. And he was pointing his gilded sword at them. There was blood on the tip of the sword.              

            “Ser Jaime,” Ser Amory greeted Tywin Lannister’s son attempting to sound as amicable as possible. It was obvious he was terrfied. “Should you not be guarding the king?” Shouldn't you be pointing that fucking sword at Roland Crakehall or Elyas Westerling, or any other gods-be-damned bastard than me? Was what he really meant. His eyes returned to the blood at the tip of Ser Jaime's sword. The thought that that blood might have come from those men made Lorch's knees feel weak. 

            Jaime did not show any fear on his face; there were two knights behind him; one’s arms were black and red with a silver flail in the center and the other had two black war hammers on white crossing a field of blue. Three knights against the two, with one being the Mountain and one being Jame Lannister. This was not a fair fight for either side.

            Amory Lorch would have thanked the Seven for his faceguard if he had been the type to pray, the Lion of Lannister could not see his fear and neither could the Mountain or these two other knights.

            “The Mad King is dead, and you are standing between the Kingsguard and the King. Not a safe place to be.” Jaime spoke, a man of eight-and-ten he showed more bravery and sense than Lorch would ever possess.

            An embarrassing noise escaped Lorch’s throat as he took a slight step forward placing himself between Jaime and Gregor. It was a sound that was a mix of fear and gasping for words to say. Plenty of times he had heard that sound coming from the smallfolk he butchered, he had never dreamed he would make it himself. He needed some lie, some excuse, and some protection from that gilded sword! Lord Tywin will understand, surely? He will forgive this failure. Lorch lied to himself as he lowered his own sword just slightly.

            “Drop your swords and come across in peace Ser Amory, Ser Gregor. The fighting is done. If I must come across this bridge in war, you will die.” Jaime threatened. No, he did not threaten. He promised. Amory Lorch nearly pissed himself then, imagining what Lord Tywin Lannister would do if he found out he had bared his steel against his favorite son.

            Lorch was not given a moment to answer though. The Mountain was not a fool, nor a stupid man. He had to know that fighting Jaime had no good ending, that Tywin would not reward him for killing his son. But Ser Gregor’s blood was up from the slaughter, and he did not see Ser Jaime as his lord’s son. He just saw a fool in a white cloak threatening to kill him.

            The Mountain let out a roar to shake the foundation of the Red Keep and charged forward bowling Ser Amory to the side and through the air. Amory screamed as he flew down into the dry moat. His sword tumbled from his hand and the weight of his armor brought him down on one of the wicked iron spikes with enough force to pierce his armor at one side and come out the other.

            Now Amory Lorch did piss himself. And shit himself as well. He let out a pitiful moan, the only sound he could make with a spear through his innards. He squirmed and moaned attempting to find some way off of the spike to no avail. It would take him more than a half an hour to die, and the last thing he would see was the Mountain and the Lion clashing on the drawbridge of Maegor’s Holdfast.

            And so died Ser Amory of House Lorch, at the age of eight and thirty impaled on an iron spike through accident at the hands of his ally. He died reeking of piss and shit and moaning pitifully. He was a rapist and a murderer, and a child killer. He would not be missed.

Chapter Text

   By the time the cock crowed to greet the coming dawn and Baelor’s bells rang to call the acolytes and septons to their prayers Jaime had already been awake for far longer than he could ever remember being before. For nearly a moon’s turn he had been doing the work of seven men all by himself. Visenya Targaryen had chosen seven men to where the white and defend the king, one for each of the Seven. If Jaime could ask that former Queen of the Seven Kingdoms one thing it would be why she thought seven men could guard one man and his family all hours of the day without rest.

            Leaning back against the wall outside of the King’s chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast Jaime rested his head back against the wall and closed his eyes for the briefest of moments. He did not sleep, but still he dreamed.

            He dreamed of the boy he had been two years ago, it felt like a lifetime. Jaime Lannister, the son and heir of Lord Tywin Lannister, squire to Lord Sumner Crakehall, a warrior in the royal forces battling against the Kingswood Brotherhood. He had been a carefree youth, riding with his heroes with few cares in the world. It had been rough riding and rough camping true, but Jaime had taken to it like a lion to the hunt. Those were the best years of his life, like riding in a song. A song where heroes such as Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, Sumner Crakehall the Old Boar, Ser Gerold Hightower the White Bull and Ser Barristan the Bold did battle against outlaws with names like: Wenda the White Fawn, Oswyn Longneck the Thrice-Hanged, Fletcher Dick, Big Belly Ben, Simon Toyne and the most fearsome of all, the Smiling Knight.

            Three of Ser Jaime’s four proudest moments took place in that campaign. First, he saved Lord Crakehall from falling in battle to Big Belly Ben and his big hammer. Then, riding with Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan while Lord Crakehall returned to King’s Landing to recover he had been able to cross blades with the Smiling Knight himself and witnessed the legendary duel between the Smiling Knight and the Sword of the Morning, the memory of steel on steel was clear in his mind. Finally, the pinnacle of the campaign for Jaime, Ser Arthur Dayne bid Jaime to kneel there in the field and knighted him with his magic sword Dawn.

            The only prouder moment had been at Harrenhal when Lord Commander Gerold Hightower placed the white cloak on his shoulders, and he stood a knight of the Kingsguard.

            The same thing that had soiled that last moment for Jaime soiled his daydreams now. “Lannister! I’d break my fast! Send a page boy to the kitchens for my morning meal!” King Aerys voice shouted through the heavy oak door sounded like a rusty razor blade scraping across a slate.

            “Yes, Your Grace.” Jaime answered hiding the tiredness in his voice.

            Stepping down the stone hallway of Maegor’s Jaime made it only to the top of the steps, from which he planned to call for a the steward to send a pageboy, before the form of a small boy slammed into his abdomen bouncing off his breast plate and back towards the steps.

            Quick as a cat, Jaime reached out a hand wrapped in a gilded gauntlet and caught the lad by the shoulder of his tunic and hauled him back to the sturdy ground of the landing. Shaken and shocked by the accident, the boy did not say a word before thrusting a parchment into Jaime’s hands and hurrying back down the steps. Looking down at the parchment Jaime found it was written in the small, womanish hand of Varys the Spider, a eunuch from the Free Cities who was master of whisperers for King Aerys.

            An army has been sighted moving east along the Blackwater. The small council is in the chamber. Please notify the King immediately.

            Tossing the parchment to the ground Jaime turned about and knocked on the door to the king’s chambers.

            “Your Majesty, word from the Spider. An army is approaching the city and the council is gathering in the council chambers.”

            “What!? I will be there in a moment!” That voice like a rusty razor answered and Jaime heard the lid to the King’s chamber pot slam down and the King hurriedly sliding on clothes. Jaime resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose as the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms exited his chambers.

            It was said King Aerys had been considered handsome in his youth, charming even, Jaime knew that he and his father had even been close friends in their youth. Whatever Aerys Targaryen had been in his youth had vanished with the Defiance of Duskendale. Paranoia now ruled the mind of the man that ruled the Seven Kingdoms. He had forbidden any blades but those of his Kingsguard in his presence, so his nails were uncut, nine-inch yellow claws; his silver-gold hair was wild and bedraggled and went to his waist; his beard was matted and all of him was unwashed.

            Without a word Jaime turned and walked down the hall going first and keeping his eyes open for any kind of threat to his King. He saw none, though mayhaps the King saw half-a-hundred, but he did see a matronly, round faced woman rocking the baby Prince Aegon in her arms in the nursery on the floor below the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone’s chambers. Jaime gave the round, pin moon-faced woman a subtle nod as was graced with a matronly smile in return. No doubt the woman’s smile died when she saw the beast that was her king.

            The small council chambers were just off the Great Hall where sat the Iron Throne. What members of the small council that remained in the capital and in the world were already gathered around the long table that sat in the center of the room. King Aerys took his seat at the head of the table, slouching and looking about with a grimace on his face. Jaime took his position beside the door to the chamber and surveyed those lords that remained.

            Symond Staunton, the overly ambitious master of laws, looked to be still asleep sitting at the table leaning on his arm and yawning a big yawn. Jaime considered the man a fool, only seeking to accumulate as much wealth and power as he was able from the Mad King and in the regency he was hoping would come.

            Grand Maester Pycelle was a wise looking man with a long snowy white beard that ran down his chest and a balding head. Wrapped about his neck was the many-metaled chain of a maester, each link hand-forged by Pycelle himself.

            Rossart was a common looking man, thin and wrinkled. A Grand Master and Wisdom in the Alchemists’ Guild. ‘Lord’ Rossart had been Hand of the King for a fortnight now, after burning the last one alive in wildfire on the orders of his king. That was what had brought Rossart to the Mad King’s attention, he was the man who fed the Mad King’s fetish for the screams of burning men and the smell of man’s flesh cooking in green flames. Jaime was not sure he had ever felt such disdain for another human being as he did for ‘Lord’ Rossart.

            Nominally the small council was meant to consist of seven men: a Hand of the King, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, master of coin, master of laws, master of whisperers, master of ships and the Grand Maester. Lord Commander Gerold Hightower had gone south to find Prince Rhaegar and had not returned. Whence he had gone and what he was doing now was a mystery Jaime did not have time to ponder, though he missed his Lord Commander and the other two brothers that could not be accounted for. Lord Qarlton Chelsted had been master of coin, before being named Hand of the King and being burnt alive about a fortnight prior. The master of ships, Lord Lucerys Velaryon, had sailed to Dragonstone with Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys about a fortnight prior as well. Conspicous in his absence was Lord Varys the Spider, the eunuch master of whisperers whose spies had spotted the approaching army first.

            “Where is the Spider? Where is my master of whisperers?” King Aerys growled, claws gripping the arms of his chair.

            Each of the councilors looked to another thinking one of them may have heard the eunuch say where he may have gone. Seeing that none of his councilmen seemed to know where Varys was Aerys’ pale face began to grow flushed, and just before the Targaryen King seemed to be ready to unleash his wroth on those present the eunuch seemed to materialize from the shadows of a far wall.

            “My apologies my lords, Your Grace, I was seeing to the business of the realm.” The effeminate eunuch apologized as he materialized from the shadows. Plump, bald, powdered, perfumed, and clad in silks and soft slippers Varys the Spider stood out more than any other person at court. He also seemed to know every secret ever whispered or written within the Seven Kingdoms within moments of it escaping into the world.

            “Varys, Varys, Varys. Tell us what you have caught in your webs this time.” King Aerys said clicking his nail-claws together.

            “My little birds spotted the army stealing a pre-dawn march, and they are now just outside of the city. I have only just now received reports that the golden lion of House Lannister is marching on King’s Landing, my liege.” Each man in the room seemed to shift in their seats, resisting the urge to turn and look at Jaime or ask him what he knew of his father’s actions. Jaime himself shifted where he stood, uncertain of what was to come.

            “So, Tywin Lannister has come at last. But does he come as friend or foe?! What do you say my small council?!” King Aerys asked looking to each and every one of his councilors and Jaime as well.

            “King Aerys,” Pycelle began. “We must open the gates! Lord Tywin has always been your nearest and dearest friend. It was he who laid his sword on your kingly shoulders during the War of the Ninepenny Kings to knight you. He who served you faithfully as Hand of the King for twenty years, good years, what greater friend is there than one who comes to the aid of another who is in need? So, Your Grace, I urge you to open the gates and join your forces with your servant and friend’s and together you will lead your army and crush the rebels like you crushed Maelys the Monstrous all of those years ago.”

            “I would not be so certain Grand Maester, Your Grace. Lord Tywin has always been an ambitious man, a pragmatic man. No doubt he has received word of the Battle of the Trident and has come to take the opportunity to ingratiate himself to Robert Baratheon and seize power in the Usurper’s court by being the one to have taken King’s Landing for the rebellion.” Varys countered pressing his fingers against each other and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

            King Aerys looked from the eunuch to the maester and back again, the Hand and Lord Staunton remained silent eyes looking to some far-off place only they could see. Jaime knew what Rossart was thinking though, he knew of the wildfire plot and Rossart’s fascination with burning. What greater burning could there be for such a man than consuming an entire city and an army in a conflagration that would be talked about for centuries to come?

            Finally, King Aerys made his decision.

            “Staunton go to Manly Stokeworth, tell him to open the gates. But ready the Red Keep’s garrison. I’ll show Lord Tywin that he is not coming to rescue me, but to serve me, heh. Ser Jaime go and see to the preparations to greet your father. You will hold the Red Keep until he comes to kneel at my feet. I will await him in the throne room. What are you waiting for? You’re dismissed.” The Mad King ordered waiving them away with one scabbed and bloody arm. The King was off cutting himself on the Iron Throne.

            Jaime went then and did as he was told seeing to the defense of the Red Keep. Much of the men he had to work with were Kingslanders and all the knights were from the crownlands. Picking six knights at first sight, Rykker, Thorne, Buckwell, Hayford, Harte, Cressey. He stationed them in front of the Great Hall and then went about checking the sentries and posts along the inner walls.

            Doing his rounds, Jaime saw Lord Staunton joining with the guards who were marshalling in the yard between the gate and the rest of the Red Keep. They would be the last line of defense if it came to that, wish Jaime hoped it wouldn’t. There were maybe three hundred knights and men at arms gathered together on Aegon’s High Hill. Most of them were the first stragglers who had made it back from the Trident along the Rosby road. There were more in the city, but those were Lord Manly Stokeworth’s concern as Commander of the City Watch. These men were Jaime’s and they were afraid.

             As Jaime walked across the yard, he saw the men looking to him for hope, for courage, for the least bit of certainty that they might live to see another such dawn. Jaime gave what he could; patting one on the shoulder, smiling to another, sharing a joke between three that were standing in a circle. It was a false hope though, Jaime was not so certain how this day would go, he hoped that Pycelle was right, but his gut told him that Varys knew his Father’s heart better. There were several knights of the Kingsguard that had faced difficult decisions in their lives, to Jaime’s knowledge the worst off had been the poor buggers who had worn the white during the reign of Maegor the Cruel and during the Dance of Dragons. So far as he could recall none had ever been called to take up arms against their own father. He looked down at the sword at his hip and wondered what he would do if it came to that.

            Jaime glistened in the dawn-light glow as he climbed the steps to the top of the walls of the Red Keep. Cersei had purchased his gilded armor for him and the gilded sword as well, as congratulatory gifts for her scheme coming to fruition. His helmet was a roaring lion that he kept lifted to reveal his face. All of him was gold, all of him save his white cloak. From atop the battlements Jaime looked out over the city of King’s Landing as the first rays of sunlight illumined the streets and houses.

            Nearly half a million souls, either just waking or beginning their day. They did not know what was about to befall them. They had no way of knowing either.

            Jaime’s eyes followed the road that had been carved in the valley between the Hills of the Two Sisters to the Gate of the Gods to the west. In that direction the twilight ruled the land, and Jaime had turned his back to the light. Jaime’s young eyes could just make out the movement of torches and the lifting of the gates in the early light.

            Beyond the gates there was only darkness, the westermen had stolen their march in the night as the Spider had said. Jaime could make nothing out.

            Then, Jaime’s eyes caught sight of one of the torches falling to the ground soon followed by another. It was too far to hear the dying men’s screams but Jaime did not need the sound of the horn to confirm what he knew in his gut. The Spider had been right.

            “Shut the gates!” Jaime called out moving on instinct, his voice filled with command. Turning to the scrawny youth who was his message-boy. “You, go to the King, ask him leave for me to make terms.” That was their only hope. That Jaime could convince Father to spare their lives.

            The boy’s face grew pale, and he ran across the yard like a bolt shot from a crossbow. Jaime turned back to look at the oncoming line of troops moving quickly along the main way. They would not have much time.

            Fortunately, the boy Jaime had chosen was a quick runner, and Aerys had made up his mind swiftly. The look on his face was one of terror, however.

            “Ser, His Grace gave me this message, ser. His words not mine, ser. ‘Bring me your father’s head, if you are no traitor.’ Ser, his words not mine I swear.” The boy was terrified, as well he should be. Jaime reached forward and took him by the arm, his whole body feeling numb and cold.

            “Who was with the king when he gave you this message?” Jaime whispered, looking about to see that every man on the wall was suddenly very preoccupied with appearing preoccupied with something else.

            “Just the Hand, Lord Rossart, ser. No one else.”

            Jaime released the boy, and it was his turn to be afraid. He did not run, though he felt like sprinting the whole way, he would not disgrace the men by showing that kind of panic.

            Jaime passed the guards he had set and moved into the halls of the Red Keep. Moving about he nearly ran head on into a common looking man-at-arms. For a moment he did not recognize the Hand, and the Hand did not acknowledge it was Ser Jaime in front of him. Then recognition filled both men’s eyes and Jaime’s gilded sword was from its scabbard

            “No!” Rossart yelled swinging his fists weakly at Jaime. In truth, the man fought like an alchemist and he died quickly his guts spilled on the floor in the direction of the postern gate that he had been making for. Turning then, sword drawn and glistening red, Jaime slipped into the Great Hall through the king’s own entrance.

            The king was pacing back and forth in front of the Iron Throne, picking at his scabby arms. He did not realize Jaime was there until he heard the echoing of his boots on the stone.

            The madness was in King Aerys’ eyes as he looked from Jaime to his bloody sword and back. Pointing one clawed finger at the sword King Aerys spoke his last words.

            “Whose blood is that? Is it Tywin’s? I want him dead, the traitor. I want his head; you’ll bring me his head or you’ll burn with all the rest. All the traitors. Rossart says that they are inside the walls! He’s gone to make them a warm welcome. Whose blood? Whose?” Aerys asked his voice growing more manic with every word.

            “Rossart’s.” Jaime said. He did not smile, he did not feel any satisfaction in the moment. He just did what he felt he needed to.

            Aerys’ lavender eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped in shock. The smell of shit and piss filled the hall as the king turned towards the Iron Throne, running as if that would offer him some shelter. Jaime caught him by the back of his tunic and hauled him off the steps to the throne as the dead eyes of dead dragons looked upon them. Aerys squealed like a pig, failing to make anything more than the most monstrous of noise. It was all too simple for Jaime to slide his blade across the mad king’s throat and spill his lifeblood upon the floor.

            Still Jaime felt nothing, nothing except tired.

            Aerys’ body had not hit the floor when the doors to the Great Hall were thrown open. Ser Elys Westerling and Lord Roland Crakehall came running in, swords in hand, with more knights behind them just in time to see the mad king’s body fall at Jaime’s feet.

            They looked at him with fear and horror and Jaime knew there would be no hiding what he had done.

            “The castle is ours, ser, and the city.” Lord Crakehall spoke, the least surprised at what Jaime had done. Jaime had been Tywin’s son long before he was one of Aerys’ seven.

            “Tell them the Mad King is dead,” Jaime commanded, unsure where he found the strength and force of will. “Spare all those who yield and hold them captive.”

            “Shall I proclaim a new king as well?” Crakehall asked and Jaime read his question plain. Should I proclaim Tywin Lannister, Robert Baratheon or will you try to make a new dragonking? For a moment Jaime thought about Prince Viserys gone to Dragonstone and little Aegon in his crib. How the wolves would howl and Robert would rage to have fought so long only for a new Targaryen King and my Father his Hand. All Jaime would need to do was look down and he would dismiss that notion.

            Somewhere in the keep a raven crowed. Jaime remembered something Lord Tywin had told him about children not coming back for revenge when they were dead.

            Jaime did not look down. Jaime’s eyes filled with horror as he realized what must be happening. Suddenly he ran forward and shouted “Aegon!” whether proclaiming him king or calling in concern he could not say. The westermen leapt aside at his charge and Jaime was outside. Most of the guard he had left lay dead on the ground, but Jaime saw Thorne and Rykker crouched against a wall, captured but alive. Buckwell was there as well, but he seemed to have been knocked senseless by a blow to the head.

            “You two with me! Aegon needs us!” Jaime yelled pointing at them. So sudden was his appearance and so commanding his voice that neither hesitated to take up their swords and follow him. Their guard did not even bother to stop them, so confused was he by the events.

            The yard looked like a charnel house with viscera and corpses strewn here and there, but Jaime did not take the time to notice it. He was bound for Maegor’s Holdfast where two men were making for the bridge. One was the largest man in the world for as far as he knew.

            He paused for half a breath to heft a spear in his offhand, leap, and then throw the spear through the air and into the door to the Holdfast.

            “Gregor! Hold!” He shouted far more confident than he felt.

            Gregor’s companion turned first, a fat, pig-faced child-murderer named Ser Amory Lorch. “Ser Jaime, should you not be guarding the king?” He asked. Oh gods, please don’t shit yourself too.

            “The Mad King is dead, and you are standing between the Kingsguard and the King. Not a safe place to be.” Jaime answered him, cool as the cock of the walk. He watched Amory’s eyes behind his steel visor look from Jaime’s face to the red-tipped sword he pointed at him. An embarrassing noise came from Ser Amory, not unlike the noise Aerys had made when he died.

            “Drop your swords and come across in peace Ser Amory, Ser Gregor. The fighting is done. If I must come across this bridge in war, you will die.” Brilliant plan Jaime, threaten the giant. Before Jaime could say another word Lorch was flying through the air and Gregor was coming towards him.

Seven Hells you’ve done it now, the Lion of Lannister thought to himself as the Mountain that Rides came charging at him. Even with Ser Alliser Thorne and Ser Jaremy Rykker at his back this was going to be the hardest fight that he had ever fought.

 Might as well have jumped into a bear’s pit. After cutting my sword hand off. To protect an ugly maid who was armed with a tourney blade. He jested to himself. That was the last thought he had for a time as the battle fever took hold.

            The entire weight of the world lifted from Jaime’s shoulders as the fever came on him. He was not tired from performing the duties of seven knights. He was not stressed from having to organize the defense of the Red Keep, a defense that had fallen easily it seems. He forgot his father and what he might think. He forgot the two Alchemists that he would have to kill. He forgot his broken oaths, that the blood of his king was now on his blade. He forgot Tyrion, his little brother who he loved. He forgot Cersei.

            All he knew was the gilded sword in his hand, the gilded armor on his body, the lion helm on his head. He knew how many men could cross that drawbridge abreast-three, and he knew how many could cross it with Gregor Clegane barring their way-one. He knew how long that bridge was, how fast he could move, and how fast the Mountain was coming. He knew that he could not trust Throne and Rykker to do more than provide a small distraction for the Mountain that was rushing to cut him down. He knew exactly when he needed to move in order to prevent that.

            Now.

            Jaime ducked under the blade and danced around the Mountain on his right, turning and slashing in one smooth motion his blade striking the back of Ser Gregor’s thighs. The cut was not deep, but it did draw blood. Like a baited bear the Mountain turned about with a scream and Jaime leapt back to avoid being thrown off the bridge by Gregor’s shield. 

            Positions now reversed Jaime stood with his back to Maegor’s Holdfast between his king and the Mountain that Rides. Not a safe place to be.

            The Mountain roared and came on again swinging his greatsword down in long swathes. It was all Jaime could do to keep himself away from the massive blade, let alone striking back. Each swing took Jaime a step or two back.

            One swing. Two swings. Three. Now.

            Jaime’s sword jumped out and caught the Mountain’s wrist. The steel plate turned the gilded blade, but the Mountain’s wrist cracked and bent at an unnatural angle. Exultation filled Jaime’s breast for a moment thinking he had won a small victory in the fight. Then the iron boss of Gregor’s shield slammed into his chest sending him flying through the air and crashing onto his back.

            Stunned and dazed, Jaime woke from the battle fever for a moment and his whole body was in pain. Then he heard the Mountain roar “Die!” and there was the sound of bone cracking on bone. The battle fever was back and as Jaime scrambled to his feet, he saw that the Mountain’s broken wrist was back in place and the giant was coming on again.

             Knees and wrists and pits all the weaknesses in plate armor. Jaime struck at them all as he danced with the Mountain dancing under his sword and shield, or to the side when a thrust came. For every three cuts that were turned by plate a fourth drew blood. The Mountain was faster than he had any right to be, and stronger than any man in the Seven Kingdoms. Jaime was faster still and the greatsword and oaken shield did not even touch him again.

             Yet still, he gave ground. It was only a little at first, but it did not take long until he was off the drawbridge and the Mountain was coming at him again screaming for his death.

             The Mountain’s blade came in faster this time, stabbing instead of slashing, and if Jaime had moved a heartbeat slower it would have killed him. Instead, it merely cut the lion’s helm he was wearing as he fell to the side away from the door to the Holdfast. It was then he saw what he thought was his opening.

              In missing Jaime’s skull Gregor’s sword had found purchase in the iron bands that wrapped around the door of the Holdfast, and the bar keeping the door shut as well judging by how the Mountain was tugging at it. Distracted and angered Ser Gregor was open to another strike from Jaime. This time it would be a killing blow.

         Jaime was not an exceptionally tall man. There were those that were taller than him. Nor was he short at all. He was at eye level or just above for most people that he knew. Yet, any other time striking for the Mountain’s armpit would have overextended him and probably killed him. Now that the Mountain couldn’t slice him in half with that massive sword, he had his chance. Slashing out he feinted his opponent to think he was moving to break his wrist again, yet with a flick of his own wrist he was thrusting towards the Mountain’s heart, praying that that would be enough to kill him.

         The shock of his sword’s edge striking the oak and iron shield numbed his arm, as did the second shock of his sword snapping in two as the Mountain lifted his shield high throwing Jaime to the ground with only the last third of a broken sword between his fingers.

          Seeing his opening the Mountain screamed and wrenched his sword from the door, tearing away half of the door with it and bending the sword beyond use. If Jaime had been able to feel his arm or think beyond the next few heart beats he would have tried to catch the shaft of the spear he had thrown before it fell through the doorway inside of the Holdfast. Tossing the useless sword and half of the door away the Mountain roared and began to kick Jaime.

          “DIE! DIE! DIE!” The giant screamed with each kick. There was nothing Jaime could do except try to curl away from the blows so that they landed on his padded armor instead of anywhere they might do too much damage. Still, they hurt and it was all Jaime could do not to be kicked to death right there. Thorne and Rykker were coming across the drawbridge, but much too slowly, if they drew the attention of Ser Gregor while they were out there it was certain they would be killed. That was leaving aside the question of what they possibly could do besides die fighting Gregor, even if he no longer had his sword.

          “NO!” Someone screamed in a voice that might have been more intimidating if it hadn’t cracked as it called out its challenge. Suddenly a boy, no older than twelve certainly, in a black and gold surcoat over mail and boiled leather pushed both Thorne and Rykker aside to swing a spiked mace into the Mountain’s left knee. This boy, a remarkably tall boy with a face horrifically scarred by fire, did what Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard had not been able to do.

          He brought the Mountain to his knees.

           There was a crunch of metal and bone breaking, and the popping and rending of tendon as the spiked mace brutalized the Mountain’s knee forcing the leg to go down with it. The boy was smart though, or he had been dreaming of this day for a long time, and he jumped back before Gregor could retaliate. Then several things happened at once.

           Hoping to seize the opportunity and advantage this moment offered, Jaime gripped his broken sword’s hilt tight with his numb fingers and leapt up from the ground pressing the sword up as the Mountain’s weight brought his body low. The jagged tip of the shattered blade found purchase in the Mountain’s unarmored groin and pressed up and in. The Mountain’s roars sounded just a little higher and more pain filled as his shield struck Jaime’s temple setting the world to spinning and sending his helm flying down into the moat.

           Thorne and Rykker closed the gap and began raining blows down on the Mountain’s head and shoulders. Some combination of the blows had managed to get his helm off, but he moved his shield back around to knock their swords aside.

           That was when he caught Jaime by the hair with his mailed sword hand.

            Jaime screamed in pain as he felt a mailed thumb pressing into his cheek just below his eye with four other fingers holding tight to his hair and head. This was a hand that could crush his skull just by clenching, could pop his eye like a grape. Jaime desperately attempted to smack the hand away with useless blows of his own as he struggled to wrestle with that unrelenting grip to find some manner of escape while it attempted to find the right grip to burst his head open like a melon. While Jaime screamed the Mountain laughed holding off the blows of two knights with swords and the boy with a dagger almost contemptuously.

            “Now you will die!” The giant screamed lifting Jaime up by his head preparing to dash him against the stones.

            Aegon, Cersei I am sorry. Jaime thought as he looked his death in the eyes.

            That was when the spear appeared in Gregor Clegane’s mouth and the life vanished from his eyes.

            The hand gripping Jaime’s head opened in shock and Jaime fell down to the ground for the third time, feeling as if he were just one single bruise from head to heel. He looked at his dead opponent and feared that if he fell forwards, he would be crushed, Jaime did not think he had the strength to move. Fortunately, the Mountain’s body remained upright on its knees, eye level with his final killer.

            Jaime had never seen a wild lioness before, only the few in the cages beneath Casterly Rock and they were hardly wild any longer. He had also never seen a mother bear defending its cubs, though he had been told it was a fearsome sight. Nor had he ever seen a tigress in the flesh, yet for a moment he was sure he was looking at one as his eyes followed the length of the spear shaft from blood-stained tip to the small woman holding it.

            Flat chested and waifish was how Cersei had described the Princess of Dragonstone, dusky like other Dornish and appearing more boy than woman. Weak and frail and unable to even bear another child. All these words had been used to describe the sister to the Prince of Dorne. None of these words properly fit the woman who had slain the Mountain That Rides. Certainly, her chest was not as ample as Cersei’s and her skin was as dark as some other Dornish Jaime had seen, but as she stood there with anger in her eyes no sane person would have called her gentle, frail, weak, or a waif. Fierce, was the word they would have used, and Jaime was certain that if she had not found the spear she would have still tried to kill the man who was coming to kill her children with only tooth and nail.

            “My brother taught me that you fucking monster.” Princess Elia Martell, of Dorne and Dragonstone, widow to Prince Rhaegar and mother to King Aegon VI, spat in the eye of the Mountain that Rides.

Chapter Text

             It was late in the day when the Northmen came to the dying city at last. Much of the screaming had ceased and the battle had ended long hours ago. They came through the Gate of the Gods having followed the kingsroad here from the Trident chasing the remnants of Rhaegar’s host. Those remnants had melted away before them when word of what had happened at the capital spread up the road.

            “Say nae else ‘bout T’win Lann’ster, he knows how ta make a point.”  Theo Wull said in his nearly incomprehensible Mountain Clans accent, which was currently abetted by the leg of chicken he was eating in the saddle. Ned had taken turns riding with all of his bannermen on the march from Moat Cailin to Riverrun and his marriage and from there to Stoney Sept and then the Trident. It was good that a lord ask a man to die for a stranger, yet when it was time for battle he ringed himself with Winterfell men and Mountain Clans. And a crannogman of course.

            His smile was a grim one as he answered. “We must show these southrons that I can make a point as well.” He said nodding to Hullen who lifted a war horn to his lips and sounded it loud and clear for half the city to hear.

            Theo Wull, who they nicknamed Buckets for his house’s banner, nod and tossed the remains of his chicken aside as Martyn Cassel reined in on Ned’s other side.

            “Winter is coming!” “The Ned!” came the shouts from Winterfell men and clansmen, led by Martyn and Buckets respectively and then Ned’s honor guard was riding through the streets of King’s Landing, through Cobbler’s Square and under the shadow of the Sept of Baelor on Visenya’s Hill and on to the Red Keep where the golden lion of House Lannister flew over every tower save Maegor’s Holdfast.

            As they road through the heart of the city that Aegon the Conqueror had founded and Jaehaerys the Conciliator had made new Ned saw the destruction that the Lannister army had made, hidden behind a guise of quiet order. westermen stood at every street corner and patrolled the streets where normally Goldcloaks would. Corpses lay in the streets where they fell, often as not with no weapon to accompany their corpses. The sobs of women rose up from inside houses with doors broken off the hinges and orphan children cried on the side of the street.

            There was no need for this. Eddard thought to himself in anger and tightened his grip on his reins.  The city had welcomed the Lannister army with open arms, left the gates open for them, and yet it had still been sacked. The other northmen had stopped laughing by now and a grim tension flowed through them. They were ready for a battle.

            No one barred their passage through the gates of the Red Keep, though there was a tension in the air as the northmen crowded into the yard of the castle.

            It both looked and smelled like a charnel house, bodies from the battle still lay where they fell and the stones of the yard were stained red with their blood. Servants were lifting the bodies into carts to be taken away to be cared for by the silent sisters, the brides of the Stranger of the Faith of the Seven.

            Eddard dismounted in one fluid motion and was joined by his honor guard in a moment. Buckets, Martyn, and Howland Reed fell in next to a behind him armed with axe, sword, and spear respectively.

            “Where is the king/” Ned asked of the first servant he saw loosening the straps on Ice so that the large Valyrian steel great sword would be easy to draw if the need arose. Not for the first time Ned was thankful that his father had left his greatsword at Winterfell when King Aerys summoned him south. When Ned had asked his brother Benjen why their father had done that Ben had told him their father’s own words.

            “I go to answer the Mad King’s call and gain justice for Brandon and Lyanna; not to fight, not to fight a duel. I’ll leave Brandon to play that part.” He had told his youngest son before leaving with two hundred of his best men. His instinct had been right of course, there was nothing Valyrian steel could have done to save him from the Targaryen king’s madness.

            “In Maegor’s m’lord. With ‘is sister ‘n the Princess.” The servant answered as he scrubbed at the bloody stone with a broom pushing the blood to pool in one location to be cleaned.  

            That answered surprised Eddard who had heard that Queen Rhaella had been sent to Dragonstone and had assumed the rest of the royal family would have gone as well. He had also been expecting to find more corpses with the silver-blonde hair and violet eyes of Valyria. He looked at his companions letting them know that he was wary of what they might find.

            “Thank you.” He said nodding for one of his men to toss a copper to the servant as they began to move across the yard. The eyes of the red cloaked westermen followed them as they moved, like scavengers watching a wolf pack on the hunt prepared to steal the kill or take the pack unawares if the hunt went ill. These wolves would not be taken unawares and the men at the rear kept themselves half-turned so that any who would try to spring a trap would not do so without a fight.

            It was near Maegor’s that Eddard had his latest surprise of the day. The largest corpse he had ever seen lay bleeding in front of a just to the side of the drawbridge. Nearly a dozen strong, shirtless servants were working to pull the corpse with ropes which continued to bleed from over a dozen wounds on its wrists, shoulders, knees, and thighs. The body had been stripped of both armor and head, probably in part to make the load lighter. Its left knee was bent and broken in multiple directions with fragments of bone sticking out of the greying flesh. In between the corpse’s legs was a red ruin where his manhood should have been, his small clothes stained red and cut to ruin. Lord Stark had seen enough corpses to know that that wound had been given while the corpse was still alive. He had no illusion that any of the wounds the corpse had taken, save the decapitation, had been done without a fight.

            A giant head to match the body was impaled on one of the spikes in the moat. It had been and ugly face even before the damage that death had done to it. Ned would have named the man six years older than him, even accounting for the years that a beard could add in appearance, if he had not known that the only man of that size in the West was several years younger. It looked as if someone had shattered half of the giant’s teeth and slit his face from one side to the other adding to the fearsome look it had possessed in life.

On the other side of the drawbridge a whole armored corpse was impaled with flies gathering around. The smell of all the corpses had not fully deafened his nose to the stench that came from that fly covered corpse.

            Turning his eyes away from the dead he brought them to fall on the living. Two knights stood to the side of the drawbridge as far from the two full corpses as possible. One’s surcoat was blue crossed with white with black warhammers on the white. The other’s was black and red with a flail in the center. Both were armed with halberds a spear shaft capped with a spear point at the top with a hook on the back half and a cleaver-like blade on the front. While still not having the education his brother had been afforded he had learned his arms fairly well. House Thorne of the Crownlands and House Rykker of Duskendale. Both were Targaryen Loyalists which made it passingly queer that they had not been taken prisoner during the fall of the keep.

            Across the bridge was another surprise for Lord Stark. It was the tradition of the Kingsguard to always have one knight stationed there at all times so Ned was not surprised to see one standing there, more he was surprised at who he saw and who he did not.

            Three knights of the Kingsguard had been with Rhaegar at the Trident. Prince Lewyn Martell and Sers Jonothor Darry and Barristan Selmy. The first had been mortally wounded and cut down by Lyn Corbray and the Valyrian steel sword Lady Forlorn. The second was cut down on the right flank. The third had fought near Rhaegar and had been wounded by arrow, spear, and sword cutting down many good men that Robert and Eddard called friends. Roose Bolton had advocated for killing Selmy after the battle but they had shown mercy instead. That left four knights of the Kingsguard to be here at King’s Landing. First, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, called the White Bull, who had served since the time of King Aegon the Unlikely. Then, Ser Oswell Whent, Ned’s kinsman through marriage who had lost four nephews at the Battle of the Trident. Also, Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning who wielded the greatsword Dawn forged from the heart of a fallen star. Ashara’s brother. Ned added with a sense of guilt. Lastly, there was Ser Jaime Lannister the Lion of Lannister at seventeen years old the youngest knight of the Kingsuard.

            Of the four Ser Jaime was the last one Lord Stark expected to see standing guard in front of Maegor’s Holdfast that day.

            And yet, there he was standing to the right of the shattered door. A squire Ned did not know stood on the other side. Tall and strongly built the boy had an unfortunate face, the left half of which had been burnt horrifically. He grew no hair on the left side of his head and the flesh around his eye was black and cratered with red veins of fire shot through it when he made any movement with his face. A bit of bone showed itself near his jaw where the flesh had been burnt away.

            Ned barely recognized Ser Jaime either at first, knowing him for his gilded armor and blonde hair but the battle had clearly not been kind to the knight. The left half of his face was all a purple bruise, darkest under the eye and lightening just slightly near the jaw and ear. There was blood in his hair and several spots where his golden locks had been torn out, he wore no helm and the sword in his hand was not the gilded match to his armor. That armor was also dented and dirty with one hole in the side where the seam of the plate had been popped open as if it had been hit by a hammer.

            Ned signaled to his guard and they began to form a half circle between the yard and the Holdfast three men deep with the front and back man facing opposite directions and the center man able to aid either as necessary. Martyn, Buckets, and Howland stepped forward and followed him as the skirted around the giant corpse towards the drawbridge. The two knights at the near side of the bridge stepped forward then and crossed their halberds barring the way.

            “No further Lord Stark. No one approaches the Holdfast without leave of Ser Jaime.” The Rykker knight spoke with all due respect he could muster in a voice tired from the efforts of the day.

            Ned nodded at his words and looked over at the Kingsguard knight. “Ser Jaime.” He called not shouting but raising his voice slightly so that it would carry with ease. “I request a meeting with the king.” His voice was even, not touched with the anger he felt inside for the man who had murdered his father and brother.

            Jaime nodded for a second as if thinking about what he had heard.

            “Do I have your word that neither you nor your men will do him harm?” Jaime called back his voice hoarse and dry.

            Ned frowned for a moment surprised at the request. “None of mine will do him harm during this meeting, I swear it before the Old Gods and the New.” He answered knowing that his friends would keep the word as if it were their own.

            “Let them across Ser Alliser.” The halberds were lifted and the northmen were allowed to cross. As they crossed Ned examined the wreckage that was the door and considered the memory of the giant corpse wondering if he had done all of that alone. As the party stepped off the drawbridge Ser Jaime lifted his hand to halt them.

            “My apologies, Lord Stark, I know you are a man of your word and doubtless your companions are as well, but since there is only one of me you can understand if I ask them to leave there weapons with Sandor.” Jaime said to them giving a half smile to attempt to soften the words despite the obvious pain doing so gave him. Ned felt his anger rising for a moment at the insult but he checked that anger looking at the man before him. Only doing his duty, probably tired and wounded from the day’s fighting and not relishing the slight possibility of facing four armed men alone.

            “Aye, I’ll leave me axe with at the door, Lann’ster. Though I’ll ‘xpect to find it here when I return.” Buckets said drawing his axe and placing it in a bit of wood at Sandor’s feet giving the lad a smile as he did so. Howland set his weirwood spear and bow aside as well as the several daggers at his belt. He did not say a word as he did so, Sandor was head and shoulders taller than the Lord of Greywater Watch and nearly a decade younger.  Howland had grown used to being around taller men than him. Ser Martyn Cassel gave the squire a smile as he laid his sword belt with dagger attached onto the pile.

            Jaime looked them up and down again, knowing that Ice would be of little use in doors and nodded.

            “Okay, follow me.” He said turning and leading them through the door and up into the private chambers of the Holdfast. They did not go as high as Ned expected though, instead of going up to the king’s chambers they stopped at the Princess of Dragonstone’s chambers. Jaime held up a hand to bid them to wait as he knocked onto the door and spoke.

            “Princess, Ned Stark has come to see the king.” Jaime said in his hoarse and pain filled voice. There was only the slightest hint of a laugh in that voice, but Ned did not fail to hear it.

            “He may enter.” Came the reply from a soft voice with the warm tones of Dorne on its tongue.

            Ser Jaime gave a half nod again and keeping his hand on his sword hilt he pushed open the door to give Ned yet another surprise for the day.

            Ned had been expecting to see King Aerys there, perhaps asleep or dying from some wound taken in battle. Queen Rhaella and some of the other royal household there by his side. Perhaps Viserys and Aegon had been taken to Dragonstone with the remainder of the Kingsguard in the event of a siege?

            The Princess’s chambers were as exotic as she was. The scent of lemons and sandalwood and other reminds of Dorne greeted Ned’s nostrils. A Myrish carpet covered much of the floor and the bed was done up all in Dornish cloth in the colors of House Martell red and orange and gold. There was a chair in one corner where a young girl with Dornish coloring sat with a small black kitten nestled into her lap. Both the cat and the girl slept making only the slightest sound as they breathed in unison.

            A woman sat in the bed with a silver-blonde haired infant in her arms. The child was just short of a year old with pale skin to match his hair. The babe slept in his mother’s dusky arms head pressed against her small breasts. The woman who held him was one of the most beautiful women Ned had ever seen. He could only name two more beautiful in his eyes and one was his lady-wife. She looked at him with clever black eyes that seemed to pierce straight through him to his very core. Her brown hair framed those eyes and her smooth face giving her smile a light that countered the black clothes she wear. Black for mourning and black for House Targaryen.

            There was one other thing that caught Ned’s eye about Princess Elia Martell, who he had not seen since the Tourney at Harrenhal and then she was heavy with child, or as heavy as a girl of her build would ever get. Elia wore a small pin of blue sapphires on her shoulder, a blue winter rose.

            “Princess Elia, I seem to be missing something where is King Aerys?” Ned asked looking from the widow of the Prince of Dragonstone to Ser Jaime and back.

            “You asked to see the king, Lord Stark. There he is in his mother’s arms. We’d have crowned him to make him easier to recognize, but alas all of the blacksmith’s were unavailable on such short notice.”  Jaime Lannister said his voice flowing with an accustomed humor only slightly marred by the injuries he had sustained.

            Ned’s mouth was a grim line as he heard his friends shifting behind him in annoyance at the Kingsguard’s glibness.

            Elia’s smile was a small one, and sweet. Just enough to note she appreciated the humor that was intended, but not the insult, and to make Ned smile slightly as well.

            “Ser Jaime, you provoke Lord Stark unnecessarily.” She said giving each of the four northmen a friendly smile before letting it slip.

            “My not-so-good-father King Aerys is dead, Lord Stark. Ser Jaime slew him during the battle when he gave an order worse than any Maegor the Cruel had ever given.” She said quickening her pace as she watched the reaction on Ned’s face while he turned to face the Kingslayer.

            “You broke your oath?” Ned said with barely contained disgust at the knight standing before him in the white having stained his blade with his own king’s blood.

            “And then he kept it valiantly defending me and my children from Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane.” Elia added pointedly sitting up slightly and keeping her voice at a pointed whisper to remind the men that there were two sleeping children in the room. Jaime looked over at the children and Ned’s eyes went with him as well.

            “Lord Stark, may you and I continue this conversation in the hallway? I’m sure your men will be safe from Balerion without you.” Jaime said nodding to the small black tomcat on Princess Rhaenys lap. As the knight spoke the cat yawned widely and rolled over to put his belly to the sky nestled on the Princess’s legs.

            Ned nodded after a raised eyebrow from Elia convinced him it would be prudent. Howland Reed gave him a gentle look before returning his eyes to studying the cat with some curiosity. Buckets and Martyn Cassel stepped forward to converse with Elia about her defenses, to ensure that she was properly protected from the dangers of a city recently sacked. Ned walked out of the room with Jaime who shut the door behind them. The hall was small, built with battle in consideration as well as comfort. Three well-armed men could hold any part of the hallway against a larger force for a goodly time while the royal family would have time to flee.

            The two men stood across from each other, shoulders squared to each other ready for a fight, though it was obvious neither would draw their sword during this fight. What honor remained to the one, and sense the other, demanded they keep their peace between each other.

            Ned opened his mouth to speak but Jaime beat him to it. “Save your breath Lord Stark, I know what you’re going to say. I have soiled the Kingsguard with my actions. I am an oath breaker and Kingslayer and my life is forfeit. By all rights I should trade the white for the black and be on a ship for the Wall by tomorrow morning. Or if my honor is my guilt is too great for that I can always go the way of Gyles Belgrave, with a Lord of Winterfell lopping my head off with that sword you wear.” As it spoke something slipped away between the two men, for a moment they were not a Lord Paramount and Warden of the North and a knight of the Kingsguard. They were two young men, one twenty-one, and the other two turns short of eighteen. Both with the weight of the world and their sins on their shoulders. There was no guilt in Jaime’s voice however, but almost a sense of pride.

            Ned’s lips were a thin line but he let the man make his case, his father had always heard the last words of any man he deemed to judge and Ned would do no less.

            “What did you think was going to happen when you got to this point? Assuming my father’s army had not come? Would you have taken the walls by storm? Both those of King’s Landing and the Red Keep? What would you have done then, ridden into the Red Keep and prayed that you could negotiate with the Mad King successfully where so many others had failed? You seem surprised that my sworn brothers are not here, would you have fought us all? Do you think you could have prevailed if it were only me? Did you dream of avenging your father and brother and your brother’s friends, of swinging that black Valyrian steel and taking the head off of the Mad King like the criminal he was?” Jaime started his barrage of questions charged with emotion and making some clever points. Ned cursed in his mind, Brandon could have done it as you said. Brandon was always the better fighter. Ned thought before taking his second to cut it.

            “Maybe you are right. Maybe that is what I had in mind when I rode through the Gate of the Gods. I was prepared to kill you today, or any of your sworn brothers, if King Aerys could not be made to see reason.” His tone made it clear he had no illusions that the Mad King would have seen sense. “Maybe I did come here looking for revenge and justice and to be a kingslayer. But there is a difference Jaime, I did not swear to protect him with my life.” Ned countered his voice bristling with rage.

            “We knights swear so many oaths, no wonder you northmen have so few knights. The weight on your honor might be liable to crush you. When the Sword of the Morning knighted me in the kingswood he charged me in the name of the Warrior to be brave, in the name of the Father to be just, in the name of the Maiden to protect the young and the innocent,” He nodded pointedly to the room where Rhaenys and Aegon slept. “In the name of the Mother defend all women.” Another nod to the closed door.

            “The knights in my service tell me you also swore to obey.” Ned countered some heat coming into his voice.

            “That I did. I swore to defend my king from harm, to obey his commands, to keep his secrets, to counsel when requested and remain silent when not, and to defend his name and honor. I kept that oath, the same as the other six when he made mockery of the Seven in your father and brother’s trial by combat. Wildfire and a noose are no champions. Yet, six knights who were better and older men than I stood by and watched it happen just the same. I stood by as he raped and beat the Queen, the same as them. As he ordered your brother’s friends killed and tortured, as he burned men and women alive for his own amusement I stood by and I obeyed, hundreds of atrocities I allowed to happen. The innocent, the young, women, none of these were defended for my keeping my oaths. I remind you Aerys was an anointed knight same as I, my own father knighted him in the Stepstones I am told. By any measure he was as much of an oath-breaker as I am. Be that as it may, you still judge me, I can understand that. Answer one question for me, my lord, and I will take the black or let you take my head, there’s no real difference for me. A year ago when your father and brother were ‘tried’ you were sworn to obey the King’s word near as much as I. When he called for Jon Arryn to send you and Robert to your deaths he rebelled, and you and Robert rebelled with him. But what if that letter had contained a different summons. What if Aerys, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, summoned you, Eddard of House Stark, to King’s Landing to serve as his champion in a trail by combat before the Gods. What if he ordered you to kill your own father and bring him his head? What would your honor have demanded you do?” Jaime finished and took a deep breath talking so much and obvious pained him greatly.

            Ned was silent for a long time considering all of the other man’s words, mulling them over and judging them. Though, he had had his answer to the question from nearly the moment he was asked it.

            “No man is more accursed than a kinslayer. I would have slayed Aerys.” He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “And then I would have taken the black, as you still should.” Ned said, but his voice was not without sympathy. He could see now what he had not seen before, that the contradictions of his oaths had torn and were tearing Jaime Lannister up inside. Jaime nodded, a look of understanding and resignation on his face.

            “If that is what you think I can understand that, but I will not leave my king defenseless and I will not take judgement from anyone less than the king.” He said with a determined look in his eyes.

            “Of course, when Robert –“

            “No, not Robert. Aegon. You have a younger brother, Benjen, correct? He cannot be Lord of Winterfell while you still live, Robert cannot be king while Aegon and Viserys, and probably even Rhaenys still draw breath. Why do you think Amory Lorch and the Mountain came to Maegor’s Holdfast? A whole city of defenseless women and children, yet they came for the two children who could make it hard, impossible even, for Robert to be named king. Princess Elia has a plan, I suggest you listen to it. Because if any man tries to wear a crown or sit the Iron Throne with her word as Regent I will cut them down.” Jaime’s voice was calm, his teeth blood stained from where he had bitten his cheek in whatever battle had bruised his face. Ned understood the man then, a little better and respect him for it.

            Ned nodded and answered. “When Robert comes to the city we will have a meeting, Princess Elia, Robert, Jon Arryn, Lord Tywin, and me. We will decide what to do. I do not like an oath breaker skirting justice for nearly sixteen years, but perhaps in that time you will have earned a pardon for that. Until then we are in agreement, nothing happens to the people in that room.” Ned said extending his hand and shaking Jaime’s when it was offered.

            Turning back into the room he opened the door and walked inside with the Kingslayer at his back. Stepping into the center of the room he looked Elia Martell in the eyes and asked her what he had been dying to ask her from the moment he arrived.

            “Where are the Kingsguard? Where is my sister? Where is Lyanna?” He said in a voice that was weary from the day’s events and only expected it to grow harder.

            Elia Martell looked at him with those wise eyes and gave him a gentle smile, understanding everything he felt. Then she answered him.

            “At the tower of joy.” 

Chapter Text

           Something had happened that had not been seen in almost one hundred years. The Ironborn had come reaving in the Reach. The banners of House Greyjoy, a gold kraken on black, flew from the sails of the longships resting on the beaches as the sun set behind them. Waves, red with the blood of reachmen washed up onto the beaches where the ironborn reavers ate and drank by the light of their driftwood fires. Driftwood taken from the wreckage of the eight ships sunk during the battle at the Mander’s mouth. Four other reachmen ships had been captured and now sat on the shore with hulls half loaded with food stuffs.

            There had been much grumbling among the ironborn about that order.

            That was not the only thing that the reavers were grumbling about, even Victarion could feel the tension in the air. Word of what had happened in the battle had spread like fire. Quellon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke and Lord of the Iron Islands had nearly died in the battle, fallen on one knee, a hand clutching at his chest, red of face and with no weapon in hand. A sailor, not even a knight or man-at-arms, had almost driven a dirk into Victarion’s father’s throat.

            If Victarion had not been there to stop the sailor, if it had been another brother, if it had been Euron… Victarion shook his head to remove the thought and focused on what he was doing.

            The oilstone slid up and down the blade of his great, double-headed axe. Light from the fire reflected on the head of the axe and into his dark eyes now alight with fire. He worked the oilstone down the length of his axe blade and back up, a notch had formed on the spine of some opponent and he wanted his blade to be spotless when he next entered battle. He hoped that was soon, he missed the taste of blood and the sight of it on his blade.

            This was his first reaving, and it was all he had expected it to be.

            When word had come to Pyke that the North, Vale, and Stormlands had all risen up against Aerys Targaryen Lord Quellon’s sons had all urged him to call his banners and fight as well. Balon had urged rebellion, take back the Driftwood Crown and bring back the Old Way. “The dragons are weak, weaker than they ever were. Let us finish what Dagon Greyjoy began against the first Aerys now against the second. Let us pay the iron price again.” Balon had said.

            “We cannot remain neutral in this war, Father.” Euron had said. “If we want to take any benefit from this rebellion we must take a side. Side with the dragon and reave the wolf. Or side with the rebels and reave the lion and the rose.”

            Victarion added little to the conversation but he did contribute. “I do not care where you take us to reave, Father, but take us somewhere.”

            Lord Quellon Greyjoy had listened to all of their arguments and had sent them away. They had come before him almost every day and argued to join the war. Euron had been the first to mention that their father’s wife’s family had join the war. When the Riverrun called their banners to join with the rebels Lord Piper had loyally answered the call. Their father’s wife was kin to that Lord Piper. While none of Asenaith Sunderly’s sons would ever love Marya Piper, they would gladly use her blood as justification for joining the war.

            Yet still their father had rejected their advice, keeping his own counsels from them, instead talking to Balon’s good-father Rodrik Harlaw the Reader, Dunstan Drumm the Bone Hand, Theon Blacktyde, Gerold Goodbrother, even Erik Iron-Maker who had sailed with Dagon Greyjoy was consulted. But none of them told the three Greyjoy brothers anything.

            More than half a year had passed since the rebellion had begun and all the Lord Reaper of Pyke had done was call some of his banners and notify most of his captains that war could come at any moment. The Lord of the Iron Islands, who had raided Fair Isle and sacked Faircastle when the Lord Tytos the Toothless Lion had ruled in Casterly Rock, who had led a fleet of a hundred ships through the Stepstonees to fight in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, who had fought corsairs and pirates from the Summer Isles to the Basilisk Isles and seen Sothoryos and the Smoking Sea from a distance, this man who Victarion called Father did nothing.

            He had done nothing, until the raven came.

            The raven came from Pinkmaiden, House Piper’s castle, written at the command of Lord Clement Piper, Lady Piper’s brother, telling of the Battle of the Trident where Robert Baratheon had slain Rhaegar Targaryen, smashing his ruby studded armor to pieces with the spike of his warhammer. Lord and Lady Piper’s father had died in the battle and the Targaryen forces had been sent to rout. That had been the day Lord Greyjoy finally made up his mind. He had called all of the nobles and captains into the hall and had told them what he had learned from the letter. Then he had outlined a strategy, one that he had been planning with some of his lords for all of these months. Fifty ships, under Lord Quellon’s command, would sail out of Lordsport and go south. To the Reach. With the host of Highgarden besieging Stannis Baratheon in Storm’s End the green lands would be open for their reaving. They would strike down the coast before meeting at the Shield Islands and sailing up to Mander. This would force Mace Tyrell to abandon his siege of Storm’s End in order to protect his own lands and family. The Ironborn would be paying the iron price for the benefits with the Iron Throne they would receive when the rebels won.

            He told them of the wealth that Highgarden would yield up, of the lands they might take or be allowed to hold, of the wives they could have from the Houses that were their allies. The hall was conscious of the large breasted, brown haired Lady Piper with little Robin Greyjoy in her arms at that last statement. They all were conscious of the reforms their lord had been enacting, freeing thralls, discouraging salt wives, encouraging marriages with the other Kingdoms, outlawing reaving of certain locations. There were some who had said he was weak, but none had dared challenge the six and a half foot tall Lord Reaper who had slain some of the Golden Company’s best twenty years before.

            While Lord Quellon went south with his three sons and fifty ships the rest of the ships of the Iron Islands would gather and watch, Lord Tywin was not his father and he would not sit by if they left the Iron Islands defenseless. Having not committed to any side Lannsiport must be watched, but not threatened, if word came that Tywin had sided with the Targaryens then Lord Dunstan Drumm would lead the fleet to raid Lannsiport and destroy the Lannister’s strength at sea. Then the entire Sunset Sea would be theirs to reave. 

There had been cheering then, Victarion remembered, and he had joined in with that cheering. He had sailed aboard his father’s longship while Euron joined Balon on their eldest brother’s. The fifty ships had fallen on the Reach, taking what they could at night from the coast before coming to the Shield Islands at midday. Greenshield, Greyshield, Oakenshield, and South Shield were no strangers to the black flags of the krakens. The fisherfolk of the four islands had been armed by the Gardeners to stop the ironborn from doing just what they had come to do, raid the Mander from its mouth to Bitterbridge like the Iron Kings of old had done.

“Victarion, your blade is sharp enough, come join your brother and I around the fire while we wait for Euron to return.” His Father called from beside their own driftwood fire opening a captured bottle of strongwine and taking a long drink before passing it to Balon who drank deep as well.

“Yes, Father.” Victarion said hanging his axe over his back and coming to the fire. He thanked Balon as he gave him the strongwine and took another long drink. The wine burned his throat much more than he had expected it would. He shook his head and passed the bottle back to his father.

“You did well today my sons. I am so proud of both of you.” Their father said and they both thanked him. There had been a coldness between Balon and Lord Quellon since that first argument about what should be done. All of that coldness had seemed to melt away as the war actually began for them. Balon had taken two ships in the battle, tossing most of their crew into the sea. When Lord Quellon did actually die, and Victarion offered a prayer to the Drowned God that it would not be for a long time, Balon would be the Lord Reaper of Pyke and Lord of the Iron Islands. Victarion did not care to think at how different his eldest brother was from their father.

Victarion was quiet, listening as his brother and father talked and laughed at stories they had heard about what had been done in the battle. The Reader had apparently read through the whole thing, not even rising from his seat when a Serry knight had tried to kill him with an axe. Instead he had simply allowed shot the man with a crossbow he had lain across his lap for such an eventuality. While Victarion would never respect a man who enjoyed reading more than killing, he did find the story interesting to say the least.

Just as he was beginning to enjoy himself his brother returned and spoiled his mood. Lord Quellon was tall and broad shouldered, firmly muscled with the only sign of fat being the gut he had begun to grown in his old age. His head was shaved clean, bald and shining by the fire light. He wore his beard long and grey. If it were not for his strong arms and piercing eyes he could easily have been confused with a maester. Each of his grown sons looked like him in different ways. Victarion had his height and build, even at his age he was of a height with his father and still growing. Balon was thin, lean and quick with grey-black hair. Euron was handsome, dark of hair and dark of beard with a black eye patch over his crow’s eye. His smiling eye twinkled in the light of the fire.

“Euron, what did you find?” Lord Greyjoy said smiling at his son as he handed him the bottle of strongwine. Euron did not bring the bottle to his lips, instead pouring the wine down into his mouth from above. Once he finished he swallowed and cleared his throat before answering.

“I found three men that could fit your purposes father. Left-Hand Lucas Codd, Kemmett Pyke, and Fralegg the Strong. Each was questioning loading the food and the orders to take food and not wealth when we raided. They also each had their own opinions on where we should be reaving. Codd liked the look of Lord Hewett’s Town and he heard that Lord Hewett has several daughters he might like the look of too. Kemmett wants to continue up the Mander all the way to Bitterbridge. Fralegg wants to take the Arbor and Oldtown.”  Euron said still standing there above them all. Victarion did not know what was going on though Quellon seemed to nod along and Balon had a frown on his face. To Victarion it seemed as if the issue was that these men were disagreeing with his father’s commands and plans and thought they could do better, and that his father had sent Euron to find them in order to use one of them as an example.

Lord Quellon pushed a stick into the fire moving some of the embers around his face deep in thought. “Left-Hand Lucas is a Codd and the Codds are cowards and degenerates. Beating him will show nothing. Kemmett Pyke is strong, but a bastard with few following him save his own crew. Fralegg, Fralegg will do.” He said standing up. “Come sons, follow your father and learn something.” To look at him, you would not believe that Lord Greyjoy had nearly died a few hours ago clutching at his chest.

As the four Greyjoys began walking together more began to join them, it was obvious something worth seeing was happening. Word spread across the beach and Ironborn began to gather near the ships where Fralegg the Strong had built his driftwood fire. Fralegg was the last to hear as almost a thousand Ironborn formed a ring around his fire and more were coming in behind. They had no chance to see what happened, but they would bring word to the other four thousands of what had occurred.

Fralegg was a young man, only twenty-five and a ship captain of great renown. His name was certainly not empty boasting, Victarion had watched him drag his longship onto shore on his own while the rest of his crew built there fire and started their feasting. Realizing that something was wrong Fralegg stood and walked towards the Greyjoy party. He looked each of them in the eyes before settling on Lord Quellon.

“Lord Quellon, to what do I owe the honor of your gracing my fire?” He asked just barely avoiding slurring his words. “I hear that you had a mishap during the battle, I hope you are feeling better now?” He continued and Victarion clenched his fist in anger at the derision in his voice. An Ironman should respect his Lord, especially when reaving.

Quellon gave a thin smile at Fralegg’s words. “My son tells me you were questioning my orders, my plans that you seem to think I am weak and that you could lead this reaving better. I am not so old that I will allow this disrespect. They call you strong, let’s put that name to the test then shall we. You and I, by the salt of the sea. No weapons, no armor. “Quellon said stepping forward his shoulders squaring up with the man young enough to be his grandson. They were of a height and a breadth, the only difference being nearly forty years of experience.

            A wiser man, a less proud man, or at least a less drunk one, would have apologized to his lord then and there said that the words he spoke had been from the ale and the joy of the battle and that he would follow his lord into the Smoking Sea itself if he but commanded it.

            Fralegg was not such a man.

            “As you will, Old Kraken.” Fralegg said stepping back and pulling off his shirt tossing it to the side as Quellon did the same. Even shirtless their differences showed clearly. The younger man’s chest was unscarred, defined, and flecked with black hair. The older man had a chest of grey-white hair, a gut, loose skin, and white scars shining in the glow of sunset. Euron slipped away as the two men began circling each other, bets were being placed all around the men and no doubt Crow’s Eye wanted to profit from their father’s victory. Victarion remained with Balon both of them watching, one with concern the other with something else entirely.

            The Ironborn began cheering and shouting, Fralegg’s crew shouting encouragement for their captain. Few dared jeer the Lord Reaper of Pyke, it was clear that displeasing him was not a wise thing to do at this point in time.

            Soon the circling stopped and the fight began. Fralegg swung his fist hoping to shatter Quellon’s jaw. Quellon dodged, once, twice, three times. While the young man swung his meaty hands through empty air in wild anger Lord Quellon moved gracefully ducking and dodging without a worry on his face. “Why doesn’t he fight?” Victarion whispered in Balon’s ear wondering why his father was running away. “Because he’s making a point, just wait and see, it won’t take long.” Balon said with the confidence of a man who had already figured out his father’s plan.

            Fralegg swung fruitlessly in the air a few more times and then screamed charging attempting to bull Lord Greyjoy off of his feet. Quellon spun then, his feet sliding through the dry sand and his foot flew out catching his opponent’s knee from behind and sending him rolling in the sand. Laughter filled the onlookers as Fralegg rolled in the sand and then jumped forward going for Quellon’s feet. Quellon’s knee came up and found Fralegg’s nose. The captain screamed in pain and stumbled to his feet holding his nose in his hands. Quellon moved in quickly smacking the younger man on the side of the head twice and then wrapped his elbow around Fralegg’s throat holding tight and pulling him down and laying him across his knee. Fralegg struggled but could not break the grip as the Lord Reaper denied him air. It is forbidden for an ironborn to spill the blood of another ironborn, but there would be no blood from this death if Fralegg did not yield. The crowd waited and watched as Fralegg’s face grew redder and redder from lack of breath. Then Fralegg tapped his hand on Quellon’s arm yielding the fight. Quellon loosened his grip and dropped the younger man to the ground.

            Taking a breath the Lord Reaper turned to address the gathered ironmen. His voice was booming and carried across the whole beach.

            “There is a lesson for all of you here, on this beach! This man fought bravely, this man fought strongly, this man would have died were it not for my mercy! There are those of you who call me weak for choosing to live among the people of the green lands instead of reaving them. I am old, this is true, and I saw what reaving the Seven Kingdoms gained my grandfather. I learned from my father, Torwyn Greyjoy, what could be gained from fighting them alone! He could have fought them alongside Aegor Bittersteel and the Golden Company, Bloodraven was gone to the Wall and their eyes were to the Wendwater! Maelys the Monstrous gave me a similar offer and I denied it! I did this because unlike many of you I know there is a difference between fighting bravely and fighting stupidly. Many of you dream of the days of my grandfather, or of the Red Kraken one hundred and fifty years ago! Do you know what Dalton Greyjoy’s mistake was? He took what he could never hold, and for that a salt wife named Tess slit his throat! My son Victarion is strong, the strongest on this beach by far I would warrant, yet he could never kill all five thousand of you! The Iron Islands are strong, but we can NEVER kill all of the rest of Westeros when it comes down upon us! The words of my house are WE. DO. NOT. SOW.” He paused for a moment for the cheers at his house’s words, though some of the more observant were silent wanting to hear what he had to say.

            “Look around you, we have reavers from Great Wyk, Old Wyk and Harlaw, from Orkmont, Blacktyde, and Saltcliffe, Pyke and Lonely Light. Eight islands and one fleet. We stand together, and all prosper. On the other side of Westeros Storm’s End stands against Mace Tyrell and the Redwyne fleet. When we sailed from Pyke our plan was to reave the unprotected Reach. That plan is not enough. What we purchase with the iron price must be more, or before this war is done we will have bought nothing. So, tomorrow I am going to sail down the coast, past the Whispering Sound, through the Summer Sea and the Stepstones to bring that food to Stannis Baratheon at Storm’s End and see what the Storm Lords will pay in gold what we paid for with iron, who is with me!” He finished lifting his arms into the air, it was not the best speech, but such was the power of the man that the whole beach cheered. None cheered louder than Victarion.

            Victarion did not see the look on Balon’s face as he cheered, nor did he see the smile on Euron’s.

Chapter Text

        A rapping on the chamber door followed by the words, “Ned, he’s here!” woke Eddard Stark from his restless sleep.

         He had been dreaming of Winterfell, of Cat lying in a bed of weirwood leaves with a litter of direwolf pups around her knees and two in her arms nursing at her breasts. She had looked older, with a sadness in her eyes. “Come home to me Ned.” She had said with desperation in her voice and tears in her eyes. “Come home to me and our children.” She said looking down at the six wolves all about her.

        A seventh wolf had howled then, turning his gaze away to the south to a land he had never seen. It was in the foothills of red mountains where much woe had been wrought in days of old. The wolf stood on the crest of one of these foothills with a burnt ruin at its back. It was another direwolf, like the ones in Catelyn’s arms, only this one had fur as white as snow and eyes as red as the bleeding eye of a heart tree. Sprouting from the back of this white wolf were two great wings, like the wings of a bat only scaled and jade-green. A horde of animal were climbing up the hill with a lion and a crow at its head. A red dragon circled in the sky.

        The wolf had howled then, shooting jets of white fire from its mouth. In its howl it called out to him in his sister’s voice. “Eddard, come to me! Help me! You promised!”

        Ned shook the memories of these dreams from his mind as a rapping came at the door again. “I’m awake, I’ll be dressed and out in a moment.” He called quickly throwing on the clothes that his servants had laid aside for the day. A grey linen tunic with a direwolf stitched into the breast and a belt made of silver links. He considered taking a sword, either Ice or a long sword, but he left both instead settling for a trusty dagger. He ran his hands through his hair and beard to make sure they were settled before opening the door.

        I’ll be needing to shave soon, if I have to stay at court long. He thought as he opened the door. Two men were waiting for him outside, one was tall Martyn Cassel wearing a mail hauberk with his sword at his side. Ned would need to see he was getting enough sleep, he had often took his duties of captain of the guard too much on his own shoulders. He had a son, Jory, back in Winterfell to go home to after all.

        The other man was barely a year or two younger than Ned, but he certainly looked as if he had made up three times that number of years in the dungeons beneath the Red Keep. His hair and beard had grown out long and wild and he had neglected to shave either. He had grown pale and gaunt in his time in the dungeons, but he insisted he was strong enough to squire for Ned as he had squired for Brandon. Finding him had been one of the few joys of King’s Landing since their arrival, all of them had assumed him dead like his fellow companions.

        “When are you going to shave that birds’ nest you call hair Ethan?” Martyn asked as the three of them walked down the halls towards the yard. Ned had taken up residence in one of the many apartments above the court. This kept him well away from the Tower of the Hand where Tywin Lannister had returned to.

        “When this war is over, and we’re all home safe, and I don’t have you to remind me of how ugly a man can look without a beard at all.” Ethan joked back and the two men laughed bringing a smile to Ned’s long face. He had been thinking hard about what this day would bring, when the army that had fought at the Trident came to King’s Landing. They exited from a side door of the Great Hall and came out to a yard filled to the brim with men, horses, and a wheel house. Several banners were flying from the large gathering of men that filled the yard, and many more houses’ sigils were shown on surcoats and in the barding of horses.

        Three banners stood out in the midst of all these men and colors.  The blue falcon and white moon of House Arryn, the leaping trout of House Tully, and the crowned stag of House Baratheon.

        “Ned!” came the shout from Robert Baratheon’s great lungs and suddenly one of the armored men leapt from the saddle towards him. Robert was a tall man, muscled like a maiden’s fantasy with black hair and bright blue eyes. Almost all of this was obscured by the armor he wore or the bandage wrapped around his brow. His hammer had slain Rhaegar but the Prince of Dragonstone’s sword had given him one last parting blow, turned by the antler of his helm the Lord of Storm’s End had been left with a large lump on his head and a great head ache. Neither of which seemed to be bothering the young man as he wrapped his steel clad arms around his friend and proceeded to crush him in a great hug.

        Ned hugged his friend back as well as he could as he gasped for breath. It had only been near a month since they had seen each other last at the Trident but Robert had never been one to temper his excitement.

        “It’s good to see you too Robert.” Ned said gasping for breath. “Jon, Lord Hoster.” Ned said nodding to the two older lords who had dismounted to join them. Hoster Tully was a taller, if portly, man in silver plate-and-mail with a cloak of blue and red, atop his great helm was a trout of silver and bronze. He wore one arm still in a sling from the wound he had taken from Jon Connington at the battle of the Bells. Jon Arryn, on the other hand, was broad shouldered but not as tall as his fellows, wearing functional armor of grey steal. He had left his helm off to show his face, once so handsome now turned old. He had a long, aquiline nose and sky blue eyes. Hair that was once gold had turned grey. The smile he graced his two fosters sons with was missing a good amount of teeth, but Ned loved it nonetheless.

       There were hugs and quick pleasantries exchanged between the men as the yard looked on. Lannister soldiers watched from the walls of the Red Keep cloaked in crimson and gold. The lion of Lannister still flew from every tower save for Maegor’s Holdfast and no word had left the Keep about the situation within.

        Before Ned could begin explaining the situation, or they could ask any questions about it, a servant wearing House Targaryen’s colors came forward and spoke to them.

        “Princess Elia requests Lords Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn, Hoster Tully, and Robert Baratheon attend her in the small council chambers. Lord Tywin and the others have already come.” The servant spoke and then turned and went back into the Great Hall as if afraid of what their answer might be.

        Ned looked at his three fellows one after the other to see the emotions written on their faces. Robert’s was red with rage, he had been expecting a fight not to be called like a servant by the widow of a man he hated. Lord Tully looked confused, as if this were not what he had expected to find when he rode from the riverlands to the capital. Jon Arryn looked only bemused, raising an eyebrow at Ned curiously.

       “Well let’s go see what she wants.” Jon said with a close mouthed grin as he took the first lead up the steps into the Red Keep. Ned and the others followed after, Robert obviously struggling to contain his rage.

        Someone had taken the time to clean the throne room at least, the Mad King’s body was gone and the blood stains were washed away. Ned took a moment to point out where the Mad King had died, and did not leave out that he had been murdered by Jaime Lannister. Whatever sympathies he may have for the Kingslayer’s reasons, he could not do otherwise than condemn his oath breaking. That at least seemed to calm Robert that Aerys was dead and he had seen the place where it had occurred.

        It was often the practice that a knight of the Kingsguard would stand outside of the chambers where the small council held session. Ser Jaime was not there, either sleeping or still at his post in Maegor’s Holdfast, but he had found men to cover some of his other duties while he was indisposed. Ser Tygett Lannister, Lord Tywin’s younger brother, stood to one side of the door wearing gilded plate and a cloak of red fastened with a lion’s head pin made of gold. On the other side was Ser Jaremy Rykker in blue steel with a cloak of wool dyed blue over his back. One knight from House Lannister the other a Loyalist. Eddard wondered who had chosen them for this position today, the Kingslayer or the Princess-Regent.

        Eddard could have cut the tension in the room with a knife as the four lords walked inside.

        The small council table was long, carved from timber taken from the Forest of Qohor and carved into many pieces by Myrish craftsmen so that it could be expanded and more pieces places in it or compacted depending on how many needed to sit at the table at any given time. Traditionally the small council numbered seven members and the king. The Hand of the King, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the master of coins, master of laws, master of whisperers, master of ships, and the Grand Maester. Of the members of the Mad King’s small council: Wisdom Rossart, named Hand of the King after the last one was burnt to death, had been found dead at a postern gate; Qarlton Chelsted had first been master of coin before being promoted to Hand and had been the one before Rossart; Symond Staunton the master of laws had been killed in the fighting as well; Lucerys Velaryon the master of ships was at Dragonstone with the royal fleet; and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower was at the tower of joy. With Lyanna. Eddard thought and then bit down his anger at the situation. With all those accounted for it left few council members to this impromptu council.

        King Aegon was still an infant and was most likely either sleeping or in the arms of his wet nurse. Princess Elia occupied the seat at the head of the table that was reserved for either the King, the Hand, or the Regent. That was the primary source of the tension in the room, Lord Tywin had taken it upon himself to take the seat to her right where the Hand of the King would sit though it was obvious he had wanted her chair. Lord Varys, a perfumed eunuch from Lys, had been King Aerys master of whisperers and was present after having been nowhere to be found during the Sack. Grand Maester Pycelle sat in his chair at one end of the table with quills, parchment, and ink ready to record the proceedings.

        “My lords, it does my heart well to see you all joining us in such good health and spirits.” Varys said with a look that made Ned’s skin crawl. He could never trust a man who dealt in whispers and deceit. That it was rumored he had had a hand in enabling some of the Mad King’s paranoia did him no favor’s in Ned’s eyes as well.

        Each of the lords took their seats at the table quickly, Jon taking the Princess’s left hand and Ned sat beside him with Robert on his left. Lord Hoster took the seat next to Lord Tywin and then the meeting began.

        Princess Elia wore a black dress and veil with a red dragon sewed into the bodice and a crimson half-cape connected by the sun and spear of House Martell. She smiled at each of the men in turn the fingers of her right hand resting patiently on the table. In a room filled with veteran soldiers she seemed even smaller and waifish than she had in her own chambers a fortnight ago, only Pycelle did not look as if he weighed nearly twice as her. Yet, for all of her small size her voice was as strong as any of theirs’ as she spoke.

        “My lords, this war has gone on long enough. We have fought for our own reasons, each honorable in their own right before the gods, but now it must end. King Aerys is dead. Prince Rhaegar-my husband” her voice quivered for a moment as she looked at Robert whose own face was a mask of anger again “is dead. If it were not for the valor of Ser Jaime Lannister I would be dead and my children with them.” Jon and Lord Hoster both looked shocked at this news and Grand Maester Pycelle and Varys both had the dignity to feign outrage. Ned had eyes only for Lord Tywin, who he believed had sent to the two men for that explicit purpose. Lord Tywin’s face was blank slate, he did not smile nor glower or react in any meaningful way.

        “Dowager Queen Rhaella has fled to Dragonstone with Prince Viserys, we received a raven from her just yesterday saying she is with child and will remain there throughout her pregnancy. Would you make war on a pregnant woman and an eight year old boy? Would you lay siege here to a widow and her two children in Maegor’s Holdfast, a seventeen year old man and a twelve year old squire among their few protectors? I say this as mother and regent and widow. Let. It. End.” She looked each man in the eyes as she finished, never blinking even when she met Lord Tywin’s held gaze.

        “NO!” Robert shouted jumping to his feet. One gauntleted hand slammed onto the table the other pointing at Elia’s face. “Your husband, kidnapped his sister,” the mail clad finger moved to Ned for a moment “my betrothed! Who I love!” the finger turned to point at Robert’s own breast. “His father burnt Lord Rickard Stark alive, and had Brandon Stark executed for wanting justice! He had Kyle Royce killed! And Jeffory Mallister! And Elbert Arryn Jon’s nephew! I will not bow to your dragonspawn, Elia Martell!” The door crashed open at the sound of his shouting and the two guards rushed in swords half drawn. There was blood leaking out from Robert’s waist where he had torn open his wound from the Battle of the Bells.

        Lord Eddard stood up and laid his cold grey eyes on his dearest friend in this world.

        “Is that why you fought this war Robert? To be king?” Ned’s voice was cold as winter and as firm as the Wall. Ned’s grey eyes met Robert’s bright blue ones, each staring into the heart of the other. The only sound in the room was Robert’s deep breathing as his face went from red, to white and then slowly returned to his normal coloring as his breathing slowed and the anger left him.  

        “Gods no Ned, you know that as well as I do. All I want is Lyanna back, and justice for your kin. How can you bend your knee to the Mad King’s blood?” Robert asked his voice thick with many emotions as he fell back into his seat with a heavy thud. Ned sat down as well placing a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.

        “He’s a child, Robert.” Ned answered. It hurt him to see his friend so hurt as well.

        “Woe be to any kingdom ruled by a child, let alone Seven of them.” Tywin Lannister said speaking for the first time.

        “My thoughts exactly, Lord Tywin. Which is why I will rule as regent. There’s precedent for it you’ll find. Alyssa Velaryon ruled as regent when Jaehaerys the Conciliator was in his minority. Queen Visenya ruled while Maegor recovered from his trial by seven as well. In fact, I believe even Casterly Rock was ruled by Lord Loreon Lannister’s mother after the Dance was done. And of course Aegon III had a council of regents to rule for him during his minority. I suggest we look to these for examples of what to do and what not to do.” Elia paused for a moment eyeing each of the men in turn, particularly focusing on the older men who she knew might challenge her. 

        “The council of regents was a disaster of course, but not because it was a poor idea, but because the men who executed it were poor men. I know we have no poor men here who would put their own interests of above the interests of the realm so we can get to a better start of it than they ever will.” The sarcasm on her lips was almost invisible when hidden behind the smile she favored Lord Tywin with.

        She then produced a parchment and placed it on the table for all to see. On it she had written every title for the small council, as well as a spot for the Lord Protector of the Realm, and an additional spot for each of the Seven Kingdoms and Dorne. “The positions of Hand of the King, Regent, and Lord Protector will be divided, and remain, divided so that no side will be seen as slighted or having advantage and no one can attempt to do what Unwin Peake did. Each of the Seven Kingdoms and Dorne will also be represented. This will save us the time of calling a Great Council and ensure that none are slighted by this peace. These representatives from each region will serve in the place of a council of regents, instead think of them as a council to the regent. Initially I would have each Lord Paramount take that role, but if you would prefer another take your seat that will serve just as well. This way there will always be someone holding one of these seats, another failure of Aegon’s council. Lord Robert, as this was your Rebellion, or so the singers claim, I would offer you the position of Lord Protector. You will command the armies in my stead in the event of another rebellion. Do you accept?” Robert looked from the parchment and then back at the Princess. She was not offering him the throne or the crown, but she was offering him the kingdom.

        “Yes, Elia. I’ll lead your armies and fight your wars for you and your hatchling, but know if he hatches mad the black I’ll have him wearing won’t have any dragons on it.” Elia consented to this with a smile and a nod and it was agreed; should Aegon prove to be a mad like his grandfather he would take the black. Though it was not agreed who would take the throne after him.

        This agreement banished most of the tension from the room, Tygett and Ser Jaremy left the room to return to their posts and some discussion as had on who could possibly fill certain positions and what the exact purpose of the council would be. It was agreed that while the dual councils would still rule the realm, their greatest focus would needs be to raise Aegon right so that when he attained his majority he would be able to rule on his own. Ned was surprised that Lord Varys had been the one to suggest that.

        There was one other point of tension that Lord Tywin brought up.

        “If you are to serve as regent, and Robert is to serve as Lord Protector, who then is to be Hand of the King?” He said as if he had not already retaken the chair and the tower.

        Princess Elia answered him with a smile. “Prince Rhaegar and I had talked about calling Lord Jon Connington back from exile once the war had ended. It would seem right that if the Lord Protector led one faction, should the Hand then not be someone who led the other?” She said with a sweetness in her voice that did not belong in the same room as men like Tywin Lannister and Varys the Spider.

        There were many frowns to answer her sweet smile.

        “I am truly sorry Princess Elia, but I could not abide to rule the realm alongside the man who killed my heir.” Jon said with sincerity. They all had been there on the steps of the Stoney Sept, had the flow of battle gone in other ways it could be any of them dead instead. Lord Hoster Tully had taken a wound to his arm at the same hands in the same place.

        “Nor can I Princess Elia, even though I am heading back to Riverrun as soon as I can find someone to take my seat I cannot stomach that man serving as Hand.” Lord Hoster, the father-in-law of two of the men at the table, said definitively.

        Eddard saw Tywin sitting up a little higher at these words, as if he were expecting the next name to come out of her mouth to be the name of the man who probably sent men to kill her and her children.

        Elia paused to think for a moment. “That is unfortunate. My next suggestions were going to be my brother Oberyn or perhaps Lord Mace Tyrell. But, seeing as both have seats already given to them and would not know to bring a second for them… I suppose Lord Arryn would you do me the honor of serving my son as Hand of the King?” She said as if it seemed the simplest thing in the world. That surprised all of the men at the table for a moment so she continued.

        “I know I said that it should be someone who fought on the other side, but with all of the leaders either indisposed or dead it would seem I would have to go with the most capable and least controversial of the leaders of the Rebellion.” She turned to Lord Tywin then and gave him one of her friendly grins. “My apologies, Lord Tywin, but I would not want to besmirch your honor by accidentally causing it to be whispered that you sacked King’s Landing and had your son kill your friend only for you to rule the realm again, I’m sure you can understand.” Lord Tywin looked as if a vein might burst in his temple but his voice remained calm.

        “Of course not, Princess Elia. Thank you for looking out for my reputation. I was of course planning to have my brother Kevin take my seat for the time being, to avoid just those types of whispers.”

        “Well with that settled, I graciously accept your offer Princess.” Jon said giving her a hole filled grin.

        From there the conversation turned to who might possibly fill the other positions on the council and what was to be done about Mace Tyrell besieging Storm’s End and the matter of Lyanna. Ned noted that the Princess did not take the time to inform the whole council of all that she had told him. Several documents were written up, and the Grand Maester would certainly need a scribe to help write all the letters it would seem he needed to. It was nearly midday when the council was dismissed. Robert was taken aside by the Grand Maester to have his wound looked at and Ned went in search of Lord Wyman Manderly and some breakfast, most likely both could be found in the same place. He had decided to leave the Lord of White Harbor as his representative before the council. On the morrow he would be taking his army and riding for Storm’s End.

        And then on to the tower of joy.

Chapter Text

            A warm spring fog blanketed the lands around Storm’s End on the day that Davos was invited to walk the battlements.

            Lord Steffon Baratheon’s second son, Stannis Baratheon, was standing at the top of the steps leading into one of the great towers of Storm’s End looking out into the fog where the army of Mace Tyrell was encamped. If Davos squinted he could just barely make out the green and gold pavilions of House Tyrell. He had never had any dealings with House Tyrell, Highgarden did not have a port large enough for him to do any business there, but it was certainly possible that one of the Hightower’s of Oldtown might know of Davos the Smuggler. Davos the former smuggler, he reminded himself resisting the urge to clench his left hand.

            Maester Cressen had been very insistent that he should avoid doing that as much as possible until the fingers healed.

            Stannis Baratheon was a tall man broad of shoulder with a heavy brow and deep set blue eyes. His hair was black and thin and greasy and his skin held tight to his bones as if he were a skeleton. This was not his usual look, Davos understood, the man had been close to starving for the better part of a year. The entire garrison had been close to starving before Davos arrived, but none had missed more meals than Stannis Baratheon. Except the dead of course. When Davos had brought his galley loaded with onions and salted fish under Storm’s End and Stannis had begun distributing the food he had expected to see Stannis take the first portion and the largest, as most lords were wont to do, but he had given it to the men first and Davos had watched Stannis feed his little brother Renly fish and onions from his own hands. By his reckoning Stannis had only gotten half as much as Renly had and not said a word of complaint.

            It had been that action that had made Davos feel comfortable remaining with his crew of near forty additional mouths for the moment when his ship would be able to sail out again and bring back more food if possible. They had brought enough to last a good while the way Stannis had been rationing it, which was fortunate as Paxter Redwyne did not seem willing to suffer another embarrassment as he had dealt them.

            “Good morning m’lord.” Davos said as he mounted the last step and stood beside the young lord. The differences between them were obvious for any to see. One was tall and nearing twenty, the other was slight and had begun sailing when Stannis’s grandfather had been lord of Storm’s End. One had dark black hair and blue eyes with a strong, jutting jaw; the other had common brown hair and common brown eyes with a common face worn by weather and experience. One was a man of duty and justice, the other was a lifelong smuggler. Yet, the two had seemed to find some common ground.

           “Morning Ser Davos. Thank you for joining me.” Stannis said, his voice stiff, but never weak. “My pleasure, m’lord.” Davos answered remembering that he was no long just Davos, but Ser Davos of House Seaworth. Stannis had knight him himself, just before he’d cut the first joint of four fingers on his left hand off with a cleaver. Davos had insisted that he do it himself and he hung the fingers in a leather bag around his neck for luck. He would have them properly cleaned when he returned to Flea Bottom, the bag would keep the smell away until then though.

            The two of them began to walk in silence as the fog slowly dissipated leaving behind naught but morning dew on the stones and the grass below.

            “They feasted out there again last night.” Stannis said turning his head slightly to face the vague shadows in the fog that were the enemy pavilions. Davos had heard all about the Tyrells’ feasting from other men, it did not sit well with him either, the idea of men forcing starving men to watch them feast. Davos had known pirates with less cruelty in them than to do that.

            Another man would have offered some hope there that today was going to be the day when Robert came with his whole host victorious and make Mace Tyrell bend the knee and surrender all of his food as penance. But Ser Davos Seaworth was not the type of man to offer false hope so he simply said, “I had heard that m’lord.”

            Stannis looked at him for a moment, as a carpenter would look to take a new measurement of a board he had measured not long ago and found the new measurement more accurate than the first.

            “Tell me, Ser Davos where are you from?”

            “I was born in Flea Bottom originally. Mayhaps in the same hovel where Duncan the Tall was born. I saw him once actually, when I was a boy. He was escorting the Queen to the Mud Gate to go see one of her daughters. He was the largest man I’d ever seen, and the whole of Flea Bottom cheered to see him. Queen Betha tossed me my first stag too.” Davos said before wondering if he had put his foot in his mouth. Folks from Flea Bottom were always proud to talk about those of their number who had made good, and none had made good better than Duncan the Tall, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard for Aegon the Unlikely, who had almost single handedly stopped two Blackfyre Rebellions, had once beaten a prince of Dragonstone bloody in a trail of seven, and had beaten Lord Lyonel the Laughing Storm in a trial by combat. Of course, the Laughing Storm was Stannis’s ancestor, and Queen Betha was his great-grandmother. Some lords did not take kindly to smallfolk talking about their ancestors, or reminding them of when smallfolk had won victories against them. Stannis did not seem bothered by the story though.

            “Do you still live there? In Flea Bottom?” Stannis asked as they ducked through another tower where several of the men-at-arms clapped Davos on the back in thanks for bringing the food.

            “No, m’lord. I got out of there not long after that and took service on the Cobblecat under Roro Uhoris the Blind Bastard. My family lives on River Row though. I have them set up nice there. Not so nice as some, but better than I could have had and that’s all I ever asked for.” Davos felt he must have put his foot in it that time mentioning a smuggler he had sailed under and where his family lived.

            “So you have a family Ser Davos. Do you care to tell me about them?” Stannis asked again, and Davos got the feeling that this was the first time in almost a year Stannis had been able to simply relax and talk to someone whose life did not fully depend on him.

            “I’ve a wife, Marya and four sons. Dale, Allard, Matthos and Maric. Thank you for asking m’lord.” They were at the gatehouse now, there had been hard fighting here when the siege had first begun and Mace Tyrell had thought that his men would be able to take Storm’s End by storm. Davos had met the castle’s blacksmith, and man by the name of Donal Noye, when the maester had been sewing up his fingers. The man had taken an axe to the arm defending this part of the wall and the wound had festered costing him the whole arm. He had forged swords for almost the entire garrison, and the warhammer that Lord Robert was still using in battle, but now he would never forge so well again and had been talking of taking the black.

            Talking of his family had brought his thoughts back to them, and how happy Marya would be to hear that they were landed now. He had not always been the best husband to her and he knew she prayed daily when he had to sail. Prayed that he would have fair weather, and return home safe, and not be caught and forced to choose between the headsman’s block and the black. Now her prayers would be answered, he would never have to smuggle again. Stannis had granted them a keep and good lands down in Cape Wrath, as well as the promise for a new ship when the war was done. Their sons would not have to worry about going hungry as either of them had, and perhaps some of them would even be able to be captains of their own in the royal fleet or squire for stormlords who would make them knights and let them marry their daughters. This was all wishful thinking of course, first he had to survive this siege.

            They halted there and waited standing and looking out at the beautiful landscape unfolding before them as the fog rolled away. Davos had never stood so high on land before, nor see so great a view without feeling the deck rocking far below him. It was breath taking to say the least.

            Stannis told him a bit of the history of Storm’s End, how legends said that it was built by Brandon the Builder for Durran Godsgrief who had attempted to build a castle there six times in defiance of the sea god and the goddess of the winds who had killed all of his family and friends when he wed their daughter Elenei. Storm’s End was the seventh castle and the only one that had stood against the storm and for that it was also called Durran’s Defiance. It had never been taken by storm and had only once surrendered to an enemy. When Orys Baratheon had slain Argillac the Arrogant during the Last Storm Rhaenys Targaryen had threatened to make Storm’s End another Harrenhal and Argella Durrandon had stood defiant. Her men had not been so defiant however and had surrendered her and the castle to Oryss Baratheon naked and chained.

            “What did Orys do then m’lord?” Davos asked enthralled by Stannis’s story.

            “He did the honorable thing of course, he removed her chains, clothed her in his cloak, and fed her from his table.” As if it were not just what every man should do, but what every man would do. They stood there then in silence for a time looking out at the lands around Storm’s End. Davos could not figure out for the life of him why a host so large had not simply attempted to overwhelm the castle with numbers. Surely, they would have taken great losses but that would seem nothing for a high lord such as Mace Tyrell.

           Unless someone had counselled waiting, keeping their forces almost wholly intact for a later conflict. Or a later war. Davos realized and found himself clutching at the bag containing his fingers for luck.

            HAA-ROOO!

            “What was that?” Davos asked surprise written on his face.

            “Fetch me the Myrish glass.” Stannis ordered one of the guards who rushed into the gatehouse to obey.

            HAA-ROOO! HAA-ROO-ROO-ROO!

            The fog was nearly gone and the shapes of banners could only just be made out in the distance. Someone brought up the Myrish glass and Stannis pressed it to his eye looking out towards the distance. Davos, accustomed as he was to spying sails and banners on the horizon from helm or mast squinted and was able to make out some details of the banners being flown. It was some form of dog, or perhaps another for legged beast. It was difficult to tell since the banner was all white and grey.

            HAA-ROOOOOOOOOOOO! HAA-ROOOOMPH!

            The war horns called through the land and the drum beats echoed in the morning.

           “Stark. And to think Maester Cressen told me winter had gone for the year. Sound the horns to answer them! House Stark has come!” Stannis had the voice of a battle leader, even half-starved as he was, and that voice carried through most of the great castle. People running from their barracks and houses to climb the walls and see what was taking place. Davos could practically hear Stannis grinding his teeth as he watched through the glass, if they had not eaten all of their horses Stannis probably would have ridden out to join the battle that everyone felt was coming.

           Cheers and horns rose up from the walls of Storm’s End to meet the arrival of the Starks. Just when the Davos thought the sound could not get any more deafening something amazing happened.

          Mace Tyrell lowered his banners. The Rose of Highgarden had fallen. The siege was over. Stannis had won.

          Yet, even then, the heir to Storm’s End did not rest. Davos could see the thoughts moving across his face. Of how much food to take from the Tyrells, of what justice would be done to them for the indignities he had suffered. No one had told Davos, but he had heard about the four men left in the dungeons in case the time came where all other food was gone.

         “Ser Davos I have one other question for you, before I go out to treat with Lord Tyrell. I have been wondering for some time now, what moved a smuggler from Flea Bottom to dare Shipbreaker Bay and the Redwyne blockade in the dead of night to bring us aid?” Stannis asked, with the ghost of the ghost of a smile on his face.

         Davos could have lied and said that he believed in Robert’s cause, or that he sympathized with the starving people of Storm’s End, but he did not lie. He did not even hesitate before telling the truth.

         “Well you see m’lord, I had this hold filled with onions and salted fish and I asked myself where would I get the best payment for this hold? One of my mates suggested finding a place where the people had no noses to smell their bad breath afterwards. I said, no one would give a better price than a starving man.” Davos answered wondering if he had just lost something for his honesty.

         Stannis actually smiled for a moment before answering. “And was the payment as good as you expected it to be?”

         “A hold of onions and salted fish and four less finger nails to clean in exchange for a future for my wife and sons? Yes, m’lord, I don’t believe I could have gotten a better price anywhere in the world.”

Chapter Text

            Prince Duncan the Small had named him “a bold boy” nigh on thirty-seven years ago when he had chosen to enter a tourney as a mystery knight at the age of ten. He had tried to live up to that moniker his whole life. At the age of sixteen he had unhorsed Prince Duncan the Small and Lord Commander Duncan the Tall in the winter tourney at King’s Landing, and had been knighted by the prince’s father King Aegon the Unlikely on that same day. He had slain Maelys the Monstrous, last of the Blackfyre Pretenders, on the Stepstones during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He had defeated the Bastard of Bronzegate and Lormelle Long Lance. He had ended the Defiance of Duskendale; scaling the walls of the Dun Fort and freeing King Aerys from captivity slaying Ser Symon Hollard and avenging Ser Gwayne Gaunt his sworn brother. He had defeated some of the greatest knights and lords of the realm in tourneys throughout the realm. He had rescued Lady Jeyne Swann from the Kingswood Brotherhood and slew Simon Toyne. He did not feel so bold at the moment however.

            He was Ser Barristan the Bold of House Selmy, a knight of the Kingsguard for twenty-four years, and all he could feel was pain.

            His should ached the worst, shooting fire through his whole body when he tried to rise. His thigh ached something fierce as well, now that he thought on it, and his left side seemed to be the source of the great inferno in his chest. After what felt like an extremely long time and with great effort he opened his eyes and saw the familiar boards of his cell within the White Sword Tower in the Red Keep.

            How did I come to be here? Ser Barristan asked himself as he forced his body to sit up. Gods damn the pain that followed what should have been such a simple action. The thick wool blankets and furs he had been wrapped in fell down to his waist revealing that he was naked beneath save for the wine soaked bandages he had been wrapped in from his right thigh all the way up his abdomen and over his left shoulder. The wrappings on the shoulder were so tight that Barristan could not even move the arm.

            “Ser Barristan! You’re awake!” Came the excited shout of the young man with red hair and cheeks sitting at his bed side.

            Ser Dontos the Red he was called, of House Hollard. The last of House Hollard, in truth, all of the others had been put to death by King Aerys after aiding their kin and liege lords, the Darklyns, in the Defiance of Duskendale. In return for rescuing him from the dungeons of the Dun Fort King Aerys had granted Ser Barristan a boon and Barristan had asked for the young Dontos Hollard to be spared the fate of the rest of his attainted bloodline on account of his young age and that his father had died long before the Defiance had begun. Unable to refuse a request from the man who had saved his life King Aerys had spared young Dontos and Selmy had taken the boy on as his squire.

            Dontos was not a great knight, he could sit a horse and couch a lance well enough, but he was only adequate with the other knightly arms. He had no lands or incomes, and certainly no prospects for marriage. Yet, he was dutiful and loyal and had been an able squire. Barristan had knighted the man himself.

            And now he sits vigil at your bedside, thinking you might die. Not an unlikely outcome considering how much pain Ser Barristan was in.

            “Wh-Wh-.” Barristan’s throat was as dry as the Dornish sands. Ser Dontos leaned forward pulling out a skin and bringing it to the knight’s lips. A rich Dornish red flowed between his lips and down his throat sating his thirst.

            “What happened?” He asked when he could finally manage to force the words through his throat.

            Ser Dontos put up the wineskin and looked away for a moment obviously finding it difficult to tell a hard truth. Ser Barristan looked at him with those blue eyes that many thought to be sad, waiting patiently and dreading what he would hear.

            “We lost at the Trident, ser. Prince Rhaegar was slain and you were injured grievously. Lord Robert ordered his own maesters to tend to you, despite his own injuries.” Dontos said looking away to hide the tears forming in his eyes. Barristan had been the closest thing the man had to family for a long time now. His words did bring back some memories to the knight’s clouded mind.

            Prince Lewyn and his Dornish spears took the right flank, and Ser Jonothor Darry and the survivors from the Battle of the Bells took the left. The crownlanders and freeriders took the center under Prince Rhaegar. Darry had crossed the ford the night before camping at Castle Darry with his kinsmen. They had initially crossed chasing the forces of House Arryn thinking the rebels had divided their forces around the Gods’ Eye. Scouts had reported that those original reports were false, and that Robert Baratheon was bring the full forces of the rebels to bear at the ford. The Dornish held the left and the rear in case Lord Arryn fell upon them as they crossed. Riverlord fought riverlord on the south bank as Valemen fought Dornish on the north. Barristan rode with Rhaegar across the ford to take the rebels engaged with Darry in the flank. They were halfway across when the arrow found Barristan’s shoulder, a bodkin point it had ripped through the plate and mail and flesh and bone to come out the other side. The shock had sent Barristan tumbling from his horse as the battle shifted around him. He had laid there for a moment dazed and bleeding until he saw the Stormlord charging to meet the Dragon. The battle fever had filled him then and he rose carving his way through all and sundry to reach the two. He had failed at Harrenhal when he needed to succeed, he would not fail here. Lords and knights, men from the north and the stormlands came between him and his goal, but they did not stand for long. He did not even remember which of them had cut into his thigh as they fell. He was so close to the Dragon and the Stormlord, another few feet and a swing of his sword and he could bring that rebel lord with his giant hammer down into the mud. He had hardly even seen the little man with the pronged weirwood spear and the green lion lizard on his leather jerkin until the shaft of that spear was turning his blade away from another opponent. They had fought then for a moment, dancing around each other’s blows in the mud and the rocks of the ford, but Selmy was weak from blood loss, and his arm was too weak to lift a shield. The butt of the little crannogman’s spear pushed his sword away turning Ser Barristan and exposing his flank. The prongs of that spear had found a gap in the plate and pierced the mail and the flesh of his side beneath. The last thing Barristan saw was rubies flying through the air and into the water below and a white haired prince falling to the mud below.

            “I remember, Dontos, what happened next?” Barristan said his voice pained from the memory of loss and the pains of his body. He had failed again. Jaehaerys. Rhaegar. What of Aerys? What of the Queen and Prince Viserys? Of Princess Elia and her children? His sad blue eyes looked at the last knight of House Hollard begging for some good news.

            Ser Dontos cleared his throat and rose. “Please forgive me, ser. Ser Jaime asked to be woken the moment you were awake. I’ll also send a servant with some breakfast for you. Should I send another for the maester?” He asked looking back as he was walking towards the door. “No, leave Pycelle be.” Barritan answered glad at least to see by the look on the man’s face that Pycelle was still Grand Maester.

            And so, he waited there in his bed dreading what he would learn from Jaime Lannister when he arrived. He also feared why it was Ser Jaime coming to talk to him and not Jonothor Darry or Prince Lewyn Martell. Or why their Lord Commander had not returned with Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent yet. None of this would seem to bode well for the realm, or for Barristan. How many more friends must I burry?

            After some time a servant came through the door holding a wooden tray with a bowl of broth and vegetable soup and a loaf of bread. He placed the tray on Ser Barritan’s lap and then left quickly as Ser Jaime entered. Barristan was surprised at the changes that had befallen the young man in the short time since they had seen each other last. Always a handsome man, the entire left half of his face was one large, formless yellow bruise from just below his eye to his ear and jaw. There were several bald spots on his scalp where his hair seemed to have been torn out, he had not taken the time to comb his hair to cover it up as he might have. There were heavy black bags under both of his eyes and he yawned as he entered. He was wearing a linen shirt and quickly thrown on breaches. Ser Barristan dipped his bread into the soup and began to eat as his sworn brother took his seat at his bedside.

            “How are you feeling?” Jaime said leaning forward and resting his shoulders on his knees folding his hands together and letting them hang in front of him.

            “About as well as you look. What happened to you?” Barristan said in between bites of bread and soup. He had not realized how hungry he was.

            “A mountain fell on me. Though you don’t look so great yourself.” Jaime said with a half-smile as he lifted a polished brass for Barristan to look into. Ser Barristan was shocked by what his reflection showed him. Even though he was only a few years shy of fifty his hair had been mostly blond with only some grey creeping in at his temples. He had also worked to keep himself clean shaven. The face that looked back at him in the mirror was thin, almost malnourished, and he had nearly a month’s growth of a beard. Both of those were to be expected, he didn’t remember most of the time in between now and the battle, but he had seen what time spent recovering with milk of the poppy had done to other men. The true surprise was that his previously blond hair and new grown beard were both white as the walls around him. He took a moment to smile at his own misfortunes. The smile disappeared with the mirror as his eyes fell on Jaime Lannister again.

            “Tell me what happened.” Barristan said slowly as he pushed the tray away with a crust of bread floating in a small pool of broth and carrots at the bottom of the bowl.

            Jaime took a deep breath before starting his tale. He refused to meet Ser Barristan’s eyes.

            “Jonothor Darry and Lewyn Martell are dead. They both fell at the Trident. Martell was killed by Lyn Corbray with Lady Forlorn. We’re not sure who killed Darry. When Rhaegar fell the army broke and ran. Rhaegar had wounded Robert, so Eddard Stark led the chase down the kingsroad.” Jaime paused then, obviously struggling over how to tell the rest of his story.

            “Lord Tywin led a host to the city and beat Lord Stark here by half a day. The Grand Maester Pycelle counseled to let my father in. Lord Varys counseled caution. Varys was right, the moment the army was through the gates they started to sack the city.”

            “What about Lord Chelsted?” Barristan interrupted confused at why those two were the ones giving the chief advice to the king.

            “Lord Chelsted had been dead for about a fortnight. Soaked in Wildfire and burnt alive. Rossart the alchemist was the Hand at the time.” Jaime said with something resembling guilt in his voice. Jaime turned and looked at the door of sparse chambers to make sure it was locked before continuing.

            “Ser Barristan. Aerys ordered me to bring him my father’s head.” Jaime said and in that moment he was not a knight of the Kingsguard or a man grown, but a boy looking at an older male and barring his soul before him. Barristan felt his heart drop into his stomach at those words. There had been some terrible kings during the nearly three centuries of Targaryen rule, though many more good than bad, but none had been worse than Maegor the Cruel and Aegon the Unworthy. Yet, Ser Barristan could not recall either of them ever ordering their Kingsguard to do something as wicked as that.

            “Gods. I’m sorry Jaime.” Barristan said, unsure if he could say more.

            “I killed him, Ser Barristan. I killed King Aerys. But, that wasn’t why.” There were tears in Jaime’s eyes as he said that, though Ser Barristan were not sure if they were tears of shame, regret, or something else entirely. He wanted to reach out a hand and place it comfortingly on the young man’s shoulder, but something stopped him. He had been put in an impossible situation, by a king he had sworn to obey, but he had sworn an oath and he still wore the white. Something hard in Barristan’s heart could not accept that.

            “While you and the others were rallying forces, and planning for battle, the King and Rosssart were plotting in case you failed. The King had bidden Rossart and the Alchemists Guild to plant wildfire throughout the city. Under Baelor’s, the Dragonpit, all of the gates, even under the Red Keep. He said ‘Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat’. When word came that my father had betrayed him, after he gave me my order he ordered Rossart to light the wildfire. He was going to kill everyone in the city. I had to stop him.” Barristan could tell from the sound of his voice as the crying began to stop that he was repeating what he had told himself a hundred times before. He had heard men justify crimes in much the same way, having once convinced themselves and now wanted to convince others.

            “You are not mine to judge, Ser Jaime. I will leave that to the Lord Commander and King Robert.” Barristan said finding the taste of calling Robert Baratheon king bitter, but he knew he would grow used to it. Jaime’s face rose though and finally met his eyes as he said those words. There was a joy in those eyes for not being condemned where he had expected it. Barristan wept for the boy on the inside, he could understand what he had done, but he could not accept it. A Kingsguard and Kingslayer. These were two things that should not be.

            “Robert is not king, Ser Barristan, Aegon is. That’s how I got these bruises. I was able to save Elia and her children. She’s named Robert Lord Protector and Jon Arryn Hand of the King. Ned Stark is riding south now to break the siege of Storm’s End and bring back his sister and our sworn brothers from somewhere in Dorne. Princess Elia is ruling as regent, until Aegon comes of age. She’s even expanding the small council so that all of the Seven Kingdoms are represented, to avoid needing to call a Great Council or have any of the sides in the war feel spurned.” Jaime sounded excited by these decisions and Barristan certainly found the idea intriguing. He would enjoy talking to the Princess once he was feeling well enough, but then he noticed the bags under Jaime’s eyes.

            “Who is guarding the prince and princesses now? And where are the Queen and Prince Viserys?” Barristan asked laying back on his pillows trying to get comfortable again. He was beginning to feel tired, and he suspected that the Grand Maester had instructed the servants to slip some drugs into that soup.

            “Sers Jaremy Rykker, Alliser Thorne, Bonifer Hasty, and Brynden Tully have all volunteered to help take some of the burden. Sandor Clegane has also been helping as he can. As for the Queen and the Prince, they both went to Dragonstone the day after Aerys burnt Chelsted. A raven came not too long ago, the Queen is pregnant and will be remaining there with her son until she and the baby are healthy enough to travel.” Jaime said looking almost as tired as Ser Barristan.

            “Those are good men. I thank you for the news Ser Jaime. Now I apologize but I think we both need our sleep. We’ll do the king no good if we can’t even lift our eye lids let alone our swords.” Jaime rose then and lifted the elder knight’s blankets to properly cover him and then took his tray away. “Thank you.” Barristan said and his eyes were closed before Jaime had even left the room.

Chapter Text

Lord Tywin broke his fast in the solar of the Tower of the Hand with two of his brother’s at the table with him. He would be leaving the Red Keep and the city soon and returning to Casterly Rock, seeing as the Princess-Regent had no place for him on her council at this time. Jaime had also been invited to eat with his father and Uncle Tyg one last time before they left. The Small Hall of the Hand was filled with servants in Lannister red and Arryn blue lifting and moving tables and furniture and belongings, packing and unpacking as two septas directed it all commanding and countermanding each other’s instructions at every turn.

            By the time Jaime was able to navigate through the chaos he was already several minutes late to breakfast, something he was greatly regretting as he had not truly had an opportunity to speak with his father since the sack. Too busy killing pyromancers and guarding kings. Jaime told himself as he finally reached the door.

            That and you’ve been terrified of this conversation from the moment you threatened to kill Gregor Clegane. An unhelpful voice in his head added.

            “I promised she would wed a prince that is our condition. The Princess-Regent will be needing ladies in waiting, Cersei should serve well. Nice of you to join us Jaime.” Tywin said shifting from one topic to the next easily as his eyes fell on his son. Some men would smile when they saw their son for the first time after not seeing him for almost three years with the last year being war. Tywin Lannister never smiled though.

            “There was some delay navigating the Myrish carpets. Apparently there was some debate about whether they belonged to the Hand or to you.” Jaime’s mouth was healing nicely from the damage that the Mountain had done to it, and it seemed only right that the man who had sent the Mountain would reap the benefits of it.

            “You are looking better nephew, come have a seat by me this might be the last wine that isn’t Dornish you’ll taste for a long time. If what we hear about Elia’s tastes is true.” Tyg said patting the seat next to him and filling two glasses with Arbor gold. Jaime thanked his uncle for both as he took a seat.

            His uncle was not simply making conversation when he said that Jaime was looking better, he had looked in the mirror this morning after taking a bath and had actually recognized his face for the first time in a turn. The bruises were still yellow but fading and he still had to comb his hair a certain way to hide the spots where the hair was growing back, but he had been able to sleep better and more regularly in the nights since Ser Barristan had insisted on taking on some of the duties of organizing the protection for the royal family. Pycelle had still forbidden the knight from returning to duty, but that hadn’t stopped Barristan the Bold from sitting outside the council chamber or playing with Princess Rhaenys and Balerion in the gardens.

            It was the last part that Jaime was most grateful for, filling the Red Keep with the little Princess’s laughter had lifted the spirits of many who had lost someone in the fighting, either in the city or at the Trident. That and seeing Ser Barristan recovering had removed the bags from under Jaime’s eyes. And Sandor agreeing to guard Aegon so you could find Garigus and Belis four nights past. He had chosen to dress to impress his father today, perhaps as a way to make up for foiling his plans, he wore his crimson silks with the golden lions of Lannister on each breast. There was a long sword at his belt as always and he wore a gold chain around his neck. All in all he looked like Ser Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock, not Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard.

            Breakfast was poached eggs and Arbor gold along with conversation both meaningful and meaningless. As usual Lord Tywin listened more than he talked, he was always good at that, staying silent until the moment when his words could hold the most weight. It was something that no other Lannister seemed able to do. The rest of them spoke their minds and got themselves into trouble and out of it on the speed of their wits and the skill of their tongue. And large amounts of gold beneath the Rock.

            “Kevan was just tell us about who the council was considering to receive the white cloaks recently left behind by Lewyn Martell and Jonothor Darry. Right, Kevan?” Tygett said gesturing with his glass to his older brother.

            Kevan frowned at Tyg as if the prior conversations had not been meant to go beyond the three brothers. Which Jaime found strange all things considered.

            “Oh Ser Barristan did not mention being consulted, and I know I wasn’t asked. Does the council have some means of communication with the Lord Commander that they didn’t when Lord Stark left?” Jaime said with sarcasm dripping from his lips.

            “Don’t speak to your uncle like that.” Tywin said and Jaime felt a chill run down his spine. A familiar chill he had thought he was well rid of at this point.

            “Apologies uncles, father.” He said as he ate his eggs feeling cowed for the moment by a few words from his father.

            “Think nothing of it, Jaime, you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. We’re only putting together a list of possible candidates to give to Gerold Hightower when he returns so that we can have his input. It’s a small list so far. Since finding men with both the proper ability and the approval from both sides has been difficult to say the least. Brynden Blackfish, Bonifer Hasty, Richard Horpe, Silveraxe Fell-“

            “Silveraxe, I thought he was Lord Fell now?” Jaime inquired. The ravens had kept the Mad King informed of the way each battle turned and some of the first victories Robert had won were given to the court in detail. None of the victories won during that early part of the war had been more impressive than the battles at Summerhall in the Dornish Marches. Not all of the stormlords had sided with Robert and three of them Lord Fell of the Felwood, Lord Grandison of Grandview, and Lord Cafferen of Fawnton had all agreed to combine their forces at the ruins of Summerhall a former summer castle for the Targaryens and where Prince Rhaegar had been born. It had also been rumored that was where Rhaegar had taken Lyanna. Robert had received word of their actions however and met them there with his host. Each had arrived at a separate time so Robert fought three battles killing Lord Fell and turning Cafferen and Grandison to his side. Cafferen had then been killed by Randyl Tarly at the Battle of Ashford and Grandison had been wounded badly at the Trident. Silveraxe had been captured at the battles at Summerhall and had gone over to Robert’s side as well.

            “Willis Fell is the younger brother of the current Lord of Felwood.” Tywin clarified patiently.

            “Exactly. Other names put forward were Mandon Moore, Meryn Trant, I put forward Preston Greenfield so there’s a westerman in the running, and someone suggested that since, we’re trying to include the whole kingdom in ruling now we should offer a cloak to a knight from the Iron Islands and the north to even things out. Martyn Cassel or one of Manderly’s knights. Don’t ask me where they’re going to find one on the Iron Islands though. Grand Maester Pycelle suggested Lyn Cobray, since he holds Lady Forlorn and had proved his valor at the Trident.” Lyn Corbray had slain a mortally wounded Prince Lewyn Martell at the Trident, Princess Elia’s much loved uncle.

            “For someone who is supposed to be among the best of the maesters that seems, unwise.” Jaime noted as he filled a second glass with Arbor gold. “How did the Princess react?”

            “That was a sight to see, she did not really say anything about it, simply smiled and thanked us all for our suggestions. Then told us that if we had exhausted serious discussion on the topic perhaps we should move on to discussing the empty council seats.” Tygett laughed at that and Jaime found himself laughing along. They both quieted quickly when the moment passed however. No one truly laughed long or hard in the presence of a man who hated laughter as much as Tywin Lannister.

            Their father had been called the Laughing Lion in his youth, not like Lord Lyonel the Laughing Storm who laughed as he went into battle, but because he was always joking or smiling with one of his bannermen. Eventually the name had changed to the Toothless Lion, for Lord Tytos had been a weak lord, the third son of Rohanne Webber and Gerold Lannister. His eldest brother Tywald had died as a squire during the Peake Uprising where King Maekar had also fallen. His next eldest brother had been Tion, who wed Ellyn Rayne and died during the Fourth Blackfyre Rebellion at the Battle of the Wendwater Bridge. Less than a hundred men had died on the Targaryen side during that battle, but the heir to Casterly Rock had been one of them. Tytos Lannister had allowed his lords to walk all over him, refuse to pay their debts, and to scoff at any edicts he or Tywin had given. Tywin had ended that though, he had put Tarbeck Hall to the sword killing Ellyn Reyne-Tarbeck when a catapult collapsed the roof above her head and he had killed all of her male kin. Her two daughters had been given to the Silent Sisters, and then he had marched to Castamere with his brother’s in tow and had drowned that castle and silver mine in the water of a nearby lake. And now the rains weep o’er his halls, with no one there to hear.

            “What of the council, has Elia of Dorne named who will be serving her son at her pleasure yet?” Tywin asked with irritation evident in his voice.

            “She and the rest of the council have sent several invitations forward for positions to be filled. Lord Lucerys Velaryon will remain master of ships and return with the royal fleet and the Targaryens on Dragonstone in several turns once the Queen and her children are ready to travel again. Lord Varys and Pycelle will hold their positions as well. Walter Whent has been named master of coin, Randyl Tarly has been named master of laws. As for the regents’ positions, Hoster Tully is giving his to Tytos Blackwood for the time being, being kin to a former queen seems to have its benefits. Lord Arryn is giving his seat to Corwyn Baelish of the Fingers. Ships have been sent to find the Ironborn fleet that has been raiding down the Reach to inform Quellon Greyjoy of the offer and that the war has ended. Stannis Baratheon is coming from Storm’s End, and Stark named Wyman Manderly for the north. Doran Martell has neglected to take up the seat his sister offered him and has instead decided to send the Red Viper. We received word yesterday that Prince Oberyn will be bringing a sizable party with him by ship from Sunspear, including his paramour and four bastards.” There was a general amount of disgust shared between the Lannisters at this news. No Lannister would ever bring a bastard to court, nor would they receive leave from Tywin to acknowledge one. Lord Tytos had kept mistresses after their mother died, and Lord Tywin had always hated whores.

            “Mace is going to love that. The Red Viper crippled his son in a tourney a few years back.” Tygett noted with a grim grin. There was little question of where Jaime had gotten his martial ability from.

            “Lord Tyrell will be taking his seat on the council himself, of course, and bringing his own children eventually as well I’m told. Donella will be staying with Lancel back at the Rock. She would hate the court that our Dornish Princess is building.” Kevan answered his brother calmly, as the meal was beginning to wrap up.

            “Some men don’t realize just how dangerous King’s Landing can be for women and children, isn’t that right father?” Jaime’s wit was quicker than his sense, it seemed, and the wine had only made him bolder. He had looked his father in the face when he said those challenging words and there was no question of how the man would react.

            Tywin stood up, never without his composure, his back straight as a sword. Never a man for half measures the moment his hairline had begun to recede he had had his barber cut his head bald. The only hear on his head were the bushy golden side-whiskers. Tall and broad shouldered, at forty-one he was an intimidating man whose presence commanded whatever room he was in. His gold flecked green eyes fell on his son then, giving him a stare that had sent men fleeing in terror in the past. Jaime stood as well reaching his full height. He was a knight of the Kingsguard and he would not run from his father anymore. At least, not where other men can see.

            “Please leave us brothers, it seems I need to talk to my son alone for a moment.” Tywin’s voice was cold and hard as iron. Tyg and Kevan exchanged glances and then made themselves scarce, shutting the door behind them. The silence stretched between father and son for what felt like an eternity and when Tywin finally spoke it was to say, “If there is something you wish to say come out and say it plainly, stop jumping around like a jackanapes.”

            Jaime’s mouth went dry and he felt his legs tremble. He’d never been so afraid in his entire life as he was in that moment. Not even when he had been fighting for his life against the Mountain, or when he dueled the Smiling Knight. You’re more afraid of your own father than you were of those men trying to kill you? What does that say about you? What does that say about HIM?

            “Were you just going to pretend I didn’t know? That Elia didn’t know? Were you going to pretend that you didn’t do it?” He asked pushing himself off of the table so that he was clear of the chairs and in an open space. He was putting himself in a better position for a fight, and he hadn’t even thought about doing it.

            Lord Tywin turned to face him, unperturbed by his actions and posture, behaving as if his words meant nothing to him.

            “What are you talking about, my son? I can assure you I haven’t done anything, but what was best for House Lannister.” Tywin said coldly.

            “What was best for House Lannister? How was sending Amory Lorch and the Mountain to kill King Aegon and Princess Rhaenys, and probably Princess Elia too best for House Lannister?” Jaime’s voice was getting angrier, and with the anger came volume as he looked upon his father as if for the first time. He had always known what he was, he knew that there were children in Tarbeck Hall and Castamere, but he had never seen his father like this before.

            “You think I sent them to do that? Jaime, I chose them to take the Red Keep because they were good fighters. I told them nothing about the Princess or her family. You can hardly blame me for two dogs who broke leash. As far as I knew the Mad King had sent his family to Dragonstone for their safety, like any sane man would do. Did they need to be secured in order for Robert to take the throne? Of course, but killing them would have been so inelegant. They could have been sent to serve the Faith, as I would have advocated for if you had not gone and crowned Aegon king. I suppose you believe the whispers are true that I ordered you to turn cloak and kill slit Aerys’s throat as well? That I concocted this whole plan to have Aerys name you Kingsguard only to murder him later? You’re a man grown Jaime, start to act like one.” Jaime could only stand there mouth agape at his father’s words as his father stepped passed him and patted him on his shoulder to say goodbye.

 Could I have been wrong this whole time?

Chapter Text

               Sweat beaded down Ned Stark’s brow and Ice grew heavy in his stiff arms as the sun fell low in the sky and the smell of roasting ducks and cooking stew filled the air. Rickard Stark had never felt the need to train his younger sons how to fight with a greatsword; only Brandon would inherit the Valyrian steel sword so Eddard and Benjen had instead been trained primarily with longswords and shields and bows. Ned would have felt comfortable fighting Lord Commander Gerold Hightower or Ser Oswell Whent longsword to longsword, but he and his companions agreed that Ice was the only blade they had that was equal to Dawn in the hands of the Sword of the Morning.

                So every night since they had broken the siege of Storm’s End he trained with the greatsword, re-accustoming himself with the sword and retraining his reflexes to respond in time with the blade. Martyn Cassel, who was his captain of the guard and whose brother was master-at-arms of Winterfell led the training showing him the moves and stances he had forgotten and serving as his opponent at times. More often his opponent was either the Lord William Dustin of Barrowton or Ser Mark Ryswell. Theo Wull, who they called Buckets, and Howland Reed both did little to help training as they fought in a different style than the Kingsguard were wont to. Buckets did provide some advice on lifting larger weapons and dealing with counterweights. Ethan Glover also spent many of their nights cooking for the men instead of training, taking his duties as a squire very seriously.

                They had stayed at Nightsong, the keep of House Caron, the night before and now camped in the foothills of the Red Mountains only a few hours ride from what Prince Rhaegar had named the tower of joy. Their camp was in the space between two hills, shielding them from the winds and from the gaze of any watching from the tower.

                Tonight Ned was facing all three of his instructors at once.

                “None of us wants to have to fight the Kingsguard, but if we’re going to train for the eventuality that they are going to fight us, we should also train for the eventuality that we all fall without taking any of them with us.” Martyn had explained as the three had lined up to face their liege lord.

                “As unlikely as an outcome as that is. I expect to slay all three while you all stand back and watch.” Mark said with the false bravado of friends who had shared enough dangers together to smile at the joke.

                Ned had held the three of them off fairly well so far, but he was growing tired. If this had been a real fight he would have killed two of them and died half a dozen times. Looking at all three of them he let out a sigh and lowered his blade. “That’s enough for tonight, we will all need our rest for tomorrow.”

                The three of them nodded and sheathed their swords letting their only exhaustion show. They had been training hard and riding hard the whole way from Storm’s End. Ned slid Ice back into the scabbard on his back, Ser Martyn had had him training to draw the sword quickly as well and returned to the fire with the others laying down on the bed of blankets he had made and placing his head back on his saddle for his pillow. The fragrance of their meal filled the campsite as it slowly finished cooking, each of the men had their own habits and task around the camp and they went about them dutifully.

                Buckets had drawn the task of cleaning the pots and skewers tonight, it would not do for any of them to die of some sickness after surviving nearly two years of war, and thus he would eat first when the food was done. He had laid his wooden plate out ready with a brick of fat next to it and a rag for cleaning. The big man ran an oilstone down the blades of his axe, running his nail over the result to see whether it was sharp enough.

                Howland Reed, the little crannogman Lord of Greywater Watch had laid his knives out in a belt in front of them and was inspecting all of them. He was the shortest and the scrawniest of the companions, but looks could be deceiving. Ned had fought beside the man in every battle of the war and knew he was possibly the most dangerous of them all.

                Ser Martyn Cassel stripped off his armor and the shirt he wore beneath it, kneeling on his bed in just his breeches he began the slow process of checking his armor for any weakness. Finding none he began to polish the metal studs in the leather armor that he wore over a chain shirt. He was a clean shaved man with hair that went down to the middle of his back. As he worked he hummed a nursery rhyme Ned knew he had sung to his sons, three of whom had died. The fourth son, Jory, would be nearly ten by now and had drawn a rude drawing of a knight on horseback slaying a fire breathing dragon with a shining lance. The ten wolf heads on the knight’s shield showed that the knight was meant to Jory’s father. Ser Martyn had weighted the drawing down with some small stones and glanced at it every now and again bringing a smile to his face.

                Ser Mark Ryswell was polishing his horse shaped helm. The face of the black metal helm looked like that of a horse and the plume of dyed red feathers made it look like his house’s sigil. The helm fit his long face well and had saved the man’s life many times before. Ser Mark was Lord Rodrik Ryswell’s younger brother, and perhaps one of the best swordsmen in the north.

                Lord William Dustin was a tall joyful man with a large beard and long hair. He too had stripped off his armor and was simply resting on his bed looking at the scars he had gained over the course of the war. Once they had eaten he would go to take care of his horse, a red stallion that had been the pride of the Ryswell herd and a gift from his wife when he had ridden south.

                Ethan Glover pronounced the food done and each of the men began handing the squire their plates and bowls for him to fill with a cut of duck and a few ladles worth of the stew. Ned received a whole leg of duck, as did Howland Reed and William Dustin. Ethan kept the third leg for himself. As Ned spooned some of the meat from the stew into his mouth, he found the taste a new one and savory. As he chewed Ser Mark asked the question that he was thinking.

                “What is this meat in the stew it’s delicious?”

                Ethan took a bite from his duck leg, the grease from the duck sliding down into his untamed beard. “Lord Reed brought it to me, said that it would make a great stew with some of the herb he had gathered.”

                “Well Howl,” Ned asked after swallowing. “What is it?”

                Howland Reed smiled as he looked at his friends. “I spied some snakes while we were looking for camp. I figured we should have something Dornish for our last meal in the marches.” The little crannogman said with a mischievous grin and a twinkle in his green eyes. There was silence in the camp as the northmen realized what they were eating.

                “Har! I ‘spose it be better than frogs, eh Howl?!” Buckets suddenly bellowed and laughter filled the camp as they all started to dig into the savory meat and broth enjoying their first taste of ‘Dornish’ food. More jokes were bantered across the camp fire; of whether Dornish women tasted any better, whether poison would taste better than Glover’s cooking; at some point Ryswell and Cassel started singing “The Dornishman’s Wife” together and Buckets produced a jar of ale he had been saving for the whole war passing it around the campfire.

                Once he finished his meal William got up and beginning to brush his stallion’s hair whispering to the horse as he brushed him.

                “Ye worry after that horse so much Dustin, ye’d think it was yer wife.” Buckets joked as he took back the jug of ale from Ned who had only taken a small sip of it.

                William laughed back at the joke and responded in kind. “What can I say they breed their good mounts those Ryswells. Beautiful, eager, and they know what to do when you’re in the saddle. Am I right Mark?”

                Ser Mark Ryswell laughed back at the joke and retaliated with his own. “Best watch quick mouth of yours Dustin, or my niece might just leave you in one of your barrows!”

                That set all of them laughing as Ned looked at his companions with a thin grin.

                They had marched from King’s Landing as quickly as they could. Wyman Manderly had agreed loyally to remain in the capital to serve as the north’s representative on the council. The Manderly’s had been crucial in the regency of Aegon III and the large lord of White Harbor had studied his history’s well. That and being the only lord in the north to worship the Seven made him the perfect choice to work with the new government in King’s Landing. It had taken some time to cross the Blackwater, paying for ferries in promises from the treasury the northmen had fanned out across the south bank and then spread into the Kingswood. Following the kingsroad south they passed through the hills of Bronzegate where the Last Storm had been fought, and on the ninth day they came upon the Tyrell host beneath the great curtain wall of Storm’s End early in the morning.

                At the sight of the direwolf in the morning sky Mace Tyrell had dipped his banners and road out to meet Lord Stark with Randyll Tarly and Matthis Rowan at his side. Mace seemed an amiable enough man, if a bit dense. When Eddard handed him the parchment offering him and Randyll Tarly seats on the small council and explained the situation in King’s Landing his face had lit up in joy at the opportunity he had been given. Eddard had ordered Tyrell to share the food he had in surplus with the brave garrison of Storm’s End before riding to Storm’s End and offering his second letter to the man at the gate along with his apologies that he could not stay to talk with Stannis, he needed to ride south on the king’s business as quick as possible.

                With that done it had been time for the hardest part of the day, asking men who had already done so much for him to give even more.

                He gathered his lords bannermen and their chief knights in Mace Tyrell’s tent. Umbers and Cerwyns. Glovers, Karstarks, Ryswells, Dustins. Roose Bolton and Martyn Cassel. A whole host of Mountain Clansmen who had been his most devoted followers. Howland Reed his steadfast friend. How can I ask any more of you?

                “My lords, I have asked more of you than any Stark has ever asked of his bannermen before. We have marched and fought together farther south than any northman has come since the time of Cregan Stark.” He paused for a moment to allow for the cheering led by the Umbers. The Greatjon and his uncles had lost more men at the Trident than any other house yet they were still willing to go farther for him. He could not ask it of them. “We have avenged my father and my brother, the Mad King and Prince Rhaegar are dead and Aegon VI is on the throne. But Lyanna still needs to be brought home. Princess Elia told me she was to the south near the Prince’s Pass. She is guarded by some of the best of the Kingsguard, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword in the Morning, and Ser Oswell Whent. I cannot take you all with me, and I cannot ask any of you to go with me. I hope that they will submit and come back to serve King Aegon, but I cannot be certain. I release you from your oaths now, you may go home.” He paused for a moment to let his words sink in. None of them needed to take another step towards an enemy or lose another friend. He would not ask it of them.

                “Greatjon.” Lord Stark said turning and looking at the giant man.

                “Aye Ned, I’ll go to the ends of the world for you and your sister.” He bellowed and put his hand on the hilt of his great sword. Ned could have wept at his loyalty.

                “I know you will, but I cannot ask it of you. I need someone to lead this host back home and to make sure Catelyn gets to Winterfell safely.” The Umbers were not dumb, even though they seemed it at first, but they possessed a cunning unlike few other men. It came from millennia of fighting wildlings and Skagosi and their neighbors and the Greatjon was perhaps one of the most cunning men in that tent. He knew what Ned had done, but he also knew why and he smiled just as proudly as he would have if Ned had asked him to walk with him into the Lands of the Long Summer.

                “Aye, I’ll make sure the Lady Stark gets home safe Ned and those of you who ride south better do the same for Lord Stark!” He said and the men there cheered. Eddard knew each of them would volunteer to go with him to the ends of the world, but many of them had been south of the Neck for too long. Spring was here and their fields would need them and winter was coming.

                Howland Reed was the first to step forward leaning on his white weirwood spear. “An oath I swore to you Lord Stark. By earth and water, by bronze and iron, by ice and fire I swore it. You are my friend and I owe you and yours a debt of friendship I can never repay. I’ll stand with you to the end.” The small man looked tall then as he stepped forward to stand with his friend.

                Ser Martyn Cassel came next having taken a place near the back of the tent to guard the door. “I am sure Hal can take the guard home safely without me. I’ll make sure to guard you closer, my lord.”

                “I’m with you to the end Ned.” William Dustin said stepping forward. “And I.” Ser Mark Ryswell said moving passed his brother.

                “We Wulls stood by the Ned this whole time, I won’t be leavin’ either.” Buckets had said standing to the side of Howland Reed and towering over him.

                To the side Ethan Glover looked at his two brothers, men who had thought their brother dead for certain were loath to see him go into danger again. But he looked at them with determined eyes beneath his wild brown bangs.

                “I was Brandon’s squire, and I said I would be yours. I rode with Brandon to save Lyanna and I’ll ride with you as well.” Ethan proclaimed stepping forward away from his brothers. “If you’ll have me that is, my lord.” He added a moment later.

                Lord Stark nodded his assent and looked at his companions. Seven is a good number, the number of Cat’s gods. “Seven seems to be a favored number this far south. May be it will favor us as well.” He said and was answered with another round of cheering. They were long in the leaving however, each man picked out the best horses they could, and made sure they had the best kit as well. They could not expect much assistance from the marcher lords so they packed what food they could carry and still travel quickly. In total they had ten horses, one for each man and three to carry their armor and kits. Each man said their goodbyes to those they left behind and they rode out at midday.

                The first two nights they had stayed beside the road in the kingswood, but on the third they came to Amberly the seat of House Rogers. Lord Rogers mother was Ned’s mother’s sister and they received a warm welcome that night and left early in the morning. With the Red Mountains of Dorne to their left the party turned south-west down the flat plains of the Dornish Marches. The marcher lords had risen for Robert and they offered lodging and food in return for the news from the capital. Arstan Selmly at Harvest Hall was very grateful for the news that his great-uncle had survived the Battle of the Trident and slaughtered a fatted calf to feast them that night. Nightson of the Carons had been the last of their stops on the twelfth night. This night before the fire would be the thirteenth and they would arrive on the fourteenth.

                Each man went to sleep that night with a smile on his face and warm from fire and ale. Each of them dreaming of their family and homes that they would see soon. Ned was thankful that his sleep was dreamless, Winterfell and the Eyrie had been his homes and neither of them would be the same if he ever returned to them.

                The dawn greeted them early in the morning, the fire had burnt low but Buckets kicked it up high again and began to fry some bacon over it. The morning was cool but the day would be hot. Each man prepared for battle in his own way, steeling himself for it and praying that it would not come to pass. Some ate a little and others ate what the portions they left. For his part Ned cleaned Ice one last time before arming himself. Mail shirt and mail greaves, plate on his arms and shoulders and a half-helm on his head. Ethan helped him into his white surcoat with the grey direwolf of House Stark on the front. When all was ready the seven mounted up and rode to what could be their last fight.

                They turned south-west as they rode into the Prince’s Pass the sunlight gleaming off of their armor. Ned prayed to the old gods that he would be able to see his home again and the three women that he loved. If the gods could hear him so far south they showed no sign.

                They waited beneath the tower, the red mountains of Dorne behind them. The warm wind picked up their white cloaks, shining in the sunlight. All three of them had remained as Elia had said they would. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning with the hilt of the greatsword Dawn over his right shoulder and a sad smile on his lips. Ser Oswell Whent was on his knee, sharpening his sword with a whetstone. The black bat of House Whent spread its wings across his white-enameled helm. Between them stood Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsuard, old and fierce.

                Eddard dismounted and his friends joined him, pulling the letter from his saddle bags and stepping towards Hightower with the letter in front of him.

                “I looked for you on the Trident,” Ned said to them. No man wanted this fight, but all were prepared for it.

                “We were not there,” Ser Gerold answered.

                “Woe to Robert Baratheon if we had been,” Said Ser Oswell, whose nephews had fallen in the fight.

                “When King’s Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were.”

                “We were here,” Ser Gerold responded yet again, “or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells.” Ned would not defend the Kingslayer to these men, but woe to them both when they met again.

                “I came down on Storm’s End to lift the siege,” Ned told them, “and the Lords of the Reach dipped their banners. Lords Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly sit on the council now. I had hoped to see you with them.”

                “Would that I could join them. But my duty is here.” Ser Gerold answered as he took the letter from Ned’s hands and opened it.

                “Ser William Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him.”

                “Ser Willem is a good man and true,” said Ser Oswell.

                “But not of the Kingsugard,” Ser Gerold pointed out as he read. “The Kingsguard does not flee.”

                “Then or now,” said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.

                “We swore a vow,” explained old Ser Gerold.

                Ned’s friends moved up beside him, each with arms in hand. They were seven against three. Ned’s hand moved to the hilt of Ice.

                “We do not want to fight, sers. Princess Elia has need of all of us, and King Aegon has need of his guard. We’ve come at her command, with her words. She summons you all to return with us and let us take Lyanna home.” Ned tried one last time to stop this fight. It was plain on their faces that they did not want to do this either. But they must.

                Ser Gerold dropped the letter and let it blow in the wind, sadness in his old eyes. This man who had lived through the reigns of six kings, and had served on the Kingsguard for five of them. Maekar, Aegon, Jaehaerys, Aerys, and now Aegon again. He had taken wounds for them, an arrow to the hand in the kingswood only two years passed, and lost friends for them. Ned recognized the look his eyes, a hard duty, but one that must still be done.

                “You are correct, my lord. Aegon will be needing his guard, but we cannot forsake a vow to his father at the command of his mother.” The White Bull answered.

                The Sword of the Morning drew Dawn from his back, it’s blade as white as milkglass, alive with light. “And so it begins.” The knight with the sad smile said.

                “No,” Ned answered drawing his own greatsword. “And now it ends.” And then they rushed to meet each other with the clash of steel around them.

When the ancestral swords of the great houses met songs were made. Bloodraven and Bittersteel on the Weeping Ridge. Damon Blackfyre and Ser Gwayne Corbray at the Redgrass Field. Aemon the Dragonknight and the Old Man of the North. The stories of these battles rang through history.

            Ned would not count his duel worthy to of their number.

            From the moment that Ice and Dawn met he was giving ground before the Sword of the Morning, the sand and gravel of the Dornish path grinding beneath his boots. The sound of metal against metal filled the air. Steel met steel. Black Valyrian steel and the white heart of a fallen star. Eddard’s feet slid out from under him and he fell onto his back.

            As he fell Martyn and Howland came forward to take his place. The small crannogman’s weirdwood spear bouncing off of the white plate of the Kingsguard. Martyn’s low thrust was turned by Dawn’s white blade, but Arthur began to give ground.

            To their left the White Bull battled with Ethan Glover and Buckets. Theo Wull’s axe cleft one of the horns from his white steel helm as the old Lord Commander moved to place the Mountain Clansman between his body and Glover’s blade. He was favoring his left hand on his hilt, fighting in a style he had not used in battle in many years most likely. The handicap was the only thing that was giving the two younger men a chance against the knight who had now survived three kings.

            To the right Dustin and Ryswell worked together against Whent; the Lord of Barrowton and his wife’s uncle worked in tandem taking the knight from both sides at once. One sword glanced off the plate while the other was parried by the riverman’s blade. Twisting between the two all three men were stumbling off balanced in the loose ground in front of the tower.

            As Ned rose to his feet Ice in hand the first blood was drawn to stain the sands of Dorne. Dawn cleaved the weirwood spear in two and jumped forward cutting through leather and flesh as easily as cutting through the air. The Lord of Greywater Watch fell hard to the dirt a red stain spreading across his chest. He looks so small. Ned thought sadly as he felt anger fill him. As he stood there angry and sad Ser Oswell’s sword pierced Mark’s gut as William’s sword cleaved his head in twain with a shout.

            Ned shouted then too and moved forward towards Dayne and Cassel. The knight of the north and the Sword of the Morning moved together almost evenly matched. Ned’s arms rung as Dawn caught Ice mid-swing, a steel clad boot slammed into Ned’s gut and the wind was knocked from him send him to his knees. William charged forward red with blood screaming and swinging his sword down at Dayne. Dawn glowed in the sunlight parrying the swords of Dustin and Cassel; the Sword of the Morning kept them at bay and prevented them from flanking him.

            Across the ground Theo Wull’s great axe bit into Ser Gerold’s right shoulder cleaving through plate and mail and flesh and bone. As the arm fell away Buckets’s head fell with it. One armed the White bull stepped back facing Ethan Glover both men covered in blood. Ned struggled to his feet and fell again coughing and gasping for breath. He tasted blood in his mouth.

            “You saved my life once, Ser Gerold. When you asked the Mad King to spare me. I thank you for that, but I cannot do the same.” Glover said advancing on a night old enough to be his great-grandfather.

            “I understand, boy. I understand. Gods smile on you. Do your duty, and I’ll try to do mine.” The two men charged at each other as Ned screamed wordlessly gripping Ice’s hilt tight and struggling to rise. The one armed knight and the northman squire met and thrust their swords. Ned cheered inside as a red sword sprouted from the White Bull’s back and the old knight’s body flew over Glover’s back. Then that cheer died as he saw Ethan fall to his knees, a sword hilt sticking out between his shoulder and his neck. His eyes fell on Eddard and his mouth moved to form words but only blood came out and he fell on his face dead. 

            The Lord of Barrowton fell next as Ser Arthur leapt between the two fighters and Dawn struck out finding a gap between William’s armor and helm. His life blood gushed forth like a mountain river in spring covering the rocks and sand and the sword as white as milkglass. Dayne turned to face Martyn and Ned could not see his face, but his voice was calm, if pained, when he spoke.

            “And so it comes to you and me. It was a good fight you gave me, ser. Know that you’re the first man to ever wound me so grievously. I would know your name, ser, so that I can tell your people you died valiantly.” The white knight said and for the first time Ned noticed the red stain on his white cloak and the gash in his armor from his hip halfway up his side.

            “I am Ser Martyn of House Cassel. Captain of the guard of Winterfell. I swore an oath too, to see my lord and his sister home safely. I’ll be keeping that oath, by I’ll give you one too. I’ll make sure your family knows how you died.” Ser Martyn said confidently, but he was breathing heavily. The two men saluted each other and met, Dawn meeting castle-forged steel with Mikken’s mark on the blade. It was a beautiful dance, and Eddard only then realized how much Ser Martyn had been holding back during the training. As the fight went on Dayne grew weaker and slower from blood loss and Martyn began pressing his advantage. Then, in an imperceptible instant the tempo of the fight switched back and Dawn was slashing down towards Martyn’s head. Ned had tried that swing half-a-hundred times and Martyn had caught and turned it on his practice sword always landing a killing blow afterwards. Hope rose up in Ned’s chest.

            Then Dawn shattered the sword that Mikken had forged, slicing through sword and helm and bone and brain and helm again. Martyn fell to the ground then and Ned stared agape as his friend’s body landed in one place and half his head in another.

            They’re all dead. All of my friends dead. I killed them. Ethan who had escaped death once before. William with his beautiful, new wife. Mark Ryswell always so gently and soft-spoken. Buckets, faithful, never to fish another frozen lake. Martyn, never to see his son Jory again. Howland Reed, his friend through all hardships who had seen so much and wanted to see more. I’ve killed them all, lying here just trying to breath. Brandon would have done better. Brandon should have been the lord, not me. Catelyn, widowed so young, I’m sorry. The lordship, the sword, and you. Brandon should have had it all.

            No.

            NO!

            I will not be that boy again!

            “DAYNE!”

            The wolf blood was stronger in some Starks than in others. Brandon had had it, Lyanna had it. Ned had never really felt it before. Until that moment. He rose then and screamed, flecks of blood flying out with his rage and he lifted his Valyrian steel sword in both hands and charged. Ice met Dawn once again, and for a moment the Sword of the Morning and the Quiet Wolf danced a sword dance worthy of song. Steel met steel and this time Ned drove Arthur back. The leapt and turned and without Ned knowing it he had placed his back to the tower and they were moving towards the charnel house where his friends all lay. Wolf blood was strong and gave him strength, but years of trained skill was greater. Where Ser Arthur moved with well-trained ease Ned’s feet tripped and stumbled. Dawn and Ice met in the air as Ned knelt on one knee pushing up against the other blade.

            “I’ll give your love to your sister.” Ser Arthur apologized and then he screamed and fell to his knees. Behind him Howland Reed knelt with a bloody dagger in his hands, the Lord of Greywater Watch’s chest bubbled with blood but he had still found the strength to hamstring the greatest knight in the realm. For one brief moment Ser Arthur was distracted and Dawn slipped away. Taking this moment Ned slashed Ice up and then down again cutting into the Sword of the Morning’s shoulder and down.

            “And I to yours.” Ned said as he looked into the knight’s violet eyes as life left them. Ice fell from Ned’s exhausted hands as the rush of the wolf blood slipped away. His body felt heavy then and he wanted to just fall and sleep.

            “Eddard!” Lyanna’s scream cut through everything, through the smell of death and the wariness and the sorrow of loss. He had not failed, his sister was safe. He looked to Howland with concern, but Howland only lifted his hand to wave him away.

            “Go, it’s not as bad as it looks and I have a poultice in my bags.” He said, and Ned thanked him for it with his eyes.

            Ned rushed back over the bodies and shouldered the door of the tower aside. “I’m coming Lya!” He screamed running up the winding steps of the tower as she screamed his name again. She was screaming in pain. He was not prepared for what he found when he pushed the door at the top of the tower aside.

            Rose and blood. And screams. Blue winter roses filled the room. Blood covered the bed staining the white sheets red. Screams came from his sister’s mouth, and from the mouth of the bloody babe in the midwife’s arms.

            “Ned.” “Lya.” The siblings gasped in unison.

            Ned did not remember running to her bedside, nor did he remember falling to his knees. He pressed his mail clad hand in his sister’s tears filling his eyes. He had seen and heard of enough women dying in childbed to know what was killing his little sister.

            “Ned, you came.” She moaned in pain looking him in the eyes.

            “Of course Lya, always. Elia told me everything.” He said breathing heavy from his exertions. He could barely see as the tears welled up in his eyes, but he fought them away. Lyanna smiled at him then, at the mention of the Princess.

            “Elia did? She’ll look after the baby. She promised she would. In her last letter. ‘Women who wed Dragons need to look after each other’. That’s what she said.” The smile never left her face as she held her big brother’s hand tight.

            “Ned it’s so warm here. At first I loved it, but I want to go somewhere cool now. Will you take me back to Winterfell?”

            “Of course, Lya. I’ll take you back home.” He said running a hand through her hair.

            “Elia will explain to Robert, give him my apologies. Ashara is waiting for you, she said so when she left. She was almost as big as me. Can you believe it?” She laughed at that and placed a hand on her large belly. She had been grown so big. How had his little sister grown so big? He thought.

            “My son has our eyes Ned, did you see? His name is Aemon. Like the Dragonknight. Isn’t that nice Ned?”

            “Yes, yes it is Lya. Please don’t leave me. I can’t lose you too.” Ned begged even though he knew it was too late for begging, but he didn’t want her to go. She was too young to die.

            “Look after him Ned. I know Elia will raise him to be a prince, to love his brother and sister. But let him know what it means to be a Stark too. Let him know me. And take me home. Promise me, Ned, promise me.” Her voice was growing weak now, and she looked him in the eyes.

            Ned promised her. “I promise.” He said and he said it again as he saw the light disappear from her eyes. The tears came then and the midwife took the babe away from the room. The tears came and did not stop, flowing down his face and into his beard like a torrent of rain. All he could say was “I promise.” And weep. He was like that when Howland Reed finally came and took his hand from his sister’s cold one.

Chapter Text

            When the message found him Jon was lounging drunk in a Lysene pillow house smoking some drug from Yi Ti out of a long pipe while counting the coins in his dwindling pouch while eyeing a lithe bed slave dancing on a raised dais in the middle of the smoke and perfume filled room. The dancer was of the Valyrian blood, well-muscled and beautiful. He’s probably been bred from a long line of pretty slaves. The former Hand of the King and lord of Griffin’s Roost looked away disgusted with himself.

            What would my silver prince think of me now? He thought as he took another long pull from the poppy pipe hoping that the drugs from the east would drown out his disgust, sorrow, and guilt. He hoped in vain. The ringing of bells still remained.

            Attainted and exiled, Jon had sailed form the Weeping Town on Cape Wrath to Lys. The Merryweathers had gone into exile in Myr and he had wanted to distance himself as much as possible from his predecessor while he waited for Rhaegar to ascend the Iron Throne and call him back in glory. Lys had been founded as a pleasure colony by the Valyrian Freeholds, it had perhaps the best climate of the Free Cities and was famed for the most beautiful of people and slaves. He had not thought he would be waiting long for the summons, but then a different kind of message came for him.

            Rhaegar dead. Slain on the Trident by Robert Baratheon. Dead for Jon’s failures. The news had come with rumors of the death of King Aerys and the Sack of King’s Landing. All he had fought for, dead.

            Jon had not been sober a day since.

            “You are the one called Jon Connington,yes, the Red Andal?” The messenger said when he came and sat down next to Jon. He was a wealthy man, as evidenced by the lord’s ransom he wore in rings and the fine silks he dressed himself in. He had a wispy, white, curly beard and white hair on his head to match. On top of his head he wore a jaunty green cap with a fan of peacock feathers tucked into it. His accent marked him as a native to Lys with his hair marking him of the blood of Valyria. Jon for all the world wanted to tell him to go fuck himself.

            “The Red Andal. Is that what they’re calling me?” Jon said instead leaning forward to take another pull from the long pipe but thinking better of it tossing it aside. He wanted to have his wits at least partially about him in case he needed to wipe the smile from this man’s face.

            “Just so, for your hair and beard and your temperament it would seem. And here the man who keeps the birds sent from Westeros said that you would be so happy to read this.” ‘This’ was a letter sealed with black wax. Jon snatched the letter from the man’s hands the moment he produced it and looked at the seal. He recognized the coat of arms on the seal and his world was rocked. House Nymeros Martell’s spear piercing a sun quartered, with the Targaryen three headed dragon. The personal seal of Princess Elia of Dorne.

            Jon tore the seal and opened the letter quickly, the haze of wine and smoke gone from his mind in a moment as he read the words of a woman he had thought dead. One of a few people who could claim to love Rhaegar Targaryen as much as he did.

            Ser Jon Connington,

            I write to you as a friend who shares you in your mourning to give you tidings from King’s Landing. No doubt you have heard that our dear Rhaegar is dead and his father as well. The war has ended in the Seven Kingdoms and we are now at peace. Aegon sits the Iron Throne as King and I rule as his regent until the day he comes of age. I have bought peace with compromises great and small. Lord Robert Baratheon is Lord-Protector of the Realm and Lord Jon Arryn is Hand of the King. I have convinced the small council to pardon you for offences you may have committed on the orders of King Aerys. For slaying Ser Denys Arryn and wounding Lord Hoster Tully. As part of this compromise you may return from exile to King’s Landing, and take up the command of the City Watch.

            Thoros of Myr tells me there is a saying of the red priests in the Free Cities. ‘The night is dark and full of terrors’. To that I say that the night is black and in need of fyre. I worry for the future of my son and daughter if they do not have strong swords loyal to them in the years to come. My brothers’ have given me treasured guidance. As you might remember, Prince Oberyn was also exiled to the Free Cities and he founded a sellsword company of his own. These brave companions and the pirate-lord Salladhor Saan have been paid to deliver you safely back to King’s Landing. My brother Doran tells me of another saying of the Free Cities. ‘Beneath the gold, the Bittersteel’, it is quick fingers and black steal King Aegon will have need of. The true treasure of the realm that is hidden beneath the gold, the steel, and the Rivers that can put an end to the disputes in our lands. The captains of the City Watch wait your coming expectantly, they are eager for you to join their golden company.

            Written by the hand of Princess Elia of House Nymeros Martell, widow to Rhaegar Targaryen the Prince of Dragonstone, Regent to Aegon VI King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

            Jon Connington read the letter through and then read it again. It was sobering to hear news from home, to learn that his best friend’s son was now a king, that his exile was almost at an end, and that he could go home soon. But, there was another message inside the message that he had to be certain of as he rose. Placing the letter inside his shirt he looked at the man in front of him.

            “I take it you’re Saan. The son of the Last Valyrian?” Jon asked leaning against the wall for a moment to steady himself. The letter may have sobered his mind in part, but his body still felt the world spinning around him.

            “That I am, Ser Jon. I have been promised good money to take you to King’s Landing safely. Yet, I am thinking that there is another stop we will be making on the way.” The pirate said asking a question without saying it with a raised eyebrow. Jon nodded and gestured for the man to follow him as they left the pillow house for the inn where he was staying. He gathered his few belongings and then followed Salladhor to his galleas explaining the message of the letter to the man as they went.

            Valyrian sailed in the early dawn, heading north under the power of oars. Jon spent part of this voyage with his head hung over the side of the ship emptying his belly of all of the poisons he had put into it in his time in Lys. After that first day, and a bath in sea water, Jon set to making plans with his purchased ally. It was a dangerous task that he was about, but one that he would need to do. If he were to fail, Saan was to let the Princess know what had become of her erstwhile Commander of the Goldcloaks.

            On the third day they arrived off the coast of the Disputed Lands in the evening. Formerly an extension of the Broken Arm these lands were where the Three Daughters, Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys, met. The three mercantile Free Cities had fought over possession of this rich land for nearly four hundred years since the Doom came to Valyria. While it had been rich, arable and well wooded during that time war and fire had left few towns worth the name on the peninsula and they lands that remained were salted, burnt, and harried to the point where the three cities were fighting for pride and not wealth now.

            More sellsword companies had been born to fight in this stretch of land than anywhere else in the world. Second Sons, Windblown, Company of the Cat, Company of the Rose, Second Sons, Ragged Standard, Stormbreakers, Long Lances, Gallant Men, Maidens Men, and more. Thousands of free companies had watered this land with each other’s’ blood in the long years that they had warred on this land.

            The greatest of these free companies was the Golden Company. Founded almost a hundred years ago by Aegor Rivers, called Bittersteel, a Great Bastard of King Aegon IV the Unworthy, the Company had a reputation for honesty and honor. In another life they would be the company that Jon Connington would have joined. Composed of exiles and the attainted in Westeros they had originally been founded to unite those who had supported Daemon Blackfyre’s failed rebellion and had served in three out of four of the Blackfyre Rebellions as well as the War of the Ninepenny Kings. It was said that each man of the company carried a king’s ransom of gold and jewels on their bodies. A gold arm ring was earned for each year that they served with the company and additional benefits were accrued other tasks undertaken with the company. There was only one treasure they possessed that Jon carried about however.

            Daemon Blackfyre had been born Daemon Waters, the bastard son of Daena the Defiant and Aegon the Unworthy. When Aegon legitimized all of his bastards on his death bed Daemon took his surname from the sword of House Targaryen that his father had given him. Blackfyre. A Valyrian longsword that had been wielded by every Targaryen king since Aegon the Conqueror. Aegor had taken the sword overseas with him and it had never been retaken no matter how many Blackfyres were killed or captured in their many wars. It had been rumored that the sword had been buried with Aegor in an unmarked grave, or that it had been sold to the Iron Bank of Braavos as collateral. Prince Doran Martell’s spies said otherwise however, and Jon would return to King’s Landing with that sword or not at all.

            Prince Oberyn’s former sellsword company met him as the moon reached its peak on the coast of the Disputed Lands. The leader of these Brave Companions was a scrawny Qohorik man with a swollen tongue that made him lisp.

            “You are Jon Connington?” The man asked as his horse stopped in front of the Red Andal. Jon had prepared for this night during the voyage over. He had blackened his armor with tar and painted his face so that he did not show in the knight as well. His sword he had darkened so that the moonlight would not shine on it and he had run mud through his fiery hair and beard. He would appear nearly invisible in the light of the crescent moon.

            “Yes, the Red Viper sends his regards.” Jon said rising and mounting the horse that the Goat offered.            

            “I have been promithed your weight in thilver to return to help you in your tathk and return you to Kingth Landing thafely. If any other man but the Red Viper had athked thith of me I would have thpat in their faceth.” The Qohorik said spitting everywhere as they rode. Jon filled him in on the plan as well, there would be little danger for the Brave Companions. They would simply need to light some fires and make some noise to draw the attention of the guards so that Jon could slip through the enemy lines and back out again. He did not trust this man as far as he could throw him, but he knew that the Red Viper had founded this company and they would show loyalty to him during this mission. The Red Viper was rumored to be a sorcerer and to have an implacable sense of vengeance. If they betrayed him they would all die screaming.

            The two men parted nearly five miles from the Golden Company’s encampment. Vargo Hoat to go join his men and prepare for the diversion, Jon to begin his own dangerous task.

            He left his horse hobbled behind a hillock and checked his scabbards once last time before beginning to crawl on his belly over the flat land towards the encampment. As he went he kept himself well below of the tall, scraggly grass that covered the land around the camp.

            Nearly ten thousand men strong, including over a thousand knights and squires, another thousand archers, and a company of war elephants and sappers as well as many more infantry. Their camp was well organized, surrounded by a ditch and earthen wall. The barracks on the inside of those walls would be plaid out in an organized pattern with the latrines to the north side, so that they flowed into a nearby river and then out into the sea. All of was so well organized Ser Arthur Dayne would have named it adequate. When Jon was nearly five hundred feet from the earthen wall the horns began to sound and a cacophony began to be raised on the north and east, turning many of the sentinels’ attention away from this direction.

            Two of them ran to the other side of the camp to see what was going on, leaving this one part of the wall protected by only one man.

            Reaching under his armor he pulled a stone rounded by the sea out and threw it hard through the hair and watched it collide with the head of sentinel. He fell from his post to the base of the wall. Jon rushed forward and pushed his body flat against the wall and reached down to check the sentinel’s breath. The rock had split the man’s skull and the fall had killed him. Checking to see that no one had seen what he had done Jon dug his mailed fingers into the wall and began pulling himself up and over the wall and back down the other side, landing on his feet.

            Looking from one side to the other he oriented himself inside the camp, the one downside to setting your camp up the same way every time was that scouts could not it and give that information to others. He slipped through the lines between the tents quickly, seeming to be just another man running to see what was going on. No one challenged him, everyone who cared to be awake had already gone to see what was going on. In the center of the camp the captain-general set up his tent surrounded by spikes with golden skulls hanging from them. Each skull was a former captain-general. On his deathbed Bittersteel had ordered the company to plate his skull in gold and carry him before them when they final conquered Westeros. Barristan Selmy had killed the last Blackfyre Pretender on the Stepstones and Aegor’s dream had died. Yet, the tradition continued and now Jon Connington knew why.

            Running forward Jon knelt at the base of the tallest pike, the one in the center of all of the others and prayed that he blended into the shadows.

            Pulling a wicked, sawblade knife from his belt he ran his hands down the pike looking for the gap that would reveal what he needed to find. With over a dozen gilded skulls hanging around, few men would notice how large the center pole was, as thick around as a longsword’s hilt was. No one would notice the unnecessary size, or the carved slot inside except for the company quartermaster, and Jon Connington had never known a quartermaster not to be greedy and seek to earn a little more than he would otherwise. His searching fingers finally found the edge of the compartment and he pressed the blade against it prying it open. He cursed at the sound of the rusted hinges sliding down, this compartment must not have been opened in years, but he had to bite his lip from cheering as the blade-bladed sword of kings fell forward into his hand. The scabbard had long since worn away, but the sword itself was pristine, nothing kept an edge like Valyrian steel. Pushing the compartment door shut again Jon turned to quickly walk the way he had come to escape.

            It took everything in his power not to run, a running man made more noise and drew attention, the captain-general’s name was Black Heart and had a rumor for cruelty. He had nearly made the wall when someone called out to him. He ignored them and kept walking and the call turned into a shout. Two large men in armor appeared in front of him both brandishing spears. From the sounds coming from behind him more armed men were coming up behind.

            “So much for stealth, well then come on! A griffin! A griffin!” With the war cry of his house on his lips he pulled his other sword free with his left hand as he charged the two men in front of him. Tired men, armed with spears, facing an opponent they were not expecting, will rarely react in time when a man wearing all black and covered in mud charges swinging swords at them while screaming nonsense at them. Neither of these men reacted in time and they paid for it with their lives. Bloodied swords in hand Jon surged over their corpses and up the steps to the wall as spears and rocks and arrows fell around him.

            Leaping from the earthen wall he flew through the air and landed hard on the ground rolling to soften the blow. His own longsword slid from his grip as he leapt to his feet but he held onto Blackfyre as if it were his life. Arrows began to fall around him in the night, some of them were on fire giving the archers behind him a better chance to hit him. Weaving left and right like a snake in the grass he avoided most of the arrows and ignored those that he couldn’t. Several glanced off the armor on his back, but some pierced through the mail if not the leather beneath, and some even pierced through that into his flesh.

 The first two hundred fifty yards were the longest of his life as the arrows landed around him and struck him. Several times he felt them pass through his hair. If one struck his head he would be dead before he hit the ground.

Once he was past that point the fear was someone figuring out what he had done and sending the horsemen after him.

After the first mile with no sound of pursuit he began to pace himself. Thinking that they would not be able to organize a pursuit now with him so far gone. Perhaps they had thought he had meant to murder the captain-general in his sleep?

He had run longer distances before, but as he reached nearly two miles out in less than fifteen minutes he began to ease himself down. His back was stinging with the arrows in it. I hope that pirate has a surgeon on his ship. He thought to himself when he started to hear the shouting. Turning back to look he saw horsemen with torches beginning to ride out of the west gate. Cursing he began to run again his head pounding in his chest and blood streaming down his back.

The knights did not know exactly where he was though, so they fanned out searching the ground around the southern wall out of bow range. Nearly doubled over he avoided their gaze for the next two miles, sometimes dropping onto his belly and crawling as they came closer and closer. He finally finished his run crawling on his elbows and belly and scurrying over the hillock to roll down to his horse.

“I see him!” “There he is!” “Over that hill!” came the cries and Jon cursed his luck as he released the horses hobbling and leapt into the saddle.

“GO! GO!” He shouted to the horse and sawing at the reins with one hand while he held Blackfyre at the ready.

I will not fail you. I failed the father, I will not fail the son. He told himself as he rode the sounds of more horsemen coming behind him. His heart cried out in joy as the Valyrian came into view. The Brave Companions and come here first and ridden their horses into the hold. Now they lined the deck with the Lysene’s pirates bowmen loosing arrows out at the knights following behind him. The galleass was pushing out as Jon leapt with his horse on the retreading ramp climbing up and over onto the deck.

“Full sail, get us to sea! To Westeros!” Salladhor Saan called from the helm as the ship began to sail. The knights of the Golden Company were falling back recognizing that the beach was becoming a killing field.

On the deck of the ship Jon fell form the saddle hard onto the ground.

“Move! Move! Out of my way!” A voice cried out and he felt hands grabbing at his arms and lifted his head to see and old man looking down at him.

“Don’t worry Lord Connington. My name is Qyburn, I was a maester.” Qyburn said as he began to remove the arrows that had not actually pierced the flesh.

“Ith that it?! Ith that the thword?!” Vargo Hoat asked stepping forward with sword in hand. Jon looked at the sword in his hand and nodded and then bit down as Qyburn began removing arrows. Fortunately none of them were barbed.

“Good. Now that thilver, and the lordthip ith mine!” Vargo Hoat said and began to laugh eyes staring at the black-bladed sword with the pommel shaped like a dragon's head with a ruby set in the top. Even without the storied history of that sword it could buy a man a comfortable life for the rest of his days if sold to the right person. There were lords in the seven Kingdoms who would give their eye teeth for a Valyrian steel sword. There were others who would gladly give a daughter or even some land before they would sell their family's sword. 

Jon gripped the sword tight and grit his teeth as Qyburn removed the third and fourth arrows from his skin. Fortunately, none of them seemed to have pierced anything vital or too deep. The man who looked like someone's favorite uncle leaned down and whispered into his ear. "Do not worry, my lord. Not a man of this company will allow another to move against you so long as Prince Oberyn demands your protection. There are debts that cannot be repaid with silver or land, and damnations that not even a blood sacrifice to the Black Goat can wash away." Jon nodded as the man dripped some Myrish fire onto the wounds eliciting not a sound from the determined red haired griffin. He could feel a tension beginning to build on the ship as he began to dress his wounds. Pirates and sellswords were now cramped together for a long voyage to come. 

Chapter Text

          If Tyrion had born into any other family he likely would have been outcast and shunned, if he had been born to smallfolk he more than likely would have been left in the woods to die or sold to a traveling mummers’ show. He thanked the Seven daily that he had been neither. Instead he had been a Lannister of Caterly Rock, youngest son of the fearsome Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and once and future Hand of the King. Instead of simply being murdered out of hand things were expected of him; his brother was a great warrior, a knight of the Kingsguard renowned throughout the realm as one of the greatest tourney knights and warriors in the realm. His sister Cersei was the darling of the west: young, beautiful and charming everything that the lady of a great house should be. Tyrion was none of these things and never would be.

            A dwarf, at the age of ten he had grown as tall as he ever would. His arms and legs were too short for his trunk and his head seemed over large; though Tyrion liked to think it was just large enough to fit his exceptional brain. His eyes were mismatched, green and black, as was his hair, pale gold and black. His face was an ugly, pushed in thing. One would say it was the type that only a mother could love, but Tyrion had never known his mother. He would never know though, he had killed his mother in the childbed after all. Joanna Lannister was the only person who could make Lord Tywin smile and so Tyrion had murdered his father’s joy when he murdered his mother. The lesson that life was not fair was one Tyrion had learned with his birthing cries.

            Smallfolk and certain courtiers had despised Tyrion from his very birth naming him “Lord Tywin’s Doom” and “Tywin’s Bane”, “Imp” was another name he had heard whispered behind him as he rode the streets of Lannisport on the back of his specially trained mare in a saddle he had designed himself. That was where he excelled, the gods had seen fit to grant him an exceptionally powerful mind to compensate him for his twisted and weak body.

            Thus remember, my children, that each of you is gloriously and wonderfully made by the Seven-Who-Are-One from the greatest of kings to the lowest beggar. The Father Above protects you all and grants you justice. The Mother Above has given you life and the breath in your lungs. The Warrior lit the fires of courage within your heart so that you may face the terrors of each new day. The Smith has crafted your mortal form to be the right tool for the task the Seven have crafted you for. The Maiden plants love for our fellows in our hearts and gives good dreams to her children. The Crone has grants you wisdom and guidance by the light of her lamp. The Stranger welcomes the outcasts and carries the good and the ill away to the other world at their appropriate time and day.

            Tyrion had loved to read from a young age, and from a young age he had known for what purpose the Smith had crafted him for. He would never be a knight to gain glory in the lists or on the battle ground; nor could he lead men from behind in battle as his father did, no man would follow one who asked men to do that which he himself was not willing to do; no woman would ever take him to the marriage bed willingly, and what name would his offspring have forced upon them? The Lannisdwarfs? No, Tyrion Lannister had been gifted a cunning mind and a golden tongue to one day serve as their voice on earth the High Septon. To that end Tyrion read and studied not just the books of Faith, the Seven-Pointed-Star and the Book of Holy Prayer, but all books that could come into his reach from the scrolls of Valyria before the Doom to the histories of the great kings to the writings on obscure fields written by chained maesters from the Citadel in Oldtown.

            This morning he was reading The Collected Sermons of the Seven Speakers. Following King Jaehaerys the Conciliators marriage to his sister the Good Queen Alysanne he had sent out seven preachers, three septons, three septas and Lady Elinor Costayne who had been one of Maegor the Cruel’s three Black Brides and later the mother of the motherhouse in Lannisport. The duty of the Seven Speakers was to win the smallfolk over to the marriage not through the sword but through the word. This had been the beginning of the Doctrine of Exceptionalism that declared House Targaryen as excepted from the prohibitions against incest due to their Valyrian heritage and ability to ride dragons. This particular sermon was given by Septon Alfyn who had not walked the realm like the other speakers, for he had no legs to walk on, and he had eventually been chosen by the Most Devout to become High Septon. If a man with no legs can become High Septon, why not a dwarf?

            Tyrion had made the mistake of doing his reading in one of Casterly Rock’s many courtyards enjoying the warm spring sun after a long dank winter. His sister Cersei and her two friends, Jeyne Farman and Melara Hetherspoon, had decided to enjoy the sun as well in the same courtyard. Only while Tyrion was small and quiet and a bother to no one they filled the yard with loud giggles and even louder whispers of gossip.

           After starting the same paragraph three times for being interrupted by loud fits of girlish laughter Tyrion final rolled his eyes and cleared his throat.

           “May I ask, dear sister, what in the world could be so funny?” Though Tyrion was small his voice carried well, one of the many tricks his dear uncle Gerion had taught him.

           Melara and Jeyne both opened their eyes wide in surprise when they heard his voice come as if from nowhere. They both also scrunched their noses in unison when they realized its source. Both had learned long ago to mimic Cersei in all things, including her disdain for her youngest brother.

           “Cersei is going to marry the Prince of Dragonstone, if you must know.” Melara answered him, her voice mocking and nasally.

           “The Prince of Dragonstone is dead, Melara. Robert Baratheon saw to that. That curly haired bard you like so much has made that fairly clear.” It had taken less than three days from the news of the Battle of the Trident reaching the Rock for a bard to show up and begin filling the halls with songs of how strong and handsome and chivalrous the Demon of the Trident had been when he drove his warhammer’s spike into Rhaegar Targaryen’s chest and sent his rubies raining down on the ford. All three of the young women had been listening to this bard almost constantly before Lord Tywin returned, but especially Melara.

           “The Prince of Dragonstone is named by the king and the king does not quite have enough teeth to name anyone anything just yet. Prince Viserys is just that, Prince Viserys. Congratulations though, dear sister, on the betrothal.” Tyrion continued closing his book and rising from his bench. He bid them farewell with a bow only slightly dipped in sarcasm and waddled from the courtyard.

           There was a reason that House Lannister was famous for producing beautiful and strong men and women. Casterly Rock was nearly two leagues from east to west and three times the height of the Wall. This made it an unfriendly place for Tyrion at the best of times. Once, when he had been learning simple math, Maester Creylen had had him calculate how many times he would have to stand on his own shoulders in order to reach the height of the Rock.

           The answer had been well over four hundred.

           Tyrion was thankful that some of his ancestors had had the good grace to live to an old enough age that they could have difficulty with the thousands of steps. With one hand on the railing waddling up so many flights of stairs was not as difficult as it could have been. Instead it was only mildly painful and physically trying. The first servant he found he thrust the large book he had been reading into their hands and ordered them to take it to the library where the septons would know where to put it.

           That task accomplished Tyrion took a moment to drink from a jug of cool water that stood on a stand nearby and made sure that his appearance was acceptable. His Lord Father would certainly not be amendable to what Tyrion was going to suggest to him if he looked as if he had just run the length of the Rock and was talking as if he had tried swimming in the Dothraki Sea. Satisfied that his throat was properly wetted and that his appearance was appropriate for a son of Tywin Lannister Tryrion turned and knocked on the door of his father’s study. Tywin would most likely know who was knocking just from where the sound was coming from. Yet another disadvantage to being a dwarf in the Rock, Tyrion thought as he waited in nervous silence.

           “You may enter.” Lord Tywin’s voice came through the heavy oak door as cold and dispassionate as it always was when talking to his dwarf son.

           When Tyrion pushed the door open its hinges creaked from lack of use. In his near to fifty years of life this had only truly been Tywin Lannister’s study for the last two of them, ever since he had resigned as Hand of the King when Aerys had named Jaime to the Kingsguard. Such an insult, robbing Tywin of his favorite heir and forcing Tyrion into that position, something Tywin had never acknowledged and Tyrion had never taken for granted.

           “What do you want, Tyrion?” Tywin asked not looking up from whatever document he was writing. Their conversations were often like that, Tyrion desperate to please his father and Tywin ardent in his efforts not to be pleased. This time would be different.

           “Father, I would like to go to King’s Landing with Cersei.” Tyrion said as confidently as he dared, but as humbly as he could be.

           “Absolutely not.”

           “Father if I could jus-“

           “What possible reason would you to think I would let you go to court?” Tywin asked lifting his eyes from his work to look down his nose at his son. There was no love in his eyes and there never would be, yet he had asked a question and not dismissed Tyrion so the boy steeled himself and pressed on.

           “I’m not asking to go to court, Father. I want to go to the Sept of Baelor.” Tyrion said and for a moment he registered shock in his father’s eyes. He could not know how much Tyrion had learned in the past few weeks. There were many places he could go in the Rock that no one else could fit, and many places he could hide that larger people would never think to look. He had heard of his father’s plans to wed Cersei to Robert should the man choose that Lyanna was ‘soiled goods’ as Tywin thought he would, he had heard about Jaime slaying Aerys but saving Aegon and Rhaenys, and about how their Father had hoped to convince the High Septon to release Jaime from his vows so that he could return to being his chosen heir. Now, with Cersei marrying Viserys there was a clear plan and goal. For Tywin to return to power in the capital and protect the position of House Lannister from there.

           Lord Tywin did not stop him so Tyrion continued.

           “You do not want me as your heir, even though the laws of gods and men say I should be. You want Jaime, but to get him you need a High Septon who will pardon him, something the current High Septon will not do. However, if the Most Devout have a constant reminder of how pious House Lannister is and how generous you are to the Faith they might change their tune. Not to mention if I were to become a septon…” Tyrion stopped then allowing his father to finish the thought for himself. He knew he had offered his father the greatest gift he ever could. He buried how much that actually hurt him. If a man with no legs can become High Septon, so can a dwarf.

           Lord Tywin was silent for a moment examining his son as if looking for some kind of trick or trap. Once he seemed satisfied that there was none a light seemed to shine in his eyes.

           “Very well Tyrion, I give you my leave to present yourself at the Great Sept of Baelor and to study to become a septon. Make your Father proud.” Tyrion was certain that Lord Tywin had not meant him as the words came from those thin lips, but he did not care.

           Promising to one day never call himself Tyrion Lannister again was the closest thing Tyrion had ever done to getting his father to smile.

Chapter Text

            Oars cut through the waves in rhythm to the ironmen’s singing. Of the half a hundred longships that had sailed form Lordsport nearly two months ago forty-five were returning. Two had been lost at the Battle at the Mander’s Mouth, another two had sunk during the reaving and sailing down through the Redwyne Straits. The last was Torwyn’s Wind, his Father’s own ship.

            Looking up from where he sat at the bow Victarion took in the sight of the island of Pyke for the first time seeing it as a man returning from reaving would. It was one of the most beautiful sights he had ever witnessed.

            Pyke was not the largest of the Iron Islands , that was Great Wyk, nor was it the holiest, Old Wyk with Nagga’s bones held that honor, it was neither the wealthiest or the most populated , Harlaw was both, but for Victarion it was home. There were two towns on the island as well as the castle of Pyke. Iron Holt on the north shore was the seat of House Wynch. On the southern shore was Lordsport, the seat of House Botley and the largest town on the Iron Islands. The ringing of hammers on metal and wood carried out over the harbor to the ships sailing in. Shipwrights and smiths worked hard building new ships for new reavers and traders. The town had been the largest settlement that Victarion had seen before he sailed, but now he realized how small it truly was, only half the size of Lord Hewett’s Town on Oakenshield.

          There were few buildings more than two stories in height, and the tallest building in sight was the sept. A scowl formed on Victarion’s face at the sight of the temple to the Green Landers’ gods. His Lord father had built the sept many years before as part of his building relations with the other Seven Kingdoms. When Lord Greyjoy had married Lady Piper he had had the sept expanded and had been married before a Drowned Man and then inside the sept.

          Turning away from the disgusting sight Victarion watched Balon lift his arm to say farewell to the longships from other Islands as the fleet went its separate ways. The scythe of Harlaw returning to Harlaw, the skeletal hand on red of House Drumm to Old Wyk, the warhorn of Goodbrother to Great Wyk and almost every other island and many more.

          Thirteen longships under the golden kraken of House Greyjoy and the rowed into harbor greeted to the cheering of those near the wharfs. Victarion tied off the longship and took up his axe and sack of loot and stepped out onto the dock taking a deep breath as if to inhale all the salt, dirt and people of his home. He waited there on the dock as the rest of the crew left for shore, many heading towards Otter Gimpknee’s inn to drink and whore their loot away. Balon was the last to step ashore grey-black hair blowing in the wind. The two Greyjoy brothers were the only men not smiling as they moved towards a stable where horses would be waiting for them. Euron had pulled in farther down the harbor and was distributing their loot among his men.

          It was a long ride to Pyke and neither brother waited for the third.

         Smallfolk in their stupidity said that the castle was named after the island, but all Greyjoys knew that the island of Pyke was named after the castle.

         Originally raised on a cliff jutting out over the sea thousands of years of storms and waves had washed away much of the cliff leaving three barren islands and a dozen stacks of rock all connected by swinging rope bridges high above the water. The last fifty acres of the headland were sealed off by a curtain wall which protected the stable, livestock, kennels and the great stone bridge that connected the cliffs to the Great Keep on the largest islet in Ironman’s Bay.

         The sun was setting off to the left as the two ironmen rode up to the lichen covered curtain wall. All of Pyke was built with the same black stone that made up the island, though it was often hard to see the black stone beneath the green lichen that had built up over thousands of years.

          “Who goes there?” The gateman called down from atop of the wall as Victarion and Balon reined in their horses at the foot of the wall.

“Balon and Victarion Greyjoy! Returned from reaving! Now open up!” Balon shouted up to be heard above the wind. It was the first time either had spoken since leaving the Great Kraken.

The gateman did not call down a response but summoned another man to help him winch open the gate. Once it was open the two brothers rode through impatiently to the stables where two thralls took their horses to be fed and patted down. Without a word the two moved in unison towards the great stone bridge.

Their father’s steward, a red nosed, paunchy man named Sylas Sourmouth who was overly found of wine, greeted them at the entrance to the Great Keep. The last light of evening reflected off the man’s balding head as he rushed to greet them. Sylas stopped mid-step however when he saw that only the two of them had come.

“My lords, where is Lord Quellon and your brother Euron?” The fat sot asked thankfully far enough away that he did not burden Victarion with the sour smell of his breath. It was obvious from his eyes and the tone in his voice he feared news that both of the men he had asked for had died in battle.

“Crow’s Eye lagged in Lordsport, and our father has sailed on to Starfall. Now if there is nothing else Sylas, kindly step aside it has been a long ride and I want nothing more than to eat a good meal and see my wife and children.” Balon said in a voice as harsh as the sea wind. Victarion knew he was remembering the day nearly a week ago when their war and reaving had ended.

The morning after the Battle at the Mouth of the Mander their Father had wanted to make quick time through the Redwyne Straits, through the Summer Sea and around the Arm of Dorne to Shipbreaker Bay and Storm’s End. The rest of the ironborn had had other plans however, seeing that there was no guarantee of gold or glory in delivering food to Storm’s End despite the prospect of battle with the Redwyne fleet. From the Shield Islands the Iron Fleet had made slow going, individual captains sailing off to take whatever ships they had seen, or raiding small villages on the way. Half a day had been wasted at the mouth of the Whispering Sound gathering all of the longships in and Lord Quellon haranguing the captains who had been leaving the fleet without his leave. Two days later the Iron Fleet had rounded the jut of land past Sunhouse and finally entered the Summer Sea.

That had been the last day of the war for the ironborn.

As the sun rose in front of the prows of the longships sails were spotted to the north. One ship, rowing south on a direct path to the fleet at anchor. Lord Quellon had passed the word through the fleet that the ship would remain unmolested and that the fleet would wait until it came closer to see what was to be done.

After near half an hour the ship’s banners could be seen clearly from the deck of Torwyn’s Wind. Three banners flew from the mast of the galley. First was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen red on black. Then below that was the falling star and sword of House Dayne on purple. Lastly there was a white sheet signaling that the ship wanted to parley. Lowering anchor just outside of bow shot the galley waited as Lord Quellon gathered his chief captains together and held council. Some had advised simply taking the ship and killing all aboard, others advised sailing on, and others advised talking and seeing if the Targaryens were willing to pay them to turn sail. Lord Quellon listened to them all in silence before announcing that he would go aboard the ship alone and see what they wanted.

Lord Quellon parleyed for the better part of an hour while Victarion waited patiently for the word that he might get to bloody his axe again. He had not been able to reave as the other ships had and was disappointed that he had only had one real battle on his first reaving. When Lord Quellon returned his face was red with anger from his cheeks to his bald head. Stepping onto the deck from the small boat he had rowed over to the galley he stomped over to the stern of the longship near to where he slept. Iron men nearly leapt into the sea to get out of the way of their raging lord.

The chief captains followed at a distance, not from fear but prudence, remembering the fate of Fralegg the Strong.

They all stopped at the stern as Lord Quellon began to speak.

“Those stone-headed, shit-brained, storm blinded, fish fucking SONS OF WHORES!” As he yelled the last three words the furious Lord Reaper of Pyke placed a hand on either side of a thick ironwood chest banded with iron and lifted it up over his head before tossing it into the sea with such force that the lid broke off at the hinges. Turning to his sons and captains his face was beginning to return to its normal color.

“The Dornishman, father?” Victarion asked dumbly thinking that the negotiations must have been very insulting to drive his father into such a rage.

“No, not the Dornish! Those idiots who could not resist wasting time picking up scraps when the feast was at the end of the hall!” Quellon paused for a moment chest heaving as he caught his breath. Extending his hand to the side he waited as someone thrust a horn into his hand. Quellon drained the horn in one long draught wine dripping down through his beard. Tossing the horn back at the person who had given it Quellon looked Victarion in the eyes his face now returned to normal.

“The war is over. Tywin Lannister took King’s Landing for the rebels, his son slit Aerys’s throat, and the rebels have named Rhaegar’s son Aegon king with his mother as regent. Eddard Stark broke the siege of Storm’s End weeks ago. I’ve been offered a seat on the council. Balon, take your brothers and the fleet and sail home. The war is done. When you get there send Lady Piper and Robin to Lannisport, there will be someone waiting there to escort them to the capital. My lords, it’s been a pleasure sailing with you.” With that the captains were dismissed but the sons remained.

“What are you planning, father?” Balon asked as the sons moved closer to be near their father. Victarion realized then that it would probably be the last time he saw him.

“There has never been an ironborn on the small council Balon, this is the power I have been building us to for my whole life. The seat I have been offered is hereditary. When I die and my body is given to the sea, you will choose whether to take it yourself or send someone in your place.” He stepped forward then and placed his hand on Balon’s shoulder. “Give my love to your wife and children, and to Urrigon and Aeron. If any want to join Marya and Robin let them. Keep the laws, rule in my stead, and raise them well. Remember the Red Kraken’s mistakes and do not repeat them.” He then turned and place his hand on Euron.

“Look after your brother’s and keep them safe Euron, be there for them as you were for Harlon. I’ll see if I can find you a rock wife while I am in the capital.” Then he turned to Victarion. “You have made me so proud Victarion. I thank the Drowned God that I was here to see your first reaving. When you take Aeron and Urrigon on theirs make sure to bring them to King’s Landing after to drink with me.” He removed his hand and looked at his three eldest surviving sons.

“I love all of you, my sons, and I know that I have not always shown it as well as I could. If I do not see you again, know I’ll wait for you in the Drowned God’s hall.” Those were the last words Lord Quellon had said to his sons that day. Not long after Victarion was aboard the Great Kraken heading west and north with the Iron Fleet and his Father was heading north towards the mouth of the Torrentine and Starfall.

Sylas Sourmouth’s next words pulled Victarion back to the present.

“My lords, Urrigon is dead.”

“How!?” “Urri.” Balon and Victarion said at once the first enraged the second sad.

The steward led them inside the Great Keep where the Seastone Chair sat as he explained what had happened. Urrigon and Aeron had danced the finger dance together as they often did, tossing a hand axe between each other and either having to catch it or leap over it or lose, and Aeron had won cutting off half of Urrigon’s hand. That should have been the end of it, Lady Piper’s maester should have washed the wound in boiled saltwater and left it to the Drowned God. If he had done that Urrigon would have been fine. Instead the grey fool had sewn the lost fingers and hand back together and failed to stop the infection that followed. While they had been reaving and drinking down the Sunset Sea their brother had died raving.

Balon looked at Sylas and then at Victarion. “Brother, wake Cleftjaw. Sylas bring me the maester, Lady Piper, Aeron, Rodrik, and Marron.” His voice was cold like the northern wind. Victarion went to the guardhouse and woke Dagmer Cleftjaw and explained to him what had happened. Dagmer was a distant cousin, his grandmother or great-grandmother had been a Greyjoy, and perhaps the most fearsome reaver alive. He had taken Balon reaving in the Stepstones when he was seventeen and had sailed with Lord Quellon countless times. When he was ten an axe had taken him in the face, splitting his jaw and giving him four lips. Which was why he was called Cleftjaw.

When the two of them returned to the main hall everyone who Balon had sent for had arrived. Aeron stood with Balon’s sons, he had Rodrik were of an age at thirteen and Marron was ten. Lady Piper stood in a corner holding her two year old son Robin in her arms trying to rock him back to sleep. Balon stood in front of the Seastone Chair tossing a hand axe up and down staring death at the man kneeling at the end of the hall. Maester Tomard was a thin man, younger than most maesters and scrawny. He wore grey woolen robes and the chain of a maester around his throat. He was shaking in fear as he looked at Balon.

“Please, my lord. You have to understand I did my best.” The maester begged. How humiliating, this creature isn’t even worth drowning. Victarion thought as he put a hand to the shaft of his axe waiting for Balon’s word.

“Then I’m sure you’ll do your best this time. Victarion, Dagmer stand him up.” Balon ordered and the two moved to obey grabbing the maestar by his arms and forcing him to stand. The man struggled against their strong grips but they did not budge.

“Balon, please! He’s telling the truth, he really did try his best!” Lady Piper begged stepping forward only to be stopped by Aeron and Sylas.

Balon turned his cold eyes towards his father’s wife. There was no love there and there never would be.

“You will be silent in this hall. In the morning you will leave for King’s Landing with your whelp and you will never return. My father told me to keep to the laws, and you will tell him you saw me doing that. This grey filth killed my brother, his son, this filth you brought into our home. Now you will see justice done in the Old Way. Lift his arm.” Victarion grabbed the maester by the arm and forced his hand high into the air above his head. The maester tried to struggle in his grip but Victarion’s grip was iron and the maester’s arm was a twig.

“I would not struggle if I were you. Whatever I take off, you will be sewing back on.” Balon said tossing the axe in his hand again and again, and then with no warning the axe was flying through the air slicing through most of the maester’s raised hand. Blood splattered out onto Victarion’s face and he dropped the maester to his knees ignoring the screams. Balon stepped forward and pressed a needle and thread into the maester’s intact hand.

“Now sew it back on. Or we will dance the finger dance again.” Balon threatened and the maester whimpered and nodded picking up the remnants of his fingers and hand and fighting to sew his hand back together through the tears and his own screaming.

Balon turned to Lady Piper then, “You may leave.” He said and she ran from the hall. He then turned his back to the whimpering maester and stepped towards the Seastone Chair, where only a godly man and the Lord Reaper of Pyke could sit. Iron King’s had once called it their throne, before Aegon had come to make his Iron Throne on his High Hill far away. It was their father’s chair, not for any of them to sit upon until he had died.

Balon sat down and looked at his family.

“Come, we have plans to make. In time we will teach the Seven Kingdoms the lesson that Quellon Greyjoy forgot. We. Do. Not. Sow.”   

Chapter Text

            Raised on an iron dais at one end of the Great Hall the Iron Throne cast a long shadow on the masses of people that had gathered to attend the first day of court during the regency of King Aegon. Over a month had passed since the last day that court had been held and many of the faces that had been there when Ser Barristan left to gather the survivors of the Battle of the Bells were absent, either dead or fled. Normally the king or his regent would sit on the Iron Throne to make pronouncements and judgements guarded by at least five of the knights of the Kingsguard.

            Today the Hand sat the Iron Throne and Ser Barristan stood alone between the Hand and the throng of people that pressed closer and closer to the Iron Throne. Packing in from wall to wall and filling the gallery above. Princess Elia had remained in Maegor’s Holdfast to grieve and was guarded by the Kingslayer. Lord Robert had also absented himself from the business of court to grieve. Jon Arryn was an old man, close to seventy, yet for all his age he still appeared a lordly man sitting on the Iron Throne in the blue and white of his House. Most men at his age were done in, but to look at him you would have a hard time believing he was actually seventy. Not long ago he had been leading men into battle himself.

            I look older than he does now. The time healing from his wounds had bleached his blonde hair white and had drawn new lines on his face. His wounds had healed for the most part, he couldn’t lift his left arm much higher than level and he was not going to be winning any races soon, but he was a knight of the Kingsguard and he could do his duty. There had been no time for a new suit of armor to be fitted and made for him so he stood in front of the court wearing a long white cloak clasped with a silver clasp showing three stalks of wheat, underneath he wore a white wool tunic with golden scroll work with his sword and dagger belted around his waist. He held a strong wood staff in his right hand, only leaning on it to the slightest degree.

            Ser Barristan’s sad blue eyes left the crowd for the briefest of moments to look at Lord Arryn. A slight nod signaled him to proceed.

            BOOOM! BOOOM! BOOOM!

            The butt of the staff hitting the marble floor echoed through the Great Hall and for a moment there was silence.

            From atop the Iron Throne Jon Arryn unrolled a parchment paper and began to read.

            “I, Lord Jon of House Arryn, Hand of the King, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East, do hereby proclaim these edicts and appointments in the name of Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne and Regent to the king.’

            ‘To begin, let it be known that the war that has ravaged the Seven Kingdoms for the past year is now over. All those who fought on both sides are now pardoned of any crimes they may be perceived to have committed during the events of this war. This pardon excludes Ser Jaime Lannister, whose judgement has been recused until King Aegon comes of age in appreciation of circumstances and events during the Sack of King’s Landing.” Whispers filled the hall and were quickly silenced as Lord Arryn continued.

            “Furthermore, the court has received a raven from Allem Dayne, Lord of Starfall. Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning have died in battle with Lord Eddard Stark and his companions at a tower near the Prince’s Pass.” The Hand’s voice wavered slightly as he said his ward’s name.

            “In light of these events Princess Elia names Ser Barristan Selmy Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and the council assents.” Ser Barristan gave a small nod of his head in acceptance of the appointment. This was something that he had never thought would be asked of him. The White Bull had been the Lord Commander for over thirty years and had placed the white cloak on every one of the brothers save Prince Lewyn Martell ,who had been appointed by King Aegon the Unlikely when Duncan the Tall was Lord Commander. Barristan had always assumed that when Gerold Hightower died either Prince Lewyn or Arthur Dayne would be appointed. Now both of them were dead, along with all of his other brothers save the Kingslayer. The appointment was not a surprise however, Lord Arryn had been able to tell him in advance what had occurred.

            “The Regent and the council have composed a list of knights worthy to take the places of those lost in war.” Ser Dontos stepped out of the wings with five white cloaks over one arm followed by Sandor Clegane. I pit that boy, a face like that and now squiring for the Kingslayer. The gods have not been good to him.

            “Step forward and kneel before the throne and the Lord Commander to receive your cloaks and take your vows. Ser Brynden of House Tully, called the Blackfish. Ser Bonifer of House Hasty, called the Good. Ser Richard of House Horpe. Ser Willis of House Fell, called Silveraxe. Ser Mandon of House Moore. The five men knelt, Brynden and Bonifer veterans of the War of the Ninepenny Kings were the eldest. In his youth Bonifer had been infatuated with Queen Rhaella, and had worn her token to great victory during a tourney but had not jousted since the day she had become betrothed to Aerys. Richard and Willis were young stormlanders, Richard had earned his spurs riding with Robert Baratheon and Willis had originally fought for House Targaryen before kneeling to Robert after the Battles at Summerhall. Ser Mandon had ridden with Lord Arryn and distinguished himself throughout the war. Only one of these men stayed loyal throughout, but all of the great knights who did that did not live to tell about it, save me. Barristan thought as he tossed his staff to Sandor and took the cloaks one by one from Ser Dontos and clasped them around the necks of his new brothers.

            “Repeat after me. I pledge my life and honor to King Aegon Targaryen and House Targaryen. I shall take no wife, father no children, and hold no land. I will protect the King from all harm, obey his commands, keep his secrets, to counsel him when requested and keep silent when not, to defend his name and honor. I will serve until I die. I knelt a knight like any other, I rise a sworn brother of the Kingsguard.”

            They repeated every word and rose to the cheers and clapping of everyone gathered in the Great Hall.

            Ser Barristan took his staff back from Sandor as quickly as he could without seeming too eager for it.

            “Ser Mandon, as your first duty stand guard at the drawbridge of Maegor’s Holdfast and allow none to pass unchallenged.” Ser Barristan said dismissing the knight with the cold eyes and expressionless face. The rest took positions at the foot of the throne as they had seen the Kingsguard before them do. They may not all be the true steel yet, but they could become it.

            Once all of them were in position and the hall had quieted down Jon Arryn continued.

            “To serve the Regent and King Aegon select men have been chosen to fill the positions of the small council, and a council of regency to advise the Regent and rule the realm. Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands shall henceforth serve as Lord Protector until King Aegon comes of age. Pycelle shall remain as Grand Maester, Lord Varys shall remain as master of whisperers, Lucerys Velaryon Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark shall remain as master of ships.’

            ‘Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill shall be named master of laws.’ Lord Tarly sat at the far end of the long council table with the striding huntsman of House Tarly on his breast. He was a thin balding man, the only man who had defeated Robert Baratheon in battle during the Rebellion, though it was polite to give the credit for the victory to his liege Mace Tyrell.

            ‘Walter Whent, Lord of Harrenhal shall be named master of coin.’ Walter Whent sat near the center of the table next to the empty seats reserved for the Lord Protector and the Hand if the Regent had been on the Iron Throne. He wore a yellow doublet with the nine bats of House Whent on his breast. His hair had grown grey long ago and his eyes were bagging and red from weeping. Ser Oswell had been his brother and he had lost three of his four sons at the Battle of the Trident. Harrenhal was the largest castle in the realm with rich lands, though some claimed the seat was cursed, Lord Walter had organized the tourney that had eventually led to the war and was famously skilled and marshalling the funds of Harrenhal to attempt to rebuild the ruined castle.

            ‘Along with these lords, the crown also welcomes a councilor from each of the Great Houses to advise Princess Elia and the royal family. From the North, Wyman Manderly Lord of White Harbor, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lord Marshal of the Mander, Knight of the Order of the Green Hand.’ Lord Wyman was a fat man, not quite too fat to sit a horse, but approaching it. Wearing a fine velvet doublet of blue-green with gold trim. Lord Wyman had earned some small acclaim jousting in his youth and had not dishonored himself at the Trident. He sat to one side of Walter When, opposite of the Reachmen.

            ‘From the Riverlands, Tytos Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall.’ Lord Tytos was a man in his thirties, tall and thin with close cropped black hair and beard and a long nose. He wore a magnificent raven feathered cloak and sat in the second seat from the left. Only the Prince of Dorne sat farther away from the reachmen. King Aegon the Unlikely’s wife had been a Blackwood, a cousin to Lord Tytos.

            ‘From the Vale, Lord Corwyn Baelish of the Fingers.’ Baelish was by far the most lowborn of the regency council. Braavosi, he was small and whip thin with dark eyes and dark hair. He had fought during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, Ser Barristan remembered, and he typically wore a slender bravos’ blade and dagger and walked with the jaunt of a man who knew how to wield them. His father had been a hedge knight and his grandfather a sellsword. Jon Arryn had chosen him as a favor for Lord Tully. He sat next to Lord Tarly.

            ‘From the Westerlands, Ser Kevan Lannister.’ Tywin Lannister’s brother and household knight was a big man with broad shoulders and thick waist, nearing forty with a short trimmed blonde beard. He had been the first to arrive and take a seat near the middle of the table with Pycelle and Varys. All others had sat around him and Barristan had not wasted time finding a meaning in that.

            ‘From the Reach Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach and Warden of the South.’ Mace was handsome and powerful-looking with brown hair and a brown beard cut into a triangle. He sat at the far right end of the table as far away from Ser Stannis and Prince Oberyn as possible.

            ‘From the Stormlands, Ser Stannis Baratheon.” Lord Robert’s brother was tall and thin with a sallow face with deep set eyes. He was a man who had been starving for nearly a year and judging by the looks he was giving Mace Tyrell he had not forgotten it in the fortnight since. Barristan could almost hear him grinding his teeth.

            ‘From Dorne, Prince Oberyn Martell the Red Viper.’ Tall, slender, graceful and, fit Prince Oberyn wore his black hair long and his black eyes searched through the crowd. A dangerous man Barristan had seen him fight at Harrenhal and had been impressed. The Regent’s brother had created a stir from the moment he had arrived in place of their more reasonable brother. Not only had he arrived unexpected, he had brought his four eldest bastards and a paramour Ellaria Sand. The Maidensvault had been converted into a kind of nursery for the children of these lords and the servants were expecting much conflict when Mace Tyrell’s children were forced to share space with bastards.

            With all of these lords listed the only family not represented were the Greyjoys.

            Lord Arryn continued on from there announcing appointments for the court that had become vacant or needed to be filled during the course of the war. Ser Willem Darry would remain as master-at-arms when he returned from Dragonstone. A new steward was named for the King’s household, along with a master of hose. Ser Ilyn Payne, a westerman who had had his tongue cut out on the order of King Aerys was named King’s Justice; Lord Crabb was named Warden of Crackclaw Point for his family’s service at the Trident; Lorde Harte was named Warden of the Kingswood. Many and more minor and lesser titles were granted and others announced that they would be considered by the council. A tiredness was beginning to slip over the court until finally Jon Arryn cleared his throat and drew everyone’s attention to them.

            “There are two issues that remain before we recess for a midday meal. The first is that of the succession. At this time, the lawful heir to King Aegon is Prince Aemon, the son of Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark.” The uproar was deafening as people shouted in surprise and shock and outrage. Ser Barristan slammed the strong staff down again and again eventually forcing the room to silence. “After Prince Aemon comes Prince Viserys and then the child that Queen Rhaella now carries if it is male. If female Princess Rhaenys will come next and then the child. If all of House Targaryen shall become unqualified or deceased, Robert Baratheon will then inherit, followed by Ser Stannis and then Renlly Baratheon and so on.” This created another round of whispering that soon ended as Lord Arryn continued.

            “Lastly, the court shall enter a period of mourning until King Aegon’s coronation on the first day of the year 284 After Conquest. This period of mourning shall be for everyone who gave their lives during the war, but especially those innocent lives lost and the life of Queen Lyanna Stark, the Knight of the Laughing Tree.” A huge uproar flared up again and the goldcloaks joined Ser Barristan in slamming their spear butts against the ground to try to quiet them down to no avail. Yet, despite the uproar Jon Arryn continued on his voice carrying over the clangor.

            “All of this is done in the name of Aegon the sixth of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men.”

Chapter Text

            Dark wings, dark words so the smallfolk said and felt the hard truth of those words as he watched Princess Elia read the letter from Ashara Dayne.

            Three ravens with three letters had come from Starfall, the seat of House Dayne on the Summer Sea on the Torrentine in the Red Mountains of Dorne, one written by Allem Dayne, one by Ashara Dayne and the third from Eddard Stark. The first letter was for court and council, the second for Princess Elia, and the third for Robert. All of this Jaime had had from the Grand Maester’s messenger before he took the letter to wake Elia in the middle of the night. Elia had changed her quarters from the wife of the Prince of Dragonstone’s to the expansive chambers of the king where King Aegon’s crib had been set up in one of the side rooms of the King’s chambers and Rhaenys was sharing the room with him.

            The King’s chambers had two large hearths that were dying down this late into the night warming the chambers without making them overpoweringly hot. At the sound of the door opening Elia’s eyes snapped open and she reached up under her pillow where she had been keeping a large knife. For anyone to get to her children they would need to get past Jaime and then Elia, and as Gregor’s head on the spikes in the moat could attest, they would not do so easily.

            “Ser Jaime, you surprised me, what is it?” Elia asked rising from her bed in a man’s black silk shirt with a dragon on the breast. She takes his shirt to bed because she can’t have him. Jaime realized and felt his first pangs of sorrow for the night.

            “A letter, my lady, from Starfall.” The letter was snatched from his hand faster than his arm could raise it. Her quick brown eyes eyed the purple wax seal with the sword and falling star and the flowing letter placed above the seal. For Elia, from Ashara. There was joy in the Princess of Dorne’s as she broke the wax and unrolled the letter.

            That joy died almost instantly, and Jaime could do nothing but stand and watch awkwardly as Elia’s joy turned to sadness, then sorrow, until tears were streaming down her in great torrent.

            When she had finished the letter she tossed it aside and fell to her knees on the bed sobs wracking her small body as the smallest whispers of “No.” “Gods no” “Oh gods” and “why gods why” escaped her lips. Jaime stood there dumbly, unsure of what to do. He had never been able to comfort women in sorrow, Cersei so rarely cried. So he stood there and watched her until the tears dried and Elia rose from the bed, taking a kerchief from the nightstand she wiped her face and blew her nose. Tossing the kerchief aside she turned back to face him with puffy eyes red from crying and a face that just barely hid her sorrow.

            “The war is over, Ser Jaime. Sers Gerold Hightower, Oswell Whent, and Arthur Dayne are dead. Eddard Stark slew the Sword of the Morning himself. Lyanna Stark is dead as well, as are all of Lord Stark’s companions save Lord Howland Reed.” Her words washed over him Jaime like cold water. Arthur Dayne had been the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, had knighted Jaime in the Kingswood two years before and Gerold Hightower had placed the white cloak on Jaime’s shoulders at the tourney of Harrenhal, and had even offered to return to King’s Landing to defend Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys in Jaime’s place. These had been the greatest knights Jaime had ever known, they had seemed immortal, undefeatable!

            “Eddard Stark killed the Sword of the Morning?” Jaime asked incredulously as his knees grew weak and something heavy rested in the pit of his stomach. Jaime had never seen Stark fight and had not heard him distinguish himself at Harrenhal or slay any great opponents during the war.

            Elia nodded sadly and explained. “The letter gives few details, but Lord Stark rode from Storm’s End with seven companions. They found Lyanna at the tower of joy, guarded by your sworn brothers. He presented them with my orders to return to King’s Landing with Lyanna. They refused, apparently they felt their oaths held them fast. It was seven against three. I’m sorry for your loss, you were close to Ser Arthur were you not?” Jaime felt himself almost laugh, but managed to stop himself, it was just hilarious that here she was crying her eyes from her skull and yet she was offering him her apologies.

            “He knighted me, my lady. I looked up to him.”

            Whatever Princess Elia was going to say in response to that, she was cut off by the door being thrown open forcefully.

            Jaime’s sword was out of his scabbard and into his hand in a heartbeat the shining blade resting against Robert Baratheon’s throat. A trickle of red blood slid down the length of his blade from the smallest cut on the Lord Protector’s neck.

            He had never seen Robert like this. Tall and strong, the muscles of his arms were as large as some men’s heads. He wore his coarse black hair long and he was reckoned as handsome by many women. If Jaime had to make a list of living men that were stronger than him Robert would easily be near the top. Yet, the Demon of the Trident’s bright blue eyes were red from tears, he wore a black velvet doublet with the golden stag of House Baratheon on the breast but half the buttons were undone and those that were buttoned were not in the proper holes. His breeches were also poorly laced and unbuttoned. The stench of drink was heavy on him and his breath mixing with the smell of exotic spice and perfume. He’s been at a brothel, Chataya’s if I had to guess.

            Jaime’s eyes ran down Robert’s body and back up seeing his only weapon as the hunting knife at his hip and that he had a letter crumpled in between his fingers. Meeting Robert’s gaze Jaime expected to see rage, and prepared to hear a threat to lower his weapon, but instead he saw sorrow and a lack of fear that belonged to man already dead and not the brave warrior that Robert was.

            Those blue eyes left Jaime’s green and fell on Elia who stood calmly to the side her face showing no emotion, but her eyes and the tear stains on the bedsheets told a different story.

            “Explain.” Robert’s voice was half growl half plea as he lifted the hand holding the letter just slightly.

            “Ser Jaime leave us please.” Elia spoke and Jaime turned to her in surprise. “My lady, are you certain?”

            “Yes, I’m certain. Stand outside. I’m sure that Lord Robert means me no harm. Am I right?” Elia said looking Robert in the eye over Jaime’s shoulder. He was nearly a foot and a half taller than her and had near eight stone one her as well. She had killed bigger men than that before, and in a fight between strength and speed Jaime would bet on speed every time.

            “Of course.” Robert said, looking to Jaime to remove his sword which Jaime did slowly returning it to his scabbard.

            “As you wish my lady. My lord, I will return this to you when you leave.” Jaime said snatching the knife from his belt deftly and placed it on his own before stepping passed the tall lord and shutting the door behind him. He waited there with his hand on the hilt of his sword ready to step in if Robert grew too loud or aggressive. It was not Jaime’s intention to eavesdrop on their conversation, but this was not the first time Jaime would over hear what he would rather not have through the doors in Maegor’s Holdfast.

            “Now that the Kingslayer is gone, explain this letter.” Robert said his voice lined with both anger and sadness. Jaime could practically see him stepping forward and shaking the letter again.

            Elia’s voice was calm and clear as she answered him. “Lyanna Stark is dead Robert, I am sorr-“

            “I do not want your apologies! ‘Lyanna died in childbed’ Ned says! He’s bringing her son Prince Aemon to King’s Landing by ship! ‘Princess Elia will explain more’ he says! So explain Elia! Rhaegar, your husband, abducts me betrothed, rapes her and the child he puts in her kills her! Tell me how that boy is a prince, and tell me why I should suffer any more dragonspawn to sit on that throne and call themselves king!? This boy, whose father stole the love of my life?! This babe who killed her?! How can you call him Prince, and make him your son’s heir?!” Robert was crying now as he yelled, but he had not taken one booming footstep. “How can you -“

            “Because I loved her too!” Elia snapped her voice a roar like a tiger, fierce and powerful even as her chest must have heaved against the need to wail and cry and rend her shirt.

            “You loved her, Rhaegar loved her, her brothers loved her and her father loved her! The realm will be singing about the men who loved her until the end of time! But no one will sing of how I loved her, how I held to my breast with Rhaegar by our side watching the sun rise over the Gods Eye. She was fourteen, strong and beautiful, and the Knight of the Laughing Tree besides. Aerys sent Rhaegar to find his identity but I found her first. You could never be faithful to her, and had fathered one bastard already. While these things are nothing to be ashamed of in Dorne she was of the North and wanted more. I was bedridden for half a year after having Rhaenys and Aegon nearly killed me. Aegon is the Prince That Was Promised and the dragon must have three heads. I was dying, so I gave Rhaegar leave to ride and find that girl who we had loved at Harrenhal and make him his queen. Do you think I did not know what Rhaegar was planning when he left me on Dragonstone? That I was too blind or weak to care when he crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty? That he somehow snubbed me and insulted you? The moon turned twice from that day to the day I gave birth to Aegon, do you think that if I had not given my consent to that crowning that I would have simply let him get away without a word? We Dornish girls are bolder than you all give us credit.”

The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,
in a voice that was sweet as a peach,
But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own,
and a bite sharp and cold as a leech.

            Jaime heard the words of the song in his head as she spoke, her tongue sharper than Valyrian steel, but as she continued her voice became softer and Jaime her soft footsteps move towards where Robert still stood. He pictured her wiping the tears from Lord Robert’s cheeks and when she spoke it was as she would when she sang her children to bed.

            “Rhaegar rode with five companions, five friends. Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, Richard Lonmouth, Myles Mooton, and Ashara Dayne, my best of friends and lady-in-waiting who had danced with Ned and loved Brandon. The met her near Harrenhal and took ship to the Isle of Faces where Rhaegar and Lyanna said their oaths before a heart tree. Aegon had two wives, and so did Maegor, but the Faith frowns on polygamy. So to the Seven I am Rhaegar’s wife and to the old gods Lyanna was. She was to be his Queen just as much as I, and when we announce her death that is how she will be known, for Aerys was no King in the end. Lyanna did not mean to hurt you, none of us did, but she needed to run from her brothers and father and you, so that when the marriage was revealed to the realm it could not be pulled apart. We never wanted so many to die for our love. But know this, as much as you grieve for Lyanna, for your dream of what Lyanna was, know I grieve more for I have lost them both. So when you ask me how I can call Aemon ‘Prince’ it’s because he’s the last connection I have to both of them. You can have your whores, your drinking and melees and hunting. All I have is Aegon, Rhaenys, Aemon and my grief.”

            There was silence for a time and then Robert’s voice came out as a hoarse whisper. “Not all.” Then there was an even louder silence and the sounds of their feet shifting. Jaime’s eyes went wide as he heard Elia gasp in surprise as she was lifted from her feet and then the sound of them both falling onto the bed. Jaime went away inside then, day dreaming of Cersei and hours spent entwined together in their rooms in Casterly Rock, or in some hidden copse of trees. The taste of her body on his lips and the feel of her sweet sex around him. The rocking of the bed became the familiar creaks of his old bed at the Rock, Ellia’s soft moans merged with memories of Cersei’s lust filled screams in the caverns beneath Casterly Rock while the caged lions looked on. Jaime’s memories were filled with love and desire, two halves of one person being made whole again. Elia and Robert were two hurting people filling a void somewhere at their core, not lust or love but a need to feel another person’s body and heat entwined with theirs in a time of pain and loss. After some time inaudible whispers replaced the sounds of the rocking bed and moans followed by the sound of a great weight leaving the bed and Robert cursing as he slipped his breeches and clothes on.

          Jaime stepped aside the moment before Robert opened the door and slipped outside. Robert looked at Jaime.

          Jaime looked at Robert.  

          Neither wanted to say a word.

          “Your knife, my lord.” Jaime said holding up the blade.

         “Oh, right. Thanks.” Robert said taking the blade and hooking it back onto his belt quickly.

         “You won’t be telling anyone about that will you?” Robert said half a question between two young men, half an order and threat. Jaime grace him with a half-smile and brought his mail clad had to his ear.

         “What was that my lord? The gods seem to have struck me deaf an hour ago.” Robert laughed heartily at that, forgetting his grief for a moment it seemed and he clapped him hard on the arm two times, nearly pushing Jaime to the side in his drunken strength.

         “That was a good one Kinglsayer, good night.” Robert said laughing again as he walked down the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast swaying drunkenly from side to side. Jaime watched him go and once his back had vanished he returned to his position in front of the door. It was another hour or two before Ser Jaremy would come to relieve him.  

Chapter Text

            Lady Catelyn’s journey to the north seemed like something out of a song, the princess who went down beneath the hill to beg aid from the grumkin king and found herself becoming the queen of this strange new world. That is unkind of me, Lord Eddard is no grumkin, he is kind and gently. If a bit quiet. Catelyn thought to herself as she rode the kingsroad along the Trident heading ever northward.

            Wrapped beneath her furs Robb let out a tiny sigh as he turned in his sleep. It was the most beautiful noise that she had ever heard. Opening her furs just slightly she looked down on the face of her beautiful baby boy. He was all that a mother could ever want, strong and healthy with two arms, two legs, ten fingers and ten toes and two beautiful blue eyes. Tully eyes. Catelyn smiled as the swaying of the horse rocked her son in his sleep.

            “Is all well, my lady?” Maester Luwin asked as he rode up to her side on his grey gelding. The maester was a grey man; his horse was grey, his robes were grey, his eyes were grey and his thinning hair was grey in all but a few tufts. Despite all his grey he seemed young to Cat who had grown up with Maester Kym who was older than her lord father, Master Luwin was closer in age to her uncle Brynden.

            “Yes, thank you master.” Cat answered him favoring him with a smile. Maester Luwin was her constant companion on her journey north, only Jory Cassel and the Greatjon rivalled him for pride of place.

            Jory was a boy of ten, the son of the captain of Lord Eddard’s household guard. A happy enough boy with dreams of knighthood he had been left behind at Riverrun when the northmen marched after the wedding. He had been left behind to protect her and for his own safety as well. He was friendly enough when riding with other boys, but would turn bashful after too long with Catelyn. He had torn her dress during the bedding ceremony in his eagerness.

            Greatjon Umber had scared Cat at first, he was just so large and so loud. When she had greeted him on his return from Storm’s End he had picked her up in both of his large arms and given her a crushing hug while spinning her about. He had grown to be good friends on the ride, though she would have sworn half the Riverlands heard his laugh when she had jokingly asked whether the roaring giant on the Umber coat of arms was a self-portrait.

            At first Catelyn had been disappointed when she saw the grey direwolf on white of House Stark, but not her lord husband and son’s father. She had feared for a moment that he had fallen and then feared that he had not and had chosen to delay returning to her. Those had been fears more fit for a young maiden than a mother and a lady of a Great House. When the Greatjon had explained what Lord Stark had done and where he had gone Catelyn had understood and gone to pray in the sept at Riverrun lighting a candle to the Warrior for Lord Stark, one for to the Maiden for Lyanna, and one to the Mother for all of her children. In the morning the northmen marched north and she went with them. Her goodbyes had been brief, Father had not yet returned from King’s Landing and Lysa had been cold ever since Cat’s womb had quickened and hers had not. Edmure was young and very much her younger brother. Her goodbyes to the household had been longer, these were the people who had raised her after Mother died and who had looked after her during her pregnancy. When she said goodbye to them she was saying goodbye to Riverrun and all she had ever known.

            As Hoster Tully’s eldest daughter, and heir for the early part of her life, the first leg of her journey to Winterfell was well known to her. They followed the course of the Red Fork to the south camping beside the slow brown river at night. Cat would eat at the tent of a different bannerman each night, the Greatjon was not the only lord who had chosen to break off from the majority of his men to serve as her honor guard going north. A small competition began to rise up between the lords over who could feast her best.

            Greatjon Umber served her aurochs steak and what he called ‘blood pudding’ while lifting Robb up in the palm of his hand with a gentleness that Cat would not have expected promising that his son Jon would be great friends with Robb when both were grown.

            The Glover brothers, Galbart and Robett joined by their good brother Jorah Mormont fed her a stew of roast fowl and wild vegetables. Galbart Glover was the master of Deepwood Motte and Jorah was the Lord of Bear Island. They told her of the beauty of the wolfswood and Jorah talked of his aunt and cousins and how they would certainly love to take her sailing on the Bay of Ice. It certainly sounded much different than river sailing.

            Ser Helman Tallhart found a river bird’s nest and poached eggs for her while singing the praises of the riverlands and promising her of how beautiful she would find the north.

            Halys Hornwood, Lord of the Hornwood took a deer mid bound when it crossed his path and that night she ate venison roast and listened to Lord Hornwood’s stories of hunting in the north. When she said she could not believe that the moose of his House’s sigil could ever grow antlers as wide as she was tall he told her that there was a pair hanging over his hall in Hornwood that was nearly as wide as Greatjon was tall. She listened intently as he told her the story of his grandfather’s grandfather taking the huge bull moose after a hunt lasting a fortnight from one end of the Hornwood to the other.

            Old Lord Ondrew Locke was old and looked like a vulture with a bald head, a long nose and less teeth in his mouth than he had fingers and toes but he competed with the just as old Torghen Flint to see who could catch a larger fish for her. While Cat rested on the bank of the Red Fork the lords told her that they were both Lord Stark’s great-uncles. Morna Locke had married Lord Edwyle after his father was slain by the King-Beyond-the-Wall Raymnu Redbeard at the Battle at Long Lake. Edwyle and Morna had had only one son, Lord Rickard.

            Lord Torghen Flint, whose men strangely called him the Flint of the First Flints, took up the tale then telling how Artos Stark had avenged his brother and lord by slaying Raymun Redbeard. With the battle ended Rodrik Stark, the Wandering Wolf, turned his eyes to the west and saw the beautiful flint hills of the northern mountains and would remember them when he returned from his wanderings to find a sight even more beautiful, Torghen’s sister Arya Flint. Arya had given the Wandering Wolf two daughters Branda, who married Harrold Rogers of Amberly, and Lyarra who was her husband’s mother.

            “And so you see,” Lord Flint concluded as he reeled in a whiserkfish the size of a small hound, dwarfing Lord Locke’s pike. “the Ned came by his eye for beautiful women from his mother and my sister Arya.”

            Lord Ondrew scowled at him, though the look did not seem to meet his eyes.

            “Go back to your mountains, Flint, mayhaps the gods will be fortunate enough to let this be your last summer.” Cat feared that the two men might come to blows then and opened her mouth to pacify them when they both suddenly started laughing and patting each other on the back.

            “I’ll outlive you yet, you old fool. M’lady, I look forward to sharing this whale with you over dinner!” the Old Flint bid farewell laughing as he picked up the body of his catch and threw it over his shoulder and walked towards where his men were resting their shaggy ponies.

            Cat ate Lord Locke’s pike for a midday meal and supped on Lord Flint’s whiskerfish that night. As they ate Catelyn asked him the question that had been on her mind all day.

            “My lord, why do you call my husband the Ned and not Lord Stark?”

            Torghen Flint favored her with a grandfatherly smile as he took another bite of the fish grease running into his beard.

            “I thank you for your courtesies, my lady, but we keep the old ways up in the mountains. The ways of the First Men. I may be head of the First Flints, but I do not consider myself a lord. We in the mountains call the head of each clan by the name of their clan, the Wull, the Norrey, the Harclay, the Liddle, the Knott, the Flint.” He pointed to himself at the end. “And then there’s the Stark in Winterfell. Benjen Stark is there now, waiting for the Ned to come and take his place. My sister was the first of us clansmen to marry a Stark of Winterfell since Arra Norrey married Lord Cregan Stark over a hundred years ago. The Ned would come riding in the mountains with his father when he was young. He’s more than just the Stark to us. And so are you and your boy.” He held out his hands and asked permission to hold Robb while she ate. He rocked him with a tenderness she would not have expected. Once she was done he lifted up her boy and raised an eyebrow and large smile on his lips.

            “The Robb?” He said and they laughed together.

            The days continued on like that with Catelyn and Robb eating with a different lord each night until each had fed her two or three times.

            When they passed the Inn of the Kneeling Man Greatjon asked who it was that the inn’s sign showed kneeling. Cat had blushed when she told him it was Torrhen Stark, the King who Knelt and that the inn on the northern side of the river was said to mark the spot where ing Torrhen had knelt to Aegon the Conqueror and risen Lord Torrhen. Greatjon had laughed at that and told the others until the whole party was cheering and hollering and singing and howling their defiance to avenge the shade of the dead man and frighten every smallfolk for a half a league. What a loud people I have joined. She thought and then to her surprise Robb began to wail happily in her arms bringing more cheers from her companions. Despite herself Cat heard herself give a howl of her own.

            She quickly brought a hand to her mouth and blushed in embarrassment.

            When they came to Stone Hedge, the seat of House Bracken, they were feasted by Lord Jonos Bracken’s nephew Hendry Bracken and his natural son Harry Rivers.

            From there the Red Fork turned east until they came to the ford of the Trident where Robert and slain Prince Rhaegar. The lords from nearby lands had organized small folk to gather and identify bodies and bury them. A large cairn of fresh dirt had risen on the southern bank with the bodies of the dead inside. So many dead! Catelyn gaped at the mound as they rode passed it and she saw sadness on the faces of many of her companions. They had all lost friends on this river’s banks.

            They rode hard that day, as if to put the memories far behind them.

            From the Trident they traveled the kingsroad, every mile taking Catelyn farther from her home for what might be the last time.

            I am not the first to ride this road. Black Alys and Melantha Blackwood travelled this same road as I did. In much darker times. That thought gave her strength as they went on, they did not halt for the night when they came to the Twins, the seat of House Frey. Lord Walder Frey was known to be niggardly and tiresome company and a letter from Father had told her that he had arrived late to the Battle of the Trident, professing the entire time that he had of course meant to side with the victors. After that they left the Trident and entered the Neck.

            Miles of swampland and bogs surrounded the kingsroad on either side and there was no place to camp save for on the road where it was raised up above the swamps. This was the home of the crannogmen the people of Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch who even then was riding with Lord Eddard to rescue Lyanna. Howland had seemed a nice enough man, Cat had only had the chance to meet him in passing at the wedding. Small and quiet he had not made any jokes or done anything particularly notable during the bedding, but Lord Eddard considered him a close friend.

            She did not see any crannogmen in any of the days that they spent in the Neck and when she asked Maester Luwin when he thought they would be arriving at Greywater Watch he explained that the crannogmen did not live in castles as she was used to, but told her that their castles moved and that only a crannogman could guide them to a crannogman castle. That news shocked Catelyn and confirmed her in her belief that this felt like a story she had heard as a child.

            When they had left the neck behind them they came to a land of low rolling hills and plains where the wind blew cold around them. Catelyn held her furs tight around her and Robb and called out to Maester Luwin.

            “What is this land?”

            “The barrowlands my lady.”

            “Barrowlands? Have we entered a burial ground?”

            “All of the north is a burial ground, my lady. When the First Men came and multiplied across the lands, before the Pact with the children of the forest, they expanded and spread ever northward. Second sons, ambitions chieftains and great warriors. In the north they found a place to finally stop and there they raised their barrows for their dead. Their descendants have called this land home since before the Long Night. Nigh on nine thousand years.” Catelyn listened as the maester talked and remembered the history that Maester Kym had taught her.

           Their line went back to the Age of Heroes, but unlike the other Great Houses they had never reigned as kings. Ser Edmure Tully had been allied to King Tristifer IV Mudd, King of Rivers and Hills. Yet when his king was dead Ser Edmure had knelt to Armistead Vance, an Andal warlord, and Edmure’s son was granted land where Riverrun now stood. The Tully’s eventually took the Seven as their gods, but they still remembered that they had the blood of the First Men as well as the blood of the Andals in their veins.

           Eventually it came time for their party to split up. Lords Hornwood and Locke were to go east to Hornwood and Oldcastle. Torghen Flint needed to press on further north in order to return to his mountains and flint hills. The Glovers, Ser Helman Tallhart and Lord Jorah turned northwest for their own homes. Catelyn’s party dwindled to herself, Jory, Maester Luwin, the members of the Stark household guard that had ridden south with Lord Eddard, and the Greatjon who insisted to remain with her until he had delivered her to Winterfell. They rode with the group heading to the northwest for half a day until they arrived at Barrowton. Not as large as Lord Harroway’s Town it was still the second largest town in the north, just behind White Harbor. In the center of the town was the Great Barrow and atop the Great Barrow was Barrow Hall, the seat of House Dustin. Lord William Dustin had ridden south with Lord Eddard as well, like Howland Reed, unlike Howland Reed however William Dustin had taken part in the bedding. She blushed remembering how he said that the sight of her breasts had made him wish he had never been weaned.

           A woman waited for them at the top off the steps leading up to Barrow Hall. She was a tall, handsome woman in a red dress with the badge of her father’s house, a golden stallion’s head, quartered with those of her husband, two battle axes crossed with a crown overhead. Catelyn admired the way her brown hair blew in the wind.

           “Be welcome to our hearth and hall, dear guests, I, Barbrey of House Dustin greet you.” The tall woman said with a practiced smile and grace.

           “I thank you for your hospitality and greetings, Lady Barbrey, I am Catelyn of House T-Stark.” Catelyn said quickly, cursing herself for the slip of the tongue. I practiced so hard!

           Lady Dustin gave her a sympathetic smile. “Do not worry, it took me months to stop calling myself Barbrey Ryswell.” Catelyn returned her smile and took her offered hand embracing her. Jory and Greatjon introduced themselves as well and the Lady Barbrey led them all inside where they would all sup together at one table.

           A tall man, nearly of a height with the Greatjon though not as broad, stood inside in grey iron mail and a half helm over grey-blonde hair. In his hands was a great axe with a curved axe head glimmering in the firelight. Catelyn was only just able to hide her shock at seeing the face of this fierce man. Scars were cut along his face, one crossing over his nose and down to his cheek, another two splitting his lip, a third, deep trench across his forehead.

          “I apologize for my captain of the guard. This is Roderick Dustin, William’s great-uncle. He fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and is always overly cautious when we have visitors. It is okay, nuncle, this is Catelyn Stark. Lord Eddard’s wife. Do you remember Lord Eddard today, Lord Rickard’s son?” Barbrey said in a calm, soothing voice. Recognition crossed the fearsome man’s eyes. “Rick?” He said and lowered his axe placing it against the wall.

         “Yes, Lord Rickard, this is his good daughter Catelyn. Won’t you make her feel welcome?”

         “Rick’s daughter?” The man said his eyes falling on Catelyn. Lady Catelyn smiled at him meeting his gaze and not even cringing. Those lips, crisscrossed by old scars, were open and giving a thoughtless smile to her. The war took something from this man, gods, he’s broken inside.

         “Yes, I am Lord Rickard’s good daughter, and this babe is his grandson, Robb.” Catelyn said doing her best to mimic Lady Barbrey’s tone and cadence from before. Roderick Dustin took a few steps forward and ran a big finger over Robb’s forehead.

        “He has Lynara’s hair.” Roderick said and then lifted his eyes to Cat’s own auburn hair. “The wildlings call it kissed by fire. It means you’re lucky, you and the boy both, they say. Rick would like that. I always told him that he had no luck. That the only thing that was lucky about him was that his wife was too crazy to see how ugly he was.” Suddenly this huge man seemed not so frightening at all, and his laughter was the sweet tenor of a summer rain. He turned and looked at Barbrey for a moment.

         “I’ll take my leave and walk the ‘primeter if that’s all right Lady Barbrey.” His hand fell from the air heavily as Lady Barbrey smiled at him.

         “Over course nuncle Roderick, do whatever you think is best.” She said and they all waited for the captain of the guard to walk to his axe and take it up again before walking out of the front doors.

         Catelyn was surprised to see fear in Lord Umber’s eyes as he looked at the man as he passed.

         “Well, if no one’s appetite is spoiled let’s eat shall we?” Lady Dustin said and they all took seats at the table. Cat sat at Lady Dustin’s right hand with Lord Umber across from her with Maester Luwin and Jory Cassel to their lefts. The Stark men-at-arms ate in a lower hall with the Dustin men, there was a singer with them singing a song about the Demon of the Trident. The men were stopping their feet in rhythm and singing along. The fare at the table was most welcome, after weeks of the northern lords competing to feed her in quantity and quality it was refreshing to have simpler fare. Salted pork and baked potatoes with honeyed mead to wash it down. Cat only had a small cup of the mead herself before switching to milk. Lady Barbrey and Catelyn provided much of the conversation while Greatjon most ate in silence and Jory strained to listen to the doings of the men-at-arms. Once Jory had finished his meal he asked leave to go and join the men for a time; at first Catelyn was not sure that he would fit in, young as he was, but she finally consented when the Greatjon spoke up and said he would go accompany the lad.

        Maester Luwin then begged leave to go talk with House Dustin’s maester, which both ladies allowed. That left the ladies sitting alone save the servants and Robb in a cradle that had been brought down.

        They talked of many things, of the last winter harvest and what summer was like in the north. Of Barbrey’s family the Ryswells of the Rills, her father Rodrik, his three sons Roger, Rickard and Roose, and her sister Bethany who had married Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort. Of her uncle Ser Mark who rode south with their husbands and his children her cousins. It seemed they were great horse breeders and riders.Catelyn told her of her own family, of her Father, and her sister Lysa wed to Lord Jon Arryn, her little brother Edmure and her uncle Brynden.

      They talked of falconry and policy. Catelyn admitted to being a stranger in these lands and begged of her any wisdom a northern lady could offer to a foreigner. Lady Barbey admitted that there were few southron women in the north, save for the Manderlys and their people, and that only the Manderlsy kept the Seven. There always seemed to be a part of their lives where they both knew not to tread, that of their husbands. As the fire grew low and the shadows long the conversation died down in the lower hall below Robb woke and Catelyn fed him.

        “He’s hungry lad to be sure. A bit like his uncle in that regard.” Lady Barbrey commented with a knowing glance and took a sip from her glass of mead.

        “Benjen? I had not heard he had a particularly large appetite.” Catelyn said confused as she held her son to her.

         Barbrey laughed lightly, if sadly. “Brandon.” And here it is, the other topic I feared we’d discuss.

         “Did you know him well?” Cat asked watching her hostess’s eyes. They told her nothing.

        “I did. He fostered here at Barrow Hall, and would often come riding through the Rills and sometimes I would ride with him. He was a good man.” She said and there was a river of emotion behind that last sentence deeper and broader than the Trident. 

        “He was.” Catelyn said, there was little else she could say about the stranger who she had originally been meant to marry. She remembered him then, and as she often found herself doing she compared him to his brother. She had been disappointed when she first laid her eyes on Lord Eddard on their wedding day. She had dreamed him a younger version of his brother, but found him to be shorter, plainer of face and somber. He had seemed cool at first, and their wedding bed had been dutiful but not passionate. Brandon had been passionate in all things, and wild in his passions as he was in his rages.

       “I heard word that Brandon killed a man who tried to claim you for himself, before riding south.” Again those last three words were filled with sorrow. The thought dawned on Catelyn that Brandon might have been more than a riding companion to Barbrey. Robb finished his supper then and closed his eyes to sleep again. Catelyn wrapped him back up into his linens and laid him on the rabbit furs of the cradle.

       “Petyr Baelish was not a man nor did Brandon kill him, thank the gods.” If she wants to hear a little of Brandon’s last days there is no harm in telling her the truth. “He was a boy, scarcely fifteen and Brandon was…” She tried to search for the right word. “Brandon?” Lady Barbrey supplied finishing her mead with a half-smile.

       “Brandon, yes. Petyr was my Father’s ward, Father and Lord Baelish had fought alongside each other in the Stepstones, he was small and slight and bold. Always getting into trouble and then looking contrite afterword. He said he had fallen in love with me and asked me for my token, but I gave it to Brandon. Petyr came to the duel wearing a helm, breast plate and mail. He had had no squire so he armed himself. Brandon took off most of his armor at that. They fought all through the yard, down the steps and back until Petyr was staggering and bleeding from a dozen wounds. Brandon called for him to yield after each cut, but Petyr persisted. I begged Brandon not to kill him, for I loved him like a brother. That last cut though was quick and brutal, I feared that it was mortal for sure.” Cat paused then for a breath. “It proved not to be and Petyr rested and recovered for a fortnight while I waited for Brandon to return to me after riding to meet Lord Rickard. Petyr was sent away once he was strong enough and that was the end of it.” Catelyn finished her story with her hands on her lap watching Lady Barbrey’s face to see her reaction. Her face was a mask, but her eyes glistened with the threat of tears.

       “Thank you for the story Lady Catelyn. I’m sorry, but I believe I must turn in, the smoke of the fires is too much for my eyes.” She stood and Catelyn stood with her.

       “Of course, my lady. I look forward to breaking my fast with you come morn.” Lady Catelyn said, taking up her son’s cradle and following a servant to her chambers. She slept soundly in a warm bed of furs and woke to the gentle patter of rain on the roof of the hall.

       She changed into her riding dress lined with otter fur and a beaver fur hood. She wrapped Robb in his furs and took him from the cradle. When she opened the door of her chambers she was given a start to find Jory sleeping there with his head resting against the wall. He snored quietly and looked comfortable in the way only children could sleeping in such an odd place.

       “Jory.” She whispered gently prodding his side with her toe. “Jory Cassel, wake up, it is a new day.” She said prodding him a little harder to no effect. Cat set her lips into a firm line and then drew a breath, her voice firm but not a shout.

       “Jory Cassel, if I have to raise my voice and wake Robb Lord Eddard will hear of it.” The sudden force in her voice as well as her threat snapped the young lad awake bringing him to his feet and stiff as an iron rod in an instant.

      “My apologies Lady Catelyn, I did not mean to over sleep.” He said quickly. His hands moved to straighten out the wrinkles that had formed in his sleep. Cat gave him a reproving grin at the smell of his breath, the Greatjon had let him drink it seemed.

      “You are forgiven, Jory, now will you be so kind as to escort me to table?” Catelyn said with a nod of her head towards the hall.

      “Of course, my lady! It would be my pleasure.” The lad turned on his heel and led the way.

      Greatjon Umber was already in attendance and Lady Barbrey with him. Roderick Dustin sat on the end of the bench nearest to the door with his axe resting beside him. If any foe wished to do harm to anyone in the hall he would need to brave the deadly blade and visage of the barrowman captain. The meal was porridge and fresh bread with rashers of bacon as well. Lady Catelyn and Lady Barbrey spoke together and cooed at Robb’s cute looks as he swung his tiny hands and arms playfully at them and made the cutest of faces.

      They could not know how soon their laughter would die.

      It was Maester Luwin who brought them the letters, carried by two ravens from Starfall on the Torrentine by way of Riverrun. One carried a letter for Lady Barbrey, the other one letter for Catelyn and one for Jory.

     “This is Lord Eddard’s seal.” Catelyn said in surprise as she looked at the white wax with the grey direwolf of House Stark. It seemed unsettling that Lord Eddard had sent them each a letter. Dark wings dark words, they say, can I say this letter is even from my husband? That thought disquieted her and he tore the seal away with the fear that she had become a widow and her son an orphan. The tear stained letter was from Lord Eddard, but its contents gave her no ease.

My Lady Catelyn,

 I write you from the Palestone Tower of House Dayne at Starfall. After breaking the siege of Storm’s End I rode south with six companions, as no doubt my bannermen have told you, we rode to a tower at the entrance to the Prince’s Pass that Prince Rhaegar called the tower of joy. There was no joy to be found there for me.

Princess Elia told me many things when I met with her in King’s Landing, including that I could find my sister there. But also the truth of what Rhaegar had done when Lyanna disappeared. He had not abducted her, as we thought, but instead they had eloped together being married in front of the heart trees on the Isle of Faces. Princess Elia told me many things about why this had to be, but I confess I understood less than half of it and now I do not wish to think of it.

The Kingsguard were waiting for us at the foot of the tower, and would not yield to reason. They claimed that their honor demanded that they refuse to yield to us, and perhaps that was so. Or perhaps they did not wish to outlive their Prince. We fought there, seven against three. In the end only Howland Reed and I survived. When I went inside the tower I found Lyanna in childbed. She had given Prince Rhaegar a son, Aemon, like the Dragonknight.

Lyanna is dead.

We pulled the tower down and built eight cairns for the fallen. Lyanna begged me to bring her home to Winterfell. Howland and I, accompanied by a wetnurse and Prince Aemon rode to Starfall and engaged the Manwoodys of Kingsgrave to send for silent sisters to bring the dead back to their homes. Please give comfort to Jory Cassel, who has lost his father.

My news does not end there however, at Starfall I was given another surprise. Lady Ashara Dayne has given birth to a daughter. Lyanna Snow. Brandon is Lya’s father. I am sorry. She looks so much like my sister, Lady Catelyn, and Lady Ashara has offered to allow her to visit us, and when she is old enough to foster with us so that she might know her father’s home and be a companion to our children. I pray that you will come to love her as you would have loved my children had fate been kinder.

We take ship now to King’s Landing, aboard the longship of Lord Quellon Greyjoy. He tells me it will take about a week, and from there a fast ship may bring to White Harbor not long after you have arrived. If the gods are willing.

I hope this letter finds you in good health and that something may come to give you good spirits.

Ned.

       Catelyn raised her eyes from the letter to look at the faces of her companions, her new friend Barbrey and her young guard Jory were both weeping openly. Roderick had come to sit beside Jory and wrap an arm around his shoulders and the Greatjon looked at her with concern.

       “What’s happened?” Lord Umber asked, concern heavy in his voice.

       “Lyanna is dead. As are Lord Stark’s other companions save Howland Reed.” Catelyn said sadly reaching across the table to take Barbrey by the hand. Barbrey met her eyes with her own, tears streaking down her face. She has lost her husband and her uncle. Catelyn reminded herself and gripped her hand tight.

       “He did not say, your husband, in his letter. Is he bringing them home?” Lady Barbrey asked, as if the weight of her whole world lay upon the answer to that question.

       “Lord Eddard has arranged with House Manwoody for silent sisters to collect their bodies and bring them home. He has built cairns for them beneath the red mountains until then.” That seemed to bring some consolation to the widow’s face.

       There was no eating after that. Greatjon and Roderick took Jory to the armory to practice with sword and shield and remember do what his father always loved to do with him. Maester Luwin went to ensure that the baggage was packed for when they were ready to leave. Catelyn and Barbrey were left alone with Robb who had drifted to sleep again.

       The ladies went to the outer porch and looked out over Barrowton and the barrowlands beyond as the light spring rain fell upon it. When the rain came to rest on the grass it turned into a crystalline dew that shined in the sunlight. Out over the hills and barrows a mist was forming and flowing grey-white in the sun and rain.

       It was one of the most beautiful sights that Catelyn had ever seen.

       “I begged him not to go. We had been married only six months, I begged him to send his uncle Donner or Roderick. Nuncle Roddy is only really whole in battle, I have noticed. William was insistent, Brandon had been fostered here and was like a brother to him. He loved Brandon, and so did I.” Catelyn looked at her surprised and speechless as the handsome proud women met her gaze.

       “I could have grown to love William, if I had had the time. But I will always love Brandon. He did not want to marry you, and he told his father so. But Lord Rickard had southron ambitions. I gave Brandon my maidenhead and he loved me. He was hot-blooded, I am no summer maiden, and I know he had other women. Before I ever met you I hated you, for having what should have been mine. Now that I’ve met you, I can hate you no longer. Neither of us has Brandon Stark now, and perhaps Lady Dayne had more of him than either of us. You got the brother, she got the bastard. What did I get save bones and barrows?” Lady Barbrey spoke her pain and Lady Catelyn listened as they both looked out over barrows.

       “I will always love House Stark, though I know I’ll never be a Stark. For Brandon’s sake; for the sake of William’s bones, and for your sake Catelyn. You’ve been a good friend to me in the short time I have known you. I would ask a boon of you, from one friend to another.”

       “Anything, if it is in my power, name it and I will give it to you.”

       “Grow to love your husband, as I could have grown to love mine. And when Brandon’s daughter comes to Winterfell, bring her here too and I’ll show her where her father loved to ride.” There was a sad smile on the Widow of Barrow Hall’s face as she said that.

       “Of course, Barbrey, it would be my pleasure.” She said taking her hand and giving her comfort as they stood and watched the rain fall. What she had said had shocked her near as much as the news of Brandon fathering a bastard within weeks or months of nearly killing Littlefinger for her hand. The marriage had been arranged, as most were, but she had never heard Brandon say anything against it. She pushed those thoughts away for now, it did no good to dwell on the past at the moment.

       They left at midday, nearly two hundred riders heading north in near silence. The Greatjon did not laugh and Jory’s eyes strayed to the horizon deep in thought. They returned to the kingsroad that day and camped in the shadows of the barrows that night. Five days later, for a total of nine in the barrowlands, the plains and hills turned into the high trees of the wolfswood. They stopped for the evening at Castle Cerwyn where Medger Cerwyn, his lady wife, and their fifteen year old daughter Jonelle feasted them on their harvest reserves that had lasted them all winter and into this, the first year of true spring. During the feast a man whose coat of arms was a red eagle’s head over two crossed tridents on white stood and raised his horn for a toast.

       “To the king! And his new brother! Aegon and Aemon! Fire and Ice!” and the hall echoed him. “Aegon and Aemon!”

       They spent the night there at Castle Cerwyn on the White Knife and the next day they rode on to Winterfell. It was a half-day ride through the wolfswood to Winterfell. The trees grew thinner and thinner as the part came closer until the wolfswood faded away and Catelyn had her first sight of her new home some two miles off.

       The winter town outside of Winterfell was a muddy and disorganized town that was nearly empty in the spring and summer, but in the winter it filled with extra mouths from the northern mountains and all of the lands around. Torghen Flint had told her all of this and more. With Winterfell in sight one of her guards lifted a horn to his lips and sounded a long call, waking Robb at her breast. From Winterfell another horn answered and the spirits of the riders were lifted being finally home.

       King Jaehaerys I’s kingsroad did not go straight to the winter town and Winterfell, but skirted around it to the east having been built around the ancient castle. From Winterfell it continued on for nearly six hundred leagues until it reached the Wall. It wound through the flint foothills and northern forests, passed the Long Lake and the Last River. Into the New Gift and the Old Gift until it came to Castle Black.

      A mile from Winterfell the party halted and split, the Umbers saying their farewells to the Stark men. The Greatjon gave her a drinking horn he had fashioned from one of the horns of the aurochs that they had feasted and nearly crushed her in one of his hugs, promising to come and visit whenever she wished it, and to bring his wife and children as well. Lady Catelyn thanked him and hugged him back and Robb smiled and waved as he departed.

      With that last farewell they left the kingsroad and followed a muddier road into the wintertown where the people that were there cheered and called out to friends and kin as they passed.

      Catelyn had been to Harrenhal many times, her mother had been a Whent after all, and every castle would be dwarfed by Black Harren’s Folly, but Winterfell was said to be the oldest castle in Westeros raised by Brandon the Builder who had given guidance to Duran Godsgrief in raising Storm’s End and had designed the Hightower for Uthor of the High Tower. It had two great walls connected by a drawbridge and divided by a water filled moat. The first wall was eighty feet high and dwarfed the walls of Riverrun, behind it was a second wall twenty feet higher still and behind that wall was Winterfell her new home.

      She was met at the main gate by a man of sixteen who she had never met, but who she recognized immediately by his dark hair and long face. Benjen Stark, youngest son of Rickard Stark, who had dutifully remained in the north for the end of winter while all his kin rode south for the wedding and the war. Standing on one side of Benjen was a stout old knight with large brown whiskers trimmed in white. On the other was a plain looking man whose badge of office signaled that he was the steward. Behind them much of the household had gathered to meet her, including two of the largest men she had ever seen. One could have been Greatjon’s brother for all he had in height, the other was even taller still well over seven feet if he was an inch. Both wore mail that marked them as men-at-arms.

      “Lady Catelyn, it’s good to finally meet you. I’m Benjen Stark, and these fine men are Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell’s master-at-arms and Vayon Poole the steward. We bid you welcome.” Benjen said in a friendly enough voice, though there was sadness in it. Ser Rodrik looked sad as well, though he hid it beneath his whiskers. Of course he’s sad, he’s just lost his brother.

      “Thank you all, I am glad to be here. And this is my son, Robb Stark.” She said holding up her babe for them to see once she had dismounted. The crowd smiled to see the latest Stark, the first good news they had probably received in a long time.

      “I look forward to getting to know all of you much better, but I must apologize, travel has left me quite tired. If someone could show me to my chambers?” She said courteously feeling the wariness of the road and child birth on her back and legs.

      “Of course, Walder, take my lady’s trunk and lead her to my brother’s chambers. Everyone else, let’s clear the way there’s a lot of tired men who want to finally come home.” Ser Rodrik said gesturing for the taller man to come help her. Cat was amazed to see that such a large man was still young, perhaps only a year or two older than she was. He reached up to the trunk of the back of her mule and lifted it over her shoulder as easily as she lifted Robb.

      “Just follow me m’lady. And if you’d pardon me saying, I’m certain you’ve made my Old Nan happy bringing a new Stark for her to help raise. She’s raised generations of them, that’s my great-grandmother there by the way.” Walder said pointing to an ancient woman knitting in a chair on one of the balcony’s above.

       Lady Catelyn waved to Old Nan and smiled when any person so much as looked at her, exchanging hellos when she could. I think I might be able to call this home one day. She thought as she followed the huge man-at-arms to the Great Keep and up the steps to her new chambers.

Chapter Text

            Davos had married a master carpenter’s daughter for love and for profit as many rising smallfolk would do. Having a man in the family who worked wood and aided in the building of ships was always a boon to a smuggler who may not be able to have repairs done to his ship in the light of day. That was something that never need concern Davos again, but he still went to his goodfather when he needed a man to appraise the wood of his small ship and smooth out the wear and tear that came with sailing round Massey’s Hook and into Shipbreaker Bay.

            Goodman Devan ran a good sized shop near Cobbler’s Square employing coopers, wrights, carvers and other kinds of wood workers and had initially frowned on his darling daughter Marya marrying a no good smuggler from Flea Bottom a decade older than her. You’re smiling now aren’t you goodfather? Davos thought hiding his smile as the master carpenter supervised his journeymen and apprentice’s looking over the benches and barrels, masts and hulls, oars and wheel. Davos sat on the side of the ship stripped to his waist, barefoot, with his roughspun breeches rolled up passed the knee his luck hanging in a leather pouch around his neck. In his hands was a line of rope and a rod and he practiced his knots his shortened fingers fumbling over movements that had been second nature to him before he had first taken sail twenty-some years before.

Marya sat on a bench near him with the sun shining in her brown hair sewing needles in her hands snipping up and down deftly placing the last touches on their House’s personal banner.

A black ship on grey with an onion on its sail.

Their younger boys played on the deck and on the wharf under the watchful eye of their eldest brother. Maric, the youngest at three, tottered after Allard and Mathos, seven and five, as they tossed a ball of string between them. Dale, squared faced and reliable, watched them play from a seat made of coiled rope. At eleven he was their eldest son and already acting half-the-man he would become. I need to stop thinking of him as a boy, he’s a year older than I was when I first sailed and heir to a knightly house now besides.

Ser Davos the Onion Knight, head of House Seaworth, that’s who he was now. Davos the Smuggler, Davos of Flea Bottom, they had gone into his lucky pouch with his finger bones.

Goodman Devan looked at Davos with a smile, briefly looking away from the work his boys were doing, the sun light practically shined from the badge of goldernheart wood that hung from his neck and marked him as a master. Don’t worry goodfather, I’ll carry you behind me in my wake. Davos thought returning his goodfather’s smile.

While Davos and his family relaxed, played and worked a large crowd was gathering in the harbor streaming out of the Mud Gate and filling the docks. The harbor was always crowded with sailors coming and going from their ships and locals moving from their shacks beneath the walls about their day hawking fish and other goods from barrows and carts. People from the city were coming and going purchasing and porting goods from ships to their homes and inns. Even with all this traffic the crowd was suddenly growing larger than Davos had seen in a long time.

“Daddy look! What’s that?!” Little Maric asked in the mangled Common Tongue of a small child pointing a tiny finger over his father’s shoulder.

Davos turned quickly and then jumped to his feet his eyes wide at what he saw.

An ironborn longship was sailing passed the river mouth and was sailing up the Blackwater up into the harbor, the golden kraken of House Greyjoy flying proud on the sail. Davos’s smuggler instincts rose high in his mind at the sight of that banner. Pull out to deep water or tack and drive them onto the shallows. Don’t fight and don’t let them catch you. He stood, dropping his ropes and rod to the deck and took a breath to begin giving orders when he remembered where he was and what was going on. They would not have let them passed the mouth if they were here to raid.

Davos scrunched his eyes together and looked closer at the longship coming in. While the kraken was flying on the sail there were four banners flying elsewhere on the ship, one from a rope on the port-side of the mast, two from the starboard and a fourth flying from the top of the mast above the sail. The one was purple with a white sword and falling star on it. The two were a grey direwolf on white and a black lizard-lion on a grey-green. The fourth was black, with a three-headed red dragon. Davos recognized two of them, Stark of Winterfell and House Targaryen.

Turning to face the harbor again Davos began to realize what he was seeing.

When he had sailed from Storm’s End he had carried passengers with him instead of cargo. Ser Stannis and his brother Renly as well as ten knights in their service. This had benefited Davos when it came to harbor fees and selecting a wharf. House Baratheon had paid his harbor fees and had him dock closer to the Mud Gate than Davos ever had before. This gave the Onion Knight a clear view of the crowd that was gathering in the area around the gate. Most of the people in the center were mounted and had banner bearers near at hand. Stag, mermen, sun and spear, weirwood, rose, lion, bat, huntsmen and more. Sitting mounted at the front was a tall, broad shouldered man with long black hair who looked like a very handsome Ser Stannis. Near him was an old man in blue and white with grey hair. Between them was a small, thin woman with dark hair and olive skin. In her arms was a yearling child wrapped in red cloth.

Surrounding this group of people were knights all in white. Davos began to count them. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. All seven of the Kingsguard had not been seen there in many, many years. Realization came upon Davos then and his eyes fell back on the babe in arms.

There were crowns sewn into his swaddling clothes.

“Boys, get down and stop playing. Dale toss me my shirt, Marya pass me my boots please. Thank you.” Davos hurried to slide his shirt over his head and shoulders and pull his boots on. He had not quite mastered tightening his boot straps so Marya helped him.

“What is it dad?” Dale asked as he rounded up his brothers and set the rail of the ship to watch the longship sail in.

“The king is here boys, and his brother is on that ship.” Davos said nodding towards the longship.  Their oars were turning them in the water pushing them towards the wharf next to theirs.

The stench of salt and sailors filled the air as ironmen leapt onto the dock and tied off their mooring lines. A plank was laid down and the longship’s passengers disembarked.

First off was a long-faced man of middle height with an overlarge sword strapped to his back. He wore grey steel armor lined with fur and looked at the word with cold, sad grey eyes. He walked with the pained strides of a man who had lost much in a short period of time. A thin smile touched his lips as the big, black haired Lord Baratheon jumped from the saddle and ran forward.

“Ned!” The Demon of the Trident shouted as he ran clapping his arms around the Lord of Winterfell’s shoulders pulling him into what appeared to be a crushing hug.

With much of the decorum of the moment now fled many of the gathered nobles dismounted and began to step forward as the longship’s next passenger came down.

Davos felt his heart leap into his throat as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen came down on the dock beside him.

She was a tall woman fair of skin with long black hair and haunting lilac eyes. Her breasts were full and her body curved from the added weight of a recent pregnancy. Where other women would lose their figure and what many perceived as their beauty pregnancy had only seemed to increase her beauty. Resting their heads against her breasts were two babes, one about six months old and the other perhaps half of that.

Snip! Snip! Went the sewing needles behind him and Davos turned to look at his wife. Lady Marya graced him with a reproachful look softened by one of her kind smiles. Marya was a woman wise to the world, she had known what she had bought when she fell in love with a smuggler like him, and he had done nothing to hide the truth of what he was to her from the beginning. He would never lie to her like that. He was not a perfect man, but he loved her and that smile said she knew the simple truth: though other winds may smell sweeter and seem faster, it was the wind that brought him safely home to her arms that held his heart.

            He returned her look bashfully and read all he needed to in the next smile she gave him. Those high born lasses might look prettier than me Ser Davos, but I’ll warrant none can cook half so good a chowder as me nor can they hold the Onion Knight with a speck of as much love as I held Davos of Flea Bottom. They were not perfect people, they both knew, but they loved each other and their children more than the breath in their lungs or the heart in their chests.

            Davos’s attention returned to the dock where the Storm Lord was now weeping in the arms of Lord Stark with neither of them showing any shame and none in the crowd dared judge them. The King’s Hand came forward and joined in their embrace and their sorrow. While the beautiful woman with the two babes in her arms stepped towards Princess Elia and the young king.

            Princess Rhaenys had joined her mother, with one hand on her skirt and the other cradling a black kitten as if it were her babe as well. The other lords and their retainers waited at the end of the dock, blocked from the royal greeting by a thin line of white steel. The Red Viper of Dorne stood closest to them exchanging words with one of them, a dangerous man, Davos had heard a rumor that he had already killed two men in the short time he had been in the capital. Ser Stannis was near at hand as well and with his younger brother at his side, both dressed in clothes that would have made Davos a beggar. Stannis’s eyes fell on Davos and Davos raised a hand, his right hand, in greeting as the women greeted each other.

            The fair skinned Dornishwoman bent her head to the yearling King.

            “Your Grace, my lady. I present to you your brother Prince Aemon and his cousin Lyanna Snow, my daughter.” The woman with lilac eyes said in a voice like velvet.

            “Ashara Dayne, my dearest friend. I welcome you and yours happily to King’s Landing and thank you for all you have done for the King.” Davos thought he heard the smallest whisper of “and for me” as the Princess Regent kissed Lady Ashara’s forehead.

            At the mention of the prince Lord Robert’s eyes cleared for a moment and he turned to face the women his hands extended.

            “May I do the honors my ladies?” Robert asked his deep voice quivering with sadness.

            “Of course, Lord Robert.” Princess Elia answered him and Davos caught the oddest of looks pass between the two. What exactly it meant he would not venture to guess.

            Lady Ashara turned then and placed one of the babes she held into the large lord’s hands. The Prince practically disappeared in those hands and Lord Baratheon’s broad shoulders began to quiver again as he looked down at the babe in his arms. Lord Stark saw that shaking and placed a hand firmly on his shoulder.

            “Robert.” He whispered, half-comfort, half-concern. Lord Robert’s shoulders still shook and quivered as the quietest sound left his lips.

            “He has her eyes Ned. He has her eyes.” Davos had never heard such a whimper come from man so large, nor had he ever heard it followed by such a change as he did then. From sorrowful and broken Robert turned then to loud and proud as he lifted the babe high above his head for all to see and called out in a deep voice made for battle.

            “PRINCE AEMON!” He roared and the gathered crowd echoed him, Davos and his family included. The realm had not had two Targaryens to cheer so happily and truly since Summerhall.

            While they were cheering a small man with a brown cloak with a scraggily beard slipped down the plank and to the deck almost unseen, only to be followed by a man even taller and broader of shoulder than Lord Robert.

            Davos had heard stories about the Grey Kraken Quellon Greyjoy. Lord-Reaper of Pyke and a reaver to be feared from Sunset Sea to Slaver’s Bay. He had sailed against the Ninepenny Kings when Davos had first begun to sail and his ironborn took ships as wine grower plucked grapes. Davos had never seen him but he recognized him by description by his large size, bald head, and grey beard. An iron hand axe hung from a leather belt around his waist and at the sight of it three of the white cloaks stepped forward with hands on the hilts of their swords.

            Lord Quellon laughed a deep, echoing laugh that carried over the crowd as he dropped the axe to the ground.

            “Worry not I come in peace, good sers. My ladies, my lords, Princess Elia, Your Grace.” Lord Quellon said greeting each group in kind and then bowing his head to the King in his mother’s arms.

            “I have come at your invitation to sit on your regency council.” He added to both the babe and the mother. Princess Elia answered him with a diplomatic smile.

            “Come and be welcome Lord Quellon. The royal steward is preparing a feast in the Red Keep to welcome you. Truly, we thank you for the great service you have done us by bringing our Prince and friends to court safely.” She said speaking for both herself and her wordless son. The crowd began talking and greeting Lady Ashara and Lord Quellon as the royal party began to move away. Four knights winged Princess Elia, Lady Ashara and their young charges as they walked them back to their horses; Lady Ashara had reclaimed Prince Aemon from Lord Robert before going. There was much noise coming from the crowd as they moved away and returned to the Red Keep until the harbor seemed almost empty once they had gone.

            Not all had left however, Lord Robert remained, as had Lord Eddard, Ser Stannis and the small man in the brown cloak.

            Ser Stannis stepped forward with a sheepskin map under his arm.

            “Ser Davos, allow me to introduce my brother Lord Robert Baratheon, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, and Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch. May we come aboard?” Stannis said ever polite and rigid.

            “Of course, my lords, be welcome. Allow me to introduce my wife Marya, my sons Dale, Allard, Mathos, and Maric and my goodfather Goodman Devan of the Carpenter’s Guild.” Davos gestured to each person as he named them with his shortened hand, his wife did not rise due to the banner she was sewing and her father very nearly dropped to a knee in front of them. His boys bowed quickly as Dale forced them to.

            “How may I be of service, m’lords?” Davos asked as he joined the four men at the bow of the ship while his boys went back to playing and the apprentices went back to work.

            “You’ve already given us more service than some of my brother’s sworn lords did, we are here to discuss your reward and ask only a little more of you.” Stannis said as he rolled the skin out over a table that had been placed near the wheel. On it was a detailed map of Cape Wrath and the Rainwood in the Stormlands from the Slayne in the west to the narrow sea in the east Shipbreaker Bay in the north and the Sea of Dorne in the south.

            “Anything I can do to aid you my lords, all you need do is ask.”

            “Stannis tells me you have sailed north before, do you know the way to White Harbor Ser Davos?” Lord Eddard asked looking Davos in the eyes. Davos’s shortened hand up to feel the pouch containing his finger bones.

            “I’ve been there a time or two, my lord. Though I doubt you’ll find my name in any of Lord Manderly’s ledgers.” That answer roused a laugh from Lord Robert and a surprised look from Lord Stark. Stannis did not react at all, having grown accustomed to his bluntness of the journey north.

            “You are certainly upfront about your smuggling, ser.” Lord Eddard responded.

            “I don’t see a point in lying about it my lord. I’ve had my justice from Ser Stannis, but that doesn’t change what I did. It fed my family and my crew’s family as well, my lord.” Lord Eddard seemed to like that answer.

            “How soon would you be able to sail there again?”

            “With the morning tide Lord Stark, if it please you.” Davos answered his speech still closer to that of a smuggler than a knight.

            “I require passage for myself, Lord Reed, eight horses, and my sister’s body. “

            “I’ll have room aplenty for that, Lord Stark.” Marya raised an eyebrow at him over her stitching. I’ll be hearing about this over dinner no doubt.

            “Good, with that settled let’s talk about your reward. Stannis has picked out a stout keep for you right by the narrow sea, near Estermont.” Lord Robert patted Davos firmly on the shoulder as Stannis pointed the location of the keep out on the map. It, the knighthood, and the promised ship was more than he could ever have aspired to only a year before. Then the true Baratheon generosity revealed itself. By the time Davos sailed out into the Gullet with the morning tide he owned his ship, a war galley that was being built, his knighthood, the keep, a hundred head of cattle, the right to hunt in the rainwood on his land, and seventy hides of land besides. His sons would have their own ships in time, and might grow to be squires and knights themselves someday. Marya hadn’t even been cross at him for sailing again so soon.

            “Seventy hides doesn’t divide four ways, my sailor-bold. We’re in need of three more sons.” Was all she had said that night before they joyfully went about making them.

Chapter Text

            The journey on the gold road was a ponderous annoyance from start to finish. In the hills of the Westerlands the opulent crimson and gold wheelhouse had broken its axle three times bringing an end to their journey for that day each time. Though the troubles had really started before they had even left Casterly Rock.

            Cersei had been so excited and overjoyed to finally return to King’s Landing where she would finally have a prince. Viserys was no Rhaegar, true, but from the moment she arrived she would be the second most powerful woman in the realm. And everyone knew that it was only a small step from second to first. Her Father had told her all of his plans before she had left the Rock, trusting her as any intelligent lord would trust their beautiful, intelligent, trueborn heir. Prince Viserys was a boy of eight and she was a woman of nigh eighteen, when he returned to court from Dragonstone she would wrap him firmly around her little finger and rule him as her Mother had ruled her Father. In four years’ time when she and he had been wedded and bedded she would give him beautiful sons with silver-gold hair and purple or green eyes. They would grow up alongside their cousins, King Aegon and Prince Aemon, and all the while it would only take a little push for her to be a queen.

            She laughed briefly at the thought, before her smile turned sour at the reminder of the hardships she would have to endure on her journey.

            The first of these, ever present, was Lady Marya Piper and her tiresome son Robin. Marya was the brown haired, big breasted and doe-eyed sister of Lord Clement Piper of Pinkmaiden and the wife of Lord Quellon Greyjoy. She had arrived at Lannisport on the eve of Cersei’s journey teary-eyed and big bellied talking of being put out by her husband’s son after he killed her maester. Lord Tywin had taken sympathy on her and allowed her to accompany his darling daughter to the capital to be with her husband.

            Cersei had of course seen the use of a tool such as Lady Piper, if old Quellon Greyjoy was stupid enough to slide his tentacle up her plain pink snatch he was probably stupid enough to listen to whatever she whispered to him afterwards. Of course, Cersei would whisper those words into her ears first.

            But her son was a gross, sickly thing with a runny nose and watery eyes; always crawling throughout the wheel house to look out at the countryside as it passed them by. Her belly only grew as they traveled forcing them to stop often for her to make water or just waddle around for her own selfish comforts. Cersei hid her thoughts well as a good lady will, all smiles and graces to her face and scowls when Kraken’s heifer was not looking. Lady Piper and her snot-nosed child was only the lesser thorn in Cersei’s side, however.

            Tyrion was the much, much larger thorn, figuratively speaking of course.

            The monster who had murdered her mother, embarrassed her House, and had forced her to look at his hideous face and body every time she took a meal when she was at the Rock, was now forcing her to suffer her presence on the road to her triumph. To think the Imp was going to present his twisted self to the High Septon and expect to do anything more than horrify the gods. Tyrion did not spend time with her on the road, of course, he was always riding just a little farther ahead reading some tomb in that strange saddle of his, but just knowing that he was near her again and likely going to be close at hand to spit in every joy she had in the capital had Cersei’s stomach churning in rage. He just has to ruin everything! Father should have tossed him down a well or give him to that woods witch Maggy at birth!

            When she was free of these horrible burdens and annoyances the journey was actually quite pleasant though. She was protected on the journey by a hundred of her Father’s guardsmen with their red cloaks flowing over their mail coats and boiled leather with golden lions on their steel helms. They were led jointly by the tongueless Ser Ilyn Payne, also the new King’s Justice, and Vylarr, a man-at-arms from Lannisport. As they rode Cersei sometimes heard the guardsmen joking about the good times they had had in King’s Landing in the past.

            As they followed the gold road from Casterly Rock they came to Deep Den, the seat of House Lydden and were greeted and feasted there happily. During the feast a minstrel was presented to them wearing a cloak that was half brown, half green, in the colors of House Lydden and capped with a ridiculous badger skin, their sigil. As ridiculous as the minstrel appeared he had a pleasant voice and sang of King Joffrey Lannister who had been born Joffrey Lydden before marrying a Lannister Princess and taking her name in order to be crowned king. Joffrey is a nice name, Cersei thought as she sipped at her cup of red wine, and there was a Prince Joffrey at one time if I recall correctly. She smiled at the thought of giving birth to a beautiful prince named Joffrey, though when she pictured him he looked more like her than a Targaryen and as he grew her of course began to look like her twin Jaime.

            That night she thought of her brother Jaime as she lay in her featherbed in Deep Den. They were golden twins, two halves to a whole, two sides to the same coin. They had been inseparable as children, even sleeping in the same bed, until one of her mother’s servants had caught them mimicking something they had seen the lions below the Rock doing and her mother had separated them telling them never to do anything like that again. Jaime’s chambers were moved to the other end of Casterly Rock and a guard had been placed on outside of Cersei’s door. Joanna Lannister was murdered by Tyrion not long after that and Cersei and Jaime and been able to come together again, as the gods had intended, only they could not be one in their own beds as before. Cersei had a never ending string of ladies and bedmaids comprised of the daughters of her father’s bannermen and sworn swords that prevented that. The most persistent of these overambitious nuisances were fat Jeyne Farman and freckled Melara Hetherspoon. They had even waited for her when she had gone to King’s Landing at twelve. She had been forced to be very clever in order to be with Jaime during those years, fortunately there were many shadowy chambers deep within the Rock and no one thought it strange that such close siblings would enjoy riding together.

            At eleven they had been separated though, Jaime went to squire at Crakehall and at twelve Cersei went to King’s Landing, so close to the beautiful Prince Rhaegar, yet the Mad King never accepted her father’s offer of marriage.

            The thought of Jaime brought something stirring inside of her and she slid her hands down her body, one cupping her breast and the other rubbing circles between her legs. She remembered the last time she had seen her brother, when he had visited her after fighting against the Kingswood Brotherhood. Her circles grew smaller and faster as she remembered seducing him, riding him, convincing him that they could be together forever if Aerys were to name him to the Kingsguard; she promised to make all the arrangements, and Lysa Tully would never have him as she did. Then she had him take her again.

            Her lashes fluttered and her eyes rolled back into her head as she remembered that sweetness. She took her nipple between her thumb and forefinger rolling it between them as her fingers slid inside of her wetness and she began to buck against them. The memory changed then as she bit back a moan, Jaime became silver-haired Prince Rhaegar, and back again. Their faces and bodies and manhoods shifted into each other again and again until they were both there, thrusting into her with their lust and power with her betwixt them. As her fantasy played out she filled the air of her chamber with quiet moans and whispers and the sound of the bed creaking beneath her as she fucked herself dreaming it was not her fingers that filled her and as she felt her body filled with ecstasy in her imagination her brother and her prince filled her with their love.

            When she opened her eyes again her breasts were rising and falling with her deep breaths and the bed beneath her was damp with her sweat. She pulled her fingers from her core and looked at them in the pale moonbeam flowing through the window of her chamber. She sighed in disappointment that they were only slick from her own juices. Soon Jaime, soon. She promised herself, and then four years was not so long to wait for a dragon when compared to the eight years she had already waited.

            They broke their fast and left quickly in the morning weaving through the shadows of the hills cast by the rising sun.

            Once they left the hills of the West they made good time every day as the gold road cut across the plains of the Reach south of the Blackwater Rush. Every day that was until they came to the Field of Fire.

            It was not that Cersei did not appreciate history, so long as it was not dry, boring, and irrelevant, but she did not see the point in wasting an entire day beside the river while her brother rode and waddled all over a field of grass that looked no different than all the other fields of grass with a dusty tomb in his hand talking off his guard and servant’s ears about who died where and when. She had never thought she could find a story where three dragons involved boring, but what little of the Imp’s ranting carried to her only made her want to claw her eyes out.

            Fortunately, she was able to convince Vylarr to insist that they move on early the next morning before Tyrion could delay them any longer. When Jaehaerys Targaryen had laid out his map of roads for the Seven Kingdoms he had arranged it so that the gold road crossed the Blackwater close to the Field of Fire so that whenever anyone traveled to or from the West they would remember Loren the Last’s shame. From there they traveled north of the Blackwater through the riverlands and the crownlands with no further stops or delays. Then, finally, they came to the city at sunset.

            You could smell the city long before you came to it, something that was true of all cities Cersei had found. It was a watery smell, mixed with dirt and grime, but also the oils and perfumes coming from Baelor’s and the Street of Silk. The stone statues of lions about the Lion Gate practically glowed in the sunlight to welcome the lioness home to her den.

            The smallfolk inside the city were less welcoming.

            None dared throw anything, and they didn’t raise up any jeers or shouts, but there were no cries of admiration either. They simply dodged out of the way and bent their heads. Others take them then! It’s not as if I need their love!

            Cerise glared at them out of the corner of her eye as the wheel house lumbered passed, occasionally she would smile at the looks of anger some man gave to her guards, or the way a small folk woman jumped back at the sight of the crimson cloaks and lions. No, I do not require their love, only their fear and obedience. The lion did not ask for love from the vermin that fed off its scraps after all.

            In the great square between the Street of the King met the Street of Sisters the best part of the entire journey so far occurred. Tyrion left them.

            The Imp came up to the side of the wheelhouse on that little horse in his ridiculous saddle and said to her, “Farewell, dear Cersei, may the gods watch over you until we meet again. And give my love to Jaime for me.”

            “Good bye to you too Tyrion.” She answered and he waited there for a moment as if expecting more from her before realizing that was all he was going to get and turning and riding away up Visenya’s Hill flanked by his guard and his manservant. Pious little fool. Still the sight of him leaving to never be called a Lannister again brought a smile to her face.

            From that point between the two hills the road only went up as it took them up to Aegon’s High Hill and the Red Keep at its crown.

            Cersei took the time to change then, slipping out of her travel clothes into a tight crimson dress of silk, cut low to bare the tops of her beautiful breasts and tied up the center with golden Myrish lace. She had Lady Marya pull the laces tighter behind her as she ran a brush through her golden locks so that her hair flowed over her shoulders just so. She wanted to see every man’s eyes pop from their skulls at the sight of her, but especially Jaime’s.

            “Halt! Who goes there?” A gate guard at the Red Keep called stopping their procession just before her triumphant entrance.

            “Lady Cersei Lannister, betrothed to Prince Viserys, accompanied by Lady Marya Piper, wife to the Lord-Reaper of Pyke and their son Robin Greyjoy!” Vylarr answered back, far more patiently and politely than Cersei would have. The sound of the gate being raised came to her and then they were moving again.

            The hundred guards entered the main yard and circled around it with Ser Ilyn at their head. Dismounting the guards made a ring around the wheelhouse as it processed into the center of the yard. Then the wheelhouse stopped. Lady Piper made a move to go but Cersei held up her hand. Everything needed to be perfect. One. Two. Three.

            Now.

            Cersei stood and pressed on the door sending it flying open and the retractable steps following to the ground. She stepped down those steps like a lioness on the prowl, every eye on her. A crowd had gathered around to welcome them. She saw her uncle Kevan there with his own guard, the dark Prince Oberyn with his bastard paramour on his arm and his brood of bastards behind him, Lord Wyman Manderly was identifiable by his huge size, and the Hand of the King old Jon Arryn was there with his trout-wife Lysa Tully. But there was no Jaime to be found. Cersei was scarcely ten steps from the wheelhouse when a giant man with a long grey beard and shaved head pressed passed two of her guards and charged towards her screaming at the top of his lungs.

            Cersei’s eyes went wide and her legs tightened to run until the man turned and grabbed Lady Piper around the waist and picked her up, spinning her in the air as if she weighed nothing at all.

            “Marya!” The Old Kraken yelled spinning his pregnant wife around thrice before setting her down as gently as if she were made of glass. Then he turned and did the same to their son, who giggled uncontrollably the entire time. Cersei frowned at them for stealing her thunder, but quickly hid it behind a smile as Lord Arryn approached her with his brown teeth and rotten breath.

            “Lady Cersei, welcome back to the Red Keep. I hope you will find it as you remember. Would you like some help finding your new apartments?” He asked her as if he were her kindly grandfather. The mention of new apartments did surprised her however.

            “New apartments? I was under the impression that I would have chambers in Maegor’s, Lord Arryn.” She said gracing him with one of her more charming smiles.

            “Well, my lady, it would be improper for you to have your old chambers in the Tower of the Hand, and Princess Elia wanted to wait until Prince Viserys returned from Dragonstone before deciding to move you into Maegor’s or not. She sends her apologies for the inconvenience and that she could not greet you herself.” Lord Arryn explained as several servants came forward and started unloading the wheelhouse.

            Cersei keep her smile up at his words, showing none of the annoyance that was rising up within her at being treated like some kind of lesser courtier.

            “Of course, Lord Arryn, I understand. Whatever makes my betrothed and his goodsister most comfortable. You are right though, I would like someone to show me to my apartments, the ride was long and I am tired.”

            Lord Arryn gestured for two of the servants carrying her luggage to lead her from the yard and up into the apartments above the Great Keep. As they walked through the twisting and turning halls of the Red Keep Cersei became conscious of another person joining them with footsteps that made no sound and the slightest hint of perfume in the air.

            “Lord Varys, I was wondering when you would find me.” She said with an amused grin playing on her lips. The Spider had proven to be one of her nearest and dearest friends and companions from her earliest time at court. It had been with his help that she had been able to convince the Mad King to give Jaime his white cloak. Whatever the eunuch from Lys kept from the small council of the whispers that his ‘little birds’ heard he passed on to her. He would be most useful for her coming plans.

            “It would have been unseemly for us to be seen together so soon after your arrival by anyone who might grow suspicious.” Varys answered as he stepped for to walk beside her as if appearing from the shadows themselves. The eunuch was bald and plump with more powders on his face and silks on his body than some whores. Despite his distasteful sense of fashion he had always been loyal and true to Cersei.

            “So tell me, Lord Varys, why did Princess Elia and Lord Robert absent themselves from welcoming me?” Cersei asked with her head cocked and eyebrow raised in mischievous curiosity.

            “Why, dear Cersei, you have a wicked imagination.” Varys tittered. “Robert was supping with the royal family. He does that quite often, and Lady Ashara Dayne never leaves Elia’s side. I assure you, there is nothing intimate occurring there.”

            That surprised Cersei, were she Elia she would have seduced the Lord Protector the moment word of the wolf girl’s death came to court. That way her power could only increase as the King aged, not decrease. Of course Elia Nymeros Martell was no Cersei Lannister.

            “Dornish. So backwards. How many bastards  have they brought to court now?”

            “Let me count. There are the Sand Snakes, Obara, Nymeria, Tyene and Sarella Sand. Lyanna Snow. And Robert is bringing his daughter from the Vale, Mya Stone, to court. They are being put up in the Maidensvault, which some are saying should be called the Childrensvault since many of the regency council and small council are bringing their children to court. Is friendship not the sweetest thing?” Varys told her ringing his wrists while Cersei laughed.

            “May as well call it the Bastardvault.” Cersei quipped to hide her anger. So many bastards was an insult to every trueborn person at court, and the very concept of the Maidenvault had always enraged her. Imprisoning women simply for being beautiful. How far men would go to keep her down.

            Varys giggled at her quip as a good friend should before they came upon her apartments. They were smaller than what she was used to with only a bed chamber with a four poster bed, a solar overlooking Blackwater Bay, and a third room with a table in the center. Myrish carpets and tasteful red crimson and gold tapestries hanging from the walls. Despite the sparseness it would be suitable for her purposes.

            “Would you care to sit with me for a time, while I wait for these servants to bring all of my luggage from the wheelhouse?” Cersei asked pulling out one of the chairs with the soft goose down cushions sewn into them and taking a seat at the table.

            “Nothing would give me more pleasure, my lady.” The Spider answered sitting across from her.

            “Bring use two glasses, and some Arbor gold.” Cersei ordered and one of the servants hastened to obey. Now that all of the servants were gone they could finally talk in earnest. There were things she would know.

            “Tell me, Lord Varys, of these new councilors and sycophants who is a player and who can be played.”

            Varys tittered across the table with that knowing smile he had that feigned innocence despite the whole world proclaiming his guilt.

            “Dear Cersei, always straight to the point. I think that is the feature of yours I find most admirable. There is no parsing of lies and hidden meanings with you. You always let your friends know exactly what you would have of them.” The perfumed eunuch remembers how to flatter at least, though we both know what he would find most admirable about me if he hadn’t been cut.

            “And where is my dear brother besides? I had expected him to be there to greet me.” That had been a surprise and an annoyance even more than the Greyjoys stealing her thunder.

            “Ser Jaime is guarding the King as is his duty, I’m afraid. Seven knights, yet so many hours in the day. Truly, I wonder if it was a cruelty to help you name him to such a high honor. We have doomed him to many sleepless nights and long days. But my heart lifts with joy to see you two reunited. How beautiful is the love between siblings.”

            “And how would you know that, Lord Varys?” Cersei asked curiosity piqued at an insight into the Spider’s psyche. The more she knew of him the more power she had over him.

            “As I’m sure Pycelle has told you, I was born a slave in Lys, but I was not born alone. I had a sister who was dearer to me than the life in my chest. We were separated at a young age, I sold to a mummer’s troupe that sailed on a trade cog performing in all of the Free Cities and in King’s Landing and Oldtown as well. She was sold into a harder profession, yet when it was in my power to free her to a better life I did so. Despite great loss to myself. Alas, we were not reunited for long, valar morghulis. Truly I tell you if some red priest or blue-lipped warlock gave me the choice between having my sister or my manhood returned to me, I would choose my sister without hesitation. That is how deep my love for my sister goes.” Cersei was surprised to see tears in the eunuch’s eyes struggling to flow down his smooth cheeks. The servant she had sent for the wine returned then placing a cup in front of each of them filling their cups to the brim with the smallest plunks of ice falling into the liquid.

            “Leave the pitcher, return in an hour with my supper, and invite my brother Ser Jaime to join me when he is finished with his duties.” Cersei dismissed the servant with a flick of her wrist sipping at her iced wine and watching the eunuch as his eyes tried.

            “A fine vintage, my lady. Now enough about me, you asked who were the players and who were the pieces I believe? Allow me to tell you all that you will need to know to make your plans come true. Do not worry, I know as little of your plans as everyone else in the city, that is to say nothing, but how could I claim to be your friend without knowing that you have some kind of plan. The most obvious players are the Prince and Princess of Dorne. The Martell faction’s goals are plain to see, as well as their next move, Elia wants to see her children grow up strong and safe as all mother’s do. She has already shown she is quite adept at playing the game for that goal. Naming Jon Arryn Hand of the King and Robert Baratheon Lord Protector appeased the rebels, but creating a regency council with separate authority increases the number of friends she has at court as well as ensuring that it is in the best interest of all the High Lords that King Aegon is raised to be a ruler and not a puppet. House Targaryen lost many friends in the war, and Elia must be quick to make new ones.” As Varys talked Cersei sipped her wine the coolness on her lips complementing the heat she had inside herself to see Jaime again.

            “And what of the Red Viper?”

            “Ah yes, Prince Oberyn is here for the opposite affect I confess. While Elia is cultivating friends her brother is removing enemies. He has already opened two throats in Flea Bottom since his arrival, and any person who would threaten Elia and her children, overtly or otherwise, must reach their hand passed the Red Viper’s fangs to get at the eggs. The royal steward is having such a difficult time keeping the Tyrells and Martells separate. There is little love lost between them.” Now that’s something useful to know for the future.

            “Does that mean that Mace Tyrell is playing against the regent?” Cersei asked catching on to what the Spider was suggesting.

            “After supporting the crown so loyally in the war? No, Lord Tyrell has gained a greater reward than he could have expected. He has four children who can now grow up at court and the master of laws is his loyal man. Who knows what may develop though, as King Aegon and his siblings grow older.” Lord Varys shrugged then before continuing.

            “As for the rest of the small council, Lord Baratheon is more often found drinking or hunting in the kingswood than he is at the table. He is deep in mourning at the loss of Lady Lyanna. His brother Ser Stannis sits on the regency council, however and there are whispers that Elia is attempting to arrange a suitable marriage for Ser Stannis. This would be a great boon for House Baratheon, with Robert in mourning Stannis is heir for the foreseeable future. Lord Arryn serves the realm dutifully, though his chief concern seems to be fathering a son on Lady Lysa. If any woman needed a friend more I do not know her. Lord Whent is in mourning as well, having lost many sons and a brother in the war. Lord Quellon has been spending a fair amount of time discussing rates of exchange and the Iron Bank.”

            “I confess, I know little about the Lord-Reaper, what can you tell me of him? Lady Piper and I became quite close in weeks passed.” Cersei filled her cup again and topped off the Spider’s as well.

            “Lord Quellon is old, almost of an age with Lord Arryn, and he is known as a fearsome and cunning warrior far and wide. The ironborn are a queer folk, and the Grey Kraken is considered strange among them. He has curbed reeving and the taking of salt wives and thralls, to my knowledge he is the first Lord of Pyke to take a woman who did not worship the Drowned God as consort. There are rumors that he is looking for similar wives for his second and third sons that he left at home, as well as for many of his captains. He has recently lost a son, Urrigon I’m told, in a horrible accident and he grieves with Lord Robert and Lord Walter both. Pycelle gives him poppy-wine to help him sleep at night, men at his age often suffer from great pains, I’m told.” As Varys made that last observation his hand hovered over his plump stomach. Now that is useful knowledge.

            “As for the regency council, what more can I say? You know the measure of your uncle for certain. Tytos Blackwood is no great schemer, an outsider who worships the old gods, though he and Lord Manderly have pledged to honor Lady Lyanna’s wishes that Prince Aemon know the north. Wyman Manderly is fat and loyal to the Starks to the last. As for Corwyn Baelish, he is a small lord from poor lands with a single son and low incomes. His appointment was a favor from Jon Arryn to Hoster Tully. Yohn Royce holds the Vale in Lord Arryn’s absence elsewise he would have been the obvious choice. Truly, no man is more of a piece than Lord Baelish.” Lord Varys emptied his glass with the last statement and rose just as the servants came in bringing two large bowls of beef soup with onions.

            “It was nice talking to you again, Lord Varys. I thank you for making me feel welcome, as you did when I first came to court many years ago.” Cersei said as the servants laid the bowls on the table.

            “It is always pleasing being friends with you Lady Cersei.” Varys tittered. “I smile at the song they might sing of us one day. The Spider and the Lioness.” Cersei lifted her glass to him as a way of farewell before he left with the servants following behind him.

            Jaime can’t be too long. Cersei thought as she sat there alone kicking her legs under the table. After half an hour passed without a knock on the door Cersei finally started eating her soup, it had grown cold in the waiting and was not nearly as satisfying as it would have been if she had eaten it sooner. Once she had finished the soup she filled her glass again and drained it before she began pacing through her chambers. Another hour passed and Cersei went to her bed resting her head in her hand propped up by her elbow with her left arm resting on her curves every breath pushing her breasts up and almost out of her dress. When Jaime still had not come she rose and stripped her dress pooling at her ankles. She would give him no time to eat with her beauty on display. Striding naked across the bed chamber she opened one of her jewelry boxes and withdrew a golden necklace encrusted with rubies the largest the size of her eye. She lit candles then, illumining the room in red as the light danced in the ruby hanging between her breasts. Once that was done she returned to her bed lounging with her left hand just above her mound and waited.

            The hour of the bat turned to the hour of the eel and Jaime still had not come. Cersei did not know how long after that that she closed her eyes and slept, but she must have because a firm knock on the door woke her suddenly from her sleep accompanied by her favorite voice in all the world.

            “Cersei, dear sister, I’m sorry the hour is so late. If you would rather sleep I understand and I’ll come again in the morning.” Her brother’s voice said muffled by the firm door.

            Cersei was awake in an instant her body hot and fluid like liquid metal. The candles had burnt low and the room was now a deep burgundy instead of a Lannister crimson but none of that mattered.

            “Come in Jaime, I’ve been waiting for you.” She purred batting her eyelashes to wipe away sleep.

            The Jaime that came through the door was not the one she had left nearly three years ago. His gilded armor was gone as was his gilded sword and scabbard. Both had been replaced by the white all Kingsguard wore. His white cloak seemed to glow in the dim light as he shut the door, Cersei’s eyes trailing up his body filled with a deep hunger. He’s cut his hair, I see, I’ll have to put a stop to that and I’ll replace the sword and armor he’s lost on our nameday. Finally Jaime’s fell upon her and her nakedness. He was not as happy as she would have wished.

            “Cersei we –“ Whatever he was going to say was forgotten as she leapt from her bed across the room and pressed her lips to his hungrily.

            “Shut up and fuck me Jaime.” She said when the kiss was done her fingers dancing to the straps of his armor and beginning to undo them. She was too quick for him to stop her.

            “Cersei my vows-“He tried to say but she dropped to her knees and removed his grieves and codpiece.

            “Fuck your vows Jaime.” She said as she dropped his breaches to the ground beside his armor and releasing his manhood. She looked up at him from her knees and took his rigid cock into her hand.

            “Better yet,” She said stroking him. “Fuck me.” She kissed his tip. “I’ve missed you Jaime, I haven’t been whole since last time we were together Jaime. I love you Jaime.” She whispered kissing him with each statement. She stood then and guided him to her bed.

            “Cersei-“She silenced him with her lips, and then deafened him with her cries of love.

Chapter Text

           Tyrion woke to the sound of Baelor’s bells ringing to great the new morn and summon the Faithful to prayer for the first day of the new year, and the young king who was going to receive the High Septon’s blessing this day.

            He had not yet decided whether he was coming to love or hate these bells that now ruled his life. Each morning he woke to their call, slipping out of his linen sheets to massage the knots from his stunted legs. A featherbed could only give him a poor night of sleep and the bed in his cell was certainly not that. The Dean of Acolytes had given him a small cell close to the ground in the Tower of the Crone, in recognition of gifts House Lannister had made to the Most Devout and for his status as a dwarf. Tyrion was grateful for the location of his cell, the winding steps of any of the towers would have been torture, and if his cell was small it made no matter to him, he was quite small as well after all.

            Once the last knots had been worked from his legs Tyrion climbed from his bed and stretched. Beneath his small bed were several large tomes he had been allowed to borrow from the Sept’s library. History, theology, mathematics and logic. These were his subjects of study and he took to them eagerly. There was a window letting some light into his chambers, but he was too small to look out of it. Even so, he knew what he would see. Nigh on three hundred years of history etched into the city that had grown at Blackwater Bay and in the shadows of the Targaryens’ three hills. Each hill held a monument to the greatness of the Targaryen dynasty.

          On Aegon’s High Hill the Red Keep and Maegor’s Holdfast stood, keeping watch over the entrance into the bay and the lands around. First conceived by Aegon the Conqueror to replace his crude Aegonfort, it had been constructed throughout the latter part of his reign, the entirety of the reign of his firstborn son King Aenys, only to be finished during the bloody reign of his second son Maegor the Cruel.

The only other monument to Maegor’s tyrannical kingship stood on the Hill of Rhaenys, the ruined Dragonpit that had been Maegor’s dream completed by Jaehaerys the Conciliator and destroyed during the Dance of Dragons. Its gates of bronze and iron had not been opened in nearly a hundred years.

Baelor’s Great Sept stood on the Hill of Visenya. The septon-king Baelor the Blessed had begun its construction as a gift to the Faith, a aept to rival the Starry Sept in Oldtown that had been a gift from the Lord of the Hightower to the first High Septon. Three High Septons had seen the architectural wonder rising before their eyes. The High Septon who had anointed and crowned Baelor to begin his reign, then the stone carver that the Most Devout had named High Septon at Baelor’s request, the King had believed the man the Smith made flesh. When that High Septon and grown sick and died within a year Baelor had again convinced the Most Devout to allow him to appoint the High Septon, this time a boy of eight who Baelor had seen speaking to pigeons who answered in the Common Tongue and was said to perform miracles. No miracle had saved Baelor from death that year, and the boy-High Septon had died in the Great Spring Sickness half a century later.

Along with these three High Septons four kings had watched the Sept rise. Baelor himself had died at six-and-twenty after fasting for forty days and forty nights after the birth of Daemon Blackfyre. His uncle Viserys II only sat the Iron Throne for little over a year before a sudden illness took him and he followed his nephew to judgement before the Father Above. Viserys’s son Aegon IV would prove to be an unworthy king, but he still continued the construction of the Great Sept and it was his son Daeron II, Daeron the Good, who completed the Sept and its additional buildings in finality.

Turning from remembered history Tyrion cleaned his hands in a basin of water provided for him and splashed water on his face and hair before lifting his eyes to the brass mirror above the water in hopes that by some miracle a less ugly face would great him when he did.

He was disappointed as always.

Tyrion’s head was too large for his stunted body, with a jutting forehead to make it appear even more so. His hair was a mixture of black and pale blonde hair and his eyes were a mismatched green and black. Some fool might gest that his face was one only a mother could love, but that was not true, he had killed his mother before she could look upon the monstrosity she had birthed. Only the Mother could love this face. Turning in frustration with himself he bent and picked up the folded grey robes of an acolyte of the Faith and slid it over his head. He had needed to send Morrec to a draper to purchase cloth cut to fit his own body, but the results were befitting of a Lannister given to the Seven. He belted the robes with a cord of rope and slid into comfortable sandals.

One day I will wear white, bound by a chord of seven colors with a crystal around my neck. And then, gods willing, a crystal crown upon my head.

Leaving his cell he joined the line of acolytes coming down the steps of the Tower of the Crone to enter into the Sept below. He had made no friends in his short time since coming to the city. All of them knew that he was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, Lord Tywin’s Bane, and all hated him for it. Apparently Lord Tywin’s army had given King’s Landing a bit of the meal the Tarbecks and Reynes had feasted upon. When Tyrion had presented himself to the High Septon and some of the Most Devout a silence had fallen upon the chambers, heavy enough to silence their laughter. Just as that laughter was beginning to slip in again Tyrion had produced Lord Tywin’s gift to His High Holiness, an ampulla made of gold with jewels laid in the handles, with a seven-pointed-star engraved in silver on both sides.

“It is Lord Tywin’s most ardent wish that His High Holiness use this gift, and the others offered during the coronation of King Aegon, as a reminder that the Lannisters of Casterly Rock have always been friends of the Faith despite vile calumnies that have been spoken of late.” Tyrion had practiced the lines dozens of times since entering the city. “The others” were a stole of cloth-of-gold, a ruby studded thurible, a copy of The Seven Pointed Star chased in gold with precious gems of each of the seven colors of the rainbow inlaid in the cover, and Tyrion himself. The High Septon had accepted the gifts, and Tyrion, happily after they had been presented and his chief lickspittles had done the same. Tyrion had made a note of learning all of their names, knowledge was power after all and these men might be High Septon themselves one day. Septon Taft was the hugely fat one; Septon Jon looked as if he was someone’s favorite grand-nuncle; balding Septon Luceon could only be a Frey with his lack of a chin and face like a weasel, as it happened Tyrion’s favorite aunt was a Frey by marriage, Septons Ollidor, Torbert, Raynard and Ollidor seemed good men to know as well.

It was bright as day in Baelor’s Sept when Tyrion finally waddled through the Crone’s Door. Hundreds of candles illumined the Sept and the crystal in the center cast an ever shifting light upon the Faithful as they began their day with prayer. Red, orange, yellow, green, cyan, blue, violet. Tyrion has once hold children playing on the streets of Lannisport singing a song to remind them of the order: Run through the forest, over the bridge and stream, you’re halfway there already, go! Child go! Big smile for your grandmarm, visit her more often.

Setting these old memories aside Tyrion began his prayers at the altar of the Crone, praying for wisdom and guidance so that he might not embarrass himself or his family today. The Smith he thanked for making him, and he bit back the voice inside his head asking ‘could you not have made me a little taller?’ From the Warrior he asked for bravery, and thanked him for his brother Jaime, his only friend in the world. The Maiden he thanked for beauty, and that he could appreciate it all the more for lacking it himself. The Father he asked for justice, for all those who had suffered in the war. The Mother he thanked for loving him, when only She and Jaime did. To the Stranger he prayed especially hard to, for the Stranger was not just the God of Death, but also of outcasts such as himself.

Each altar had a statue of their deity, showing who they stood for and represented most. The Smith’s was a broad shouldered craftsman with arms the size of his chest, those arms were folded across his chest and he held a hammer in one hand and a sickle in the other.  The Maiden was a beautiful young woman in silks, the rumor was it had been modeled after one of King Aegon III’s daughters, but which it had been was a matter of debate. The Mother was heavy with child and her hands extended out to embrace Her supplicants. The Warrior was tall and handsome with a sword pressed into the stone between His feet, both hands gripping the hilt and pommel. The Crone was old and cloaked to hide Her wrinkled body, she held a lamp aloft in one hand and a walking stick in the other. The Stranger though was faceless, androgynous, the Stranger could be anyone, or anything. Even a dwarf. When Tyrion looked at the Stranger he saw himself. I’m sorry mother, truly, I never meant to hurt you.

His knees were sore and screaming when he finally stood again, turning he left the Sept by the Hall of Lamps and came to the separate building where the Faithful broke their fasts. This morning acolytes ate honyed porridge and a rasher of bacon as a celebration for the honored day. Tyrion ate in silence and alone wondering how Jyck and Morrec were situated in the inn they had taken up residence in on Eel Alley. Highborn acolytes were allowed servants when they were not serving in the Sept, and in truth Tyrion missed the closeness he had developed with the two on the ride from Casterly Rock. He knew they were only putting up with him because of his name and Lord Tywin’s coin, but no one had listened to him talk about the history they had passed so willingly before. The journey to King’s Landing had been the best days of his life, hearing Lyn Lightfingers singing about the history of House Lydden and House Lannister had been eye opening and the two had spent half of that night together talking about how singers changed events in their songs. Then Tyrion had been able to spend nearly a whole day retracing the steps of Field of Fire, riding where his ancestor had and looking at the ground where Jon Mooton had made his stand while Aegon Targaryen and his Queens took to the skies. Jyck had even asked Tyrion a few questions as he rode beside him over the hillocks and through the fields. He even missed little Robin Greyjoy who he had taught to somersault when no one had been watching.

Porridge eaten and bacon devoured Tyrion licked the grease from his fingers and returned to the Sept and found His High Holiness making the last preparations for the arrival of the King and his procession. The slow march of nobles from the gates of the Red Keep had already begun by then and those Faithful taking part in the ceremony were already gathering, Septon Taf occupied a bench wide enough to fit two men comfortably in front of a choir of septons and septas with a conductor’s wand close at hand, Luceon, Raynard, and Jon were given places of honor at His High Holiness’s side and Tyrion hastened to join them.

“A Tyrion there you are, we have a special role for you in this ceremony today. You will serve as sacristan. When I give you the sign bring forth the ampulla so that I may anoint His Majesty with the holy oils and then place the crown on his head.” The High Septon was a tall, stern faced man with deep blue eyes, but his voice was one of kindness that softened all of these features.

“Thank you, your Holiness.” Tyrion said bowing his head quickly before taking a place behind and to the right of Septon Luceon with the ampulla and the tiny crown placed on the altar of the Father Above behind him. Then it became a matter of waiting and waiting as the royal procession moved from the Red Keep to the square where the Street of Sisters met the King’s Street and then up to the Great Sept.

Tyrion found himself growing restless as the choir started to repeat hymns in the waiting and the candles were being changed out for the second time that day, being replaced with a slightly lesser amount to account for the natural light now beaming in. Finally, in order to break the monotony Tyrion spoke up.

“Tell me, Septon Luceon, your father wouldn’t happen to be the Lord of the Crossing perchance would he?”

The chinless septon turned at the sound and favored him with a crooked grin. “Lord Walder is indeed my earthly father, and your uncle Emmon is my older brother. How fairs my brother and his sons?” The Most Devout asked, seeming to show an actual interest in the welfare of his family, a trait Tyrion had heard not to expect from Freys of the Crossing beyond a certain point.

“They’re well, still Freys at the Rock. I believe Emmon and Cleos were in King’s Landing not so long ago.” Tyrion said moving his pieces on the verbal board they had stepped onto. Lord Walder Frey had come late to the Battle of the Trident, after the victor had already been decided, and it had been from the Freys that Lord Tywin had learned of the defeat of the Targaryen army. I wonder what hand the good septon had in the Sack? Tyrion was no stranger to the whims of ambitious men.

“I am glad to hear that. Unfortunately I was unable to see my brother or nephew when they came, we were all far so busy.” Luceon answered.

Before their conversation could continue the bells rang again and both had to return to their positions. Tyrion stilled himself just in time for the doors of the Sept to be opened and the royal procession to enter in.

Two knights of the Kingsguard led the procession an old grey man with sad blue eyes and a slightly younger man with greying auburn hair and a black fish clasp holding his cloak. The older man was Ser Barristan the Bold if Tyrion were to venture a guess, though he could not name the other.

Princess Elia walked behind them wearing a dress of black samite laced up the back. On the breast was a red three-headed dragon and around her neck was a red scarf flowing off her left shoulder pinned by a gold sun and spear. She walked hand-in-hand with her two children, Princess Rhaenys held her right hand, her black hair strait and flowing down her back. King Aegon toddled to his mother’s left looking like a proper kingly infant. His shoes were ruby red slippers, his tunic black, lined with ruby lace, and covered him from his shoulders to his ankles with a large Targaryen dragon on the chest. His silver hair curled around his head and covered his ears and his violet eyes were large and guileless. Two more knights of the Kingsguard came behind them, one was thin and stern faced, the other stony faced with grey eyes that reminded Tyrion of a fish.

Behind them came a beautiful woman with black hair and lilac eyes in a purple and white dress and carried two babes in her arms. Lord Robert Baratheon walked at her side wearing a black and gold doublet with the Baratheon stag on his breast. His eyes looked red and blood shot, as if he had been drinking the night before and Tyrion noticed the faintest hint of a bruise hidden under his collar. Has the Lord-Protector been drinking and fighting? Tyrion thought wondering what his dear sister would make of that observation.

The Kingsguard took their positions beneath the altar and to the sides facing out towards the crowd with Princess Elia standing in front of the High Septon with her son. The stern faced Kingsguard took Princess Rhaenys by the hand and led her to the side where the beautiful woman carrying the two babes joined them. Lord Robert came and stood behind Elia whispering something in her ear that made her clench her free hand as a bit of color rose on her cheeks. Tyrion had no time to think on that, however, as a smile slid across his face at seeing the next two members of the procession.

His brother and sister looked so much alike that no person could doubt that they were twins. Jaime wore a suit of white enameled armor with his white cloak flowing behind him. He wore no helm on his head and his blonde hair flowed down to his ears framing his proud, handsome face. He walked arm and arm with Cersei who wore a red and gold dress that did not seem properly chaste for the occasion. She only gave him the slightest scowl before going and standing beside Princess Rhaenys and the rest of the royal household. Jaime favored him with a smile and a wink before turning on his heel and standing below him.

The whole court of King’s Landing followed after them. Prince Oberyn Martell and his paramour with his brood of bastards following after him. Jon Arryn and his wife Lysa Tully. Quellon Greyjoy and his pregnant wife and toddling son. Mace Tyrell in his green and gold doublet led the members of the small council and the regency council. Randyll Tarly with his striding huntsman; Walter Whent and his black bat; fat Wyman Manderly in his blue-green; Tytos Blackwood with his raven-feather cloak hanging over his shoulder; Uncle Kevan gave Tyrion a quick smile before taking his seat; Robert’s brothers Stannis and Renly walked side by side one dour the other cheerful. Tyrion did not recognize the lord that followed after them however, he was lean and lithe with a razor thin mustache beneath a long nose. He wore a sword on his left hip and a stiletto on his right in the style of the Free Cities and when he turned Tyrion saw what could only be the Titan of Braavos with fiery eyes staring back at him on a green cloak. The oddest part of the man’s attire was the key that hung about his neck though, it was as large as a grown man’s forearm and made of black iron, so plain in a sea of luxury.

After the councilors came the other members of court and the local lords and knights as well as some of the more wealthy and influential merchants and craftsman.

It felt like ages before everyone had finally seated and the last two knights of the Kingsguard closed the doors. The entire crowd of nearly a thousand silence instantly as the High Septon lifted his hands to the heavens and began to pray.

“Father Above! I entreat thee to guide your child, Aegon Targaryen to be a just ruler! Mother, may you fill his heart with mercy and love for his fellow man! Maiden give him dreams of a just and better world that he can make! Smith craft him into a perfect king, may his endeavors have your hand to aid him! Crone set your lamp before his eyes to guide his path so that we may follow! Warrior give him strength and courage to protect the realm from all who would do them harm. These gifts I beg you, give to his noble regent and mother, and all of his counselors! This I pray to you God-Seven-in-One.” As he finished his prayer he made the sign of the seven pointed star before the crowd. Tyrion mimicked him as did many of the truly pious. Tyrion noticed the little king doing his best to mimic the adults, but he instead made a –t- in front of himself.

Tyrion turned then and clutched the handles of the ampulla lifting it and handing it to the High Septon as Robert Baratheon picked the young king up and held him at near eye level to the High Septon.

His High Holiness poured the oil onto his fingers and then anointed the child-king with the oils in the sign of the seven pointed star on his forehead. Tyrion took the ampulla and returned it to the altar picking up the cushion that held the tiny circlet that would rest on the King’s brow until he outgrew it.

“Do you swear to be a just and wise king, to protect your subjects, be brave in battle, merciful in judgement and gracious to all?” the ancient High Septon asked the infant King.

“I do.” King Aegon said, or it sounded like that’s what he said. In all honesty the hatchling could have been speaking the tongue of the Children of the Forest and it would have been as easily understood to Tyrion.

“Then I anoint you with these holy oils and bless your reign in the name of the Seven-who-are-One.” The High Septon turning then and reached down as Tyrion lifted the pillow and crown above his head. Taking the small crown gently between his fingers the High Septon lifted it above his head for the assembled masses to see before lowering it down on the King’s head.

“I present to you King Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of the His Name King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.” The crowd erupted into cheers and applause as Lord Robert lowered the King into his mother’s arms. Tyrion found himself joining in with the clapping, once he had placed the pillow back on the altar. Gods willing he will be the only king for my lifetime.

Once the applause was done the royal family began to process out again as the members of the crowd began to mingle and talk filling the Sept with a deafening roar.

Tyrion jumped when someone grabbed him by the arm and then picked him up. Then he was laughing and smiling as he embraced his brother arms tight around him.

“Jaime, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” Tyrion said as he fought back tears.

“I’ve missed you too Tyrion, and I’m so happy to see you again.” Jaime said and Tyrion’s heart nearly melted. He had expected everything that had happened to change Jaime, he was a knight of the Kingsguard now, he had fought in wars, killed a King things that everyone had told Tyrion would change him into a different man. But he wasn’t different! He was Jaime, his big brother, who loved him despite all of his faults.

“Tyrion,” Jaime continued as he set Tyrion back on the ground and then knelt down to look him in the eyes. Jaime never talked down to him, even when he was standing upright. “There is a feast tonight celebrating the coronation and the King’s birthday. I’ve talked to Princess Elia and she had set a place aside for you, if you would like to come. I’ll be on duty, but I’ll be able to rest and eat with you when allowed. It’s in the Great Hall, so you’ll be able to see the dragons’ skulls.” There was something in Jaime’s voice, as if he were afraid that Tyrion might somehow reject his invitation. Tyrion only smiled and hugged him again.

“You had me at feast.”

Chapter Text

            Once the King’s procession returned to the Red Keep and his brothers had gone about their duties Ser Barristan retired to his chambers with the White Book, a quill, a pot of ink and a cup of spiced wine. Only a small cup of course, to dull the pain, nothing more.

            He did not see beautiful violet eyes when he closed his own and if he did he would ignore them as he did many other things that it was not honorable for him to acknowledge.

            You are Ser Barristan Selmy! Lord Commander of the Kingsguard! You slew Maelys the Monstrous in single combat, defeated Lormelle Long Lance and the Bastard of Blackhaven! King Aegon himself knighted you and Gerold Hightower gave you this cloak himself! You will not quake from an innocent smile or from this damned book either! Having said that Ser Barristan tossed open the Book of Brothers perhaps a little too roughly and turned to Ser Gerold’s page.

            Each knight of the Kingsguard had one page for their deeds to be recorded, with their arms when they look the white recorded in the top left of their page and a plain white shield on the bottom right. It was the duty of the Lord Commander to fill in the space in between.

            On the top right of the White Bull’s page were the arms of House Hightower, a white tower crowned with flames on smoke grey. In between his life was recorded in three hands. First the flowing hand of the Demon of Darry, then the blocky simple hand of Ser Duncan the Tall, and finally Ser Gerold’s own small and elegant hand. Ser Gerold had worn the white for all of Barristan’s life and been the Lord Commander for almost the entirety of his adulthood. Half a century of service ending in a cairn beneath the Red Mountains of Dorne.

            And it was Barristan’s duty to record that end.

            He read through his predecessor’s entry once and twice again before putting ink to page. The last words Ser Gerold wrote were less elegant than his norm, he had taken an arrow to the sword hand in the Kingswood, and there was little space left for Barristn, but just enough. 

            Rode south at the command of King Aerys to retrieve Prince Rhaegar. Remained in the south to protect Lyanna Stark, heavy with the Prince’s child, fell in combat to Ethan Glover and Theo Wull who he slew in turn.

            Barristan set the quill aside and took up the cup, his eyes wet as he drank long from it before returning it to its place on his desk.

            Turning several pages, past Sers Rolland Darklyn, Elwood Pine and Harlan Grandison, he stopped at the page topped with a gold spear piercing, a red sun on an orange field. Prince Lewyn Nymeros Martell had been the only brother more senior than Ser Barristan; there was not a word about his paramour on his page and there never would be. Ser Barristan had tried to find her when he was healthy enough, to tell her how her lover had died. He had not found her, perhaps just one of the many victims of the Sack.

            He took another sip of wine.

            Prince Lewyn was placed in command of the Dornish spears who held the northern bank of the Trident. He was mortally wounded on the bank of the Trident, fought on and was later slain by Ser Lyn Corbray wielding the sword Lady Forlorn.

            At least Prince Lewny’s body had been treated with respect, the tide had taken Prince Rhaegar’s away towards Saltpans and the Bay of Crabs.

            Only three more to go.

            Many pages later he stopped at a black plowman on a brown field. Ser Jonothor had been a loyal knight, a true knight of the Kingsguard. His page was not as filled as some and more filled than others. Ser Barristan drained his cup before he wrote the words that stabbed at his heart.

            Commanded the left flank during the Battle of the Trident. Fell there early in the battle. None that Ser Barristan had talked to could claim to know who had slain Ser Jonothor, though men in Lord Blackwood’s guard claimed they had seen men stripping a white clad body coated in mud after the battle. Perhaps he accompanied Prince Rhaegar down the Trident to the Quiet Isle and the sea?

            Ser Gwayne Gaunt came next, slain by Ser Simon Hollard at Duskendale. Ser Barristan refilled his glass before turning the next page. On the left hand page a white sword and falling star crossed on-lilac for Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning and on the right nine black bats on a yellow field for Ser Oswell of House Whent. They had been the two newest knights before Jaime Lannister. Both close friends to Prince Rhaegar. Ser Oswell had replaced Ser Gwayne and Ser Barristan would have wagered a king’s ransom that Ser Arthur would have been Lord Commander one day.

            His hand shook as he moved to write the words that seemed to make their deaths final, but the second glass of wine settled that. For Ser Arthur he wrote:

            Witnessed the marriage of Lady Lyanna of House Stark, the Knight of the Laughing Tree to Prince Rhaegar on the Isle of Faces. Traveled with the Prince and his new wife south to Dorne and remained there to guard the pregnant Lady Lyanna for the remainder of the war. Slew the Lord of Barrowton and Ser Martyn Cassel in the melee beneath the Red Mountains of Dorne. Was slain by Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.

            And then for Ser Oswell he wrote:

            Witnessed the marriage of Lady Lyanna of House Stark, the Knight of the Laughing Tree to Prince Rhaegar on the Isle of Faces. Traveled with the Prince and his new wife south to Dorne and remained there to guard the pregnant Lady Lyanna for the remainder of the war. Slew Ser Mark Ryswell in the melee beneath the Red Mountains of Dorne and was slain by Willem Dustin, Lord of Barrowton.

            Setting his quill aside Ser Barristan rose then and paced his chambers his body filled with energy and his heart filled with emotion. Pressing a palm against the cold stone wall Ser Barristan let the tears flow for his fallen brothers and for his failures. Failures he had found easier to write in the Book of Brothers than the deaths of those same brothers.

            Wounded by arrow, spear and sword at the Battle of the Trident whilst fighting beside his Sworn Brothers and Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone. Named Lord Commander of the Kingsguard by Princess-Regent Elia Martell.

            Wiping the tears away Ser Barristan let the ink dry on the last two pages before shutting the White Book. He would write his new brothers’ entries on the morrow. He had already finished Jaime Lannister’s

            During the Sack of King’s Landing slew King Aerys II at the foot of the Iron Throne. Thereafter known as the “Kingslayer”. Judgement was delayed until the majority of King Aegon VI.

            Calling for a servant Ser Barristan had the wine and cup taken away and the White Book replaced in the main chamber far below. With that done Ser Barristan stripped to his bedclothes and climbed into his bed taking what few hours of sleep he could find before the feast later that night.

            When he woke the sun was moving lower in the sky. Changing into a light shirt and breeches he went to the armory beneath the White Sword tower and armed himself in his white armor with the familiar weight of his sword at his hip. Four brothers waited for him in the main room when he emerged fully armed and armored: Ser Mandon Moore, Ser Richard Horpe, the Silveraxe and the Blackfish. Each man’s white cloak held about his neck with the symbol of his house. A bronze spearhead, death’s head moth, a crescent moon, a black trout and a sheaf of wheat for House Selmy.

            “Tonight should be simple, eat when you can, keep the royal family safe, and drink nothing save water. Ser Mandon, you will join Ser Bonifer in the Maidensvault for the children’s feast. When the King and Princess Rhaella retire you will take your post at the bridge. Ser Richard you will hold the bridge until then, ensure that no harm comes to Prince Aemon. Ser Brynden and Ser Willis you will attend the main feast with me. It will be a long night brothers, but the first of many.” With that said the five of them walked out of the tower as one and moved towards the Great Hall. Each moved with the grace of a warrior and the gravity of their duty written on their faces.

            The Great Hall of the Red Keep was the second largest chamber in Westeros, capable of seating a thousand and guarded by great oak-and-bronze doors. Ordinarily a long carpet would stretch from the doors to the raised iron dais where the Iron Throne sat. Tonight it was different however, the carpet was removed and in its place were four rows of tables creating a rectangle around a cleared spaces for dancing and entertainment. At the end of the hall beneath the Iron Throne was the high table where the royal family and the most important members of court would sit. The other tables moved down the hall towards the door until they were cross by another table about twenty paces in front of the door.

             Looking down at everything were the dragon skulls.

Ser Barristan had discussed all of the details with the Ser Alliser Thorne, acting Commander of the Gold Cloaks until Lord Connington returned. Another feast being held in the Maidensvault behind the sept for the children to partake in. Supervised by midwives and the royal steward.

Ser Mandon broke off from his position in their formation and continued through the Great Hall towards the sept and the Maidensvault. The goldcloaks would be guarding the outside of both chambers, but inside it would fall to the white.

“Ser Willis, Ser Richard the door is yours. Ser Brynden, you and I will guard the high table and move between the tables. Ser Jaime will join us with the procession. Dismissed.” His words were crisp and clear, just as they had been when he gave them their instructions that morning escorting the King to his coronation. If this was the role the gods had made for him, he would be certain to do his best.

            A herald and a serjeant of the City Watch took position near the door as well to announce any dignitaries that needed to be announced. From his position at the head of the hall Ser Barristan could see and hear everything going on in the cavernous entrance as the hall filled up with nearly five hundred souls.

            Each of the councilors had seen fit to bring some of their household to King’s Landing as a show of status. Not all of them were fed in the Great Hall tonight, but a good many of them were.

Kevan Lannister had the largest number at just over two hundred, augmented by his niece’s escort. They were given a position of status on the middle right table. Not the nearest to the high table but no great distance away. Ser Barristan saw the scarred face of Jaime Lannister’s squire Sandor among them.

To their left and closest to the high table were kingsmen, veterans who had survived the Rebellion and the Sack and remained loyal to the Targaryen throne. There were little enough of them left, but chief among their number were new Ser Alliser Thorne, Ser Jaremy Rykker Gyles Rosby, the widow Stokeworth and several knights from Crackclaw Houses. The latter had stood in the center with Ser Barristan and Prince Rhaegar at the Trident he recalled.

Across from them at the left hand table were the men of the Stormlands, nearly a hundred and fifty knights and men-at-arms who had fought on both sides during the Rebellion, some having changed sides after the battles at Summerhall.

“You know if fate had been otherwise I might be sitting there with them, or perhaps my son would be.” Ser Barristan said to Ser Brynden as they stood beneath the throne waiting for the procession.

“And I with them.” The Blackfish answered nodding the rivermen and valemen that sat to the left of the stormlanders. Combined they were maybe a hundred.

Across the dance floor sat the men from White Harbor and Dorne, perhaps eighty in total.

Last at the far table were the crew of Lord Quellon’s longship, or those that had been chosen to come to the Red Keep while the others took lodging elsewhere or remained on their ship. These Ser Barristan kept under closest watch of all. Their leader, Lord Quellon’s second-in-command was a lean, wiry, pox-marked bastard son of a tavern wench named Cotter Pyke. The man had developed a reputation for being foul-mouthed and fouler tempered. If any men were to cause trouble Ser Barristan expected the ironborn most of all.

Having scanned the throne room twice, and thrice-again for any threats Ser Barristan gestured for the serving boy to allow the procession to proceed as he steeled himself for what was to come. Even having prepared himself the outcome was inevitable. She led the procession beside the Princess-Regent wearing a purple dress that made her eyes shine across the hall with a necklace of pearls about her neck.

Ashara Dayne stole his breath away.

Chapter Text

            Cersei knew when she was being snubbed. Eli Martell thought she was being so clever with her tricks and plots but Cersei would show her that the lioness was cleverer than the sun. What a stupid sigil! A sun and spear! A bed of vipers would be more apt!

            From the outset it was clear that Elia’s intentions were to snub Cersei at every possibly turn. At this feast celebrating another name day for her kingly little son.

            It began with the procession. As the betrothed to the heir-apparent to the Iron Throne, that little bastard Aemon could be put aside easily, her position should have been second in line. Instead she was placed sixth accompanied by her Uncle Kevan. Sixth! And Jaime was not even allowed to accompany her!

            The insults kept piling on when Cersei saw who was to be in front of her in the procession. First was Princess Elia, a position that was hers by right but would have been Cersei’s if it were not for Mad Aerys. Her companion though was another blow to Cersei’s pride. Ashara Dayne that Dornish slut! Her brother Arthur had been handsome enough, but it was obvious from how she held herself that the violet eyed Lady Ashara thought herself half-again as pretty as she actually was. Even dressed up in her purple silk dress that hung to her ankles she could not hide her baby weight from anyone with eyes to see it.

            Only a fool would look at them when I am so close. Cersei decided as her eyes fell on such a fool.

            Lord Robert Baratheon was a handsome enough man, all muscles and black hair in a black and gold doublet with the crowned stag of House Baratheon on the chest. The only weapon he wore was a small hunting knife for cutting his meat, but Cersei had no doubt his whole body was a weapon. He drank too much for Cersei’s liking however, and the Spider told her that he had been seen returning drunkenly to Maegor’s Holdfast from knights of carousing with Thoros of Myr, Red Dontos Hollard and other reprobates. Whatever truth there had been to rumors of an affair between the Demon of the Trident and Princess Elia, it seemed the flame had gone out.

            Robert walked alone however, his reed thin brother Ser Stannis did not grace them with the presence of his teeth grinding, for which Cersei was duly pleased.

            Next in the procession came old Jon Arryn and his delicate young wife Lysa, both dressed in shades of blue. There was something about Lysa Tully that Cersei did not like, but she could not quite put her finger on it.

            Lord Quellon Greyjoy and his bloated whale of a wife Marya came next and then Mace Tyrell on his own. The Fat Flower’s eldest sons Willas and Garlan had arrived at King’s Landing to be companions for Prince Viserys when her young betrothed from Dragonstone. Lady Alerie had remained in Highgarden looking after their younger children.

            Behind Cersei and her uncle were Prince Oberyn and his whore Ellaria, at least Elia had not tried to place her behind a bastard and a paramour, and the others came behind them. Lord and Lady Whent, fat Lord Manderly, Lord Randyll Tarly, Lord Tytos Blackwood with his raven-feathered cloak, and Corwyn Baelish with that ridiculous key hanging about his neck.

            If Cersei thought that Elia’s insults were at an end when they arrived at the high table she was certainly mistaken. Instead of being seated at Princess Elia’s right or left hand, as should have been her right, those seats were taken by Jon Arryn and Prince Oberyn respectively and then Lysa and Ellaris beside their men. Finally Cersei was sat beside Lady Lysa and her counterpart was Lady Ashara. This was the last insult at least, Princess Elia certainly seemed to think she was making up for the insults by the fare she sent Cersei’s way.

            Uncle Kevan was seated beside Cersei, but to her intrigue the next two places at the table were left empty.

            “Who are those seats for, do you think Uncle?” Cersei ask as a servant came by and filled her glass with a Dornish red wine. It was not exactly her choice of drink, but it would do for now. The dry taste reminded her to keep her wits about her at this court of intrigue.

            “Jaime and Tyrion I would suspect.” Kevan answered perfunctily as the Great Hall fell silent for the Red Keep’s septon to pray over the food. Cersei used the moment of somber quiet to look over the hall surprised that the savage northmen kept their peace during the prayers and even more surprised that the worst the ironborn did was whisper and laugh among themselves. If she were queen they would be eating in the yard with the dogs.

            “Tyrion is coming? Who thought it was a good idea to invite him? Father would be so ashamed!” Cersei whispered to her uncle not wanting Lysa to overhear.

            “Princess Elia set a seat aside for him and Jaime invited him. It seems he’s become a favorite of his instructors and the High Septon. It might be beneficial to our House if he is familiar at court. This current septon won’t last forever.” Kevan answered simply and Cersei balked. The idea of Tyrion as anything other than a humiliation to her family was impossible for Cersei to consider.

            Rising from her seat as the trenchers of bread softened by stew were being placed in front of the feasters Cersei walked over to where he brother stood by himself in Kingsguard white. His cloak clasp was the golden head of a roaring lion.

            Jaime smiled as he saw her approaching, his eyes moving over her body for a moment before returning to her eyes. That’s right, dear brother, all of me can be yours again if you would just stop being so stubbornly stupid.

            “Cersei, you look beautiful.” He greeted her as if he had not run from her at every opportunity since the night she arrived at court. But, she put that behind her, smiling sweetly at him as she sauntered towards him wearing her tight green dress with golden flowering patterned over it. Her breasts were pushed up by the tight laces, bringing the eyes of men low in her presence. It was only a reminder of her strength reflected in her brother that he did not look down once after the first glance.

            “Thank you dear brother, and you look handsome as well. Though you would look even more comely in the golden plate that I purchased for you. Wouldn’t you agree?” She asked running a finger through her golden curls and raising her voice in pitch with those last three words.

            “Thank you for the armor Cersei,” he answered with a smile. “Though tonight it seemed proper to wear the same armor as the rest of the Kingsguard. With so many men here Princess Elia wished to present a united court.”

            So that is how it is, is it? She sees the divisions as clear as I do.

            “Why did you invite Tyrion, Jaime? You know Father would not approve.” Cersei struck right to the point.

            Jaime appeared taken aback for a moment by her question, an appearance that marred the beauty of his proud face.

            “Because he is our brother Cersei, and I have missed him. There are many things at court that are not the way our Father would wish them, but Father’s wishes will not change these things. This will just be another one.” He said and for a moment, the briefest of moments, Cersei saw a bit of their Father in Jaime. A hard cold that she had never seen there before. Then it vanished behind a cocky half-smile. “When you are ready to dance come find me, until then you should return to your seat, my lady.” Dipping his head in goodbye Jaime turned and walked towards the door where Cersei could just make out the small form of their brother waddling past the guards at the door.

            Breathing deeply to resist the urge to go after him and slap him she took his advice and returned to her seat.

            “Took think, Lady Cersei, that you and I were almost sisters.” Lysa Tully said when Cersei returned to her seat and her trencher. Lord Arryn was in deep conversation with Princess Elia about Lord Robert bringing his bastard daughter Mya from the Vale of Arryn to the Red Keep and what the Council of Regents was proposing for the education of the king. It was if the two pretty women beside him did not even exist.

            “What do you mean Lady Lysa?” Cersei asked if for no other reason than to pass the time.

            “Four years ago, Ser Jaime came to Riverrun from Crakehall to deliver a message to my lord father. A message that could not be trusted to a raven. He was sat next to me at every meal while he was there, and it’s no secret that the message was really from your father to mine. A union between our two Houses. Jaime spent more time talking to my uncle Brynden than to me, but, King Aerys soon put an end to those plans. Oh well, we each found our own loves in time.” Tully answered between spoonfuls of stew.

            Now I remember why I dislike you, the little fish girl who wanted to steal away my brother! I wonder what love you think you’ve found, with that toothless old man. Cersei grinned like a cat as she blew the steam away from her stew before taking a bite. It was passingly good for what it was.

            “Too true Lysa, but I have just realized something. I have been a horrible friend to you these past few months and that just will not do.” She took her new ‘friend’s’ hand in her own. “We young and powerful women need to stick together do we not, in this place ruled by old women and even older men.” She gave a quick glance to Lord Arryn and then back at her Uncle Kevan who was deep in conversation with Tyrion and Jaime about the dragon skulls on the walls.

            Lysa seemed to be as stupid as she first appeared, trusting Cersei without question. “Of course Lady Cersei, I would very much like to be your friend.” She answered and the two began to speak as if they had known each other their whole lives. It was a tiresome task, but having the Hand’s wife wrapped around her finger was a victory that Cersei could not pass up.

            It was becoming increasingly clear to anyone with eyes to see and ears to here that there were several factions growing in the Red Keep and that tensions were brewing that will eventually overflow into conflict. Cersei had had several long and ponderous conversations with Grand Maester Pycelle about the topic. The old man compared it to the tensions in the court of the Mad King before the Rebellion. Sycophants had fanned the flames of conflict between Prince Rhaegar and his father which had reminded Pycelle of the conflict between the greens and blacks during the reign of Viserys I, a topic that Pycelle was apparently most interested in. Elia may have done a good job of preventing the rebels from taking the throne, and prevented the Loyalists from demanding the rebels face punishment for their crimes these wounds were too fresh to be easily forgotten.

            Stormslanders were wroth with reachmen for sieging Storm’s End, reachmen were angry at Ironborn for their reaving the mouth of the Mander and the Arbor. Rivermen were angry at rivermen for taking separate sides. Many blamed the northmen for Lyanna starting the war in the first place and others seemed to resent the disproportionate power the Dornish now held at court. Men who had fought on opposite sides at nearly a dozen battlefields: Gulltown, Summerhall, Ashford, Stoney Sept, the Trident did not forget the comrades they had lost so easily. Most hated of all were those loyal to House Lannister who were blamed for coming late to the war and sacking the city in a hope of pleasing Robert and also taking power. All of this led to a volatile situation that could go many ways if not handled properly.

            The signs of these tensions were plain to see throughout the court. Two leaders of the rebels held the highest positions of power in the court, but seemed to be working for the widow of the man they had rebelled against. The exiled Lord Connington was being given command of the City Watch for no reason other than that he was loyal to Rhaegar’s memory. Lord Velaryon remained at Dragonstone with the fleet and the master of laws was the only man who had defeated Robert on the battlefield. Lord Tywin was notable in his absence, but his power could still be felt. Of the men in attendance the westermen were certainly the largest contingent.

            Even the court positions showed that there was a battle for power taking place just out of sight of the smallfolk and fools. Ser Willem Darry remained master-at-arms, even if he was on Dragonstone, but Uncle Tygett was being considered to replace the older man at any moment. The new King’s Justice was Ser Ilyn Payne who had been captain of Lord Tywin’s guard when he had been Hand. Georg Goode, the Royal Steward, had grown up near King’s Landing and was loyal to House Targaryen and there was much debate among the council over filling the offices of the court now that so many had died during the war. Reeves, factors, bailiffs, gaolers and other officers all needed replaced and which faction they were truly loyal to could determine much in the regency.

            Cersei’s conversation with Lysa petered out sometime between the first and second course and Cersei was able to pay attention to the bards that were performing in the space between the tables. There were some young couples that had joined hands and were dancing in the long space in the center of the room. The men were singing along and clapping their hands to “A Bear and the Maiden Fair” before the bard performing moved on to “Milady’s Supper” and then “The Name Day Boy” in honor of the king.

            Robert and Jon Arryn were obviously inviolably aligned and Wyman Manderly presumably stood with them due to representing Ned Stark. Randyll Tarly was Lord Mace’s bannerman and both had fought for the king’s father and grandfather. That the Reach had long had an enmity with Dorne seemed the only weakness in that alliance. Pycelle was her Father’s creature through and through and Varys was hers. The remainder were the wild cards. Lord Quellon had seemed to be making some kind of alliance with Lord Whent, to what ends it was not yet clear. Lord Blackwood had made it clear he did not expect to remain at court long when the council of regents was not  in session, perhaps hinting that Lord Tully might take up the seat in his own right soon enough or send another representative. Lord Corwyn Baelish was nothing, an empty body that Jon Arryn had placed into a position beyond his station to repay an old debt and prevent the ambitions of his other bannermen who were reportedly already vying over who had the proper claim to be the old man’s heir.

            Perhaps that is an inroad for the small lord. Gold turns heads almost as much as a warm body.

            Cersei turned to make the suggestion that they try to bribe Lord Baelish to her uncle when a servant came and place a platter of beer-battered breaded fish in front of her and Lady Lysa. The platter was circular with the fish surrounding a silver cup of vinegar dipping sauce. Looking at Lysa Tully Cersei wondered whether it was anyone she had known and hid her giggle behind her hand.

            “With the compliments of the Princess.” The servant said before curtsying and quickly turning away.

            “I do hope you enjoy them ladies. Do try the dipping sauce, I am told it is quite rich.” Princess Elia said giving them both a warm smile as another servant brought forward a plate of lemon cakes.

            “Oh send one of those to Ashara they are absolute favorite!” the Princess-Regent said excitedly as if she were a young girl for a moment.

            “My thanks Princess, but don’t neglect yourself on our account. Certainly you must eat to maintain your strength.” Cersei called to Elia matching her mask of cheer with her own. It was true, while Ashara Dayne had grown fat on baby weight and lemon cakes Elia seemed to be a thin, boy-chested waif.

            Elia’s smile never wavered. “Thank you for your concern, but I am nearly full to the bursting. And if I ate another pepper I could breathe fire.” She joked and her brother laughed.

            “Now that I would like to see, sweet sister.” Prince Oberyn said dropping some peppers from his plate onto his sisters and in the moment of childlike bickering Cersei was forgotten. Taking another sip from her glass of red wine Cersei was beginning to find the vintage growing on her.

            Lysa took a bite of one of the strips of fish dipped in the sauce and let out a moan of joy. “Mmm! That is rich, Cersei you must try these! But I think I might have to have a dance to warm up for them.” She joked and turned to her husband, old enough to be her grandfather.

            “Lord Husband, would you treat me to a dance?” Lysa asked like a girl asking for a sweet from her grandfather.

            “I am sorry Lysa, my knees are quite worn out. Perhaps next time.” Jon Arryn answered sounding truly sorry that he could not please his wife.

            Lysa pouted for a moment and then turned and looked at her uncle Brynden who was moving nearby as he and Ser Barristan took turns moving between the high table and the space between the lower tables.

            “Uncle Brynden, would you dance with me please, just one dance?” Lysa pleaded of the tall knight with the auburn hair. Cersei saw true sympathy in the Blackfish’s eyes and true regret when he told her no.

            “I’m sorry Lysa, I am on guard. I can’t simply stop just to make you smile, no matter how much I would love to.” He said his voice hoarse and smoky as if he had been gargling sand.

            Princess Elia turning away from the peppers she had been eating with her brother spoke with the juice of a bright green pepper flowing down her chin. “Nonsense Ser Brynden, you can guard me just as well from over there as Ser Richard and Ser Willas can from the door. Give your niece a dance, in memory of my uncle who can no longer do the same for me.” There was a weakness in her voice for a moment as she mentioned the dead Prince.

            “Yes, Princess.” Ser Brynden said before taking Lysa Tully’s hand and leading her to dance.

            “Jaime would you-“Cersei said turning to her brother only to find he had gone. “Where did Jaime go, Uncle?”

            Kevan nodded down the hall towards the door. “He went to see if either of them needed relief to eat their suppers.” That was when Tyrion spoke.

            “I’ll dance with you if Cersei, that is if you would still like to.” His voice cracked in the middle and only danced on Cersei’s nerves even more. She took a deep breath though to remember her courtesies before answering.

            “No Tyrion, the mood has passed for me.” She drained her cup and held it up for a servant to fill again.

            “Oh, if you prefer. Uncle, sister I bid you goodnight. It is a long cart ride back to Baelor’s. May the Crone light your way.” The Imp said rising and stepping over to Princess Elia to thank her for inviting him before heading towards the door. Cersei was glad to see him go.

            “The Dornishman’s wife was fair as the sun, and her kisses were warmer than spring.” The bard sang as the dancers moved in time to the drum.

            “One of my favorites.” Prince Oberyn quipped and the other Dornish at the table laughed lightly.

            “Is it? They say he would favor the Dornishman just as much.” Cersei whispered to Kevan who laughed and whispered back: “Best not to say that too loudly, I wouldn’t want to have to see him fight Jaime. They say he prefers a woman’s weapons as much as a woman’s position.” And they both laughed at that.

            The dancers moved on through the other verses of the song and the night seemed to actually be peaceful. And then in the silence between songs, one of those natural lolls in conversation, a joke was heard by all that was meant for only a few.

            “All these songs about Dornishmens’ wives, and for what? It’s the sisters that are the real sluts! If there’s anything we learned from the war it was that, north or south it’s all the same. The sisters are sluts.” The speaker sat with the stormlanders and wore a cloth-of-silver surcoat with a blue five-pointed star on the chest. He was clean-shaven and young, perhaps only a few years older than twenty, and obviously drunk out of his mind.

            Cersei covered a laugh by sipping her wine, it would be impolite to laugh at that joke, despite its truth.

            Cersei could not say who stood quicker, Robert or Prince Oberyn but suddenly both of them were on their feet with Robert slamming his fists into the table, his face red with rage. Oberyn’s rage was of a cooler species, his gaze like a serpent paralyzing its prey before striking.    

            They were both too slow.

            The sound of steel on stone echoed through the hall followed by that of a sword leaving its scabbard.

            Ser Barristan stood behind the drunken jokester with his sword in a gauntlet-less hand with said gauntlet between him and the jokester.

            “I will have those words back from your mouth Ser Patrek.” The Lord Commander spoke, his voice even with anger.

            Now this should be entertaining. Cersei thought as she dipped one of those fish trips into the vinegar sauce and brought it to her mouth. She found the taste rich and delicious and hated herself for taking a second bite.

            It seems Ser Patrek was the witty drunk’s name as he turned and rose from the bench facing one of the deadliest swordsman in the world. “Ser Barristan is an artist who only painted in red.” Someone had told her once and the excitement of possibly seeing such skill was enough to have Cersei take another strip of fish dipped in sauce.

            “I saw again, Ser Patrek, take back those words and leave my sight or pick up the gauntlet and step outside with me.” It takes a brave man to stay bold when staring down the sword of Barristan the Bold, and Ser Patrek was not a brave man. Instantly sober he nodded and stammered something that Cersei could not make out.

            “Not to me you jackanapes, to her!” Barristan said raising his voice and pointing with his sword towards the Dornish women at the high table. Cersei was not certain he was pointing at the Princess.

            Ser Patrek turned quickly, knocking over his cup and spilling it onto the floor. “Your Highness, my ladies. You have my deepest apologies for my drunken jest. I will leave your sight immediately.” He promised before turning and running from the hall. Suddenly the room was filled with laughter and applause for the Lord Commander, but Cersei did not join in. Instead she lifted her glass and drained it in disappointment that Dornish was the only red she would see tonight. Which caused her to miss the exchange between warm, violet eyes and sad, blue ones.

Chapter Text

The heart of Winterfell was cold as ice.

            It was not that the Great Keep was cold, being built over hot springs with pipes pumping the water through the walls it was actually quite warm. It was that at its core Winterfell was a cold place. Thousands of winters had fallen against these walls and they had been hard ones creating hard men. She had seen hard how hard Stark men could be before. Brandon had been hard in one way, wild and fierce like a winter storm. Eddard was hard in another way, like a glacier cutting through a mountain valley.

            Robb’s cries called Cat from her thoughts, wrapped in furs in the large bed that had once belonged to Lord Rickard Stark. Benjen and Ser Rodrik had thought it appropriate that she move in to the late lord’s chambers since Eddard would be moving in to them when he did return.

            “It’s okay Robb, I’m coming.” She whispered soothingly to her baby boy as she climbed from the bed to his cradle. She had not been able to bear the thought of him lying alone in the nursery or her lying alone in this chamber. Lifting him from his cradle she brought him to her breast and rocked him as he fed singing her a song she knew from her youth.

“Father’s strength is stern and strong,

he sits and judges right from wrong.

He weighs our lives, the short and long,

and loves the little children.”

            There were six more verses and she sang them gladly, though it felt strange singing of the Seven in a land so claimed by the Old Gods of the Forest. She had prayed every day for her husband and for all of those who fought in the Rebellion. She prayed for a long spring and a longer summer that would be accompanied by peace. But, it did not feel the same to pray kneeling before going to bed instead of in a sept.

            Once Robb had finished his breakfast she laid him back into his cradle and dressed in a blue wool dress lined with fox fur. Picking Robb up from his crib she carried him in her arms down to the Great Hall where the household took their breakfast. This morning it was warm porridge and eggs.

            Ser Rodrik and Jory rose to their feet when she entered and many of the household joined them. Benjen sat in the chair to the right of the head of the table, Lord Eddard’s seat when he returned. Catelyn was beginning to learn the names of those who broke bread with her each morning. Vayon Poole the steward, Hullen the master of horse, Harmon Mollen the chief forester, Mikken the blacksmith and armorer, Farlen the kennelmaster and Gage the cook. She ran their names through her head as she looked about the hall. This morning the high table was occupied by Benjen, Ser Rodrik, Jory and Maester Luwin.

            “Good morning my lady.” Ser Rodrik and Jory said nearly at the same time. Cat had grown quite fond of the two Cassels, Ser Rodrik with his big, bushy whiskers and Jory always happy to lend her a hand when he could.

            “Good morning Ser Rodrik, Jory. And a good morning to you too Benjen and Maester Luwin.” She said smiling at them as she moved to the seat across from Benejn.

            “Here let me take Robb so you can eat Cat.” Benjen said holding out his hands and gently taking Robb from her arms and bouncing him in his own arms.

            “Thank you Benjen.” Catelyn said as she began to break her fast. It always impressed her how mature Benjen seemed in comparison to his youth.

            His youth! Why Cat you are counting your years before they’ve come! One child and you start thinking like you’re an old crone!

            “There was a raven from Castle Cerwyn last night. Lord Eddard arrived there near the hour of the bat.” Maester Luwin informed her. In some ways the news lifted her heart but also burdened it in others. Family. Duty. Honor. These were the words of House Tully that she had learned from her mother’s breast. She would do her duty to her family and do her best to keep her promise to Lady Barbrey and love Eddard, but it would be difficult. So on one hand she was happy that her war had finally ended and her husband was finally coming home. On the other hand this was going to be a whole new battle for the both of them. The battlefield known as marriage.

            “That is great news!” She said happily channeling her joy at the war being over to hide her apprehension about sharing her bed with a stranger again.

            “He should be here by supper time. Gage is planning on preparing a small feast for him. He was wondering if you had any special requests.” Benjen said, his own voice even and not as happy as a brother should be on the homecoming of his brother and lord. Catelyn could understand his coldness though, a coldness that was beyond his own Stark nature. They had not talked about it, but Catelyn was certain that Lyanna’s death had struck Benjen a blow far more grievous than the deaths of Lord Rickard and Brandon.

            Catelyn shook her head. “You all know him so much better than I. I leave it in your hands.” Breakfast went on from there as normal, the business of repairing the winter town after a winter of occupation was in full swing. Houses needed to be thatched and sealed so that they would be ready when the next winter came, whether it was in one year or ten.

Winter is coming. Winter is always coming here.  

Having finished her meal Catelyn took Robb back from his uncle and went to find Nan where she was oft to be found, sitting, surrounded by a gaggle of northern children listening to her stories. Old Nan seemed to know every story that had ever been told since the Long Night and before. Scary stories and stories of heroes. History and myth and legend. This morning she was telling the story of King Aegon V, when he was only a prince and fought alongside Ser Duncan the Tall and Lord Beron Stark against the invading ironborn. Catelyn caught the slightest hint of a smile on the old woman’s face whenever she said Duncan’s name.

“Good morning Lady Catelyn. And good morning to you little Robb.” She added as she took the baby from Catelyn and cooed to him for a moment before continuing the story right where she left off. Catelyn knew that once she had gone her son would be passed between all of the little girls to hold and rock. Catelyn loved her son with all of her heart, but any mother needs some relief from the duties of the title every once in a while.

At first Catelyn had spent her time away from Robb simply resting, catching up on what sleep she had lost the night before. As he had begun to grow and sleep through the nights she would wander through Winterfell learning her way around and some of the history from the people who lived there. She would need to teach Robb it someday if he asked her about it. Mother’s needed to always have the answers for their children. Then she had tried to walk in the godswood, but had turned away from that quickly. It was not her place. Finally she had settled on spending time in the glass gardens that reminded her a little of home. Green where everything else was grey, with beautiful flowers growing in this land still learning what it meant to be spring again.

She had never been much of a gardener at Riverrun, an island in the middle of two rivers was not much of a place to grow a garden, but she was beginning to love many of the flowers that grew in the back of the glass garden. Especially the roses.

That was where she went today, after leaving Robb in the capable hands of Old Nan and the girls. As she walked across the yard she watched Ser Rodrik drilling some of the boys that had been left behind. Benjen worked with them walking them through the movements of some of the more complicated forms.

Walder was conspicuous by his size in the yard where three men a head and a half smaller than him came at him from all sides. Cat stayed and watched a moment as the gentle giant of a man turned away one wooden sword so hard that the man wielding it rolled halfway across the yard before stopping. While Walder was turning one of the other two thumped him on the back and the other whacked him in the belly.

Cat had watched her father and her Uncle Brynden training too many times not to know something of what these boys were about. Walder was big and strong, but he was not quick and that was often all the more important. Either Walder needed to become faster, or Mikken would need to make him a special set of armor in order for him to be a true terror on the battlefield.

Gods let him never need to be. Cat thought to herself as she walked towards the glass garden. She knew that fighting and war were a part of life, she was not naïve, but still she prayed for peace.

Winterfell’s glass gardens were truly the greatest wonder that Catelyn had seen since coming to the north. In an instant she was taken from a chilly spring day to the hottest day of summer. Benjen had taken her to the gardens several days after she had arrived and explained to her how the marvel worked. Those same hot springs that warmed the walls of her chambers and came to the surface in the black pools of the godswood were used to heat the earth beneath the green paneled glass above her.

Out in the countryside the smallfolk were only just beginning to break ground tilling their land to grow their crops and begin the process of life all over again. Yet, in the gardens the ground was always tilled, only the crop would change depending on the season and what was most recently grown. Not even the archmaesters in the Citadel could say for certain how long this spring would last before turning to summer and then breaking into another winter. Fools and dreamers always hoped that this would be the last spring and that the Long Summer was upon the world at last. Catelyn was no fool, and was already beginning to take the words of her husband’s house to heart. Winter is Coming.

Catelyn walked through the rows of vegetables and fruits that were just beginning to bud from the ground. Further back she lost herself among the sweet scents of blooming flowers. As she walked she closed her eyes and she was a young girl again, frolicking through Minisa Tully’s garden around the sept of Riverrun. Chasing after her were Lysa and Edmure and Petyr, Littlefinger Edmure had named him for his father was the lord of the smallest of the Fingers jutting out into the Narrow Sea. Cat frowned at that and stopped walking, she did not what to think about Petyr, that foolish boy who had challenged Brandon Stark for her hand in marriage. He had asked her for her favor, but she had given it to her betrothed as was right, and the two had fought through the yard, down the stair and back until the whole of Riverrun seemed to be painted red with Petyr’s blood. Cat had begged Brandon for mercy and he had given it, leaving the a little more than a cut of butcher’s meat but still alive. He had written her a letter-

Cat shook her head, stopping the thoughts right then. You burnt that letter and that is the end of it. She told herself sternly. Looking about she found she was far from where she had originally began, near the very back of the glass gardens was a single rose bush near as large as Walder or either his father or uncle. Cat’s breath was taken away as she looked at this bush, even as the roses were beginning to wilt on the vine they still held all of the dignity of the north in their blue petals and the smell was indescribable! There were tears in her eyes as she knew that the sight of a wreath of these roses had brought about such trouble and death to the realm.

Still she loved them, and knew that in loving them she would love the north as well. Strange as it was.

She left the winter roses of Winterfell knowing she would not see them bloom again until winter came again.

Returning to where she had left her son she found him sleeping deeply in the arms of wizened Old Nan sleeping above him. Catelyn slipped Robb from his nurse’s arms and directed a serving girl to make sure that Old Nan was brought inside before she caught a cold. She did not fail to miss the look of confusion the girl gave her at her concern. This was a warm day for the northerners.

There were scarce hours left before Lord Eddard returned to Winterfell and still so much left for Catelyn to do to make herself ready for his return. Laying sleeping Robb down in his crib Catelyn called for servants who drew a warm bath for her and helped her bathe. The sweat smelling soaps and bath water slipped over her smooth skin, nothing so sweet or pungent as to be garish, but enough to be a noticeable comfort in contrast to nearly a year of saddles, ships and fighting.

It was difficult to leave the warmth of the bath for the cold air, her skin sprouted gooseflesh as she stood and draped herself in a towel and wrapped another in her hair. As she dried she considered the three gowns she had had laid out to greet Lord Eddard. One was woolen and in Tully red and blue, it had been the dress she had worn to say farewell to Brandon Stark when he rode out to meet his father’s party riding south. Another was in Stark colors, white with grey fur trimming. The last was a deep violet, tight about the breast and hips. That is a dress to warm a man’s blood. She decide as she dropped her towels and slid on her small clothes and then the violet dress atop of them.

It was an even tighter than she had anticipated, but when she gazed into the mirror she did not appear sluttish, as she had feared she would, instead when she looked into that mirror she saw a beautiful woman with auburn hair and blue eyes, her mother’s high cheek bones and long fingers. Her fingers were not too long, her cheek bones too high, her skin too white or not white enough. All those girlish doubts she had had a year ago were gone, let Eddard Stark dare not to love me. Completing her outfit with a smile she stepped away from the mirror and took up her little babe and went to the Great Hall where all was being put together to welcome Lord Eddard when he arrived.

Benjen was hurrying about the hall directing servants hither and thither with the last details of the greeting and the feast when Catelyn came into the hall. The young man stopped dead in his tracks for a moment and all but gaped.

“Good evening Benjen, is there anything I can help with?” She asked moving across floor of the hall dodging between two servants carrying pewter tankards to the long tables in the hall.

“No Catelyn, I believe everything is going according to plan.” Just as he said that the sound of metal on stone filled their ears as Ser Rodrik with his great mustache came marching in with two files of ten men-at-arms behind him. One led by Jory Cassel and the other led by Harmon Mollen.

“Ser Rodrik are we under attack?” Cat joked favoring the man with a friendly smile. Benjen seemed to be holding back a laugh.

“Of course not, my lady, but it seemed proper to greet Lord Eddard with some semblance of normalcy. To show him that Winterfell is still as strong as always.” The master-at-arms answered tugging on his whiskers.

Catelyn understood immediately what the master-at-arms was getting at. She had seen the number of men that Lord Rickard had brought south as an honor guard and she had certainly seen the northmen gathered around at her wedding. The number that came home was significantly smaller.

“That seems like a fine idea Ser Rodrik.” She replied and gave him a nod. Ser Rodrik lifted his hand and the twenty men advanced in front of him exiting the Great Hall for the yard where they would await their lord’s return.

Catelyn looked around the hall one last time for something to do before deciding that all was well in hand. These men and women had been about their duties for many years and had greeted a Lord of Winterfell returning home far more times that she hopefully ever would. Judging all of their efforts to be acceptable she turned and walked with Benjen after House Stark’s small honor guard.

From atop the granite walls of Winterfell a horn was sounded not long after they came to wait near the double gates of the wall. Through those gates Catelyn could see two horses coming towards Winterfell at a trot. She did not need to squint to see that the second horse was burdened with a body wrapped in cloth, most likely treated with embalming elixirs for preservation. There were two jars hanging from the horse as well, one on either flank. Lyanna, Brandon, and Lord Rickard returned home.

The man who rode through the gates looked different than the one she married almost a year before. Somehow the sad, quiet man seemed even sadder and quieter as he dismounted from his horse and embraced his brother. The heart of winter was cold, and Eddard Stark’s eyes were ice.

“Welcome home Ned.” Said Benjen.

“It is good to be home again.” Said Eddard.

Fighting the chill that ran down her spine Catelyn retained her confidence as Eddard turned to her. When their eyes met it was as something more than strangers, but less than husband and wife. Catelyn’s cheeks warmed with satisfaction as his eyes slipped from hers to the neckline of her dress, and their son in her arms.

“Lady Catelyn, you are more beautiful than when last I saw you. And are son is handsome and strong.” The words were honest, she knew that he would never lie, but they came stiff and strange from a mouth that seemed unaccustomed to such talk. Much to her surprise he extended his hands then and removed his riding gloves tucking them into his belt.

“May I hold him?” 

“Of course, my lord, he is your son.”  She said giving her best smile and stepped closer to the stranger who was her husband and offered young Robb to his father. A further surprise came when he took Robb gently into his arms, supporting his head with one hand and cradling his body with the other. There was a gentleness that she had not expected in the soldier she had married as he rocked their infant in his arms. It was not that Eddard had been rough with her during the bedding, or any night after, but there was something missing there that she had been expecting to find. Perhaps you will find it there tonight?

“He’s beautiful. He has your eyes.” Eddard noted, it was compliment not a rebuke as some husbands may have made it. Eddard gingerly handed Robb back to Catelyn, making sure not to wake the sleeping babe.

Cat watched her husband as he went to the honor guard greeting Ser Rodrik and judging the men to be impressive. His sad eyes lingered on Jory Cassel for a moment, but he said no words.

As the greetings ended and work began a weight seemed to lift from Catelyn’s shoulders. They may still be strangers at the moment, but Eddard seemed to love his son and for the moment that was enough for Cat.

            Lyanna, Rickard and Brandon were laid in their tombs in the crypts before the feast; the food and drink were filling and Catelyn saw Eddard smile more than she had since their wedding night. They ate together from one plate as they did then, sharing beef if not conversation. There seemed to be nothing to say, or perhaps so much. How do you begin to know someone who shared so much and yet so little with as well? They both stopped at their second cup of thick, brown beer, and the smiles came easier as they laughed at jokes that some of the men told.

            When it came time to retire Benjen followed them up to their chambers.

            “My apologies Catelyn, but there are words I would like to have with my brother before he retires.” Benjen said and Eddard looked at his brother surprised.

            “Of course Ben, he is your brother after all. My lord, I will await you in our chambers.” She said giving him a smile, and a look she hoped conveyed a promise of joy before she slipped into their chambers and out of her gown and small clothes laying naked on the furs resting her head on her hand and her other hand on her thigh.

            The door of the chamber was thick, but she still was able to catch some brief snippets of their conversation.

            “It’s my fault Ned. If I had never told him about those roses –“Spoke Benjen.

            “That’s foolish and you know it Ben. Lyanna was –“Came Eddard.

            “-changes nothing-“

            “-changes everything.”

            “I have to do this.”

            “So you will just run away-“

            “I am not running It is my duty-“

            “Where did you even-?”

            “-Yoren-“

            “No! I forbid you!” Eddard was shouting now and Catelyn jumped in surprise at the anger in his voice. Benjen shouted back in return.

            “I am a man grown Ned! It is my decision to make! If it was not for me Lyanna would still be alive! Brandon would still be alive! Father and all those other men would still be alive! You have an heir now, and a beautiful wife willing to give you more! I am taking the black on the morrow and riding to the Wall! If you want to stop me you will have to-!”

            “Go! Just go Ben! And the gods send you better brothers than I!” There was silence for a moment and then the sound of Benjen’s boots retreating down the stair.

            After a moment the door slid open and Eddard came inside. His eyes went wide as he gazed at Catelyn and Catelyn held her face steady, looking at him with sympathy. She had not understood all she had heard, but she understood enough of it to know any man would be hurting.

            “I am sorry you had to hear that.” He said coming to the bed and sitting on the edge.

            She did not say a word, but crawling towards him she ran her hands up his arms and gently massaged his shoulders. As those shoulders began to shake and his chest heaved from weeping she kissed the back of his neck and then began to untie the front of his shirt. His chest was hard a firm, stronger than his thin frame first suggested. She slipped form the bed and knelt in front of him removing one boot and then the other. Tossing them aside she slid his breeches down and ran her hands up to his shirt and helped him remove that leaving him in his small clothes.

            His cheeks tasted of salt as her lips danced from one to another before finding his. There was strength in the kiss he gave her in return and then his hand was moving through her auburn hair. Sliding into his lap she pushed him back onto the bed.

            “Shhh. Shhh. My lord, all shall be right soon.” She whispered kissing his neck.

            “Please, call me Ned.” He said and their eyes met. “Make love to me Ned.” She whispered against his lips, the grey eyes of the north meeting her blue, southron eyes.

            And make love to her he did and her cries of passion filled their chambers. In his arms she found something that she had not seen there before. It may not have been a fire, but it was an ember, and one day their love for each other would be an inferno. The warm heart of Winterfell. Family, Duty, Honor all she could ever want she would find in Winterfell, but first, first winter was coming.

Chapter Text

            All things told Jon was not entirely sure he would consider his voyage home much of an improvement on his voyage into exile.

            He had far too much time to compare the two considering he spent much of the first leg of their journey on his belly in Qyburn’s cabin looking out of the window at the sea and rocks that they past.

             Lord Jon had been spending a few months at court when Robert’s Rebellion began. When word reached King Aerys of the three defeats at Summerhall and Robert consolidating his support among the stormlords Aerys had unleashed his wroth on his Hand of the King, Lord Owen Merryweather. House Merryweather was stripped of their lands and titles and exiled Owen Merryweather from the Seven Kingdoms.

            After the failure of his older hand King Aerys was looking for someone of a different mold, younger and more vigorous, and a stormlord to counter Robert’s influence in the Stormland’s. Jon had thought himself the perfect choice. What a fool he had been!

            When Jon failed, and failed in even worse a way than Merryweather before him, his fate was less severe than that of his predecessor. He was stripped of lands and titles, but the penalty fell on him alone and not his house. The word had reached him of his punishment when he was trying to gather together the remnants of his force where the God’s Eye River met the Blackwater Rush. He had hurried thence from where he had camped that night to King’s Landing hoping to appeal King Aerys decision.

            By the time he arrived it was too late, he sold his destrier, course and pack horse for passage on a swift ship leaving King’s Landing at the earliest moment. He had slipped from the only home he had ever known garbed in black, with all of his lordly clothes and knightly weapons, with everything in this world he had left to his name, hideen in a sea chest beneath his bunk on an Ibbenese whaling vessel bound for Lys to sell whalebone jewelry to the pillow houses of Lys.

            It had reeked of whale oil and blubber and the unwashed bodies of the hairy men of Ib. The tar blackened, fat bellied whaler whose name Jon couldn’t even begin to pronounce was a crowded tub with almost no space to breath. If Jon had not been in such a hurry to leave he would have never considered it. The food was primarily whale products, blubber and stew and strips of whale meat. The captain of the whaler, Cabbo Jogg , was the only one of the hairy brutes who spoke any of the common tongue and he often shared his table with the red haired Westerosi.  The conversation was stale and boring and largely concerned whaling and sailing, but it was better than the stream of vulgarities that the rest of the crew knew of the common tongue.

            From running away in the dead of night aboard a stinking whaler to returning aboard a pirate ship, accompanied by the worst scum the known world could produce. How could one even compare the two?

            The chainless-maester treated him just as well as a true maester at any castle would have. Bandages soaked in boiled whine and frequent examination to ensure that none of the wounds had festered or been poisoned. When Jon had raised a quizzical eyebrow at the suggestion that a company with as storied honor as the Golden Company would stoop so low as to poisoning their arrows Qyburn only had this to say: “When you have served among mercenaries as long as I have, little comes to surprise you in the cruel ways of desperate men. All it would have taken was for one archer to spare a moment to dip his arrow in his chamber pot before mounting the walls to leave you septic.”

            The Griffon Lord considered that comment for a moment and decided to store the information away for the future, in case he was ever in command of ruthless archers shooting at thieves in the night.

            While he rested on a table nailed to the floor of the cabin he had Salladhor Saan tie Blackfyre to his hand firm and tight. No one could remove the sword from his grip while he lived whether he was awake or asleep. Jon Connington did not need all of Qyburn’s years of experience to know this simple platitude, sellswords and pirates should never be taken at their word.

            Besides his wounds and his reminisces the exiled lord had two near constant companions to share his voyage with. Qyburn and Salladhor Saan himself. Vargo Hoat, perhaps sensing the slight enmity that Jon felt for the slobbering Qohorik, visited once the day after the voyage had begun to ensure that Lord Connington would give Princess Elia a satisfactory report of all the Goat had done on his behalf. Jon did not possess the xenophobic hatred of all things Essosi that many Westerosi had been indoctrinated with since childhood, but he had heard the stories of the wicked and depraved things done in the City of Sorcerers in the name of the Black Goat, that Hoat had taken the Black Goat as the symbol on his banner did nothing to endear him to the fiery lord.

            One day, while Jon broke his fast with a stew of stringy beef Qyburn informed him of the tale of the Brave Companions founding and how they had come to be in their current position.

            “I see the confusion on your face when you look at my strange collection of Brave Companions. I admit they are quite odd and they do take some getting used to. Perhaps you would like to hear our story while you recuperate?” The man looked oh so much like someone’s favorite uncle as he spoke, but there was some quality to him that made the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck stand up. There was something deeper to this former maester that Jon was fairly certain would make his skin crawl if he knew of it.

            Jon looked at the wooden spoon in his left hand, the sword wrapped into his right hand, and the bowl resting between his knees in the middle. He grunted his assent to the subject of conversation thinking it would be better than the alternative topics of discussion. Qyburn had already displayed too much interest in his own psyche for Jon’s pleasure.

            “You are of course with Princess Elia’s younger brother, Prince Oberyn?” Qyburn began, his hands moving to Jon’s back undoing the bandages on his back to examine his wounds. 

            “I have met the Red Viper a time or two.” He answered gruffly remembering the few times he had encountered the salty Dornishman. Tall, slender, graceful and fit with lustrous black hair, a viper’s black eyes and a sharp nose. Everything about Oberyn Martell seemed to promise danger and death. Jon had drank with him at the Tourney at Storm’s End and had been unhorsed by him at Harrenhal. Jon had taken part in the bedding at Rhaegar and Elia’s wedding together.

            “I first met Prince Oberyn Martell at the Citadel when he was about eleven or twelve. Part of his assignments as an acolyte studying for his silver link was aiding the maester’s in the cells beneath the Citadel. We took to each other fairly quickly and he aided me in some of my research.  Once he had earned his link and eventually grew bored of the Citadel he returned to Dorne. Not long after I lost my chain and was exiled. Conveniently Prince Oberyn was exiled himself thereabouts the same time, and Marwyn was going on what would become an eight year sabbatical in Essos. The three of us traveled together for a time, first to Volantis and then beyond.” Qyburn had finished removing Jon’s bandages with one hand and was running his free hand over his neck where his chain would be.

            “Your wounds look clean my lord. I believe some salt air will do them good. Now, back to our story. No doubt you are familiar with the Second Sons, Prince Oberyn served with them for a time while we were housed in the palace of the daughter of a Triarch. I was able to continue my work thanks to Prince Oberyn, to act as a maester even if I could not regain my chain. After a year of such living Prince Oberyn left the Second Sons and found his own company out of those wastrels who flow to Volantis and the Rhoyne naturally when they have nowhere else to go. Each and every person in this company would be dead or enslaved if it were not for Prince Oberyn of House Nyemeros Martell. Come let’s go take that walk.” Jon finished his bowl of stew and undid the bindings on his right hand sliding the sword into a sheath at his belt before rising and following Qyburn out on the deck.

            The first thing Jon noticed was the smell of the unwashed bodies loitering about the decks. Turning and looking at the helm Jon saw Salladhor Saan scowling displeased at all of the sellswords on his deck.

            Armond Connington had ensured that his son was no fool, knowledgeable enough to discuss the world with the wise and learned Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. When they were boys they would play at going on a great voyage like those of Alyn Oakenfist and the Sea Snake. Thus, Jon was able to name many of the peoples he saw represented on the deck of Valyrian. Copper-skinned Dothraki with bells tied into the braids sat or leaned uneasily near the side of the ship, their bow-legs quivering at the thought of crossing the “poison water”. On the other side of the ship, as far from the Dothraki as could be, the squat, pointed-skulled and sallow-skinned Jhogos Nhai looked slightly more at ease than their Dothraki counterparts with the rocking of the ship. Here there were powdered cheeked bowmen from the Hills of Norvos; there hirsute men of Ib with shaggy shields. Dark-skinned Summer Islanders in feathered coats mingled with forked bearded Tyroshi swordsmen with dyed hair. Tiger striped Volantene freedmen, Myrmen crossbowmen, pale Lyseni, even a few dark Dornishmen. Jon counted there number at one hundred and fifty at most.

            “Each member of this company has felt the pangs of hunger in his belly, the fear of a brand or the blade of a slaver tattooist.” Qyburn said as they walked the deck nodding to one man or another. Though they were a cruel looking and brutish lot, three of them had been killed over petty matters over the course of the voyage so far, each man nodded to the chainless maester and the Griffin Lord as they walked past. They might barely tolerate each other, but they knew that when they needed healing most Qyburn would be there. Jon had taken the pains to learn the names of some of the chief men, it seemed the prudent thing to know who held power on this over packed ship.

            Urswyck the Faithful and Timeon of Dorne were both of Westeros and had been founding members of the company. A massive Dothraki named Zollo the Fat seemed to command the Companions’ cavalry and Togg Joth , a muscular Ibbenese, commanded respect from his people and some others.

            “When Nymeria was large enough to travel,” Qyburn continued his story. “Prince Oberyn resigned leadership of the company to Yomen, a Rhoynar man from the Stepstones, who promptly died to be replaced by Vargo Hoat.” Jon gave Qyburn a questioning look, and Qyburn only shrugged.

            “Yomen was killed in one of those tent cities that the sellsword companies build from time to time in the Disputed Lands to trade. Knifed in the back after coming from a poppy tent. It could have been anyone. It’s true that Hoat has brought in men who do not owe anything personally to Prince Oberyn,” A quick glance to the Jhogos Nhai. “But the core is loyal. We may be rough sellswords, but even sellswords have some honor. When the price is right.” Qyburn gave Jon a smile at his last statement though Jon did not return it.

            Bracing himself against the railing Jon looked out at the coast of the Disputed Lands off to the starboard. Watching the continent move by Jon told himself that Rhaegar would have never used the Brave Companions, Rhaegar was not his father, and that Aegon would be his sire’s son and not his grandsire come again. Rhaegar was too honorable than to use such tools as these. Elia is a woman though, playing the game of thrones in a man’s world. With Tywin Lannister across the cyvasse table she’ll need every advantage she can get. Even with the Red Viper hidden up her sleeve.

            Jon turned from the sight of land then and retired to his cabin where he unsheathed Blackfyre and gazed upon it as well. In his slight reflection on the black blade Jon saw all of his mistakes and regret. If Rhaegar had wielded this at the Trident he would still be alive and possibly even king now. He saw him every time he closed his eyes he saw Rhaegar’s deep purple eyes, his gold-blonde hair and his long white fingers. When he opened his mouth to speak however, all Jon could hear were bells.

            “Would that I could drive you through Robert’s black heart as soon as lay eyes on him.” He whispered to the sword knowing he would gain no answer. Killing Robert would only gain him the Wall or the block and neither would allow Jon to protect King Aegon and his family. Returning Blackfrye to its sheath Jon retied the sword hilt to his hand and lay down for an afternoon nap.

            On the fifth day at sea Valyrian turned west and south-west avoiding patrols from Tyrosh and cutting into the rocks and islands of the Stepstones. Each day Jon took to walking around the deck for exercise and washing the black from his hair, face and armor with boiled sea water from the kitchen. The Brave Companions were on their guard during the crossing and both Salladhor Saan and Vargo Hoat watched the horizon with Myrish glasses determining whether each ship was part of Saan’s fleet, an ally, a trader or a threat. On the eighth day they came to the end of the Stepstones with the last and largest island to their left.

            Jon gazed at the pirate stronghold as they sailed slowly by. Ships swarmed in its harbor and a small town had grown up around the port. Looking at it was like looking at a piece of history. His own father had fought there during the War of the Ninepenny Kings and Osmund Baratheon had fell their as well, as had the last of the Blackfyre line. Beneath the very waves that crashed against the hull ships from the fleets of the Oakenfist and a hundred other famous and infamous sailors rested with their crew still at the oars.

            “She is being beautiful, my princely home, yes?” Salladhor Saan asked as he looked over at the island. Jon had not considered that the self-styled Prince of the Narrow Sea would have to call one of these islands home.

            “She is at that.” Jon said politely as he felt the water warm his face as he worked to scrub the dirt and grim from his red beard. He would need to take a bath as soon as possible when they arrived at Dragonstone.

            “You know her story, yes? The greatest of the Stepstones besides Tyrosh and home to many kings and princes over the ages.” The Lysene pirate continued.

            Jon shook his head. “I cannot say that I do. I know of the battles there during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, but that is where my knowledge ends.” Jon answered but his face seemed to invite Saan to speak further. Knowledge could be a power in itself, and anything that the Griffin Lord could learn about the Prince of the Narrow Sea could only be to the gain.

            “You are having heard of the great Saan family, yes? Sargoso Saan, Saathos Saan King of the Basilisk Isles, Samarro Saan the Last Valyrian these names are not easily forgotten where the salt of the narrow sea be filling the nostrils, you see. Samarro Saan was my father and one of the Band of Nine.” Saan counted each member of the Band off his fingers as he named them. “Alequo Adarys the Silvertongue, Nine Eyes, Ser Derrick Fossoway, Spotted Tom, Llomond Lashare the Lord of Battles, Xhobar Qhoqua the Ebon Prince, Maelys Blackfyre the Monstrous, Old Mother and Samarro Saan, King and Queen of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea.” Salladhor sighed at the mention of his parents.

            “Many have there been, to claim the title and the island. Most famous of them are Daemon Targaryen and Racallio Ryndoon. But when the Band of Nine met beneath the Tree of Crowns and swore to win each member a kingdom all they asked for what they rightfully possessed.” Saan gestured about to Bloodstone on one side and all of the islands of the Stepstones to their aft and starboard.

            “Many brothers and half-brothers did Salladhor Saan have when he was born, and many of them be feeding the fishes below us to this day. The fleets of the Band fought all through the islands against the fleet of the Iron Throne and Quellon Greyjoy.” Saan spat at the mention of the ironborn.

            “Krakens should not fly in the air golden and bannered in black. They should rest at the bottom of the sea like all good fish.” Seeing Jon’s surprise at his strong condemnation of the Greyjoys Salladhor smiled and explained. “I have crossed blades with Lord Quellon and with other Greyjoys in the past. Greyjoys come to reave the Stepstones every few years and every few years we simple men trying to make an honest living must fight them off with much shedding of blood and ringing of steel. It grows tiresome.”

            Jon put aside the rag that he was using to wash his face and beard and set his armor aside. Standing up he leaned against the railing and looked out at the island as they sailed past the northern coast. They would next stop at Tarth, the Straits of Tarth were more pacific than the openness of the narrow sea or the stormy nature of Shipbreaker Bay. By end of day they would officially be in waters claimed and controlled by the Iron Throne.

            “My father often feuded with the Lord of Crow’s Nest to the south. Never did it come to open battle, he did not want King Aerys to intervene on the side of House Morrigen, but occasionally we had to fight off poachers and woodsmen in the disputed lands. It too grew tiresome.” Jon said sympathizing with the pirate slightly. A hundred and more years ago House Connington would not have spent its time disputing with their neighbors in the stormlands. Instead they would have been wary of raiders and bandits from Dorne like the Vulture Kings, or from the Stepstones themselves. Far more likely that they would have been waging battle against the Saans or whoever controlled Bloodstone during that period of time.

            “It is being the way of life. Men kill each other for very many reasons. Some foolish, some not so foolish, yes? Gold, women, food, land, prestige. Peace is good for business for both of us, I am thinking. It is much more profitable for those who strike their colors in my waters without a fighting than preventing the taking of my just taxes.” Salladhor Saan was always extremely particular about the way he discussed his means of making a living. It was never “piracy” or “smuggling” when Saan was talking about his own actions. It was “defending his island” or “taxing criminals” or “duty-free trading”. Looking back at the crew and the sellswords Jon was not sure if he could find more than a dozen men on this ship that he would not hang if he were still hand.

            “You forgot the most important reason men fight Salladhor.” Jon said not thinking before he began speaking. He felt a fool as he realized what he meant.

            “And what is that being Lord Jon?” Saan asked quirking his head and stroking his beard in curiosity leaning against the railing head cocked slightly to the side. The wind moved the peacock feather he had perched in his green cap from side to side like a weather vane.

            “Love.” Jon answered turning to look at the sun resting above the Red Mountains of Dorne. Somewhere in those mountains was Griffon’s Roost where, several years ago, a foolish red haired boy had taken the Prince of Dragonstone to the highest tower and tried to impress him by saying how everything he saw would one day be the boy’s. The salt air bit at Jon’s eyes, causing them to water.

            “I said women did I not? I am usually not forgetting that one!” Saan answered with a deep belly laugh before slapping Jon on the shoulder.

            First Jon frowned, and then a sad smile crossed his lips as he remembered how the sun had looked glistening in Rhaegar’s lavender eyes.

            “Yes I suppose you did.”

            The remainder of the voyage went on much like that. Walks along the deck, conversations with Qyburn or Salladhor or some other man that Jon tolerated only because they aided him in his goal. They slept at anchor that night and came to the Sapphire Isle the next afternoon.

            “Thapphireth?!” Vargo Hoat was heard saying before Jon made it clear that the Brave Companions were remaining on the ship while Saan’s men gathered provisions. Jon aid a midday meal with Lord Selwyn Tarth and his two children. Galladon a boy of six or seven, and a young girl of about three named Brienne.

             “Are you a knight mister?” The young girl with straw colored hair and bright blue eyes, as blue as sapphires, inquired of him during the meal barely able to reach the table.

            “My lord.” Selwyn corrects his daughter as he worked to cut up the chicken that they were eating into even smaller pieces for his small daughter.

            “I am Brienne, in fact I am a lord.” Jon humored the child. There seemed something different about this blonde, blue-eyed girl that he was walking to.

            “So did you fight in the war like daddy did?” The sweet girl said all smiles and sweetness in the way only a girl of three could be. In truth it was hard for Jon to make out much of what she said at first, in the way that small children seemed to be speaking a language only they and their close kin could know. But he understood the gist of it.

            “Let’s talk about something more pleasant Brienne. Galladon, tell Lord Connington about your discovery out in Morne.” Lord Selwyn said favoring his daughter with a smile and a gentle touch so that she knew she had done nothing wrong before beaming happily at his son. Jon was reminded that Morne was the ruin of a First Men city on the eastern coast of Tarth. Once the capital of the petty kingdom it was now abandoned to the elements. Every few years maester’s from the Citadel would stop at Griffin’s Roost on the way to and from studying the ruins.

            Galladon beamed as he spoke. “I rode out with Ser Goodwin and some of the others to the city and went swimming in the old harbor and I found an old helmet under the waves. I’m a very strong swimmer and I’m able to go into places the maester’s can’t get to because the places are so small.” The boy spoke with pride about his discovery and Jon considered the idea that all stormlander boys seemed to have some ruin or dangerous cave that they boasted of exploring about that age.

            “You must be a very strong swimmer Galladon, no doubt you will make a great sailor one day.” Jon told the boy and watched his eyes light up. Then he turned to Brienne. “And you will grow into a beautiful lady.” He said to her politely before turning to discuss business with their father about how the weather has seen to be on crossings from King’s Landing. Once the hour had passed Jon bid Evenstar Hall farewell and journeyed back to the ship.

            The crossing of the Straits of Tarth was a quiet one and the same held true for the rounding of Massey’s Hook. From there it was a straight shot past Sharp Point, the seat of House Bar Emmon, to Dragonstone east of the Gullet.

            Ir was a grey, overcast morning when Valyrian first sighted the smoking tip of the Dragonmont rising above the sea to the north. Jon dined on a dish of salted fish in his cabin as Qyburn did one last examination of his wounds when the call came out from the crow’s nest that sails had been spotted. Rushing out of his cabin while throwing his shirt over his head Jon saw a sea filled with sails. Atop each mast the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen flew proudly in the morning sky.

            War galleys, dromonds with hundreds of oars, filled the sea.

            “Weigh anchor! Let us be seeing what they want us to be doing!” Salladhor called in common tongue as Lord Jon came upon the Goat sitting upon a barrel watching the events.

            “Get your men below deck so they do not think we are enemies.” Jon told the sellsword impatiently. Hoat considered him for a moment before nodding running his fingers through his long, goatee.

            “Yeth, I underthtand Lord Jon. You are very withe. Men letth go below deckth for the time being.” The Goat called and his men moved slowly to answer grumbling as they did so. Particularly the Dothraki and the Jhogos Nhai who were uncomfortable as it was.

            “Run up the colors!” Saan called and some crewman lifted the banner of Elia Martell, Targeryn and Martell crests quartered. Valyrian’s oars were pulled in and the galleass slowed to a halt in the waters as one of the galleys came alongside. The other two galleys positioned themselves so that if fighting started they would be able to move in quickly and sweep the deck with marines and archers. Such a fine ship would be a worthy prize for either of the three captains and the royal fleet itself.

            Without asking permission or giving warning lines are tossed from the smaller galley and a gangplank is laid across their decks and a man in brown clothes with a big brown beard and brown hair tied back behind his head steps aboard. A short sword slapped against the big man’s thigh as he came across with two guards just behind him. From the deck of the galley several archers nocked arrows but did not draw their strings back just yet.

            Lucerys has been keeping them at the ready. Jon thought approvingly as he looked at the ship captain who came aboard.

            “Who commands here?” The brown-bearded man demanded without offering his own name.

            “I am.” “I am captain.” “Me” Jon, Salladhor and Vargo Hoat all answered at once.

            Impatient to reach his destination Jon spoke before the other two could. “I am Jon Connington, Lord of Griffin’s Roost and Commander of the City Watch of King’s Landing and former Hand to the King. I have business with Dowager Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys at Dragonstone. This is Salladhar Saan, Prince of the Narrow Sea, ship’s captain and Vargo Hoat, commander of the Brave Companions. Who are you?” Brownbeard’s eyes widened slightly as he looked from each of them in turn and then down at Blackfyre on Jon’s hip.

            “I am Dick Ruskyn, captain of Warden. We will tow you into harbor my lords.” He said gesturing to the ship he had come from. “By your leave.” He said quickly, nodding his head slightly to Jon and Salladhor before crossing over the gangplank. After a short time of lines being tied from ship to ship two galleys pulling the galleass behind them as they made their way to the volcanic rock rising from the middle of the sea.

            As far as Jon knew the port on the island of Dragonstone had no name, it had never been given one and was not large enough to earn one separate from the island or the castle. Scattered across the face of the Dragonmont were small villages where fisherfolk and famers lived. Perhaps it was a wealthier place when it was the home to dragons, but now it seemed people were only trying to survive. The wealth of House Targaryen had moved to the Red Keep and this was just a remnant of the last house of dragonlords from Valyria of Old.

            Three men were waiting for him when the galleass pulled into port. Jon knew two of them closely and could guess at the third’s name based on his garb. Ser Willem Darry was a grey bear of a man with broad shoulders and thick arms. One of his thick hands rested on a walking stick that looked like it could club a man into a bloody pulp with ease. Next to him in a doublet of aquamarine and silver, with shoulder length silver hair and blue eyes. Lord Lucerys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark, and master of ships was well known to Jon, they had served together on the small council together. Jon held no ill will to the man who had always seemed to be dutiful towards his office and not a grasping lickspittle like many of the others. The third man wore the white robes of a septon with the many colored chord about his waist and a crystal hanging from his neck. Most likely Dragonstone’s septon, Barre Jon believe his name was.

            “Welcome home Lord Jon.” Lord Lucerys said extending his hand to the red-haired lord when he closed the distance between them.

            “It is good to see that the gods favored you in your quest.” Said the septon looking at the hilt of Blackfyre.

            “It is good to be back. Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys are at the keep I’m guessing.” Jon said noting Darry’s silence and the four horses that waited behind them. Darry had lost his brother in the same battle where Jon had lost Rhaegar.

            “They are. And we will be joining them shortly. First there is business we must conclude.” Lucerys said looking at the two men who were following down the gangplank behind Jon. Vargo Hoat’s necklace of coins was clinking in the wind as he walked having traded his normal cloak for one of the multi-colored feather cloaks from the Summer Islands. Salladhor Saan wore his typical white silks with his green cap and peacock feather, the pirate-prince was looking at one of the chests that hung between two of the horses with a smile from ear to ear.

            “Prince Salladhor our business has been concluded, the Seven Kingdoms thank you for your services. Here is your reward.” Lucerys said as he gestured for two servants to bring forward the chest presumably filled with treasure. They brought it forward to Salladhor who opened it and his smile widened somehow. Jon caught the subtle glint of gemstones before the chest was closed and firmly locked.

            “I will be setting sail as soon as the Brave Companions are disembarked.” Saan promised and Lucerys nodded. “You wil have three ships to escort you back to Bloodstone. To make sure you do not get lost along the way.” Lucerys answered with a sly smile. “Of course my lords.” Saan replied turning away with a bow. Turning to Vargo Hoat Lord Lucerys continued.

            “As for you Ser Hoat, your reward is waiting for you in King’s Landing. Your men will be billeted in a small village in the slopes of the Dragonmont. You will be confined there, the villagers have long since moved out, and you will not travel to other villages or do any foraging. Your needs will be supplied for, do not worry.” Then turning to speak to both Jon and Vargo Hoat, “We will be awaiting Queen Rhaella’s health before returning to King’s Landing. Lord Jon if you will join us for the ride back to the castle? My men will ensure your other belongings are brought to the castle post-haste.” And with that the four of them walked to the horses and rode off leaving Vargo Hoat alone on the docks.

            “Is Queen Rhaella feeling unwell?” Jon asked as they rode up the well-worn Valyrian rode towards the keep.

            Ser Willem Darry answered him. “The Queen is with child again.” He said and that was all that needed to be explained. Rhaella Targaryen had had ill luck when it came to the childbed. She had given birth to Rhaegar at the Tragedy of Summerhall and that had probably been her easiest birth. She had miscarried once each in 262 and 263; Princess Shaena had been stillborn in 267; Prince Daeron had been born alive in 269 but only survived half a year; another stillbirth in 270; a miscarriage in 271; Prince Aegon in 272 who died in 273; and Prince Jaehaerys who was born and died in 274. Rhaegar and Viserys had been her only pregnancies that resulted in full and healthy sons. More than likely this one would be another miscarriage or stillbirth.

            Dragonstone was different than every other castle, keep and holdfast in the Seven Kingdoms, where all the others were made by the means of mean working with stone and marble and the strength of their backs Dragonstone was made by magic and forged in dragon fire. There were no bricks or mortar to this castle, all of the stone fused and manipulated by magic and dragon fire. Parts of the keep and castle were carved in the shape of dragons or parts of dragons.

            When they arrived servants came and took his horse to the stables while another two led him to his chambers in the Stone Drum. So named for the sounds reported to be heard during storms through the walls.

            Jon would be spending the better part of four turns on that volcanic island. He would eat meals with Queen Rhaella, who grew large every day, and Prince Viserys, who had become a quiet and sullen boy in Jon’s measure. Jon occupied himself by training in the yard and writing to King’s Landing for reports and information on the city and the watch to best prepare for his time when he would take the position of commander in full. Most of the captains of the gates had died during the Sack and all had been replaced without his consultation. Janos Slynt, a butcher’s son from Flea Bottom, was the senior most remaining captain of the Iron Gate; then there was Humfrey Waters of the Dragon Gate. The other gates had been given to loyalists and rebels from families of influence to placate both sides. The Old Gate went to Ser Alliser Thorne, the Gate of the Gods to Ser Meryn Trant, the River Gate went to Ser Boros Blount, King’s Gate went to Ser Jaremy Rykker and the Lion’s Gate went to Ser Preston Greenfield. Very few of them would have been Jon’s first choices, but they had apparently been able to bring peace and order to the city following the Sack relatively quickly. He also spent time discussing the defenses of King’s Landing and the policies of the small and regency councils since it was clear they were both in the Targaryen faction that was growing on both bodies.

            All told, it seemed as if the life were returning to some semblance of normalcy in Westeros.

            Then the storm came.

            Jon had seem the storms from Shipbreaker Bay come up into the hills and mountains around Griffin’s Roost, you did not grow up in the stormlands without coming to know something of storms after all. This storm was a different beast entirely. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled in the Stone Drum The whole tower seemed to be shaking as Jon climbed from his bed to the window looking out over the harbor below. Darkness ruled the island as rain slammed down against the stone and the winds seemed to be striving to pick up the stones of the castle and cast it into the sea itself.

            Lightning flashed and Jon could see the royal fleet at anchor being dashed beneath the waves. Fire caught in the rigging of one of the great dromonds and tar of the ship went alight turning the ship into a conflagration as the salt waves picked it and sent it flying through the air like a red sword cutting through the sky and crashing down on smaller ships spreading flames through the docks.

            That was when Jon heard Queen Rhaella’s birthing screams.

            Running from his room he flung the hard oak door of the Queen’s chambers open with ease and saw the Queen Grandmother laying in a bed of blood as midwives and the maester worked around her attempting to ease the delivery. The broad form of Ser Willem Darry was nowhere to be seen, though he could hear the septon praying somewhere in a dark corner.

            “Viserys! Someone find me Viserys!” The queen screamed and Jon nodded.

            “I’ll find the prince.” He promised turning quickly and running through the darkened halls flinging rooms open unsure which one was the prince’s bed chamber. Finding all of the rooms empty he went up to the next floor, and the next after that. Until finally he came to the top chamber, the Chamber of the Painted Table.

            “Prince Viserys! Prince Viserys are you in here?!” He called in his gruff voice looking about the room. In a moment of silence between thunder strikes Jon heard the slightest bit of a whimper. Bending over Jon looked under the fifty-foot table carved in the image of all of Westeros the thin Targaryen prince seemed to glow in the wan light with his gold-blond hair and pale white skin.

            “Viserys.” Jon said in a voice that he was surprised he had, a soft, father like voice. He extended his hand out to the young prince. “Prince Viserys, come to me. Your mother wishes to see you. You do not need to fear the storm. We are safe.”

            “I do not fear the storm! I am a dragon! I fear nothing! Go away!” Prince Viserys yelled and then cried out in fear as lightning crashed again. Jon moved further down the table until he was closer to the Prince.

            “Viserys, it is okay to admit you are afraid, we all are afraid from time to time. That does not make us craven. A wise man once told me, courage is not the absent of fear, but being able to do what needs to be done despite the fear. I know this storm is frightening for it frightens me, and I am a grown man. It is not weakness to be afraid, but it is weak to hide beneath a table and not face your fears.” Jon’s voice was still comforting, but it became castigatory with the last few words.

            Viserys looked at him for a moment his eyes red from crying. “I told you I’m not afraid!” Viserys growled as he crawled out from under the table taking his hand. Jon pulled the small boy out from under the table. “You were right Prince Viserys. You were not.” Jon said humoring the child. Then suddenly lightning flashed and every window in the room broke open sending glass flying through the air as the wind whipped about them. Without thinking Jon gripped the boy by both arms and pressed him to the ground doubling over him taking the brunt of the glass and wind on his own back. They were both screaming but they could not hear as the wind and the lightning and the storm itself seemed to rage around the Stone Drum.

            It was in that moment that Jon felt something truly evil for the first time in his life. There was a malevolence in this storm greater than he had ever felt in an act of nature before. For the briefest of moments he was convinced that this storm was the product of some evil and wicked god determined to destroy the entire island to get to something, someone in the keep. Jon shook the thought from his mind focusing on keeping the young boy in his arms safe. He was not sure when the storm stopped, when they had finished screaming themselves hoarse, but finally they were able to rise and walk down the cold, wet steps to the Queen’s room.

            What they saw when they arrived was as horrifying as anything Jon had imagined he felt in the storm above them. Queen Rhaella lay there in bed sheets drenched in blood with a small babe at her breast. Her skin was paler than normal, sickly and her eyes seemed to see without seeing. The maester and the midwives were weeping, Septon Barre’s prayers were to the Stranger now instead of the Mother. Willem Darry had arrived as well and the huge man was weeping obscenely.

            Laying eyes on her son, the Queen reached out with one hand and beckoned for him to come to her.

            “Mother!” Prince Viserys rushed past Jon to his mother’s arm.

            “Viserys, my sweet, sweet Viserys. This is your sister, her name is Daenaerys, Daenaerys Stormborn. Protect her for me please Viserys. Will you do that for me?” the young prince nodded unable to make words for a moment. “Yes mother, I will protect her.” He promised extending his hands and taking his little sister from his dying mother’s arms. The Queen nodded and then turned to look at Jon.

            Jon pushed the maester away from examining all of his cuts from the glass and stepped towards the bed.

            “Lord Jon. I know you loved my son, know he loved you too like a brother. Please protect his brother and his sister, and our young family. There is a letter in my desk. Please give it to Ser Bonnifer Hasty when you arrive in King’s Landing and tell him, tell him I’m sorry. He will know what for.” With that the frail Queen turned her head and looked upon her two young children, and then she breathed her last and died.

            The next morning Jon surveyed the damage done to the fleet and the island with Willem Darry. Lord Lucerys had been aboard his flagship that night making everything ready for the storm when it had taken the island unaware. It had been that ship that Jon had seen fly through the air like a red comet. The entirety of the fleet was destroyed at anchor leaving the port unusable for some time, the water clogged with corpses and wreckage.

            It was some time before the port was able to take ships again and the Princess Daenaerys was ready to travel. Funnily enough it was Salladhor Saan’s old enemy, Lord Quellon Greyjoy who finished their voyage back to King’s Landing. It was a simple days crossing over seas that had become calm in the wake of the harsh summer storm. A cog carried the Brave Companions in their wake so as not to mar their home coming.

            Jon had never seen the harbor so crowded as he saw a huge crowd being separated from the royal party by his gold cloaks. Lord Quellon brought a new suit of armor for Lord Jon to wear, the black lamellar armor of a member of the City Watch with one of the gold cloaks that the Watch took its nickname from. He wore the armor and kept Blackfyre in his hands as he departed the ship behind the Prince who carried the Princess in his arms. Ser Willem Darry went behind him also in his armor walking with a slight limp leaning on his walking stick when needed.

            Princess Elia sat on the back of a sandsteed with King Aegon sitting in front of her, a crown made to fit his small head about his brow. Six of the Kingsguard surrounded them as well as many of the small council and the regents who had come to witness was about to transpire.

            First went Prince Viserys who presented his sister to his King and was welcome to the city. The boy then went to a wheelhouse that was waiting nearby, followed by the master-at-arms. Then it was Jon’s turn.

            “Your Highness, I present to you the sword of your forebears, stolen from your line by the Blackfyres a century ago. Take it from me as a gift from a loyal servant to his liege lord.” A squire took the sword on behalf of the King who accepted it graciously with a “Thank you Lord Conninington.” Stuttering slightly over the difficult name. He had his father’s eyes.

            “On behalf of King Aegon, the small council reverses your exile and restores you to all lands, titles and incomes that you are entitled to. As well you are named Commander of the City Watch with all incomes therein. Please join me when we return to the Red Keep for a midday meal.” And with that she turned her steed expertly and the procession began to make its way back up Aegon’s Hill.

            It was as Jon mounted the horse they had provided for him that Jon saw Robert, who he had been looking for. He was across the pier mounting his own horse with a small girl, maybe the same age as Brienne of Tarth, riding in front of him. She had his hair and eyes and the ship behind them flew the blue falcon of House Arryn. Jon gripped his reigns tight to hide his anger.

            When he arrived at the Red Keep a groomsman took his horse and he was directed towards Princess Elia’s solar where a table for five had been set for lunch. Standing behind Princess Elia was Ser Barristan Selmy, whose blue eyes never left Jon. Jon was the last to arrive. Princess Elia sat at the head of the table, with her brother Prince Oberyn at her left hand. Her right hand went to Robert, a fact that made Jon tighten his lips, and next to Lord Robert was Jon Arryn, who looked as if he had just smelled something particularly distasteful.

            Princess Elia was all grace and poise, her thin, knowing smile striving to dispel all of the tension between the men in the room. With a wave of her hand she motioned Lord Jon to his seat saying,

            “Welcome Commander, have a seat and fill your plate. There is much we all must discuss together.”

             Jon took the available seat next to Prince Oberyn and surveyed the lunch that had been prepared for them. A circle of freshly baked bread with a hollow center say on a wooden platter. In the center of the platter there were two types of meat laid out, one fresh venison the other an assortment of different birds. On one side of the dish there was some kind of red sauce, when Jon dipped some of the bird into it he found it both sweet and sour at the same time. The other side had a white sauce that seemed to be more savory to balance it out. Deer, birds, red and white, and the dish is shaped like the sun. I see your game Princess.

           “The Brave Companions send their regards Viper.” Jon said to Prince Oberyn choosing to engage the one man in the room he was not quite certain would kill him gladly. He had not missed the distinct lack of knives or other sharp objects at the table.

           Oberyn, for his part, answered with a sly smile lifting a Dornish red to his lips saying, “It is always good to hear when you hear that someone you showed a kindness to has not come to an ill end as yet.” Before sipping the wine and settling his smiling viper’s eyes on Jon.

           “What exactly do you plan to do with those men, Princess Elia?” Jon asked avoiding looking at Jon Arryn or Robert.

           Princess Elia cleared her throat with ladylike dignity and wiped her greasy hands on a cloth before placing them on her thighs and answering. “Unfortunately Aegon’s Warden of the Kingswood has elected to retire we needs find a replacement to keep the peace in the Kingswood, prevent banditry, poaching and illicit logging. Both Deputy Wardens are quite skilled so Warden Hoat’s burdens should be light.” Jon was incredulous, he understood that Elia had been waylaid in the Kingswood by the Kingswood Brotherhood but this seemed like setting a fox to watch the henhouse! His incredulity must have shown on his face for she gave him one of her smiles, sly but appearing innocent and said, “I know he must seem an odd choice to you, given his previous profession but he is a man I know I can trust, not because he is particularly trustworthy, but because he fears a man I know to be my ardent supporter, “a brief glance at the Red Viper, “and that fear will outweigh any greed he may have. Please, understand Commander Connington, not too long ago one of Aegon’s enemies let loose two dogs hoping they would do harm to the king, his sister and myself. When they failed, that enemy claimed they had simply gone rabid. It seems prudent to have our own dogs ready so that that enemy keeps his new dogs on a tighter leash.” The hairs on Jon’s neck stood up as he heard the venom in her voice. What won’t a viper do to protect her eggs?

           Before that conversation could continue Jon Arryn cut in. Jon Connington had the greatest respect for the man, who was old enough to be every person at the table’s grandfather, and wished that there was some way to ease the enmity between the two of them. But the Griffin Lord had killed his heir in the Battle of the Bells and would gladly have killed his foster son as well.

           “That does remind me, Princess, Kevan Lannister asked about the bodies of Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane again, wondering when they might be returned to their families for proper burial. He also asked after the Lannister troops that the City Watch were able to detain following the Sack.” Jon Arryn’s voice was calm and flowed like a grandfather conciliating between two angry grandchildren. Elia’s voice was dutifully respectful when she answered.

           “The bodies of both traitors will not be given such a luxury. Ser Lorent should be satisfied he was allowed to inherit his brother’s lands. As for the men the Watch arrested, they will be tried once the new Lord Confessor has taken office. If they are found innocent they will be released, if not they will be sent to the Wall.” Everyone seemed struck at the mention of a new Lord Confessor, a polite name for chief torturer, so far as Jon could recall there had not been a Lord Confessor in the Red Keep since the time of Daeron the Good.

           “Has Sandor Clegane made any requests for his brother’s body?” Prince Oberyn asked as he ate a slice of venison.

          “No, Prince Oberyn, he has not. It seems there was little love between the brothers.” Lord Arryn answered.

          “Then let their bodies remain where they are. Qyburn should be able to sort out what to do with them.” The new Lord Confessor’s former student and benefactor answered. Jon was not surprised at the chainless maester’s reward. Someone had once said “a man who knows how to ease pain will also know how to inflict it.”

          “There seems to be a problem of little love in the Seven Kingdoms of late.” Elia said sipping her own red wine and looking from one side of the table to the other. Jon felt his face flush at the accusatory look. Robert had killed her husband and here she was having lunch with him!

          “Elia-“ Jon and Robert said at the same time before turning their heads to glare at each other; one black with bright blue eyes, the other fiery with clear blue ones. Elia placed her glass onto the table forcefully but did not raise her voice.

          “You all will listen to me, and listen well. Each of you has reason to hate the other. Gods know I have reason to be furious with all of you.” She said looking around the table not leaving her brother out.

          “But you must understand we are on the same side now, like it or not. We must let old enmities lie or our enemies will take us apart one by one. Already Lord Varys is reporting whispers of ‘the Dornish coup’ that I have taken too much power from those who should rightly have it. That I have packed the court and councils with sycophants and lickspittles. That I have done unsavory things to win certain loyalties, or bewitched good men with powerful spells.” Did she look at Robert for a moment with that last statement? “You all should know that Lord Connington was not who Rhaegar felt Aerys should name Hand after the exile of Lord Merryweather and after Lord Connington was exiled himself he suggested that the King call on Tywin Lannister outright. Were he alive, were he king, Tywin Lannister no doubt would be his Hand.” She looked at Jon and Robert for a moment. “And you two most likely would be dead. If you think I have done much to compromise for you two, I have bent over backwards for the man who I know sent men to kill me and mine. His brother sits on my regency council, his daughter will marry my good-brother in five years’ time, Aegon’s King’s Justice was the captain of his guard, his youngest son is infiltrating the Faith, and his eldest son would be Lord Commander of the Kingsguard were it not for Robert’s mercy and Ser Barristan’s recovery.” For the first time the Lord Commander reacted to what was being said at the table, with a slight tightening of the eyes and gripping the hilt of his sword. “When the time comes to name a new master-at-arms I have no doubt Tygett Lannister will be the only choice. We now have an entire fleet to replace and absent coin to do so we must borrow further, either from Casterly Rock or the Iron Bank of Braavos. By the time Aegon reaches manhood Tywin Lannister will have his claws so deep into the workings of the court that Aegon will have no choice but name him Hand of the King and probably marry some little lioness cousin that we have not even heard of yet. Read your histories my lords, for we are at the edge of a second Dance of the Dragons and I mean for the blacks to win by more than their eyeteeth this time.” There was a pause then for that sentiment to sink in. A Dance without dragons might not be as bloody, but it would be bloodier than any of them wished to imagine.

          “So, I will tell you what we will do.” She said matter-of-factly. Her word was law after all.

          “You.” She began pointing to Robert. “Your little brother Renly will be coming to court as a page and a companion for Viserys. When he is old enough he will become a squire for you,” she pointed at Jon Connignton. “And you will guide him to be the best knight he can be.” Then she rounded back on Robert. “Your daughter Mya should have feminine company, she will be close friends with my nieces and my Rhaenys.” Her ever moving hands pointed to her brother. “Lord Arryn, your wife is going to be one of my dearest friends at court I am sure, and when the Mother blesses you with a child I am certain that child will be a leal friend of mine. For now however, Lord Connington has a cousin, Ronnet, who will be a squire to you. Finally, Lord Robert, King Aegon is in need of a new master of ships. Your brother Ser Stannis, will take up that post, if you appoint Lord Connington to take his place on the regency council. If not we will name Paxter Redwyne and House Tyrell will grow even stronger in the sun.” She fixed her eyes on Robert and raised her eyebrow, something passed between them that Jon could not fully understand and then Robert nodded.

          “Gods be damned woman, fine! I’ll do it! Connington, I want you for the regency council. Will you have the seat?” Robert said extending his hand to him.

          Jon looked at the offered hand. The same hand that had swung the hammer that smashed the life from Rhaegar. He had dreamed so much of thrusting a sword into this man’s chest, of watching him fall to his knees and as he looked up at the face of his killer Jon would lean down and whisper into his ear two words, “For Rhaegar.” If Jon took his hand that dream would be put off, perhaps only for twelve years, perhaps for forever. But if he did not take that hand, if he rejected peace with the man who killed Rhaegar, he would fail Rhaegar’s son for certain. It was an impossible decision. In the end, he reached across the table and took the offered hand over the birds and venison.

          “I will take the seat, Lord Robert, and I will have peace with you for a time. For Aegon.”

           When they released each other’s’ hands the table turned and looked at Princess Elia to see if she had any more to say. She beamed at them for a moment and then nodded.

          “For Aegon. Now let us enjoy this beautiful spread before we all have to go to our council meetings. Someone pass a pheasant leg and some sauce please.”

Chapter Text

           Morning in Asshai was nigh indistinguishable from midday or evening in the city that those in the west called the Shadow. Only those who had truly been there knew the truth of it though, the Shadow was the lands to the north on the peninsula and beneath the Mountains of the Morn.

            One measured the days in Asshai by one’s sleepings and awakenings.

            Melisandre of Asshai did not sleep for the fires of her Red God R’hllor gave her strength. Instead she measured the passing of time by the sleepings and awakenings of her current paramour. Evening to her was when she looked into her nightfires and morning was when the mastiff woke from his slumbers and went out to bring back food for himself, Melisandre would eat with him sparingly and then they would go about their days.

            Small-minded folk in all directions considered Asshai-by-the-Shadow to be an evil and cursed place filled with evil and cursed people to be feared and despised.

            No act was forbidden in Asshai, no matter how depraved. Oft these small minded men forgot what was the simplest thing in Melisandre’s life.  There are no shadows in the dark. Shadows are the servants of light; children of fire and the brightest flame casts the darkest shadows.

            Last evening Melisandre had seen quite a bright flame reflected in her nightfires and she had the certainty that came with faith to know who it was that had ignited such a powerful flame. Azor Ahai had been reborn again and the Great Other who is not named worked great evil against them.

            Melisandre had been restless ever since and had dedicated the remainder of her night pouring over the texts and prophecies she had gathered about her desk in the room she shared with the mastiff. Scrolls written in the blood of holy men in the tongue of the Yi Ti, tomes that predated the Doom of Valyria written in High Valyrian, the picture-script of Leng pounded into a tablet of bronze, the songs of the Rhoynar transcribed from the original written on a giant tortoises shell, spells writ upon a cloak of dragonskin and three translations of the Jade Compendium of Colloquo Votar that told of the signs of Azor Ahai’s coming again.

            “There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and darkness shall flee before him.” Melisandre read in the Common Tongue of Westeros, a habit she had fallen into in practice as it was the chief language of her companion and bedmate.

            “Reading prophecy again Mel? You know what Gorghan of Old Ghis says about prophecy.” Her mastiff said as he left the bed and placed his enormous hands upon her shoulders.

            “Prophecy is like a treacherous woman, she takes your member in her mouth, and you  moan with the pleasure of it, and you think how sweet, how fine, how good this is…” He ran the back of his hand against her pale white cheek, warm to the touch as ever. “and then her teeth snap shut and your moans turn into screams.” As he finished his quote Melisandre snapped her own teeth shut hard a playful smile on her face.

            “Perhaps you should not give me ideas. Does not your Seven-Pointed Star say ‘all women are wantons at heart’?” She told her lover coyly as she turned and looked at him with a toothy grin. She relished the concern he wore on his face for a moment. After all, they both knew there was power in a mage’s cock.

            “It is no more my Seven-Pointed Star than it is yours.” Her mastiff answered, his voice a light growl in his throat.

            Rising from her seat Melisandre studied her mastiff and found humor in the study in contrasts that the two presented.

            She was tall, taller than most men, with a slender figure and full body. Judged attractive by most, her long hair the color of burnished copper fell around her heart-shaped face in contrast to her pale skin. Her color was red.

            He was a short man, squat with a thick chest and an ale-belly. He had a strong jaw and a thick neck and his nose was bent and pushed in from having been broken many times before. He was not a handsome man, and his hair was beginning to turn from brown to grey, but for their time Asshai he was her mastiff. His color was grey, same as his robes that hung beside the door.

            Where they differed physically, they had many similarities in mind and spirit. One needed to look no further than either of their necks to see that they both valued knowledge as power and service to a higher calling as their ultimate reward. About the Red Priestess’s pale neck was a great red ruby set in a tight choker of red-gold. The ruby glowed with the slightest shimmer of light in this city of magic. About her mastiff’s neck was a chain of many metals, but the most prominent was the ring of smokey-black Valyrian steel. He was an archmaester of the Citadel, a knight of the mind. She was a Priestess of R’hllor a knight of the soul.

            They had been drawn together by their individual searches for greater knowledge that had brought each of them on separate paths to Asshai-by-the-Shadow.

            Satisfied she had properly teased him Melisandre slipped a hand down his bare, hairy chest and took his member into her hand. Feeling the warmth of it stirring at her touch her smile gained a slyer edge to it.

            “I believe I’ve found my diversion this morning.” She said and then moved to their shared bed.

            There was power in the art of making love, in sex, in life. It was considered a womanly power, taken from the man and directed by the fairer sex. Her mastiff was filled with life and she could make many great shadows in the fire of his life. But that would burn him down to nothing, and she was not done with him yet.

            Instead, they fucked. They fucked like animals in heat, wild and wanton. His thrusts like the mastiff she named him, her responding thrusts would put a Lysene pillow-slave to shame. They fucked like rabbits and filled the air with the sounds of their fucking. Again and again they fucked reveling in the joys that R’hllor gave them. When they were done they lay on the black clothed bed that they shared, caked in sweat and short of breath and gathered their energy to redouble their studies of the arcane arts, now that all distractions had been removed.

            “I saw something in my nightfires.” Melisandre told him as she lay on her side, back to him and eyes looking out of the window to the city of black stone that seemed to absorb the light.

            “Oh? And what did Daenys the Dreamer come again see in her nightfires this night.” Marwyn answered as he turned the page of his Book of Lost Books, shortening here and adding there in the way authors did when destroying their first drafts. He knew that he could get away with teasing her, with the confidence all men gain once they’ve spilt their seed, for they both had seen what fruits her visions could bare and held a true respect for her powers.

            “I saw Azor Ahai reborn. Rising and soaring into the sky as if upon the wings of a great dragon. I saw the Great Other too, working evil against Azor Ahai in the birthing bed. The prince who was promised has been born again.” She said and her voice took upon that quality of intentional effort into her words that came when a magic users spoke truth into being.

            “I saw no bleeding star in the night sky, and winter has just ended in Westeros I believe. Not a long summer.” Marwyn answered, testing her as all beliefs must be tested so that they do not become simple dogma.

            Melisandre was not in the mood for it however. Turning she placed a level gaze upon the archmaester of the Citadel.

            “Do not play games with me Marwyn, you know as well as I that the bleeding star and other signs will not come for many years yet. Heroes must be born, weaned and raised same as all other men. Azor Ahai, the prince that was promised if you prefer, will seem a normal man at the beginning, but his greatness will become self-evident as he comes into his own.” She explained to a man she knew needed not her explanation her eyes aligning with his own.

            “Even heroes shit their swaddling clothes, eh?” The archmaester of the higher mysteries summated in his typical vulgar fashion.

            “That is another way of putting it, yes.” The red priestess admitted as she rose from the bed and went to the window overlooking the dark city of Asshai, Myrish glass separating them from the noxious miasma in the outside world.

            “I think we should gather the circle tonight.” She said almost absentmindedly as she watched the oldest city in the world beginning to wake from its slumbers, at least for those who had slumbered. Cargo was being loaded and unloaded from ships in the harbor that was the center of the world's trade. Sailors from east and west came together at Asshai-by-the-Shadow to do their business and trade their wares. While not the richest or most populous city in the world Asshai's trade port spun the world around it. Men came from every sailing nation in the world, Westeros and the Summer Isles, the Free Cities and Ib, Slaver's Bay, Qarth, Yi Ti and Leng, the best of the west came and met with the sailing ships of the east from Ulos and Ulthos, and all met with those caravans which came down from beyond the Mountains of the Morn for the caravanserai. Only a foolish trader would come so far and not return as rich as a king. Such had always been the way of Asshai where the higher mysteries danced alongside the baser needs of humanity. It was a marvel to behold for a decade or two, but like all things it grew stale with time. This vision though, it had the taste of something new. 

             Marwyn closed his Book of Lost Books with a sigh and placed it on the nightstand where he had picked it up, along with the quill and ink. He lifted his muscled form from the bed and stood before bending over to search for his small clothes. 

             "So it's like that is it, eh?" Her mastiff asked as he girded his loins and tied the cloth tight about himself. Melisandre could feel his eyes moving down her back and she did not mind it. She had learned long ago that when men looked at a beautiful woman such as she it was often in the same way they looked at a particular mare they were thinking of buying. All thought was to how far they could ride her until she was old and useless for their purposes. There was lust in Marwyns gaze, but there was no judgement or degradation as came from the looks of most men. He valued her for her body of course, but he cared for her mind even more. If she were a younger girl, not dedicated to her purpose and the service of the Lord of Light, that fact might have kept her with him until he grew old and grey and past beyond this world for a better one. But, it did no good to muse about might-have-beens and what-may-bes like a Westerosi princess who has heard too many songs. Theirs' was a temporary arrangement, mutually beneficial and mutually pleasureable of course, but a temporary arrangement nonetheless. One day they would take ship from this glorious city bound for different fates. Hers to the greater service of R'hllor and his to return to the Citadel where he was ridiculed and mocked by those fools who thought they knew more than him about the ways of the world. 

            "It is like that Marwyn. The Circle should know that Azor Ahai has been reborn. I am only one woman, with seven more we may learn something of his life that we could not learn on our own. One of the Circle should be near at hand when he comes into his destiny, to guide him towards the Light and towards defeating the Great Other." She spoke calmly and clearly as she turned and opened her armoire of cedar wood and brought out a gossamer and silk dress that covered her from neck to heel and was nearly translucent on her arms, shoulders, and neck. She slid into this dress with ease and then rolled leggings up her feet before sliding them into a pair of slippers sequined with tiny rubies. Lastly she took a gossamer veil and wrapped it about her face from her nose down. No one went bare-faced in the Shadow. All her clothes were red of course. 

            Marwyn took less time to dress than she did, what with having no laces to tie behind his back or anything like that. He simply slipped a grey robe over his head and put on a pair of brown shoes. Then he belted a rope around his waist and hung a dagger from his left hip and a rod of Valyrian steel on his right. He slipped his ring of office onto his hand and placed a mask of Valyrian steel upon his face. Once both were dressed they stepped towards the door to their apartments and he offered her his arm which she took gladly. They were quite a pair as they took to the streets, one red on grey, surrounded by a world of black. 

           They haled a palanquin born by slaves to carry them towards their destination. The ruling council of the city had begun purchasing slaves for such a purpose centuries ago and had found the practice better for meeting the needs of the Asshai'i and those who visited their fair city than forcing each one to bring and feed their own slaves in a city where no food or fresh water could be found. 

            "Whence are we bound, mistress?" A slave asked in the ululating tongue of Asshai. 

             " The port market, the Temple of the New Moon." She answered in the same tongue and then the slaves lifted the palanquin onto their shoulders and they were off. 

             To hear the Asshai'i tell it their city was the oldest in the world. It was there when the world began and it would be there when the world ended as well. Larger than any other city in the world it stretched for leagues on both sides of the Ash and entire cities could fit inside its great, black walls. One counting had found that the entirety of Qarth, Volantis, King's Landing and Oldtown could fit comfortably in the walls of Asshai with room to spare; though no census since before the Doom had ever found Asshai to have a larger population than a medium sized town in Westeros or elsewhere. Only a tenth of the city was truly in use, with the remainder being left for the Shadow, rarely patrolled and explored by the Asshai'i people. Travellers and visitors were warned to not stray from the area around the port, for there was no life that grew in the shadow save for the ghost grass and the shadows were said to be hungry for blood. Still every year hundreds of foolish sailors venutred into parts of the city that had heard no living footstep in eons and were never seen nor heard from again. There were those who made it their life's mission to discover the secrets of the long forgotten places of the world. Men like Marywn or Zosimos the Alchemist who had ventured into some portions of the city's abandoned districts to explore the shells of old mansions and the laboratories of men who had been long dead when the Freehold was young. They did not speak of what they found there save with each other and Melisandre had never asked either of them for any of the details of their delvings. She had enough to concern herself with in her own work for the Lord of Light. 

              The Jogos Nhai were a people of the plains named after them that lay north of the Shrinking Sea and Yi Ti. Short, squat, bowlegged and swarthy, they were not a pretty people and all were in possession of pointed skulls from a practice of binding the still growing skull of a newborn for the first two years of its life. When in their own land they rode upon striped zorses and were led by a jhat into battle to raid and despoil the lands around them. During all other times save combat the bands of the Jogos Nhai were led by their moonsingers. Never known to stop in one place for long, Melisandre knew of only two temples for Moonsingers in all of the world. One was the Temple of the Moonsingers in Braavos, it had been a moonsinger's vision that had led the first freedmen of Braavos to the lagoon that they built their City of Canals within. The other was the Temple of the New Moon in Asshai. Taken from an old building near the caravanserai it served as a place of worship and rest for the Jogos Nhai who ventured the long way from their plains to Asshai for trade or knowledge or more. A round stone building with a domed roof, what it had been before the moonsingers took it over none could say, few changes had been made to the black stone building in that time, but one had been the addition of a moon door at the top of the dome so the what little moonlight could be found within the darkness of the city would leak down into their sacred rituals. 

               "Remember, be civil. " Marwyn whispered to her as they dismounted from the palanquin and walked towards the entrance. Two men of Jogos Nhai stood guard on the either side of the door. Neither wore any weapon, the Jogos Nhai were masters of wrestling and unarmed combat, but stood with their arms crossed in front of their chests. They wore orange robes cut so that most of their chest was exposed and kept their faces bare as foreigners in the city often did. Both eyed up Marwyn without a word, many had heard of the Archmaester who went about the city in a mask of Valyrian steel. There was little doubt that the mastiff wore a good amount of gold's worth of the metal on his person today, Many a foolish robber had tried to take it from him in the past, but these men were no fools. Only guards to their priestesses. 

               " When am I ever less than civil?" Melisandre whispered back before stepping forward between the two short guardsmen. 

              " We have come to see Jhea and Mirri Maz Duur. We are their colleagues." She said giving them as friendly of a smile as she could. One day all peoples of the world would turn away from their false gods and wicked spirits and come into the Light. But until that time she would keep her peace in the knowledge that the Lord of Light used what tools as he wished in all things. 

              The guards looked at each other for a moment and then nodded to let the two of them past. They did not even bother to disarm Marwyn, either a sign of confidence in their ability or trust in the archmaester to keep the peace. 

              Inside the temple echoes of the moonsingers' healing hymns surrounded them, battering them with the throaty song of the plains. Melisandre touched her ruby and moved forward gracefully. The circular building existed in layers rooms on the outside for the moonsingers, their guards and visitors were separated from an inner ring where lessons were taught and patients could convalesce which then gave way to an inner chamber where the healing songs would be sung. Moonsingers spent their days going between the chambers looking in on their visitors and those who needed healing or singing songs of praise to the moon that guided them through their ways and showed them the paths to future glory. Where Melisandre and her fellow priests and priestess of the Lord of Light looked to fire for the future they looked to the sky above. 

              As the pair came farther into the temple Melisandre began to recognize the voices of two of the singers coming from the inner chamber. Mirri Maz Duur had been Marwyn's student for a time before she came to study with moonsingers who had so much in common with the Dothraki that pillaged and plagued her homeland of Lhazar. Melisandre had never asked either of them, but she knew that the two had been lovers in their time traveling from Qarth to Asshai to increase their knowledge. They found her in the chamber with her hands laid on the belly of a sailor who was receiving healing. The man was Ghiscari with dark amber skin and red-black hair that hung down by his shoulders. His red-black beard was coated with spittle and froth that had fallen from his mouth and his eyes were as large as saucers. While his arms, head and torso failed about and spasmed on the fur bed that stood in the center of the room his legs remained perfectly still and unmoving. Mirri Maz Duur had her eyes cast to the moon door her chin jutting out and almost touching that of the woman kneeling on the other side of the man's body one hand on the man's crotch the other over his heart. 

           Jhea was older woman, fifty years old if she was a day, there was not a single hair on her whole body and she wore a robe of the same orange fabric as the guards with a sash of wolf's fur going from her left shoulder to her right hip. Her skin was browned by the sun, but had a natural yellow hue to it suggesting some YiTish ancestry. Her smooth skin made her look almost ageless, with not a wrinkle to be seen on her face or head. Her breasts sagged and heaved in her robe as she arched her back to and fro with the rhythm of the song she sang. The moonsinger led the choir in their song, working what good she could in this city of magic and also teaching the young Lhazareen godswife the ways of healing. It was evident that the spasming man they were tending was a sailor who had fallen and broken his back in some accident, and Melisandre found it revoltingly fascinating to see how these worshipers of a false god treated something that most would consider untreatable except with the most drastic of actions. 

          Mirri Maz Duur contrasted the old, yet ageless moonsinger in almost every way. The Lhazareen was young, only in her mid-twenties at the latest with wide hips perfect for birthing many babies and large breasts to feed them. If she had remained among her people, and no khalasar came to her village to kill her or sell her into slavery, she would have probably had half an army of children running about her knees and at her breast. But that had not been what fate decreed for the brown skinned, flat-nosed young woman. Melisandre would not call her a beautiful woman, but she was pretty in her own way. Melisandre had little praise for the worshipper of the Great Shepherd save that she had seemed to master that trick that took women in positions of power a lifetime to do. When men looked at her they did not see a woman, instead they saw a healer who spoke for their god and could offer them hope. It was the highest praise that Melisandre could ever offer to a priestess of another god. 

            Melisandre and Marwyn stood in the doorway of that inner chamber and watched as the moonsinger and the godswife worked, a chorus of eleven other moonsingers surrounding them on the outside of the chamber crooning along with them. It is said that words are wind, but when the words are coming from a practioner of higher mysteries they become something much stronger. As they watched the man twisted and turned in the bedding showering Jhea and Mirri Maz Duur with slober and spittle as the song reached its final climax. Then the air was filled with the sound of cracking bone and twisting flesh as the Ghiscari man screamed the most foul curses he could muster before falling back onto his bedding and moving no more save for the gentle rising and falling of his chest with every breath. The song began to steadily die in a peaceful descrescendo until the words drifted away to nothing on the air. Each of the singers were coated with sweat from exertion and looked ready to fall asleep where they knelt. Jhea took her hands from the man's body and clasped the godswife's hands in them looking her in the eyes. 

             "Only in places of power, like here in the Shadow, will that song of healing work half-so-well as it did today. Remember this Mirri Maz Duur, and all I have taught you, when you return to the land of the Lamb Men." Jhea said to her student before rising from where she stood and turning to face her guests. Mirri rose with her looking at Marwyn with a smile on her face before blushing and attempting to look as serious as her elders were. Melisandre focused her attention on the moonsinger and spoke with pointed care in the language of the Jogos Nhai. 

            " I have had a vision, Jhea, and I call the Circle to join together, tonight, for the highest purpose of all." Jhea listened and looked about the room to see if any of the others in the room dare listen to a conversation between there senior singer and an outsider. Evidently none dared for Jhea answered plainly. "It is good that the Circle is joined tonight. The moon is full and shall shine her light upon us through the Shadow. I will meet you and the usual place and we will sing together for our highest purpose. The song will be sung. The way will be clear." Jhea answered before turning and looking at Mirri Maz Duur. 

            The godswife was the youngest of their Circle, rarely consulted or called upon save to complete the sacred numbering and bring another voice to their magics. However, when the Circle was called one could only choose to join of their own accord and not be spoken for by another. 

             " I will be there. Now if you will all excuse me I need to rest and restore my energy for tonight." She answered shortly and then stepped out of the room between Marwyn and Melisandre. 

            "Thank you for your time Jhea." Marwyn answered giving a polite bow before offering Melisandre his arm and politley leading her from the temple and back to their palanquin. 

             "Whence to next, Mistress?" The slave asked again obediently and he showed no fear when she answered that they were bound for the Brindled Man's hovel beside the Ash. 

              On the southern continent of Sothoryos where the jungle ruled over the land there lived a people known as the Brindled Men. These Sothoryi were massively muscled, big-boned creatures that were man than beast; with sloped foreheads, huge teeth and jaws, coarse black hair and flat noses that were more snout than nose. The most notable feature of these creatures was their thick skin, brindled black and white like that of a hog. These creatures had sacked the Valyrian Freehold's first settlement on Basilisk Point and were known to attack any who dared stay for too long on the shores of their jungled continent. They were thought to be terrible slaves by the Ghiscari, Sothoryi women oculd not breed with human men, and they were known for their savagery and fierceness in battle that made them entertaining to witness in Daznak's Pit in Meereen. Some Brindled Men had built small trade towns on the coast of their continent and had learned that pidgin language of jumbled words and phrases from a dozen languages accompanied by gestures of varying levels of vulgarity. The Brindled Man in Asshai had come from one such town after coming out of the Green Hell where monsters ruled and dark gods were worshipped exclusively. He had been sold as a slave to Meereen and fought free of the pits, unable to find any ship willing to return him to Sothoryos for any reason he had instead made his home in Asshai where he could practice his foul rituals in relative peace. Even then he was forced to make his home by the polluted river where only blind and deformed fish lived. 

              "This is as far as we dare go, Mistress, we will wait for you here." The lead palanquin bearer informed them as he set them down beside the sandy shore of the Ash. The river was black during the day and spilled up onto black sands where only shanty hovels were set. Whoever or whatever had created Asshai had left sandy places for the outcasts of the city to build there own small wooden dwellings. Melisandre and Marwyn made their way across the sand lifting up the hems of their dress and robe so that they did run across the polluted sand. The Brindled Man's particular "proclitivities" had discouraged any would-be neighbors from taking the wood that landed on his beach or building up their own hovels near him. This allowed the Brindled Man to build up a particularly large shack for himself, more of lean-to than a home really, which he decorated with the tanned skins of his kills and hung their bones on leather straps from the roof. Skulls of men and beasts stood on sharped stakes in the sand around the hovel as a warning to those who dared enter. The place smelled of shit and death and cooking meat. 

              "Smells like we caught him at breakfast." Marwyn joked from behind his mask which seemed to do more to block out the smell than Melisandre's gossamer veil did. Not that she showed any sensitivity to the smell of the hovel. She had long since grown used to the smell of burning flesh. As they came closer they could see the Brindled Man himself sitting beside his fire poking at what looked and smelled like crackling roasting over a fire of nightwood. He wore a large, ragged cloak that looked like it might have once been the sail of a small ship tied around his neck by a necklace of finger bones. There was blood around his mouth and several scratches on his face. It appeared that his latest kill had fought back more than usual. The carcass of that kill lay on the far side of the fire, black with blood and covered in massive claw marks. It looked to have been a Summer Islander, though Melisandre was not certain due to all the blood. The bare bone of a skull smiled at her when she looked for a face. 

              " Hullo Grey Bastard, Red Cuntess. Want eat with me? I'm 'fraid I already ate the best part. Face was tasty." The Brindled Man smiled a yellow-red smile at them and offered them a seat. Melisandre forgave him the limited capacity of his trade talk vocabulary, it was unfortunate that she had not taken the time to study languages as thoroughly as some other red priests had done, then she could speak to him in his own tongue. Which she ascertained from the times she listened to him casting his spells that he spoke quite fluently. It sounded only like a serious grunts, hard consonants and guttural stops to her unfortunately. 

               "No thank you, Brindled Man, we are in a bit of a hurry. Melisandre has had a vision of Azor Ahai and is calling the Circle so that we may learn more." Marwyn said slowly and carefully so that they could be sure that the Brindled Man understood them. The Brindled Man answered him with a sound that was half-choking, half-laughing and then turned to face them from where he was sitting. 

               "My people, we call him, " The Brindled Man made a collection of hard sounds that Melisandre did not care to begin parsing out. "Brindled Man will be there, and well-fed, do not worry 'bout that. Now if you not eat with Brindled Man, fuck off!" He gestured/said and then waved them a hearty good by. They did as he bid gladly turning and walking away from the hovel which he called home. 

               "Thank you for waiting for us, do not worry we only have two more stops an then you can be done with us for the day." Melisandre said to the slaves as they hoisted Marwyn and Melisandre onto their shoulders for another venture. This time sh einformed them to bring her to a certain place she knew further into the city where they would find the woman they were looking for. 

             Quaithe was waiting for them outside of their manse when their journey had begun for the day. She stood in the shadow of the doorway, a shadow inside of a shadow in her dark clothes and with her red lacquer mask.The only part of her body that could be seen were her wet and shiny eyes in the holes carved in the mask for them. Melisandre and Marwyn dismounted the palanquin and Melisandre gave each slave a pouch of gold coins, each equivalent to the price of the slave's contract to the city. Their eyes went wide in surprise at her generosity but she reached out and silenced them with a gentle touch. "Go, tell your families of Lord of Light's love." She told them and sent them away. 

            "The shadows still have ears I see." Marwyn remarked to the shadowbinder.

             "The old magic is waking. Stronger than it has been since the Doom. Now it comes as a trickle, then a stream, then a raging torrent that will sweep us all away if we are not wary." Quaithe answered in her typical cryptic way. Melisandre stepped forward glad to see that she was not the only one who was feeling it. She had known the woman since childhood, since before she had been Melisandre, and held her in the highest regard. 

             "The Lord of Light favored me with a vision in my nightfires. I saw Azor Ahai reborn, just as was prophesied amidst salt and smoke and I saw that the Great Other raged against him at his birth. Death is stalking him and surrounding him and we must find him before it is too late." Quaithe listened and nodded as Melisandre spoke explained that she wanted to call the Circle. 

             "You have called the Circle and we will answer the call. I will call upon Lady Westhill, Tensquatach and Zosimos and I am certain they will join me in meeting with you at the apportioned time and place. There is much for us to learn and do in the short time we have left together. The Circle in Asshai must soon be broken as we move towards the highest purpose. I must be going now. Until we meet again." Quaithe said, her voice clear despite the mask as she began to walk away. 

             "Does talking to her give you the damnedst head ache or is that just me?" Marwyn asked Melisandre once Quaithe was far from earshot. 

             Melisandre graced him with a level stare and began to walk into the manse. They had much to do before nightfall and little enough time to do it. 

              The road from Asshai followed the tracings of the Ash north-east, tracing its path down from the Mountains of the Morn, through the Shadow Lands, past the Corpse City of Stygai and through the Vale of Shadows where it met the Jade Sea at Asshai. No living person, not even a shadowbinder, dared brave the City of Night. Fortunately they need not go so far to join with the others of the Circle for their ritual this night. Their chosen site to meet was a hill just beyond the great black walls of Asshai, not out of sight of the lights upon the walls but far enough away to be in the wild places of the world. The site was the remnants of a long forgotten watch tower; time, weather and looters had stripped the place down until only the last line of bricks remained. 

             They came riding donkeys, the cheapest animals they could find, with a faggot of ironwood lashed behind Marwyn's saddle. It had taken them many hours to find a trader who had called upon White Harbor and purchased wood from House Forrester to sell for profit in a land where no fuel grew. Melisandre had made a note to thank Illyrio Mopatis, whoever that was, for his shrewd directions to his ships captains on where to sell in order to make a profit. They had almost been forced to purchase an inferior quality wood for the nightfire tonight. 

            Said fire was already going strong when the archmaester and the red priestess climbed up the old watchtower hill. A firepit had been carved out of the center of the circle of stones in ages past and had been adopted by the Circle for their own purposes. Zosimos, an alchemist and a Myrman, sat about the fire looking deeply inside of it with a fascinated glint in his eyes. Save for Mirri Maz Duur, the Alchemist was the youngest of the Circle. A young man traveling from Myr with a hooked nose, thick, curly black hair and a faint scar on his right cheek, perhaps the most notable thing about him was the supply of wildfire that he had managed to bring safely from his home without any ships' captain ever finding out about their dangerous cargo. 

          "Good evening friends. Take a seat by the fire and sit a spell while we wait for our friends ot arive." The Alchemist said jovially in his bastardized Valyrian. He was not alone, Melisandre noted, sitting to the side of and out of the way was the areomancer from Ulthos named Tensquatach. Melisandre had never found a people of Essos that quite resembled their counterparts on Ulthos. Tensquatach's skin was the stained goldish-red of orichalc with the weathering of old leather on his face and the backs of his hands. He grew no beard and wore his hair long and braided behind his back and beneath his magnificent headress. Nearly two hundred feathers flowed from his head down his back in the strange headdress. Marwyn had once asked the man what bird had created such large and multi-colored feathers. The translation had been hard to come by and finally the aeromancer settled on the words "dragon feathers" to describe the beast he had plucked his plumage from. Whether the aeromancer had slain the beast himself or acquired the feathers in another way was unclear. Tensquatach wore no shirt and had painted symbols upon his body, arrows and lines and such, in a black ink made from the blood and juices of crushed bugs native to his homeland. On his legs he wore breaches made from the leather of a shaggy beast called a "buffalo" that Melisandre had never heard of before. She understood it to be much like the aurochs, only hairier with a large hump. His feet were as bare as his chest. The last interesting part of his appearance were his earlobes which he had pierced with iron from a falling star that was so heavy that the piercings hung down by his nipples. No master of a common tongue, he was often quiet unless something of great import was on his mind. 

         "Thank you for having the fire started for us Zosimos." Melisandre said moving her hood back letting her red hair fall free as she knelt before the fire extending her hands palms first to warm them in the cold night. Off in the distance the Ash was glowing a pale green by the lights of the algae within. 

         Marwyn hefted the faggot of wood over his shoulder and placed it down beside the fire. They would wait until the full circle had convened before adding the fuel to the fire. 

         "Evening Zosimos, Tensquatach." Marwyn said before sitting down on a stone he had claimed as his at many Circle meetings before. Taking out a quill, ink and parchment Marwyn began to write bringing a look and a raised eyebrow from the aeromancer. 

          " Do not worry friend, I have respected your wishes so far and I will continue to do so. Not one jot about you, your people, your continent or your magic will reach the Citadel from my hands. And I doubt any other maester will bother to come so far and look for answers for several decades or more." Marwyn guaranteed as he kept writing. The aeromancers of Ulthos believed that writing about a think made it more solid, more real, and thus took away some of the power from their spells. All of their knowledge was transmitted orally through songs, lessons and stories.

           From then on they waited in silence, save for the crackling of the fire and the scratching of quill on parchment. Melisandre worked to center herself with the world and with the Lord of Light so that he might bless her with another vision tonight. All of her order of priests and priestesses were taught to see visions in their dreams. Visions of the past, visions of the future, and possible futures, visions of things occurring far away in distant places. All visions sent by the Lord of Light were true, but interpretation could be difficult. Visions never came clearly save once in a rare while. Many had been led to their dooms by wrong interpretations of visions given. She must not misinterpret her visions now or it could lead to the doom of far more people than just those who gathered in the Circle. 

         The sound of a zorse whinying stirred at the edge of her thoughts and she heard Jhea and Mirri Maz Duur greeting the others and taking their places around the circle. The donkeys shied away from their striped cousins, fearful of their smell and their strange appearance.

        Quaithe came as if materialzing from the shadows themselves, no sign of a mount or slaves that could have bore her would be found. 

         The Brindled Man came next wearing his ragged sail-cloth robe and thong around his loins. He appeared to have walked from his hovel beside the river as his bare feet were coated with mud and algae. Reaching under his coat he revealed nine fish that he had caught and made busy gutting them and piercing them on sticks before placing them over the fire to cook. The fish were small, blind things with deformed fins and splotched scales. 

           The last to join them was Lady Westhill who arrived upon a silver horse that she kept well fed and groomed. As far as Melisandre knew, Westhill's silve was the only horse in Asshai that had lived longer than a moon's turn or two without becoming sick and covered in lesions and tumors. That was not the only thing about her that implied there was more to the old woman than first met the eye. Certainly she was old, but she had aged beautifully, with silver-white hair that had waves moving through it and piercing blue eyes that hid more than they spoke. Her face had few wrinkles that made determining her age difficult, but her hands showed years and years of wear from time aboard a ship. She spoke like a sailor still when she grew energetic and she dressed like one as well in a white cotton blouse that she kept unbuttoned down to her navel, black silk breeches instead of skirts and a necklace composed of beads and small treasures from her years of sailing. There was something familiar in the ageless mystery of the woman who hid so much behind eyes as blue as Melisandre's were red. She had once attempted to delve those secret waters and had only learned that the Lady Westhill had "chased the sun and watched autumn moon's fall. That she had lived to see all her dreams fulfilled save one and had returned home only once, to find all of those she had left behind long dead from tragic fates." When Melisandre had pressed for more the Lady had only smiled and said that only she and the gods remained to know her secrets and that was how she prefered it.

           Queit and contemplative conversation past between the members of the Circle as they ate their grilled fish, the fish were greasy and tasted some how wrong, but it was a meal familiar to all shadow binders. Melisandre's stomach churned at the distant memory of the first time she had dined on such fare before casting her bones into the fire with the others. There was power in the taint of the Ash and she could begin to feel the winds of magic moving around them. Finally, when all were gathered about the fire she began to speak. 

          "I have called you all here on this full moon night to seek for answers, answers to the questions we have been asking ourselves for many years now. When will Azor Ahai be reborn and where. The Lord of Light favored me with a vision last night of Azor Ahai reborn. A child born amidst smoke and salt, surrounded by death and embattled by the Great Other from birth. His mother defended him from the brunt of the Great Other's will, whether she lives or not I cannot know. We must find him and guide him on the way to the light." As she spoke Marwyn and Zosimos laid the ironwood onto the embers of the fire watching them catch and begin to burn with blue flame that cast pale shadows on those gathered around. Zosimos drew a vial of wildfire from the folds of his robes and waited for her single to casting its contents onto the blue flame. She signaled him with a nod and the young alchemist upended the substance onto the fire with care. Blue flame and green battle each other and then mixed becoming a roaring cyan fire that bathed them all in a ghostly glow. 

           Then the chanting and prayers began. 

           The shrill, ululating tongue of Asshai mixed with the throaty singing of the Jogos Nhai and the nasally tongue of the Lhazareen. The aeromancer danced about the circle shaking his hands and shouting out a song in the tongue of Ulthos, calling upon the spirits of the air to guide them. The wind picked up and pushed them, swaying their bodies and building the fire into a roaring inferno. The shadows lengthened and engulfed them. The Alchemist and the Archmaester cried out in High Valyrian with their own spells and entreaties to their seperate queer gods. The Brindled Man joined in with his own calls in the language of the Sothoryi wilds. Lady Westhill remained silent, fingering the beads and totems that hung about her neck. Her left hand moved in practiced prestidigitation, fingers flitting artfully through the air towards the fire.  The winds picked up and the fire raged bathing them in light and sending their hair whilring through the air. The ruby at Melisandre's neck began to glow and give off heat against her pale skin and her insides tightened as the power flowed through and around the nine in the Circle. 

          Lady Westhill began to speak, intoning their plea in the language of Valyria that was. 

          "We come to you as seven-two in your ways of old. We come not as seven-and-three and thus closed the Circle, but leave it open for you to join, oh Ones of Old. Ones of the Deep and Men of the Past lend us your wisdom and knowledge, gods of power and might grant us your blessing for our highest purpose must be fulfilled. We call upon you through the Song of the Earth, from whence all mankind once came and whence we must return again at the ending of our days. We call upon you through the Song of Water, which binds us together as one people with many faces and gives us life. We call upon you through the Song of Bronze, for we are the bronze people of Planetos, coming now to the end of our age. We call upon you through the Song of Iron, by witch we lay claim to all that was yours, and water it with the life-blood of the worthy and unworthy both. We call upon you through the Song of Fire and Ice. Speak now as we beseech thee, and show us what thy wilt! Speak now!" The wind howled and whirled about, grabbing at their clothes and pulling at their veils and masks. There was a drumming coming from deep beneath and the face of the waters of the Ash stirred. Her last words were for Melisandre and gasping for air she spoke. 

         "We beseech thee," R'hllor, Lord of Light, "Show us the prince that was promised, Azor Ahai, Hyrkoon the Hero, Yin Tar, Neferion, Eldric Shadowchaser! Show us He Who Comes With the Dawn! Show us - " The wind now formed a funnel of dust and ash surrounding them and the words died in her throat. She felt to her knees and her eyes went to the heart of the fire where cyan flames gave way to a light so bright that all else seemed only palest shadow. 

          She saw much within these flames. 

          Dragons red and black dancing beneath a starry sky. 

          Dragons of stone and smoke and shadow, gold and green and black as death singing defiance into the night. 

          She saw towers beside the sea swept away beneath a black wave. A striding huntsman upon the shore a double-edged sword in his hands. A golden two-headed coin flying through the air, flipping, flipping and spinning, again and again landing edgwise in the palm of a very small man who cast a very large shadow- his eyes were made of crystal of seven colors and with one word he cast the demons that surrounded him down into the deep. 

           She saw a golden knight with in a stained white coat walking in a blizzard alone, with dead things all around him and death before and behind him. 

           A red egg hatched a paper dragon that the masses cheer to see, never seeing the spiderwebs that pulled the strings and the mockingbirds that carried it high. 

           A three-headed dragon flew in a smoke filled sky. 

           A child with a sewing needle. Brown eyes, blue eyes, green eyes shut in quick sucession. 

           Four nubile women sat naked and brushed a great white wolf with red eyes and the wings of a dragon.

           A woman weeping and screaming from a tower of dread. 

           More and more things she saw, but still she pressed deeper on. Skulls and kisses, Bronze and wishes. The shadow of a snake in the mouth of a hound. Finally she saw what she wished to see. 

           A river flowed through a land she did not know. Ruby red, blood red, two armies met at a crimson ford. One army was black as ice led by a king with a bloody sword and pale blue eyes. The other army wore coats of many colors and marched beneath a dragon-filled sky. The armies fought! And fought again! Dragons roared fire melting black ice, unleashing a torrent that threatened to drown the arming of the living beneath its waves. Then here was! Azor Ahai! Fighting to stay above the waves he met the blue-eyed-king in the center of the ford. And in his hand, Lightbringer burned defiant. Their swords met, again and again and again. A blow struck home. The moon looked down upon them all shedding tears of light as Nissa Nissa's cries filled the air slowly turning into the howls of a wolf. 

           Melisandre gasped as her knees hit the cold hard ground, tears of blood slid down her cheeks and the ruby at her neck had grown so hot it burned. Off in the distance, the lightest shadow of dawn was coming into the world. She looked about the circle, over the dying embers of their nightfire, and saw the same looks of horror and exhaustion in every set of eyes. But also purpose. 

          They knew what they needed to do.

Chapter Text

     "And so the God Who Was One revealed Godself to Hugor of the Hill as the Seven Who Are One. For the God had seen that humanity, in our broken and sinful state could not comprehend the reality of monotheity. They turned to false gods, demons and wicked spirits. They worshipped the sea and the storm, fire and trees, lambs, goats, the moon and other aspects of nature. Not seeing the totality of the whole in our distraction we fall into the temptations of the Lord of the Seven Hells. We lust for flesh forbidden, we grow fat with out gluttony and we rise high in our pride only to be dragged down by the weight of the sins we commit in order to maintain it. Seven hundred and seventy-seven are the sins of our souls." The High Septon stopped for a moment to allow that number sink in upon the room of thirty-odd novices. 

     "Seven hundred and seventy-seven."  He repeated turning his head from left to right and back his gaze cutting through the room like a scythe through wheat. The High Septon had very striking blue eyes that seemed to be able to look into a person's soul with one glance. Despite this quality the old man seemed to always be happy with a mouth surrounded by laugh lines. He appeared to be a man who had enjoyed life for the most part, and who seemed to find something to enjoy in everything he saw. Even when he looked at Tyrion he did not frown like so many of the other septons did. 

     "Can any of you name all seven hundred and seventy-seven sins? Anyone? What about you Tyrion?" His High Holiness asked fixing his gaze on Tyrion sitting near to the back with a stack of books near as tall as he was and a pile of parchment for notes. The whole room turned at least slightly in their chairs to glance back at him. He was the youngest novice in the room by two years or more, having been pushed forward to the advanced classes due to his prior knowledge. Some might think he had something to prove, that he thought that his father's gold could buy him the distinction of being the youngest septon ordained since Baelor's boy High Septon. They were wrong of course, he would earn that distinction himself. 

     "My apologies, Your High Holiness, but I only think I could name about seventy or so off the top of my head. Though I am sure I learned a few more watching Lord Lannister." Tyrion cracked a smile as the room paused for a moment taking in his jape and considering whether it was appropriate to laugh. Then a wide grin came across the High Septon's face and he let out a big, belly laugh that shook the room and the rest of the room began to laugh with him. 

     "That is one of the great lessons we must all learn to take from tragedy novices. Especially in times like these. The priests of R'hllor have a saying that I find particularly profound. The night is dark and full of terrors, they say and that might be the one thing the red priests are right about. We live in a terrible and sinful world, it is true, but it is also a world the gods made to be beautiful and bountiful. The good wheelright does not make a wheel so that it will go only so far and then break so that their services will be called upon again and thus increase their profit. The good wheelright creates a wheel to serve its purpose as a wheel and roll on to its next destination, and then the destination after that and so on until its owner has no other need of it. When the Seven fashioned the world and made all things in it they made it a pristine world, a cosmos of light. But they made it too well, and humanity turned to sin in its wish to control all that was around them. And the only answer to this sin is heart-felt and honest repetenance. Now that's the midday bell, Septon Aldritch has asked me to remind you all that when eh returns to your class tomorrow he expects a spirited discussion on Septon Douglas's answer to the question "How many paths must a man walk down. Class dismissed." 

     The thirty-some novices in grey wool robes stood and bowed to the High Septon as he left before filing their way out slowly. Tyrion waited until the most people had left before following to make sure that he did not hold anyone up. 

     Baelor's architects had not considered that a dwarf might one day feel called to serve the Seven as a septon and had not designed the stairs of any of Baelor's towers to accomidate for anyone shaped like Tyrion. This made traveling up and down the steps of the Tower of the Crone a daily challenge for Tyrion, but one that he met with a heart resigned to the hardships that the gods had set before him with faith that their reward for him would be comiserate in the seven heavens above. Fortunately the upper level novice courses were taught in the higher basements of the Sept so Tyrion was not too sore or out of breath by the time he arrived at the mess building and stood in line with the rest of the upper level novices. 

     Midday meal was the only time when much of the Sept community was in the same place at the same time, since the various groups within the community worshipped separately save for feast days and other special occasions. Even within the mess hall they were segregated. All of the young women in discernment to be septa's were grouped together at tables in the back of the room, each under the watchful eyes of a matronly septa. Tyrion gathered that a number of  them had not come to the serve the Faith as willingly as he had and might be more interested in finding a guaranteed way to leave that service. If that required dragging a prospective septon down with them than all the better. Those given to the Silent Sisters were seated iat a far table in the corner isolated from those who had come to isolate themselves from the world. Clad in grey the bride's of the Stranger looked like death's shadows off to the side. They ate with their hoods up so that only their eyes could be seen. One set of eyes always seemed to thin into a deathly glare whenever they fell on him. Tyrion knew in his head that none of these girls and women had had their tongues cut out, but he simply could not understand in his heart how a person could have the power to stay silent for so long. Perhaps, that said more about his inability to remain silent than anything else? 

     Septons mixed in with novices and acolytes in the food line, colleagues discussing matters of import or theology with each other, students asking questions of their lectors, while they waited for today's chosen novices to serve them their porridge and a fistful of bread. It was lean fair, peasant food mostly, but Tyrion found every meal at the Sept a delight in comparison to the thought of being back at Casterly Rock with Lord Lannister. That had been one of the strangest and most difficult changes for him when coming to the Sept. As a way to separate the novices from their old lives they were forbidden to refer to either of their parents as "mother" or "father" in order to remind them that all men shared one Father and Mother Above. Lowborn novices were obliged to call their parents by their names, if they knew them, or by any surname they may have been given. For example a son of a blacksmith might called his earthly father, "Mister Smith," or the son of a ship captain might say "Captain Morgan" or whatever the case may be. Highborn novices, being much more common, would refer to their earthly parents as Lord and Lady name of their House, or whichever title was more fitting to them. After the first time three larger novices had threatened to toss him down the privy hole, Tyrion learned it was best not to mention his earthly father unless it was as he had done with the High Septon. 

     Tywin Lannister was not beloved of the smallfolk in King's Landing. 

     Tyrion lifted his hands above his head to take the medium sized wooden bowl from the novice. His fistful of bread was floating in the semiliquid pile of mush. At least they've stopped spitting in it. He thought as he lowered the bowl down to chest level and slowly made his way over to a free bench avoiding spilling a drop. If his fath-Lord Lannister had not made things difficult enough for Tyrion when coming to the Sept Tyrion's own intellect and smart mouth had done him no favors either. The novice's seemed to dislike him for having gotten out of much of the same labors they did and the acolyte's disliked him for seeming to be favored by the septons when it came to his answers to their questions. Both situations hardly seemed fair, it was not as if Tyrion could stand behind the wooden counter and spoon out porridge or survive cleaning the hundreds of steps in each of the towers. Tyrion did what labor he could and he had not chosen for the septon's to take any interet in him, they had done that all on their own. Either way, the situation made his period of discernment not ideal at best. 

     Discernment was the name for the beginning process of education to be made a septon. Novices typically spent discernment in prayer, mindful meditation, meaningful labor and catechistic education to ensure that they understood the basic tenets of the Faith. This process was meant to allow them to develop a sense of what their vocation was. What their purpose was in the design of the gods. Every being under the sun had a place in the design of the gods. Discernment was a time to seek the guiding light of the Crone towards what fate the gods have planned for each novice in particular. Some would gravitate to the Smith, and live out their purpose creating products for the various septs throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Sculptors, candlemakers, carpenters, weavers, brewers - any trade that could be made service to a sept and did not lend itself to avarice that was what these brothers did. Tyrion had known that he was not cut out for such a vocation his first day in the Tower of the Smith. Septon Josef had said he'd never seen a novice with so many splinters in him by the end of the day. Other novices would find their place in the Tower of the Crone, serving as pseudo-maesters, illuminating and keeping books for libraries all over the Seven Kingdoms. Some would come to teach in septries or at the Starry Sept or Baelor themselves. Others, still would go on to become the septon of one of the seven thousand septs throughout Westeros or even into the Free Cities themselves. 

     Tyrion allowed his mind to wander on that thought for a time as he dipped his stale-ish bread into the porridge to soften it and licked some of the porridge off of it like a spoon. 

     All of his uncles had traveled to the Free Cities when they turned sixteen and Uncle Gerion had told Tyrion the most of all of them though. Once there had been eleven Free Cities in Essos but two had been lost in the Century of Blood after the Doom took Valyria. Essaria, the Lost Free City, was sacked by the Dothraki hordes and left a ruin. Vaes Khadokh it was called now, the City of Corpses. Gogossos, the Tenth Free City, had ruled the slave trade from the Isle of Tears off of Sothoryos birthing foul, twisted beasts from its slave pits. Then, seventy-seven years after the Doom a great plague known as the Red Death had swept through the city killing nine of every ten men. That still left nine Free Cities for Tyrion to visit and spread the truth of the Seven's love for them. Perhaps he could sail to Braavos and serve at the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea? He was proving to be reasonably giffted in the tongues of the Free Cities in the few lessons the Sept offered in them. Tyrion let his imagination wander some more picturing himself sailing the seas of the world as some kind of septon-adventurer the Seven-Pointed Star in one arm and a woman in the other.. He blushed a little at the image of a woman his mind conjured and returned to his bread. No, adventure was not what the gods had planned for him. The gods had gifted him with a powerful ambition, he would be their voice on earth, he would be High Septon. 

     There he was, standing in the light of Baelor's Sept, rainbow light reflecting off his crystal crown. The whole of King's Landing seemed to be there to watch as he crowned himself. King Aegon, a young man now with his sister Rhaenys, brother Aemon and aunt Daenaerys. Cersei was there with Prince Viserys beside her and a brood of little silver-blonde children at their feet. Tyrion searched the crowd and saw Jaime there in white, and his Uncles Kevan, Tygett and Gerion. Aunt Gemma was there and- and- Tyrion's eyes scanned the crowd in his imagination searching for Lord Tywin, and then there he was! There in the far back by the door he saw him! Just as Tyrion lowered the crystal and gold crown down upon his own brow Lord Tywin opened his mouth and spoke. 

     "Tyrion, Tyrion look alive friend!" Chayle said as he slapped Tyrion on the back and took a seat on the bench beside him.

     "I'm awake Chayle, I was just lost in thought." Tyrion said irritably as he dipped his stale bread into the porridge and took another bite. 

     Chayle was a boy from the North, about four-and-ten who had grown up along the banks of the White Knife. Originally a novice in the Sept of the Snows, he had come south with much of Lord Wyman Manderly's household in order to complete his education at the Great Sept of Baelor. 

     "Thinking about what, Tyr?" Obed Longthorpe asked with a mouth full of bread as he sat down quickly across from Tyrion. Obed was a Sisterman from Longsister, who had come south with Lord Arryn's retinue in much the same way Chayle had with Lord Manderly. The thing that Tyrion found most interesting about Obed was that he had a thin webbing between his fingers and toes that he called "the mark", what exactly the Sistermen considered it a mark of Obed had never made clear, though when Tyrion asked Obed had told him about how dwarfs had once been sacrificed to the Lady of the Waves in the waters around the Three Sister's in the time before the Andals had come. The septons had put an end to that practice, Obe had assured him. Tyrion had responded by suggesting that his webbing was a mark from the Seven that he was "a complete arse". 

     "I was wondering whether this bread could be any harder if it were frozen to the Wall." Tyrion lied easily as he banged his bread against the edge of the bowl to prove his point. Both of his friends laughed at that and dug into their food. 

     "I 's'pose it would be, but there's nothing like a nice ladle full of Sister's stew in a trencher to make you forget all about the world's worries." Obed answered as he lapped up some porridge off of his bread. From the look on his face, closed eyes and big lips turned up in smile, he was savoring the memory of the delicacy of his homeland. 

     "Dare I ask what Sister stew entails?" Tyrion inquired as he licked the last few crumbs of bread from his fingers. Chayle often remained silent when the two highborn boys began one of their witty exchanges, out of simple politeness more than anything, Tyrion had a sneaking suspicion that the boy from the North was cleverer than he first appeared, elsewise why would Lord Manderly have bothered to pay for him to finish his education so far from White Harbor?

     "Oh Sister's stew is the best dish you'll ever find on the gods' green earth I can promise you that, Tyr it's got all of the food one needs to make themselves a proper meal. Leeks, carrots, barley, yellow and white turnips, peppers, salt, clams of course, crabmeat, cod, and plenty of cream and butter. " As Obed counted off ingredients on his fingers Tyrion reflected that it awas nice to be known as something other than "the Imp' and that he could grow used to being called "Tyr." 

     "Sounds like a bowl o' brown but a bit less palpable." Chimed in Kence, an acolyte from King's Landing as he took his seat next to Obed on the bench. Tyrion would have bet all of the gold in Casterly Rock that Kence had never so much as sniffed the aptly named 'delicacy' of potshops in the alleys and backways of the capital, especially in the seedier streets of Flea Bottom. Kence was the son of Aerys' old Harbormaster who had purchased his high place at the Sept of Baelor before dying in the Sack. You would think that would make Kence hate Tyrion, but the now patronless boy seemed to have realized quickly that grabbing hold of Tyrion's cloak might be the best way for him to continue his advance in the Faith. Tyrion had read Kence clearly from the moment he saw him, chubby cheeks, thick fingers, the beginnings of a paunch. He had sandy brown hair and common brown eyes. 

     Obed made a sound that was a mix of indignation and a mocking retch. "How dare you compare the greatest food that the Mother ever gave to man to that slop! I accuse you of blasphemy and heresy!" Obed mocked and gave Kence a playful shove that the bigger boy returned in force. The sound of their laughter was drowned out by the din of all the conversations that filled that hall. Suddenly Chayle leaned over the table and put a hand on each of their shoulders keeping them apart. 

     "I think that's enough for now my friends." Chayle said nodding towards his right, their left, where Septon Amos was walking towards them. Amos was a dagger-nosed, thin-mouthed, tall septon who was in charge of disciplining the novices and acolytes. His wooden rod was whispered about like it was the Stranger himself in the few stolen moment between tasks and lessons. Said rod was known to find the wrists and backs of novices and acolytes who spent a little too much time with their female counterparts or were felt to be shirking their duties to gods and men. At the moment it was swaying from thigh to thigh hanging from a leather thong attached to a many-colored belt in front of Septon Amos as he walked towards their table, back rigged to the sky and blue eyes looking judgementaly down the edge of his bladed nose. 

     "Is it just me or does it look like Septon Amos is walking with his cock out?" Tyrion whispered and then the four of them were exploding with laughter that they could not stop  before Septon Amos stepped behind Tyrion and Chayle.

     "I am afraid I missed the joke, perhaps one of you four could enlighten me as to what is so humorous." Tyrion's eyes went wide as both of his hands flew to his mouth to keep him from laughing any louder of saying anything he might regret. He had managed to avoid Septon Amos' attention so far when it came time for disciiplining, taking his blows from some of the more lighter handed septons, and he did not want to spoil that now for himself or any of his friends. Glancing over quickly he saw that Obed was biting on the webbing between his left thumb and forefinger with tears running down his cheeks from laughter and Kence had filled his mouth with stale bread and porridge. Mercifully, it was Chayle who regained his sense quickly enough to come up with a plausible lie and spare them each a good thrashing. 

     "Apologies Septon Amos, Obed was telling us of a time he went fishing on a crabber and encountered a crab so big that would not be buttered without  fight." Chayle lied well holding his hands up to show the proportions of the enormous crab Obed had allegedly caught. Hopefully Amos would think Chayle was actively avoiding looking at the wooden rod out of fear of punishment and not fear of convulsing into another laughing fit. 

     "Hmmm." Septon Amos said with pursed lips looking from one boy to the next to the next before resting his eyes on Tyrion. 

     "Septon Luceon wishes to see you Novice Tyrion." Amos said his voice as dry as the deserts of Dorne. There seemed to be an utter disdain for Tyrion dripping from every syllable in that one short sentence. 

      "w-what for?" Tyrion asked nervously as he stood up from the bench passing what was left of his porridge over to Kence and looking at his friends nervously, all of the laughter had disappeared from their faces. It was typically not good when a member of the Most Devout sent the chief disciplinarian to summon a novice. Of course, Septon Luceon was a Frey, and Tyrion's uncle's brother so perhaps this was a good thing instead?

      Septon Amos glared down at Tyrion in a way that would intimidate anyone who had not grown up with Tywin Lannister. "Are you oft in the habit of questioning the Most Devout, novice?" Amos hissed out that last word. Tyrion feigned a shudder. 

     "No, Septon. My deepest apologies, Septon. I'll go now, Septon." Tyrion gave his best attempt to imitate a servant groveling before bowing low and waddling towards the door. The Most Devout had their own, larger, chambers in the Sept for them to take their meals while they were about their duties at the Sept. In theory theses chambers would also be where the Most Devout lived and prayed and did much of their work, but in practice almost all of them had grown rich from their positions and lived in manses that surrounded Visenya's Hill, Tyrion knew that there were some who kept to their supposed oaths better than others, but he also knew the turth of the power that the Most Devout possessed. Someone had once said, absolute power corrupts absolutely. 

     Tyrion took his time travelling from the mess hall to Septon Luceon's chambers wandering through the marble courtyard that surrounded the Great Sept of Baelor and enjoyed the view of the gardens that surrounded that. plaza. There were crowds milling about here and there in the mid-day sun, waiting for the septons to finish their meals so that they would return to speaking before the crowd. Tyrion moved through the crowd, fortunately finding many gaps between small clusters of people so that he need not raise his voice or draw attention to himself. His grey novices robes lent him a bit more respect than the average dwarf, but his stunted body, his mismatched eyes and his hair still led the smallfolk to send dirty looks his way, or make the sign of the Seven and whisper a quick prayer. Tyrion ignored them and made his way to the statue of the septon-king Baelor that stood before the primary entrance to the Sept. 

     Tyrion knelt there and prayed before the memory of the beloved Targaryen king. His mind told him that Baelor was far from one of the best kings that the Seven Kingdoms had ever known, but his heart reminded him that Tyrion would not be where he was without what Baelor Targaryen had done. Rising then he entered in through the Hall of Lamps with its leaded glass globes of light far above his head and the members of the Faith milling about the Hall going about one task or another, or none as well. Even members of the Faith lagged about and gossiped from time to time. 

     Septon Luceon's chamber door was made of white pine with a small stained glass window with a seven-pointed star in the center. Over the years a small bit of stain had seeped into the wood streaking lines down the wood towards the ground. The brass knob on the door at about the level of Tyrion's eyes was tarnished and the screws keeping it in place looked to be rusted in place. Evidently the steward-septon in charge of keeping the doors of the Most Devout pristine felt that it wasn't worth the expense when the Most Devout in question rarely used the rooms at all. Or perhaps the steward-septon is pocketing the expenses. Tyrion thought and then admonished himself for being uncharitable. Leaving all of these thoughts behind he reached forward and rapped his knuckles against the center of the door. 

     "Come in Tyrion! The door is unlocked!" Came Septon Luceon's call through the pinewood door. Tyrion could also just make out the sound of someone eating, messily it seemed, coming through the door. 

     The knob turned easily enough and the door was not well maintained the hinges certainly were. When the door was open Tyrion was surprised to find that the main room of the septon's quarters was large enough to fit two novice cells with room to spare. There was a medium sized table made of a wood that, if Tyrion had to guess, he would say that the wood came from the exotic Summer Isles. Sitting at the table were three septons that Tyrion recognized as being member of the Most Devout. First there was Septon Luceon balding and weasel-faced with no chin to speak of. He was neither particularly fat, nor particularly skinny resting somewhere in between the extremes. This provided an almost humorous contrast with his lunchmates. Septon Taft sat to Luceon's right with more chins than and rolls of fat than Casterly Rock had gold. He was the source of the gross eating sounds as he tour into a chicken leg grease and gristle sliding down his chins. To Luceon's left was the thin Septon Jon with his whispy beard and face like someone's favorite nuncle. 

     Tyrion shut the door behind him and walked into the space between the table and the door keeping his hands behind his back so that the septons did not see how nervous he was and he grabbed his own wrists to resist the urge to grab at his tunic or play with his rope belt. 

     "Good afternoon, septons, Septon Amos said that you wished to speak with me Septon Luceon." Tyrion answered nervously looking from one to the other. Septon Taft had finished his chicken and was now absentmindedly pointing the bone at Tyrion while looking him up and down as if to measure him. For some reason Tyrion felt very glad he was not a chicken at that moment. He knew Taft to be a holy man, and that even holy men were not perfect, but his vice of gluttony seemed to be a notable one of the many sins that the High Septon had talked about earlier today. 

      "How fare your studies Novice Tyrion?" Septon Luceon asked Tyrion casually and Tyrion felt releaved. If Tyrion was in trouble for anything  it would not be his conduct in classes, where he was excelling and even thriving he felt. 

     "I believe they are going well, Septon Luceon. I am quite enjoying the classes that the acolytes have. They stimulate me and fill me with the light of the Crone." The septons seemed to like that answer as Septon Jon nodded his head as he ran his fingers through his whispy beard, and Septon Taft tossed his chicken bone onto his plate and began to wipe his greasy fingers onto a silk hankcherchief that was on the table before him. Septon Luceon actually smiled. 

     "That is good to hear Tyrion, as I'm sure you know I consider you my protege and it is good to hear that my protege is faring well. I am quite interested in you and your career." Tyrion knew no such thing, but smiled anyway at the words. It would be good to have a well positioned patron on his path to the Gods' calling for him. Novices who did not possess friends in high places more often ended up sent to serve in a small village or for a small lord than they did serving the High Septon as one of the Most Devout. Now it seemed that three Most Devout had taken interest in his career, his ambitions seemed even better served than they had earlier. 

     "Thank you, Septon Luceon." Tyrion said and then there was silence for a moment. Tyrion shifted his weight from one foot from the other unsure if he should say more or not. While he waited Septon Luceon folded up a napkin over his crrumb covered plate and then reached for a small bell that he had sitting next to his plate and rang it twice. Out of one of the side rooms came to small, novice septas in grey who meekly scurried into the room and cleaned up the plates before taking them away back into the other room. Tyrion caught the briefest view of a bed in the room they went into. 

     "You're quite welcome. Now let's get down to the business. We would like to talk to you about your discernment. We think it is time you strongly consider taking on a different kind of labor, in order to compensate for your condition. Septons Taft and Jon both have suggested that you could perform meaningful tasks within areas of their portfolio. Isn't that so septons?" 

     "Yes, of course." "You could certainly be of assistnace."" The two answered quickly and then looked down at Tyrion as if waiting for him to respond. 

      "I'm sorry septons, but I have been focused so long on my studies that I don't actually know what either of you do exacttly." Tyrion said spreading his arms out helplessly. 

       This produced a chuckle from all three of the septons and Tyrion felt his cheeks flush in emberrassment. It had been hard enough just trying to fit in let alone keep up with the goings on and duties of all one-hundred-forty-one Most Devout. In fact, he had been fairly certain that besides teaching, studying, leading worship and electing new High Septons the Most Devout did not seem to do much of anything. 

      "I supposed that is understandable, it might be hard to believe but I still remember when I was a young novice, taking in all that King's Landing had to offer." Septon Jon said while running his fingers through his beard. "I am the head of the Faith's archives and libraries stored beneath the Sept of Baelor.I surprise the librarians, archivists, illuminaators, binders and other brothers and sisters engaged in maitaining the vast collection the Faith has gathered here in King's Landing since the reign of Aegon the Conqueror. Tell me Novice Tyrion, what is the quality of your hand?"

     Tyrion thought for a moment looking down at his hands. " I have never heard any complaints about my penmanship from my maester or any of my lectors. As for my illumination abilitiy, I am better than some and worse than others." Tyrion said giving himself an assessment that was neither too proud or too humble. He saw from the look on the septons' faces that he had balanced it just right. 

     "As for myself, " Septon Taft began still wiping the grease from his neck. "I have charge over all of the book keeping and the coffers of the Faith. Both here and throughout the realm, with a particular focus in the crownlands. I am the septon-steward of the Sept of Baelor, everything that needs to be purchased whether it be food, wine, vestments and oils goes through me. The other septon-stewards of the Faith in the Westeros, save the Iron Islands, reports to me. To such ends I employ book keepers, scribes, factors, surveyors and other septons, acolytes and novices with heads for numbers to make sure that the Faith runs smoothly." Septon Taft explained having finished cleaning his face and throat. Septon Luceon steepled his fingers beneath his chinless face and rested it just above them. 

    "So tell us Tyrion, to which vocation do you feel called?" Luceon asked raising an eyebrow in curiosity. 

     Tyrion understood the question being asked him immediately. He also was able to detect the purpose of the question. These three men were the three most-likely to be chosen as the next High Septon, and three of the most powerful septons in the land. And now they were offering him a very important choice. Money and knowledge were the two ways to power for any man. Add in the support of a very important name, even if they had to throw off the names Frey and Lannister, and one could have the world. All four of them wanted to be High Septon one day, and the three of them were offering him the ability to start on his path towards that goal. Of course, in exchange they would certainly expect him to contact his father to support whichever of them would wish to become High Septon next. And then they would be able to  further assist him in his goal of becoming High Septon himself. 

      So which would it be then? Money or knowledge?

      "Well Septons, I thank you all for the offer and I must say I am feeling called to -"

Chapter Text

     It was strange how quickly the city was able to return to a state of normalcy, or what passed for it in the capital city of the Seven Kingdom's. Over a year ago now the city had sustained a vicious sack, but you would never be able to tell that from a view in the streets. Everywhere one looked commerce was taking place. The Street of Steel was singing with the sound of hundreds of hammer on metal and the Street of Silk was filled with the sounds of the trade being practiced there. What damaged had been done to houses and businesses had been paid for from the crown's coffers, one of the small council's first actions had been to ensure that taxes and duties were collected properly throughout the realm. That money had been used to help rebuild the damage done and keep life flowing in the city. Even the resentment that had grown up during the war and after the sack had seemed to dissipate some, for the first few months after the sack Jaime had not been able to ride out of the Red Keep without being glared at by people who had once adored him. Now it seemed that he could at least ride where he willed in peace. Mostly. 

    "Have you seen the new coins Ser Jaime?" Corwyn Baelish asked as he moved his mare closer to Jaime's own horse. 

     "I can't say I have Lord Baelish." Jaime answered politely as he kept his eyes on ahead of him as they made their way down Visenya's hill towards Fishmonger's Square and the Hook that would take them back up to the Red Keep. Jaime had only left the Red Keep to see how Tobho Mott was progressing on forging him a new gilded set of armor after Gregor Clegane had thoroughly destroyed his last set. There was a grand tourney being planned for when most of the Royal Family returned from Dorne and Jaime wanted to look his best. White armor was fine for him at most other times, but a lion was not made to blend in during moments of triumph. Jaime's predecessor in the Kingsguard had been Ser Harlan Grandison whose sigil and words had been "Rouse Me Not" and a sleeping lion. The joke was that Aerys would rather have a roaring lion than a sleeping one. Well roar Jaime would. 

     On his way back from the shop Jaime had run into Lord Corwyn Baelish and his black haired serving man who had appeared as if from nowhere and greeted him in the streets. In truth, Jaime scarce knew the lord from the Fingers. The man was thin and lean with a razor thin grey mustache beneath a pointed nose and and above lips that seemed to frequently be turned up in a knowing smile. He was of an age with Jaime's Father, though instead of balding he possessed a head of short salt and pepper hair with grey streaks running along the sides. Jaime had known his son Petyr, who Edmure Tully had nicknamed Littlefinger, in passing when he spent time at Riverrun. A slight and short boy Jaime had little to say about the son of a small lord, and less to say to the small lord who had only been placed on the Regency Council to return a favor after better men had turned down the honor. Cersei had droned on at length about the situation, which she viewed as somehow an insult to the Royal Family and thus herself by relation, at one of their weekly brunches. 

     "Belmore is too busy lounging in Strongsong. Corbray too busy grieving his father. Grafton had supported Aerys too strongly. Hunter can't leave his hall without his drunken son ruining something. Royce and Redfort both have pretty new wives to keep them busy, and Anya Waynwood was a woman." Jaime hadn't felt particularly inclined to dig into that last comment. And so due to all of these factors and some strange twist of fate he was now riding back to the Red Keep with one of the smallest of small lords accompanied by ten members of of the Lannister family guard and Corwyn's nameless, black-haired man-at-arms. 

     "No I can't say I have." Jaime answered boredly. He was now a bodyguard with ten bodyguards, which took away much of the fun of riding through the city. There was no chance that some poor fool would mistake him for someone else and try to rob him adding some excitement to his life. But, with anti-Lannister sentiment in the city not quite fled from the city Cersei and Uncle Kevan had insisted he at least take some men with him. 

     "Have a look then." Corwyn said reaching into his pouch and withdrawing a gold dragon. Instead of simply placing it into Jaime's open hand as he had expected, Lord Corwyn nimbly walked the gold coin down his knuckles and then flipped it through the air and into the palm of Jaime's outstretched hand. It was almost impressive that it landed with the head side up.  Almost. 

     Lifting the coin up to his eyes he saw the engraver had carved a face, that while not looking particularly like Aegon was well drawn. Written around the face were the words AEGON TARGARYN SIXTH OF HIS NAME. Turning over the gold dragon to the other side he saw the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen that gave the coin its name. Around the edge on this side were the words of House Targaryen written in High Valyrian, Fire and Blood. 

      "It's a handsome baby to be sure." Jaime said politely though not particularly meaning the statement. He had never been particularly fond of babies. Lord Baelish took the coin from Jaime when he offered it and placed it back into his pouch. 

      "I'll make sure to pass on your praise to Lord Greyjoy, it was his idea to have the coins depict the king as a babe, his reasoning was that updating the coinage each year would make it more difficult for counterfeiters to keep consistent forgeries. He has proven quite knowledgeable about matters of coin our Grey Kraken. Have you heard his idea about replacing pennies with iron coins to trade in the Iron Islands? Fascinating don't you think?" Lord Baelish said with one of his knowing smiles. Jaime vageuly recalled that Braavos used iron coins instead of other precious metals, and with that Titan of Braavos on the back of his cloak Jaime could never forget that House Baelish hailed from Braavos originally. 

     "Not particularly no." Jaime admitted bluntly as their party came upon Fishmonger's Square and cut over toward the Hook that curved up the slope of Aegon's High Hill to meet with the King's way not far from the walls of the Red Keep. Lord Baelish's smile never wavered. The crowd in Fishmonger Square parted for their horses to make their way through, while the sound of smallfolk trading and purchasing their fish for the day filled the air along with the smells of Kings Landing. Fish, mud and filth. Occasionally someone shouted out "Kingslayer!" but Jaime pretended he could not hear them. It had grown harder to go away inside in the past year. He had not fucked Cersei in over a year, and memories faded, only to return when he was in a moment of weakness. 

     "It is a shame what happened to Lady Greyjoy though, surely you heard of that?" Baelish continued on as their horses turned up the Hook. 

     Jaime made a non-committal grunting sound in response. The whole damned Red Keep had heard what happened to Marya Greyjoy. 

     " Horrible way to die. It makes one wonder which is truly the braver sex. We men go and risk life and limb and peace of mind on the battlefield it is true, but women, women risk it all any time they so much smile at a man. The maester's say they did all they could do, Pycelle, Cressen and the others, but they would say that wouldn't they. What with Lord Quellon raging in the yard with that damned big ax of his. Reminded me a bit of Maelys the Monstrous and his massive morningstar." That piqued Jaime's interest, even as a boy Jaime had enjoyed stories of the War of the Ninepenny Kings. His father had fought in the Stepstones, as had his uncles Tygett and Kevan. When Jaime had stayed at Riverrun he had spent most of his time begging stories from the Blackfish for stories of Maelys the Monstrous and the Ebon Prince. He had had little time to talk to his sworn-brother about such interests since however. 

     "You fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings?" Jaime asked glancing at the stiletto and thin bravo's blade resting on each of Lord Baelish's hips. The man seemed too small to be a true fighter, but sometimes it was the ones who looked like they were least fit for battle that did the most damage on the battlefield. 

     "I did, it's where I made the acquiantance of Hoster Tully. And came this close to killing the Ebon Prince." He held his forefinger and thumb a few inches apart. 

     "How did you manage that?" Jaime asked skeptically. 

     "Well in my younger days I was quite a marksman with a crossbow, my father was a hedge knight and his father a sellsword so I at least had some amount of martial training. And at one point during a battle on Bloodstone I was fighting alongside some of Lord Hoster's archers - mostly Blackwood men and men from around those parts- and Gerold Hightower had us engaging with the Ebon Prince's archers, quarrels and arrows flying everywhere through the air one moment and then that long pause where nothing seems to be happening and the sounds of boys crying for their mother's and the screams of animals mix in with that beating of your heart in the middle of the fight. Well, during one of those pauses I was relieving myself behind a goodly sized boulder above a pond when out of a copse of trees comes the most brightly dressed Summer Islander I've ever laid eyes on and two of his men. They were coming to get a drink of water. So I finish my business quick as I can and pick up my crossbow, I rest it on a likely looking shot and wait for my chance. The Ebon Prince kneels down to take his drink and I line up my shot, I'm thinking if I can hit him square his mates will be more worried about getting him to safety than finding out where the shot came from. Then, just as I'm starting to squeeze the lock ready to send him to his gods, then just as I loose the quarrel, before it has even left my bow, he dives into the water up to his waist to grab a fish! my quarrel flies over his back, by this much and rips into his guard's groin instead. I don't take the time to load another bolt I leapt down from my hiding place and went back to friendly lines with arrows flying overhead. And that's the story off how I almost killed the Ebon Prince." They were at the walls of the Red Keep now and Jaime was finding he had enjoyed his ride with Lord Baelish more than he had expected. He still would have preferred to have spent the time eating a midday meal with Tyrion, but Jyck had told Jaime that Tyrion was indisposed in the archives of Baelor's and would not be free for about a week or so. Jaime had laughed at that, at least Tyrion had finally found something that he enjoyed. Perhaps, they would go visit the Westerlands together when they were next both free. 

     They led their horses to the stables were stable boys took their horses to be fed and rubbed down. The stables of the Red Keep were fuller than they had been at almost any point since Jaime had joined the Kingsguard. Each new councillor, whether it was for the Regency council or the small council, had brought their own small retinue who needed to be fed and housed meaning that the steward was always needing to find new places to house this small army that had now fallen into his lap. Fortunately the conflicts between the men-at-arms had seemed to end when Jon Connington became Commander of the Gold Cloaks. He and Randyll Tarly had made quite a team personally breaking up fights and marching almost fifty men, thirty-five of them Lannister men  who had not escaped justice for rapes and murders committed during the Sack, down to the docks to be shipped off the Wall. After that the whole city seemed to get the message that the Regency would be a time of law and order, for Kings Landing and the whole realm. 

     "Ser Jaime, I just remembered." Lord Baelish said as he stepped beside Jaime near the door to the stables. 

     "Remembered what Lord Baelish?" Jaime asked politely wondering what the cooks had made for midday today. 

     "Did you happen to note the alehouse at the bottom of the Hook that we passed on our way here?" Baelish asked.

     "I did." Lannister answered. 

     "I've recently heard that one of the wenches there has given birth to a baby boy with black hair and blue eyes. Please give the Lord Protector my congratulations when you see him." And with that and a sly wink Lord Baelish and his man walked off in the direction of the Red Keep. 

     Jaime turned and went in the opposite direction following the walls towards the stout tower that would be his home for the rest of his days. The common room was empty when he came inside. The tower itself felt empty with three of the brothers gone south to Dorne. Princess Elia had gone to Dorne with Prince Oberyn as well as the King and his siblings and aunt in order to bury her uncle Prince Lewyn and to visit her other brother and his family. They had taken Bonifer Hasty, Brynden Tully and Mandon Moore with them leaving Silveraxe, Fell, Jaime and Ser Barristan to guard Prince Viserys who had deigned to remain. Well, in actuality he had been invited and then repeated some vulgar things he had heard about the Dornish from his father and then had been told he would remain at the Red Keep until he could learn some manners. Either way, with four knights and only one prince Jaime's hours were significantly shortened. 

     Leaving the common room Jaime climbed the steps to his own chamber passing one of the servants as he went. Tossing off his sweaty clothes he changed into a clean pair of breeches and a leather jack with a hood before belting on his sword again and throwing his dirty clothes into the bin for the servants to come and take to wash. He could use a bath as well but first he wanted a good meal and a moment to himself. 

     In order to get to the Kitchen Keep he who need to cut through the yard which was certain to be filled to the brim with people. Ser Willem Darry had been drilling new men-at-arms for months now to replace all of the men who had died during the Sack and add new ones as well. On top of that every likely house that had a boy of age with Prince Viserys had sent them to be the boy's companions meaning Darry had a whole class of young  men to teach the proper way to hold a sword without cutting their own heads off. For not the first time Jaime wished he knew some of the rumored secret passages of the Red Keep so that he could avoid situations like this. Once he would have sought out the chance to happen into the yard and be noticed by aspiring swordsmen, but now he was more likely to receive derision than praise from the more 'honorable' swordsmen, so just about all of them unless there were any secret kinslayers mixed in. 

     It did not take Jaime long to reach the yard, no one stopped to talk to him and no one even met his eyes. 

    "Left! Right! Left!" Came the chant of twelve eight year old boys wrapped up in stuffed pads and swinging wooden practice swords in front of them. Ah the forms, how I haven't missed those. Jaime thought to himself deciding to take a moment to watch the master-at-arms at work.  Finding a nice post to lean against he got comfortable and watched the boys about their training. 

     "Left! Right! Left!" The boys called as they advanced in a line across the yard. They didn't move in unison yet, and their line quickly became crooked but none of them appeared to be totally hopeless with the wooden weapon in their hand.Prince Viserys was in the center with a dark-haired, blue eyed Renly Baratheon on his right and a brown-haired, brown-eyed, plump Garlan Tyrell on his left. 

     "Baratheon! Was that a cut or thrust at the end there!?" Came Willem Darry's gruff voice. "Thrust, ser!" Came the nervous reply. "No it wasn't, this is a cut, this is a thrust. See?" Ser Willem demonstrated the difference with the stout wooden cane he had begun walking with it the past year. The big bear of a man stepped behind the Baratheon boy and took him by the wrists gently with a "Here hold this." To Garlan before tossing his stick at him. In all of an instant Ser Willem went from a roaring bear to a gentle nuncle guiding Renly's arms slowly through the proper way to move from the upward slash on "Right!" to a forward thrust on "Left!" 

     "You see Renly, I know the sword is heavy, but in time your body will get used to the weight. Here practice a few thrusts while I help some of the others." While Ser Willem moved to helping another boy, a Connington judging by his red hair, Jaime moved his attention to the rest of the yard around him. 

     As Jaime had anticipated the yard was packed with knights, men-at-arms and squires looking to train or watch others train as well. For the most part each stayed with their own. Rivermen sworn to House Blackwood had set up several butts to practice their marksmanship with yew longbows. Wstermen in red kept to themselves around the edges of the yard working pallets and sparring with each other. Reachmen kept to themselves while men from the Vale, and the Stormlands, as well as a few knights from White Harbor, watched as Ser Richard Horpe ride the quintain. Horpe rode well the bag flying well behind him, but unfortunately for the deaths-head moth knight Jaime was forced to compare him unfavorably to the other knights of the Kingsugard. 

     Of the seven who wore the white for King Aegon there was no dispute that Ser Barristan and Jaime were the best tourney knights among them, which of the two was the better was a matter of some dispute however. A dispute that would have been settled definitvely if Jaime had participated in the tourney at Harrenhal, in Jaime's opinion at least. Ser Brynden Tully was an experienced warrior having served in the Stepstones and again during the Rebellion. Jaime had never seen Tully joust, but he had seen him train and spar in the yard and did not doubt his martial prowess disappeared when he took horse. Ser Bonifer Hasty had once been a talented tourney knight by reputation, but many years past some misfortune had befallen him and he had set aside jousting as a vain past time. Jaime had recently begunt o suspect that the misfortune was related to Rhaella Targaren, ever since her death Ser Bonifer had been more taciturn and serious than before and Jaime had heard him weeping as he prayed throughh the walls of the their cells. That left Sers Mandon, Richard and Willis who were all young men with some skill but little experience save for the Rebellion. They were all adequate, but not great warriors like some of their forebears mentioned in the White Book. 

     All of this left Jaime remembering the Kingsguard of past years, me like Aemon the Dragonknight and Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning. Some of Jaime's new brothers had the makings of champions in them, but none of them would ever replace those he who come before. Jaime doubted he would ever see their like again. 

     In his musings Jaime did not hear his squire approach him, even though he was chewing loudly on an apple and was wearing heavy leather boots that sounded clearly off the stones beneath their feet. 

     "What a bunch of little cunts." Sandor said nodding towards the dozen lords' sons who were now sparring against each other under the direction of Ser Willem. More men-at-arms and knights were gathering around to watch the lads spar. Some were placing bets on which of the lads would prove victorious, while others seemed only interested in seeing how the young men developed. 

     " A good squire would have brought his knight an apple as well." Jaime chided Sandor as he leaned against the post. The boy was about four-and-ten now and already of a height with Jaime. 

     "A good knight would have known where to find the apples himself." Sandor answered producing a second apple from the inside of his jerkin and handing it to Jaime who took a bite and felt the juices roll from his lips down his chin. 

     "I suppose that would make me a poor knight wouldn't it?" Jaime retorted. 

     "You're a Lannister, you've never been poor. If you were you wouldn't be a knight and I wouldn't be your squire, and I wouldn't have killed two men for you." Sandor said the last part in a raspy whisper, so quiet that Jaime almost did not hear it. 

     "Are you mad at me for that? For sending you out like a hound to hunt my game for me?" 

     "I am a Hound. I go where my master says and do as my master bids. That's all it fucking was. Besides, maybe I'm mad at you for killing my brother, did you ever think of that?" There was no more anger in Clegane's voice than when the conversation began, but Jaime could tell that something was bothering the boy. Jaime would have to be blind not to see that. 

     "Is  that what is bothering you? Your brother? Or the lie? You understand why we have to say I killed your brother. It would be, inappropriate if people knew that Princess Elia had killed your brother. It would cause problems for the Regent and for King Aegon." Jaime explained patiently. 

     "I know that, and I don't care who killed my brother, I'm glad he's dead, I just don't like lying. Knights lie. I'm no fucking knight." Those words surprised Jaime, he had offered to knight Sandor a year ago after the sack but the boy had refused the honor saying he would rather squire for Jaime for a time than go back to Clegane Tower or put a 'ser' in front of his name. 

     Before Jaime could say anything to that Sandor continued. "A knight is just a sword on a horse, they kill the weak for the powerful and lie when their say their vows. A knight is a killer wrapped up in silk favors and the words  of singers looking to fuck doe-eyed maids. Those cunts out there, with their fancy names and rich fathers; Tyrell, Swann, Caron, Florent, and all the others. Some of them will be killers, and some of them will be meat. But none of them are like me, I can see clearly. None of them like to kill. None of them live to kill. I'm a killer, they're just cunts playing with sticks." Sandor spat out a bit of apple skin and tossed the core away. "They begged me not to kill them. Both of them did. One of them offered me gold, all the gold he had, all the gold I could ever want. I gutted him and left him to die in a gutter. The other just begged for mercy, crying and wimpering. I slit his throat like a dog. And I enjoyed it, and don't you dare think otherwise." Jaime reached out a put a hand on his squire's shoulder, trying to give him what comfort he could. It was not much, but Sandor looked up at him with eyes that were sad, and angry in a way that Jaime could not begin to confront at the moment. 

     Instead of saying some words that they both would know did not come from the heart they looked out at the field of boys that was beginning to wind down as several of the boys tired and yielded or were struck 'fatal' blows. Renly Baratheon yielded to Lucion Lannister, one of Jaime's many cousins, but more of the bouts ended with one boy hitting the other on the head sufficiently hard that it was considered a 'killing' blow. Prince Viserys' and Garlan Tyrell's bout did not end so prettily. 

     Ser Willem had paired the prince against Garlan Tyrell, which at face value looked to be a fair pairing. Viserys was robust and healthy for his age, though somewhat smaller than the other boys there, while Garlan was plump enough for it to be obvious that the Fat Flower was his father. Just looking at the two boys the bout should have been in Viserys favor, but as the fight went on it was clear that Garlan had the natural instincts and coordination of a truly exceptional fighter. Viserys would come on again and again just to find his blows blocked and parried by the boy from Highgarden. For all of that Garlan never once moved to return a blow against the prince, and it soon became obvious to Jaime why that was. Garlan was enjoying himself, he was enjoying sparring with Viserys even as Viserys grew more and more wroth. His enjoyment was not born out of any ill will to the prince, in fact it appeared to be quite the opposite. Garlan loved having a sword in his hand and loved hearing the sweet sound of wood on wood sing across the yard. Several of the leading men in the yard watched this bout intently, Silveraxe sat off to the side with his great axe resting on his knees ever vigilant for any actual danger to his charge; Vardis Egen, the captain of Jon Arryn's guard stood beside his Reachman counterpart Igon Vyrwel and Ser Marlon Manderly the captain of Wyman Manderly's guard. 

     The bout came to an end suddenly and with little warning. Viserys, having lost all patience swung his wooden sword hard from right to left as if he thought he could cut his opponent in twain with anger alone. Viserys' sword found only air as Garlan moved nimbly forward and struck the tip of his sword against the prince's exposed nape. It was perhaps the lightest blow that an eight-year old boy could land, but it was still a "killing" blow and the force of it combined with his moment sent Prince Viserys tumbling to the ground. Ser Willem was there in a moment leaning on his stout stick looking over the two boys. 

     "Well fought both of you. Now, Garlan, offer Prince Viserys a hand up and we will rest a moment before moving onto the next excercise." Ser Willem said. Happily and courteously Garlan reached down to offer the Prince his hand and even offered the boy a quick "well fought." If the boy on the ground had been any other boy it would have been over then. Alas, the boy was a Targaryen and not a particularly tranquil one at that. Instead of taking Garlan's hand he smacked it away with the flat of his wooden sword and then sprung up on his own pointing the weapon at the master-at-arms's belly. 

     "It was not well fought and you know it! Your training is worthless and I'm done with it! How am I ever supposed to kill the Kingslayer with you as my teacher!?" The boy screamed loud enough that the whole castle might have heard. Jaime heard Sandor laugh for a moment beside him, but the laugh died when Jaime slipped out of his leather jacket it and thrust it into his hands. "Hold onto this for me, and fetch me a training sword." Jaime said quietly before loosening his sword in its scabbard and stepping forward. 

     "You should be more polite to your master-at-arms, Ser Willem has trained some of the greatest knights the world will ever know, and if you listened to him half as well as you should you would have won that match with ease." Jaime said as he moved towards the boy feeling a tension suddenly fill the yard. 

     "Who dares- ?" Prince Viserys began to ask turning from Ser Willem to shout at Ser Jaime, but when he saw the Kingslayer in front of him his face contorted in a mix of rage and terror and a horrible sound came from his throat. 

     "YOU!" Viserys yelled throwing his sword down in anger against the stones of the yard. The boy was practically shaking with rage and fear as he looked at the man who had slit his father's throat. 

     "Me."  Jaime said calmly drawing his sword from its scabbard the sound of steel on wood defeanned by the gasps and shouts from the men gathered in the yard. 

     Silveraxe lept to his feet haft of his ax spinning in his hands. "Ser  Jaime-" "Do not worry brother, I mean the Prince no harm. Though the reverse can't be said. You wish to kill me boy? Well go on and try." Jaime said turning the sword in his hand and offering it to Prince Viserys hilt first. The boy leapt forward and took the sword, a man's sword bigger and heavier than the practice sword he had been using but balanced well enough that the prince could wield it as a greatsword. Almost immedietly he swung the sword at the unarmed Jaime who stepped back with ease the tip of the sword cutting through the air inches from his gut. 

     "Now wait just a moment, my prince, a true knight doesn't cut down unarmed opponents." The Kingslayer japed as his hand flew out catching the sword Sandor had tossed to him without even looking. "Now it's almost a fair fight." He added spinning the wooden practice sword in his hand to get a sense of how it moved in the air. He would need to be perfecct with it for what he had planned. "With your permission of course, Ser Willem." He added quickly giving a boy to the master-at-arms. 

     "Watch yourself Kingslayer, come Garlan maybe you will learn something here as well." Ser Willem said taking the plump boy by the arm and leading him back leaving the prince and the Kingsguard alone with knights and men-at-arms surrounding them. Jaime was certain almost all of them would try to kill him the instant it looked like he was actually going to hurt the boy- Silveraxe certainly hadn't returned to his seat. 

     "I'm going to kill you!" Prince Viserys raged lifting the sword above his head in high guard and then charging forward. Jaime responded easily, shifting so he was sidelong and thrusting the tip of his sword forward into the soft space beneath his sternum. the prince practically impaled himself on the sword and fell to his knees struggling to breath. Jaime lowered his sword and stepped  back slightly thinking the fight done. 

     "Next time, less talking more killing. In a real fight your armor might have stopped that blow, but your neck was just as exposed." Jaime lectured before turning to walk away. 

     "I am a prince!" Viserys yelled swinging the sword wildly with one arm. Jaime did not even have to think to respond his sword jumping forward smacking Viserys' wrist knocking the sword free of his fingers and delivering a backhand blow to the prince's temple cushioned by the helmet he was wearing. 

     "I just cut your princely hand from your princely body and then took your princely crown from your princely head. You are an angry little boy who needs to learn that the world won't bend over for you just because you tell it to. Now stay down there and count to one thousand. When you get back up you owe Ser Willem an apology." Jaime said his voice even as he turned and began to walk away. He would come back for his sword later, now he needed a drink. 

     He made it ten paces before Viserys was up again, hunched over and breathing heavily but still standing with sword in front of him. For a moment Jaime was impressed that the boy was angry enough to keep fighting despite the massive amount of pain he must be in. "I am a dragon!" The boy breathed before advancing head low and sword tip pointed at Jaime's groin. Jaime stood there fearlessly waiting for the prince to get closer, then at the last moment he danced to the side allowing the sword to thrust through the air where he had been standing, as he spun he brought his sword around and struck Prince Viserys on the back of the head sending him tumbling to the ground. Jaime had lost his patience now, and this time he did not step away instead pointing the tip of his sword at the boy's back. 

     "You are less thant he shadow of a snake. But, one day you might be great." He pointed his sword at Ser Willem, "And Ser Willem Darry is your greatest chance of ever coming within a hairsbreadth from killing me. So listen to him and do as he says and maybe, maybe you might have a chance to kill me some day. Now stay down and learn your lesson." Jaime growled. Viserys layed there for a moment sobbing and shaking and for a moment Jaime thought he might have gone a bit too far. 

     Then Viserys started to move. 

     First he got to his hands and knees, and then he got to his knees, still sobbng and shaking. Then struggling he rose to his feet and lifted his head to look Jaime in the eyes. Tears were rolling down his cheeks and snot covered his upper lip. His lower lip had been cracked and bloody and his pale hair was covered in dirt. He looked like a truly pitiful beaten puppy in every way but his eyes. Despite the tears that were flowing freely Viserys' eyes were filled with determination and defiance. 

     "No." Viserys whispered his voice cracking with emotion. He swallowed for a moment and then said again. "No, I am not done. I will train, and I will work hard, but every day at this time you will come back to this yard and I will fight you. And you might be older than me and you might beat me down again and again. But one day, one day I. Will. Kill. You." For the first time in his life Jaime respected the spoiled little brat standing in front of him. 

     "As you wish my prince." Jaime said dropping his training sword and reaching down picking up his actual sword and returning it to his scabbard. For a moment there was silence and then someone in the crowd began to politely clap joined by another and another until the whole yard was filled, not with an uproarious applause but a polite drumming of respect for the bravery the prince had shown. As Jaime turned he caught a glimpse of crimson-and-gold out of one of the windows. Cersei, Jaime thought to himself and frowned. He frowned because he knew that these men would never show him a modicum of the respect they had shown Prince Viserys in this moment and because he had not planned for Cersei to witness his lesson to Prince Viserys. Of course, he had not planned his lesson either. Walking away from the yard he snatched his jack from Sandor's hands and slid it on as he marched forcefully towards the Kitchen Keep. Servants scattered from the door as he passed inside and took a seat at one of the benches and called out for wine and beef. 

     "Leave the bottle." Jaime told the servant feeling a dark mood beginning to come upon him. These moods had become more common as the reaction to Jaime's kingslaying became more apparent. His honor was shit, he received no respect for it, and thanks to his damn oaths no one knew that he had saved them all and the whole damn city as well. Jaime drained his glass and filled it again and drank it down quickly. Then giving up on the glass Jaime drank straight from the bottle finishing nearly a third of it before the servants hurried out with a beef steak for him. Blood and juice dripped down his chin as he tore into the beef-steak savoring the taste of the pink center in his mouth. As he ate he drank and as he drank he ate, searching to feel something and drown this dark mood. His arms felt like iron bars and his back seemed to be baring the weight of plate instead of the light weight of his jack. 

     "Well aren't you quite a sight to see, brother." Cersei purred entering the Kitchen Keep like a cat stalking a mouse. She wore a crimson silk dress with golden scrollwork upon the bodice and golden lace tying straining tightly around her bosom. Her red lips curled up into a grin as she slinked across the table to bend down in front of him pressing her breasts together and giving Jaime a clear view of her cleavage. By this point Jaime had devoured most of his steak and drank more than half of the bottle of wine. Her golden hair curtained her face and fell down about her chest. Ever since Jaime had rejected her months ago she had been like this, teasing him with what he was choosing not to have. It would be a lie to say it was not a strain for Jaime to keep his emerald eyes locked on hers for long. The corners of her lips turned up in satisfaction to see him struggling with himself, though the wine seemed to be numbing him to caring.

     "Go away Cersei, I am not in the mood." Jaime said turning his eyes to his food and lifting a slice of beef up to his lips and taking it into his mouth. She watched him chew at the beef taking his time and savoring the taste dulled by the wine. Jaime hated himself for getting himself drunk and for have done it so easily. If he had just ordered the beef steak and a cup of wine he would have been fine. That he needed to steady himself when he reached for the bottle of wine and gripped it firmly before lifting it back and pouring more wine down his throat. When he had sated his thirst he put the bottle back down forcefully and staggered to his feet. 

     "I am just here to talk dear brother." Cersei lied and Jaime shook his head filled with clouds. "I don't want to talk to you right now Cersei. I want to just lie down and sleep," Jaime said focusing on lifting one leg over the bench and then the other. 

     "Oh but Ser Jaime, I thought knights of the Kingsguard were supposed to be the most gallant knights in all the kingdom. Surely you would not turn away from the plight of a fair maiden?" She mocked him lifting her voice high in a falsetto as if she were some innocent young maid. For a moment Jaime almost laughed loudly and called her out on her lie, they both knew well that she was no maiden. He did have enough control of himself to stop that. Now if only the room would stop swaying he would be able to turn and leave. 

     Seeing his weakness Cersei said, "Perhaps it is you who needs my help, Jaime. Here take my arm and I'll lead you to your bed so you can lie down." She said coming around the table and taking him by the arm pressing her breast against his arm as she led him to the corridor and began to lead him through the walls of the Red Keep and to her quarters. 

     "This is not the White Sword Tower." Jaime said dumbly  as Cersei pushed open her door and led them into the small two room chambers that she had been granted near to the Lannister quarters. Jaime vaguely remembered that Cersei had been fuming for weeks about being excluded from Maegor's first when she arrived and now that Prince Viserys had reutrned from Dragonstone it had been decided that it would be "improper" for her to live in such close proximity to her betrothed. Jaime had endured many rants about the topic that included the words "Dornish sluts" and "Martell hypocrites." That Prince Oberyn's bastard daughters were living in Maegor's when they were at the Red Keep was another sore spot for Cersei's pride. 

     "My rooms were closer, you can rest here so no one sees you walking around like a drunken lout. Varys told me that Robert hasn't been sober a day since Elia left for Dorne. That hopeless oaf. Did you hear he has another bastard now? He's just whelping them all over the Seven Kingdoms I suppose." She said as she brought him into her bedchamber and set him down on a chair in the corner. She then laid down on her side and rest her her head on her right hand. Her left hand slid down to rest on her thigh and her dress had ridden up to reveal a smooth calf. She slipped her scarlet slippers to the floor and wiggled her toes playfully, Jaime was enraptured by the sun reflecting on the strands of gold hair rolling like a river down her partially exposed shoulder. Then she spoke. 

     "So tell me what was it like?" Cersei asked casually, coyly. Jaime frowned and his brow furlled. His mind seemed to be unable to connect the lines from whatever Cersei was saying to how it applied to him. 

     "What was what like?" He asked dumbly. 

     "What was it like to beat an eight year old boy, didn't you know I was watching?" She said and a bit of mockery slipped off her tongue. Or perhaps her words were drenched in mockery he could not tell. 

     "You think I did that because you' were watching?" He asked incredulous. 

     "What else am I to think? You give your sword to a little boy and let him try to kill you, and then you beat him bloody until he's crying, and that boy just happens to be your lover's betrothed? Forgive me if I don't believe you that it wasn't an attempt to make me jealous." She answered him turning herself and sitting on the edge of her bed leaning forward slightly. 

     "Cersei," Jaime said leaning forward as well fighting to make his words clear. "The prince said he was going to kill me and he disrespected Ser Willem. He needed taught a lesson and I was there to teach it. Nothing more than that." 

     Cersie laughed. "Oh , nothing more than that? So if I put a crown on my head and called Willem Darry an old fool would you pay attention to me? What would you do?" She asked leaning forward baring her breasts and licking her lips. "Would you teach me a lesson, would you spank me?"

     "Cersei you're being ridiculo-"  

     "Oh I'm being ridiculous, Jaime?" She sat up tall and arched her back. "Because I want you to pay me the same amount of attention you do a little boy?" She stopped for a moment with her smile broadening as a thought occurred to her. Just from her faced Jaime knew it was a wicked thought and he was not going to like it, he was already on the edge of his seat. 

     "Is that it Jaime? You want to spend more time with that little boy, hitting him with your big stick? Does it make you feel like a real man?" Jaime was on his feet. "Cersei, shut up!" He snapped at her. She didn't look afraid of him though or put out. Instead she looked satisfied as she stood up, looking up at him with a smile playing on her red lips. 

     "Why don't you come here and make me?" She challenged him. "Why don't you show me what kind of a man you are?" Jaime lost control. He put his strong hands on her arms and pushed her down into the bed falling on top of her his knees on her feather-down mattress. Her lips found his hungrily and their tongues danced together. One of his hands moved to her hair pulling on it and arching her body beneath him. Her hands crawled to his chest pushing his jack off his shoulder and then practically ripping his shirt from his chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind a sober voice cried out for him to stop, to leave her there, but that voice was dulled by a darkness within him and the fog of drink. That voice got twisted and turned about in his mind until it was saying "Do it! Prove it!" The strange thing was, that voice sounded just like Cersei's. 

      And he did. 

Chapter Text

Hello everyone, it's been a long two years with many things happening in it.

First an explanation for where I've been. I mentioned in December of 2019 that my laptop was beginning to give me issues. Not long afterwards it nearly completely died and I needed to purchase a new one. I was able to recover many of the passwords on my old laptop, but unfortunately not the one for AO3. I struggled with the decision of how to move forward, I had lost not just my access to this account, but also almost all my notes on how I wanted to proceed. I considered copy and pasting these chapters and creating a new fic on a new account, but felt that would seem disingenous (how would you really know it was me?) and with the increased stressors of the pandemic and the way it changed my academic year, I decided I would put more focus on ensuring my academic success and then in a quarantined summer I'd find a way to make it up to you all.

I don't think I need to remind anyone how 2020 was.

By 2021 I had given up hope on attempting to recover this account and put all my focus into graduation and what followed. My spouse and I earned our master's together in May and in July we set out across the country to a new city and a new school where my spouse can earn their doctorate. I'm working two jobs now, on top of working on my own fiction and non-fiction endeavors, but I still craved getting back into writing fanfiction and this story in particular. Finally, I got on my Kindle yesterday to at least read it again and I discovered something I had apparently missed for two years.

My Kindle's browser remembered my email and password.

I was so terrified, thinking I'd log in and find a bunch of replies annoyed at me going ghost. I held off on logging in again this morning before my commute to work. I saw I had eighteen replies in my inbox.

I want to thank BurningStar, Aspen_Writes, Fastland, JulesMic, VitBur, schrutfarms, Megamente, and AsakaSama for giving me one of the best train rides I've had in a while.

While I have lost many of my notes, I do remember much of where I was going with the story (pairings, climatic scenes, etc.) I do have chapter 26 partially written, and I have titles and summaries for up to chapter 60. Right now I am planning to use my return commute to go through it all and sort out my writing plans. I'm planning to write 3-4 chapters ahead and hopefully get you all a new chapter by Easter (if not a little sooner) with a three or four chapter lead hopefully it will allow me to repay all of your patience with regular chapters throughout the summer.

Again, thank you all so much for your patience, and I hope you all have beautiful days.

Chapter Text

House Targaryen of King’s Landing

AEGON TARGARYEN, the Sixth of His Name, a babe of two years old, the eldest son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen of Dragonstone and Princess Elia Martell of Dorne, Called the Hatchling

  -his mother ELIA MARTELL, Princess of Dorne and Princess Regent,

  -his sister PRINCESS RHAENYS, a girl of three,

            -BALERION, her black tom cat,

-his half-brother, PRINCE AEMON, next heir to the Iron Throne, son of Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna Stark,

  - his uncle, PRINCE VISERYS, a boy of eight, 

  - his grandmother, Dowager Queen {RHAELLA}, widow of King Aerys, died in the birthing-bed on Dragonstone

-his aunt, PRINCESS DAENAERYS, called Daenaerys Stormborn 

-his Kingsguard

            -SER BARRISTAN SELMY called ‘the Bold’, Lord Commander,

            -SER JAIME LANNISTER, called ‘Kingslayer’,

            -SER BONIFER HASTY called ‘the Good’,

            -SER BRYNDEN TULLY called ‘Blackfish’,

            -SER WILLIS FELL called ‘Silveraxe’,

            -SER RICHARD HORPE,

            -SER MANDON MOORE,

-his small council

            -LORD JON ARRYN, Hand of the King,

            -LORD ROBERT BARATHEON, Lord Protector,

            -LORD RANDYLL TARLY, master of laws,

            -LORD WALTER WHENT, master of coins,

            -SER STANNIS BARATHEON, master of ships

            -VARYS, called the ‘Spider’, master of whisperers,

            -SER BARRISTAN SELMY, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard

            -GRAND MAESTER PYCELLE,

-his regency council

            -PRINCESS ELIA MARTELL, Princess Regent,

            -SER BARRISTAN SELMY, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, 

            -LORD WYMAN MANDERLY, from the North,

            -LORD CORWYN BAELISH, from the Vale,

            -LORD TYTOS BLACKWOOD, from the Riverlands,

            -SER KEVAN LANNISTER, from the Westerlands,

            -LORD QUELLON GREYJOY, from the Iron Islands,

            -LORD MACE TYRELL, from the Reach

            -PRINCE OBERYN MARTELL, called ‘the Red Viper’, from Dorne,

            -LORD JON CONNINGTON, from the Stormlands

-his court and retainers:

            -SER ILYN PAYNE, the King’s Justice, a headsman,

            -SER WILLEM DARRY, master-at-arms,

            -QYBURN, Lord Confessor, a former maester

            -VARGO HOAT, Warden of the Kingswood, Commander of the Brave Companions

            -SER DONTOS HOLLARD, called ‘the Red’,

            -SER JAREMY RYKKER,

            -SER ALLISER THORNE,

            -SANDOR CLEGANE, squire to Jaime Lannister,

            -THOROS OF MYR, a red priest,

-the people of King’s Landing:

            -the City Watch (the “gold cloaks”).

-{LORD MANWLY STOKEWORTH} Commander of the City Watch, slain in the Sack of King’s Landing,

-LORD JON CONNINGTON, Lord of Griffin’s Roof, Commander of the City Watch,

           -HUMFREY WATERS, Captain of the Dragon Gate,

           -JANOS SLYNT, Captain of the Iron Gate,

           -SER ALLISER THORNE, Captain of the Old Gate

           -SER MERYN TRANT, Captain of the Gate of the Gods

           -SER BOROS BLOUNT, Captain of the River Gate

           -SER JAREMY RYKKER, Captain of the King’s Gate

           -SER PRESTON GREENFIELD, Captain of Lion’s Gate

-TOBHO MOTT, a master armorer,

King Aegon’s chief bannermen include: HOUSE VELARYON of Driftmark, HOUSE CELTIGAR of Claw Isle, HOUSE RYKKER of Duskendale, HOUSE STOKEWORTH of Stokeworth, HOUSE ROSBY of Rosby, HOUSE MASSEY of Stonedance, HOUSE BRUNE of Brownhollow, HOUSE HAYFORD of Hayford, HOUSE STAUNTON of Rook’s Rest, HOUSE BAR EMMON of Sharp Point.

House Stark

EDDARD STARK, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North,

            -his wife, LADY CATELYN, of House Tully,

            -his son, ROBB, the heir of Winterfell, a newborn boy,

            -his siblings:

-{BRANDON}, his elder brother, murdered by the command of Aerys II Targaryen,

-{Lyanna}, his younger sister, died in the mountains of Dorne, Queen of Love and Beauty, the    Knight of the Laughing Tree

            -PRINCE AEMON, her son,

-BENJEN, his younger brother, a recruit of the Night’s Watch

            -his household:

                        -MAESTER LUWIN, counselor, healer, and tutor,

                        -VAYON POOLE, steward of Winterfell.

                        -{SER MARTYN CASSEL}, captain of the guard

                                    -JORY CASSEL, his son, a squire,

                                    -SER RODRIK CASSEL, master-at-arms, Jory’ uncle,

                        -HULLEN, master of horse,

                                    -JOSETH, a stableman and horse trainer,

                        -FARLEN, a kennelmaster,

                        -OLD NAN, storyteller, once a wet nurse,

                                    -{ARLAN}, her son, died at the Trident,

                                    -DUNCAN, her grandson, a man-at-arms,

                                    -WALDER, her great-grandons, a huge man-at-arms,

                        -GAGE, a cook,

                        -MIKKEN, smith and armorer,

-his lords bannermen:

            -SER HELMAN TALLHART, the Master of Torrhen’s Square,

            -RICKARD KARSTARK, Lord of Karhold,

            -ROOSE BOLTON, Lord of the Dreadfort,

            -JON UMBER, called GREATJON, Lord of Last Hearth,

            -GALBART GLOVER, Master of Deepwood Motte,

            -WYMAN MANDERLY, Lord of White Harbor,

            -JORAH MORMONT, the Lord of Bear Island,

            -{WILLIAM DUSTIN}, Lord of Barrowton,

                        -LADY BARBREY DUSTIN

            -HOWLAND REED, Lord of Greywater Watch,

The  principal house sworn to Winterfell are Karstark, Umber, Flint, Mormont, Hornwood, Cerwyn, Reed, Manderly, Tallhart, Bolton, Wull

House Lannister

TYWIN LANNISTER, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Shield of Lannisport,

            -his wife, {LADY JOANNA}, a cousin, died in childbed,

            -their children:

                        -SER JAIME, called the Kingslayer, a knight of the Kingsguard, a twin to Cersei

-LADY CERSEI, lady-in-waiting to Princess Elia of Dorne, betrothed to Prince Viserys,

-TYRION, called “Lord Tywin’s Bane”, a boy of ten studying to be a septon at Baelor’s,

            -his siblings:

                        -SER KEVAN, his eldest brother, on the regency council,

                                    -his wife, DORNA, of House Swyft,

                                    -their eldest son, LANCEL,

                        -GENNA, his sister, wed to Ser Emmon Frey,

                                    -their son, SER CLEOS FREY,

                                    - their son, LYONEL FREY, a squire,

                                    -their son, TION FREY,

                        -SER TYGETT, his second brother,

                                    -his wife, DARLESSA, of House Marbrand,

                        -SER GERION, his youngest brother,

            -their cousin, SER DAMON LANNISTER, half-brother of Stafford and Joanna,

                        -ELLA LANNISTER, his wife, cousin of an unknown branch,

                                    -SER DAMION, their son,

                                                -LADY SHIERA CRAKEHALL, his wife

                                                            -SER LUCION, his son

                                                            -LANNA, married to Lord Antario Jast

            -their cousin, SER STAFFORD LANNISTER, brother to the late Lady Joanna,

                        -his wife, LADY MYRANDA LEFFORD,

                                    -his daughters, CERENNA, and MYRIELLE,

                                    -his son, SER DAVEN LANNISTER,

            -the household of Casterly Rock,

                        -MAESTER CREYLEN, healer, tutor, counselor,

                        -VYLARR, captain of guards,

                        -SER BENEDICT BROOM, Master-at-arms,

                        -WHITESMILE WAT, a singer,

-bannermen and sword swords, Lords of the West

            -DAMON MARBRAND, Lord of Ashemark,

            -ROLAND CRAKEHALL, Lord of Crakehall,

            -SEBASTON FARMAN, Lord of Fair Isle,

            -ANDROS BRAX, Lord of Hornvale,         

            -QUENTEN BANEFORT, Lord of Banefort,

            -SER HARYS SWIFT, goodfather to Ser Kevan Lannister,

            -REGENARD ESTREN, Lord of Wyndhall,

            -GAWEN WESTERLING, Lord of the Crag,

            -LORD SELMOND STACKSPEAR,  

            -TERRENCE KENNING, Lord of Kayce,

            -LORD ANTARIO JAST,

            -LORD ROBIN MORELAND,

            -LORD LEO LEFFORD, Lord of the Golden Tooh,

            -LEWYS LYDDEN, Lord of Deep Den,

            -LORD PHILLIP PLUMM,  

            -LORD GARRISON PRESTER, Lord of Feastfires,

            -SER LORENT LORCH,

            -SER GARTH GREENFIELD, the Knight of Greenfield,

            -SER LYMOND VIKARY,

            -SER RAYNARD RUTTIGER,

            -SER MANFRYD YEW,

            -SER TYBOLT HETHERSPPON,

House Baratheon

ROBERT BARATHEON, Lord of Storm’s End, called ‘the Demon of the Trident’, Lord Protector of the Realm,

            -SER STANNIS BARATHEON, his brother, a man of eighteen, master of ships

            -RENLY BARATHEON, his brother, a boy of six, a royal page

-his bastard children:

            -MYA STONE, a girl of three,

-his other kin:

            -his grandfather, GUNTHOR ESTERMONT, Lord of Greenstone,

                        -his uncle, SER ELDON ESTERMONT,

                                    -his cousin, SER AEMON ESTERMONT, Eldon’s son,

                                                -his cousin, SER ALYN ESTERMONT, Aemon’s son,

                        -his uncle, SER LOMAS ESTERMONT, Guntoh’s son,

                                    -SER ANDREW ESTERMONT, Lomas’s son,

-bannermen sworn to Storm’s End, the storm lords:

            -SER DAVOS SEAWORTH, the Onion Knight, a former smuggler,

                        -his wife, MARYA, a carpenter’s daughter,

                                    -their sons, DALE, ALLARD, MATHOS, and MARIC,

            -SER GILBERT FARRING,

            -ELWOOD MEADOWSS, Lord of Grassfield Keep,

            -SELWYN TARTH, called THE EVENSTAR, Lord of Tarth,

                        -his daughter, BRIENNE,

            -LESTER MORRIGEN, Lord of Crows Nest,

            -ARSTAN SELMY, Lord of Harvest Hall,

            -CASPER WYLDE, Lord of the Rain House,

            -RICKARD FELL, Lord of Felwood,

            -LORD GRANDISON, Lord of Grandview, wounded at the Trident, possibly mortally,

-HUGH GRANDISON, called GREYBEARD, Lord of Grandview,

            -SEBASTION ERROL, Lord of Haystack Hall,

            -CLIFFORD SWANN, Lord of Stonehelm,

            -BERIC DONDARRION, Lord of Blackwater,

            -BRYCE CARON, Lord of Nightsong,

            -ROBIN PEASEBURY, Lord of Poddingfield,

            -MARY MERTYNS, Lady of Mistwood,

            -RALPH BUCKLER, Lord of Bronzegate,

House Arryn

JON ARRYN, Lord of the Eyrie, Warden of the East, Hand of the King,

            -his wife, LADY LYSA of House Tully,

-his household and retainers:

            -MAESTER COLEMON, counselor, healer, and tutor,

            -MORD, a gaoler,

            -SER VARDIS EGEN, captain of the guard,

-LORD NESTOR ROYCE, High Steward of the Vale, 

            -ALBAR, his son and heir,

            -MYRANDA, his daughter,

-LYSSANDER CORBRAY, Lord of Heart’s Home, wounded at the Trident,

            -SER LYONEL CORBRAY, his son and heir,

            -SER LYN CORBRAY, his second son, wielder of Lady Forlorn,

            -SER LUCAS CORBRAY, his youngest son,

-TRISTON SUNDERLAND, Lord of the Three Sisters,

            -SALAZAR BORRELL, Lord of Sweetsister,

                        -GODRIC BORREL, his son and heir,

            -ROLLAND LONGTHORPE, Lord of Longsister,

            -ALESANDOR TORRENT, Lord of Littlesister,

-LADY ANYA WAYNWOOD, Lady of Ironoaks Castle

-SER SYMOND TEMPLETON, the Knight of Ninestars,

-JON LYNDERLY, Lord of the Snakewood,

-EDMUND WAXLEY, the Knight of Wickenden,

-GEROLD GRAFTON, the Lord of Gulltown,

-EON HUNTER, Lord of Longbow Hall,

-HORTON REDFORT, Lord of Redfort,

-BENEDAR BELMORE, Lord of Strongsong,

-CORWYN BAELISH, Lord of the Fingers

            -PETYR BAELISH, his son

House Tyrell

MACE TYRELL, Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, sits of the Regency Council,

            -his wife, LADY ALERIE, of House Hightower of Oldtonw,

            -their children:

                        -WILLAS, their eldest son, heir to Highgarden, a boy of eight,

                        -GARLAN, their second son, a boy of six,

                        -LORAS, their youngest son, an infant,

                        -MARGAERY, their daughter, a newborn,

            -his widowed mother, LADY OLENA of House Redwyne, called THE QUEEN OF THORNS,

            -his sisters,

                        -LADY MINA, m. Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor,

                                    -her son, HORAS REDWYNE,

                                    -her son, HOBBER REDWYNE,

                        -LADY JANNA, wed to Ser Jon Fossoway,

            -his uncles:

-his uncle, GARTH TYRELL, called THE GROSS, Lord Seneschal of Highgarden,

                                    -Garth’s bastard sons, GARSE and GARRETT FLOWERS,

-his uncle, SER MORYN TYRELL, Lord Commander of the City Watch of Oldtown,

-his uncle, MAESTER GORMON, serving at the Citadel,

-Mace’s household at Highgarden:

            -MAESTER LOMYS, counselor, healer, and tutor,

            -IGON VYRWEL, captain of the guard,

            -SER VORTIMER CRANE, master-at-arms,

            -BUTTERBUMPS, fool and jester, hugely fat,

-his bannermen, the Lords of the Reach:

            -RANDYLL TARLY, Lord of Horn Hill, master of laws,

                        -SAMWELL TARLY, his newborn son,

            -PAXTER REDWYNE, Lord of the Arbor,

            -ARWYN OAKHEART, Lord of Old Oak,

            -MATHIS ROWAN, Lord of Goldengrove,

            -LEYTON HIGHTOWER, Voice of Oldtown, Lord of the Port,

            -HUMFREY HEWETT, Lord of Oakenshield,

            -OSBERT SERRY, Lord of Southshield,

            -GUTHOR GRIIMM, Lord of Greyshield,

            -MORIBALD CHESTER, Lord of Greenshield,

            -OWEN MERRYWEATHER, Lord of Longtable,

            -LORD ARTHUR AMBROSE,

            -LORENT CASWELL, Lord of Bitterbridge,

            -his knights and sworn swords,

                        -SER JON FOSSOWAY, of the green-apple Fossoways,

                        -SER TANTON FOSSOWAY, of the red-apple Fossoways,

House Tully

HOSTER TULLY, Lord of Riverrun,

            -{LADY MINISA, of House Whent}, died in childbed,

            -their children:

                        -CATELYN, the eldest daughter, wed to Lord Eddard,

                        -LYSA, the younger daughter, wed to Lord Jon Arryn,

                        -SER EDMURE, heir to Riverrun,

            -his brother, SER BRYNDEN, called the Blackfish, Sworn brother of the Kingsguard,

-his household:

            -MAESTER KYM, counselor, healer, and tutor,

            -SER DESMOND GRELL, master-at-arms,

            -SER ROBIN RYGER, captain of the guard,

            -UTHERYDES WAYN, steward of Riverrun,

-his knights and lords bannermen:

            -JASON MALLISTER, Lord of Seagard,

            -WALDER FREY, Lord of the Crossing,

            -JONOS BRACKEN, Lord of the Stone Hedge,

            -LORD KARLON VANCE, Lord of Wayfarer’s Rest,

            -CLEMENT PIPER, Lord of Pinkmaiden,

            -WALTER & SHELLA WHENT, Lord and Lady of Harrenhal, master of coins,

            -NORBERT VANCE, Lord of Atranta,

            -THEOMAR SMALLWOOD, Lord of Acorn Hall,

            -WILLIAM MOOTON, Lord of Maidenpool

            -SER HALMON PAEGE,

            -LORD LYMOND GOODBROOK,

            -WALDER FREY, Lord of the Crossing and the Twins,

House Martell

DORAN NYMEROS MARTELL, Lord of Sunspea, Prince of Dorne,

            -his wife, MELLARIO, of the Free City of Norvos,

            -their children:

                        -PRINCESS ARIANNE, heir to Sunspear, a girl of seven,

                        -PRINCE QUENTYN, a boy of two,

            -his siblings:

                        -PRINCESS ELIA,

                                    -her daughter, PRINCESS RHAENYS,

                                    -her son, KING AEGON,

                        -PRINCE OBERYN, called THE RED VIPER,

                                    -his paramour, ELLARIA SAND, natural daughter of Lord Harmen Uller

                                    -his bastard daughters, THE SAND SNAKES,

                                                -OBARA, his daughter by an Oldtown whore, a girl of twelve,

                                                -NYMERIA, his daughter by a noblewoman of Old Volantis, nine,

                                                -TYENE, his daughter by a septa, age seven,

-SARELLA, his daughter by a trader captain from the Summer Isles, age three,

-Prince Doran’s court:

            -AREO HOTAH, of Norvos, captain of the guards,

            -MAESTER CALEOTTE, counselor, healer, tutor,

            -RICASSO, seneschal,

            -SER MANFREY MARTELL, castellan,

-his bannermen, Lords of Dorne:

-ORMOND YRONWOOD, Lord of Yronwood, Warden of the Stone Way, the Bloodroyal,

                        -ANDERS YRONWOOD, his son and heir,

            -HARMEN ULLER, Lord of Hellholt,

            -DELONNE ALLYRION, Lady of Godsgrace,

            -DAGOS MANWOODY, Lord of Kingsgrave,

            -LARRA BLACKMONT, Lady of Blackmont,

            -NYMELLA TOLAND, Lady of Ghost Hill,

            -QUENTYN QORGYLE, Lord of Standstone,

            -SER DEZIEL DALT, the Knight of Lemonwood,

-FRANKLYN FOWLER, Lord of Skyreach, called the OLD HAWK, the Warden of the Prince’s Pass,

            -SER SYMON SANTAGAR, the Knight of Spottswood,

            -ALLEM DAYNE, Lord of Starfall,

            -TREBOR JORDAYNE, Lord of the Tor,

            -TREMOND GARGALEN, Lord of Salt Shore,

            -DAERON VAITH, Lord of the Red Dunes,

House Greyjoy

QUELLON GREYJOY, Lord of the Iron Islands, Lord Reaper of Pyke,

-his children by {Lady Stonetree},

            -{Harlon}

            -{Quenton}

            -{Donel}

-his children by {Lady Sunderly},

            -BALON, his eldest son and heir,

                        -LADY ALANNYS, of House Harlaw,

                        -their children:

                                    -RODRIK,

                                    -MARON,

                                    -ASHA,

                                    -THEON,

            -EURON, called CROW’S EYE,

            -VICTARION,

            -{URRIGON}, died in an accident,

            -AERON,

-LADY MARYA of House Piper, pregnant,

            -ROBIN, their son,

-his household:

            -SYLAS SOURMOUTH, steward,

            -DAGMER CLEFTJAW, master-at-arms,

            -HELYA, keeper of the castle,

-his lords bannermen:

            -ERIK IRONMAKER, called ERIK ANVIL-BREAKER and ERIK THE JUST,

            -GYLBERT FARWYND, Lord of Lonely Light,

            -DUNSTAN DRUMM, The Drumm, Lord of Old Wyk,

            -SAWANE BOTLEY, Lord of Lordsport,

            -WALDON WYNCH, Lord of Iron Holt,

-RODRIK HARLAW, called THE READER, Lord of Harlaw, Lord of Ten Towers, Harlaw of Harlaw,

-Houses sworn to Harlaw: VOLMARK, MYRE, STONETREE, KENNING,

                        -BYRON BLACKTYDE, Lord of Blacktyde,

                        -NORINE GOODBROTHER, of Shatterstone,

                        -THE STONEHOUSE,

                        -GOROLD GOODBROTHER, Lord of Hammerhorn,

                        -TRISTON FARWYND, Lord of Sealskin Point,

                        -THE SPARR,

                        -ORKWOOD of Orkmont,

                        -LORD TAWNEY,

                        -LORD DONNOR SALTCLIFFE,

                        -LORD SUNDERLY,

Essos Beyond the Narrow Sea

Asshai-by-the-Shadow

  -The Circle

          -MELISANDRE OF ASSHAI, a priestess of R’hllor, the Lord of Light,

          -MARWYN, ARCHMAESTER of the higher mysteries at the Citadel, called the Mastiff, current love of Melisandre,

          -MIRRI MAZ DUUR, Lhazareen godswife, student of Marwyn,

          -QUAITHE OF THE SHADOW, a shadowbinder,

          -ZOSIMOS, an alchemist,

         -JHEA, a moonsinger of the Jogos Nhai

         -THE BRINDLED MAN,

         -TENSQUATACH, an aeromancer from Ulthos, 

         -LADY WESTHILL,