A Struggle of Stags (ASOIAF AU) [COMPLETE]

[HypoSoc]

Eddard I​

The king's bedchambers was a room Eddard was sadly quite familiar with. The king, in his obstinacy, often retreated to his chambers, or refused to leave. When the castle staff, and even the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard failed to rouse the oaf from his torpor, it was often up to Eddard as the man's friend and Hand to force him to the Council Chambers.

This occasion was, sadly, far more morose. Eddard wished it was just as simple as dealing with a reticent king who stubbornly refused to rule. Even outside, the air of the chambers stank of rot and strange poultices.

"Robert?" he announced with a knock of the door.

"Enter." The voice boomed. And, for a moment, Eddard allowed himself to imagine his friend was at his full strength, his voice as strong as it had been back in their shared youth. But the dream proved itself a lie as soon as he opened the door.

Robert… was not well. He had lost most of his weight. The embarrassing stuffing of a man who drank to excess had not shed to reveal the muscular frame of of his youth. Rather, it was a skeletal waste that remained of his friend.

Though not all of him seemed to be a pale vestige. "Really, Robert?" Eddard deliberately kept his eyes off the pair of… companions who were decidedly not dressed.

"What?" Robert scoffed. "If the Grand Maester insists on having me slathered with creams and potions, I'd much rather have it be done by a whore with heaving tits. Hah!"

"Is this really appropriate, Grand Maester?" Eddard addressed the Grand Maester who seemed practically frozen in place.

"Not… not as such. No…" the man stammered. "The treatment should be applied by trained men. But… the king was quite insistent."

Eddard took a deep breath. He turned to Greenfield. "See these girls back to the establishment. And have someone find where their clothes went. Or find them replacements."

The Kingsguard grinned. He clearly had no issue with the command to visit the Street of Silk. He didn't even offer a token protest at leaving the king unguarded.

The king pouted as the whores left, each giving a flirty wink as they exited. "Damn it, Ned? Can't you let me enjoy myself?"

"You were the one who summoned me," was his blithe response.

"Right right." he shook his head. "Get the fuck out of here, Oswyn."

"Your majesty?!" The Grand Maester protested. "Your treatment… it should not be interrupted!"

"If I can't survive a single moment to speak with my Hand about matters of state, then what good are you? I told you to get the fuck out! Don't make me repeat myself again!"

"Your… your majesty," Oswyn meekly bowed, and fled the room, leaving Eddard and the king alone.

There was silence. The stench of the poultices filled the room.

Eddard felt his irritation growing. "Was there a point to this? Did you simply wish to waste my time? Because there is work to be done, managing the realm." 'Work that you are no help with,' was the unspoken accusation.

"I'm dying, Ned." Robert's strong voice was soft. Potable. Eddard nearly froze for how wrong it sounded.

"Surely you exaggerate. The Grand Maester hasn't indicated this attack is any worse than your previous. No doubt you will recover once more."

"No, Ned. It doesn't matter what that fool thinks, I'm dying. I can feel it. And I'm not going to fight it this time."

"Robert…"

"A man knows, Ned. When you near your dotage… decades from now since you didn't waste yourself away like I did, you'll know what I mean. This is a fight, Ned, just another battle, but for this one I won't even bother to draw my sword." He laughed. "You know, I've never been the religious type. But I'm looking forward to meeting the Stranger. When he comes to drag me down to the Seven Hells, I think I'm going to smash his face in. It would serve the lazy bastard right for failing to grab me back at the Ruby Ford."

"What are you saying, Robert?" Eddard knew what he was saying, but he couldn't believe the words.

"I'm there every night, Ned. I'm at the Ford, night after night, smashing that bastard Rhaegar's face in. But I don't even remember what he looks like anymore. The face I'm caving is always someone else's. Osywn. The Kingslayer. Yours. Mine. I'm just in a rabid rage, killing and smashing, carving in the chest of everyone and anyone. All for a woman whose face I have long forgotten, whose voice I had never heard whisper a sweet word… would that I had just died, then, Ned! Would that this entire damned kingdom broken and died with me and the bastard both!"

"You are tired, Robert. Sick. You do not mean what you say."

"I mean every word, Ned." There was not a trace of humor in Robert's voice. "I am going to die. I want to die. I want everyone to die. I want this world to break and shatter for all the pain it has caused me. I want all the pain to stop, forever."

"Cease, Robert! Do not speak these words!"

"Ah, Ned. I did not deserve you as a friend, even less than I deserved Lyanna. The Seven Kingdom's did not deserve you as its Hand. It deserved the likes of me and Jon."

Eddard frowned. "I have striven to live up to Jon's legacy."

"Hah, I don't know why you bother. You're a better Hand than he had ever been. Oh, don't given me that look, Ned. Jon was a shit Hand. Even an idiot like me could see that, confined to bed with nothing but thoughts. Jon was a Valeman through and through. A man who conspired with Lannister, Tully, and Tyrell to raise the lords and kingdoms above the crown. Tax breaks and amnesty and laws… but what should anyone expect from a man who rebelled? Sometimes I wonder if he hated the Targaryens more than me… to work to so thoroughly dismantle everything they have build, to put an oaf like me at the head of it all… I wonder if he cursed the Seven Kingdoms with his dying breath, just as I do. I would hardly blame him for it."

"Robert, cease this incessant talk of your death. You are writing a prophesy with your own breath, one that would not otherwise be considered." Where was the lazy king Eddard had suffered all these years? Where was the rage boiling hot and laughter in equal measure? Where had all this cold, seething hate come from. "Your wife is expecting. Can you not bring yourself to anticipate the birth?"

"If that spawn lives and is not an abomination, I'll join a sept and swear off wine!" Robert spat. "That woman's womb is cursed, Ned. You know it. Everyone knows it. It's not me, because my bastards are still fine. But if I have to witness another dead monster pop out of her cunt…" he huffed.

"And yet you still try. You must have some hope."

Robert glared. If his body were less frail it would have been piercing. "Don't blame me for that shit. If it were up to me, I'd just release upon her belly, or refuse her entirely. I feel bad for the bitch, suffering it again and again, but she is the one who insists on trying, as if it will make a difference. And each one is another reminder of this cursed world."

"What of your other children, Robert? Your healthy children?"

"Them, hah! Babies are cute, Ned. But then they grow. They grow into miserable fucks. Their mother drips poison in their ears, making monsters and madmen out of them. And the bastards… they love me not, Ned. I know this. They resent me, demanding money and positions, if my bitch of a wife doesn't chase them off. No Ned, there is no love to be found in my spawn. There is no love to be found in all of the Seven Kingdoms.

"I hate them, Ned. Gods, I hate them. I hate them near as much as they hate me. I hate my spawn and the bitches who spawned them. Whichever bastard follows me, the Realm will deserve him. Will deserve worse."

"Whichever… Robert! What are you planning?! Do not tell me you plan to be Aegon the Unworthy, come again!" Robert had discussed legitimizing his bastards before, deep in the cups. Ned and the Queen had done their best to dissuade him time and again. Was his old friend planning ruin from his deathbed?

"There is no plan, Ned. This has nothing to do with me. If you have blinded yourself to the faults of the court then you must be drunker than me! The Seven Kingdoms is a hell of its own making, Ned. Westeros, from the Land of Always Winter to the meanest tip of Dorne… the people here are a miserable lot, wastrels who will demand their own suffering. Perhaps it is not just Westeros, and Essos is similarly blighted. It is the people, Ned. The grasping, ungrateful, hateful lords and smallfolk. They will be the means of their own demise. Even if I wished to stop the coming storm I am more helpless than any man. All I can do is embrace it." There was madness in Robert's eyes. A deep conviction of insanity that Eddard had not witnessed since the king's late and unmourned predecessor.

What was this sickness, to have driven his friend so? Or was it the Iron Throne? A curse of the dragon lords of ages past that would consume the minds of all who sat upon it?

"The Unworthy, come again, you ask? Hah! I am King Robert Baratheon, first of his name! The realm will curse me for their misfortune, and I will do naught but laugh and rot, moldering in my deserved fate. My name will be an insult on their lips, the like of which where all will forget the name Aegon. Perhaps it is my final revenge, to outdo those bastard cousin fuckers even in the greatest excess of their sloth and cruelty."

A weak hand grasped for Eddard's collar. It was fragile, like a babe, not one he would ever picture as belonging to Robert.

"The storm is coming, Ned," he rasped. "A reckoning long due, a retribution for this hateful world upon itself. The realm may deserve it, the kingdoms may deserve it. But not you. Not you Ned. You have been loyal. You have been true. You have tied yourself to this hateful bastard that the realm thinks is a king, but that is no fault of your own." The feeble hand shook, a trembling shudder of sickness and madness. "Flee, Ned. Run far away, back to the North. Do as Jon Arryn would have wished and pull yourself inwards. Ignore the Kingdoms and the rot and stay far away. I beg you, Ned. Do not get caught up in my folly. I have stolen too many years from you. I don't wish to destroy anything else of yours."

"Robert…" the earnest pleading on his friend's face was as painful as his wretched state. "I cannot. I have duties. To you. To Jon Arryn. To the realm. To the North. I cannot simply cast my duty aside and flee." He rested a gentle hand on Robert's, trying to convey the warmth of his meaning. "My daughter will be queen, Robert. I cannot abandon her."

"Of course. Of course. I knew you would deny me. I knew you would cling to duty. To this worthless crown. You have chained yourself in honor, and it is my fault most of all for demanding it of you." Robert's expression was sad. "Fine. Fine! Then I will be the friend I should have been. I will do this one thing of mercy before spite consumes me entirely. I dismiss you, Ned. I reject you. You are my Hand no longer. I banish you from King's Landing, under penalty of death. Return to the North, Ned. This I command you, as your king."

Eddard closed his eyes and sighed. He went to the door. "Grand Maester." he called, "the king is in pain. His mind is addled from stress and worry. Offer him wine. Milk of the poppy if you must. It is distressing to see him suffer so."

"Damn you, Ned! Damn you! I'll have your head for this! Don't ignore me!" Robert raged, his voice a pale echo of what it should have been. "I'm trying to save your life, you fucking fool! I'm still king, even on my deathbed! Don't you dare ignore me, Ned!"

Eddard bowed his head and left the bedchambers, letting the Grand Maester and his assistants return.

Robert would recover, he assured himself. Just he had the other times before. When his mind had returned he would laugh and claim it all a joke.

Eddard could not permit himself to accept the words. The madness of sickness was too disturbing to bear.

He exited the chamber and shut his mind to the unpleasant thoughts. There was too much work to be done.

Spoiler: AN

This is my November project. I plan to finish it out in the month in 50k words. Lets see if I can get it done. Editing is sadly minimal.

 

[KenKara]

Is it an si that got inserted at a wrong time @nd circumstance?

 

[HypoSoc]

Joffrey I​

The heir of the Seven Kingdoms glared into the training yard from the balcony above. The courtyard was filled with courtiers, colorful figures, ladies and waiting and dandy ponces in their fancy dresses. They laughed and cheered and snacked upon little pastries, clapping and delighting at the show they pretended to enjoy.

Fools. Cowards. When he was King there would be no room for these gossiping cunts. The training yard would regain its glory as a place of martial valor, where only knights, true, loyal knights, would be permitted to hone their steel. These petty picnickers would be banished back to their realms, if not consigned to the Black Cells.

In the center of this pathetic spectacle, making a show for the audience to clap and cheer to, was the shining Prince Steffon, his 'brother.' The little boy, clad in plate that had never seen a speck of dirt, danced away with the Master-of-arms to the delight of his little court. And a dance it was. No man of true martial skill could ever mistake it for an honest spar.

The point was made all the plainer by Steffon managing to wrest the sowrd out of his 'opponent's' hands, to the rousing delight of the fops. Joffrey scoffed. He could imagine his silent uncle, next to him, doing the same.

Fools. Did they not realize how easy the knight was taking the fight? How he simply played with the brat, mocking some real battle? The boy prince was just that, a pathetic little boy, aping at his betters with the aid of his adoring sycophants.

Joffrey imagined what his 'princely brother' would do in a real battle. If a man in the ramparts, like where Joffrey stood, held a crossbow. He imagined what it would feel like to aim such a thing, to feel the twang of its release, to see the bolt pierce through his brother's foolishly unhelmeted face. That handsome smile, the one he was so proud of, that the courtiers sang of and praised… Joffrey imagined it as a bloody smear.

"Most impressive," he drawled, letting his voice and the blatant sarcasm carry on over the crowd. "Though if you are done playing around, perhaps you would be interested in a real fight."

"My prince?" The Man-at-arms turned in shock. "I did not realize you were here to watch."

Joffrey bristled, but tried to not let it show. "I was simply passing by," he shrugged. "I caught sight of my… little brother… training. And the thought occurred that I might join him. Have my armor readied," he ordered. "And fetch my sword."

The courtiers gasped and gossiped, as was to be expected.

"My prince… you mean to spar with your brother?" The stupidly slow knight gaped. "But… the boy is half your age!"

"Four and ten is old enough, I would say. You think yourself a knight, Steffon? You think yourself ready to fight? Ready to enter the lists? Why don't we let him prove himself." Joffrey glared at one of the man servants. "What are you waiting for? Fetch me my armor!"

Steffon beamed at him. It was an ugly smile, a lying smile, one that seemed to deceive everyone around the little monster. Women called it handsome, as if they could not see the rot hiding behind it. "I would love the opportunity to spar with you, brother."

"Hmph." Joffrey did not deign to reply. The boy's desires were irrelevant. His little brother would either face his blade, or prove himself a coward before all his fawning courtiers.

Joffrey found his way down to the courtyard, his uncle silently shadowing him. The servants had done their job and found his armor in the time it took him to arrive. He allowed them to fasten the plate.

His golden armor was a grand match for his uncle beside him. It far out-shown Steffon and his overly-decorated black plate.

"A blunted sword?" Joffrey scoffed. "Do you think me a child? Bring me my real blade."

"My prince!" The moronic man-at-arm protested. "Surely you do not mean to use live steel!"

"I mean to show the prince what it means to fight a knight." His retort was cold. "There is little to be learned from blunted blades and tourney rules."

"Ser Rennifer," Steffon smiled, "it is only right that I get to practice with live steel. If my brother thinks me ready, then let it be so."

The knight flinched, but was clearly not willing to countermand a pair of princes. It burned to see it. The man should have jumped at his order alone.

There was much that would be changed when he became king.

"Very well," the knight nodded. "I will watch and interfere should matters get out of hand. Please remember, my princes, that this is a spar. If either of you get injured, it will be my head on the chopping block."

"You will not need to watch for long," Joffrey declared. And he struck. A real fight did not have an announcement. A real war, like he one his father had waged, had no niceties. Joffrey would teach this lesson to his foolish 'brother.' If it were a lesson learned in blood, then so be it.

Steffon scrambled and caught the blow with his shield. Joffrey had failed to catch the boy off guard as much as he had hoped. But still, he had the moment.

Steffon was a large boy, as strong boy. Against his so-called peers, he towered and dominated. He had frustratingly inherited the build of the king. In reach and strength of arms, Steffon was a boy who stood above, especially against those who would hold back for fear of hurting a prince.

But Joffrey was a man grown. He had earned his spurs. Though his build leaned more towards his uncle than his father, he had height on his brother and would still for some years yet.

And Joffrey had no fear of harming the bastard.

So he attacked and attacked and attacked. He bashed and beat away and bullied his brother. Though he was not a fool enough to look and see, he imagined all the poncy courtiers watching in horror as their precious prince was driven back and back and back some more. Perhaps they would see now, what a fraud the boy was. Perhaps they would escape his spell.

Joffrey felt a pressure in his leg. His balance fled him. The ground raced towards his face. His sword was pulled from his grip.

Time seems to freeze and Joffrey fell.

His brother, that damnable bastard was smiling. It was a hateful grin, aping at cheerfulness. Joffrey could only see the slime and the spite and the hate.

"Good match." Steffon reached out a hand to him. Joffrey smacked it away.

He pushed himself to his feet. He would have whomever was in charge of the grounds killed. There should be no divots! No holes! Nothing to trip on. The damn servants had put his armor on wrong and it had thrown him off. His sword… no doubt they had ruined the weight. The servants would do anything to make their precious Steffon look good. The sabotage was clear. The conspiracy obvious.

"Do not grow a big head, brother," he spat. "In a real battle, the foes you face will not be as kind or merciful as me. They will hunt you down without a moment's hesitation. No fear of kin slaying will stay their hand."

With a sniff, he left the training yard, left the sabotaged sword in the dirt, left the damnable, treacherous courtiers to their gossip. He did not need to hear their words to know them. They laughed and mocked him, looked down on him, as if they were knights to judge rather than feeble bootlickers and wastrels.

The short-sighted fools did not respect him. They did not grasp how he, not Steffon, was prince of the realm, heir to the Iron Throne. They did not understand how his father was on his deathbed and how he, Joffrey, would be king all too soon. A moon, a week, mayhaps a day. His father's condition was dreadful but the idiots didn't care, did not put two and two together.

The whispers continued as he made his way through the Red Keep. Gossip spread faster than wildfire, outpacing him in his march. The story of his spar, of his humiliation, had no doubt expanded and expounded again and again.

His ears prickled as a maid servant whispered to another. The words were out of his grasp but he knew them. They burned him.

'Here comes the prince,' she must have whispered. 'The foolish one. The weak one. He lost to his brother, a boy half his age. It is to be expected, of course. Steffon is the gallant one. Weak little Joffrey is a poor substitute. Would that handsome Steffon were the older brother.'

The whispers were daggers, vile and worthless lies. He had the maid servant sacked for them, and flogged for good measure.

Staff must be loyal. Their obedience must be perfect. Steffon's creatures infested the staff, just as his courtiers festered in the court. He did not have the power to make a clean sweep of things, not yet. But he could still make examples of loathsome examples, like that serpent-tongued maid.

"I'm going to visit mother," he announced. It was unnecessary. His uncle would have followed him regardless, silent and watching. But proper courtesies must be made. His mother had taught him that.

He made himself presentable, reapplied the chalk, and marched out of the Red Keep for the sept. His trek was common enough that the guardsmen and groomsmen knew to be ready for it. His horse was ready and waiting, as were those for his entourage.

Uncle and the men at arms kept his path secure, pushing aside the mewling smallfolk who had come to gawk. He had no patience for them today, those vile leeches who hoped he might toss coins at them as if he were Steffon.

The march across the city, from the Red Keep to Visenya's Hill, was far too long. His mother should have stayed in the palace; the Great Sept, worthy as it was of her, was too inconvenient. But Joffrey made the trip all the same.

He dismounted his horse and forced his way through the prattling septons and septas to where his mother rested. The guardsmen knew to make themselves scarce, so only he and uncle entered the room.

Silence gripped the room, defeaning the noise of the Great Sept. Joffrey found himself unable to speak. But his mother would not break the silence, nor would his mother.

Eventually, he found his words.

"I fought Steffon today," he said simply. "Before his lickspittles. Before his fawning sycophants. I planned to humiliate him, to show him his place. But… I failed."

He could feel his mother's disapproving gaze. It burned as much as Steffon's monstrous smile.

"Of course I failed. I always fail. I don't know why I expected better. Pitting myself against 'Perfect Steffon…' when everything works for him, when everything is so much harder for me… how could it have gone any other way? Even though he is but a child, the world bends to him, everyone bends to him, away from me. I had deluded myself, that there would be justice. That the world wouldn't conspire against me. That the proper course would happen for once. More fool, I."

His words echoed in the silence.

"Father is dying. You know that, of course. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows it. But Steffon simply doesn't care. He plays away and plots. He doesn't feel the pain of father… of the tragedy. But what would I expect of him? He is no true brother of mine. No true son of father's. You know that as well as I. More than I."

Joffrey was not alone in his loathing. Surely his mother felt the same, if not more, for that monster who was not born of her womb.

"I will be king soon. Too soon. But it is a duty I will embrace. But I know that the court loves me not. The people love me not. They all croon for Steffon. They all prostrate before the cursed queen. She has taken everything, and turned my castle into a fetid field of her creation."

He was not blind. He could see the treachery. The castle loved the queen more than him, more than he, the rightful heir, the future king.

"I… I am too weak in this games. I can see that I have been thwarted again and again, but I cannot see how. I don't understand why the clamor for Steffon, why they worship the queen despite all the monsters she births. I just don't understand it. My wife is a worthless shrew, no help at all. Uncle refuses to speak a word. Father is dying. And… I need your help."

He bowed his head. "Mother, I beg of you. Please, tell me how to fix this. Make it right. You never would have let it come to this. Just tell me what to do. Speak with me."

The sept remained silent.

"Damn you, mother! Why won't you speak to me? Am I not you son?!"

It was his hair. Mother always hated his hair. She refused to look upon him and his black locks. He had covered it in chalk, but he must have missed a spot. Perhaps in the back, perhaps it had gotten smudged when he fell.

That damned black hair. It was his curse. His impurity. Tommen and Myrcella had gotten their mother's golden curls, but he was stuck with the mar upon his soul, the same hair as Steffon and Boros.

It was why his mother didn't love him. It was why everything was so hard.

"My prince," a decrepit voice called softly, a voice that should not be present. "I have no doubt that your blessed mother looks upon you from the Seven Heavens. But… I would not expect her voice to come so directly. That is the realm of prophets, the likes of which no longer walk among us. The Mother, and your mother, are speaking to you, no doubt, but you must find their messages in the world, in meditation, and in prayer."

"Why are you here?!" Joffrey shouted.

"I apologize, my prince. I was cleaning the crypt when you arrived. I did not have time to vacate. But you should not be concerned. The entire realm weeps for the king, as loyal subjects. But you, among so very few, also weep for him as your father as well. Your distress is understandable. It is a wound that time can never fully close. To lose one parent is a tragedy. To lose both is a trial from the Seven above. Know that we all support you in your time of grief. And know that I will keep your words safe, same as any other mourner."

Joffrey clenched his fist. But he could not have a septon beaten or killed. Not in the Great Sept.

He huffed, and turned, exiting the crypt. Mother was no help. Why had he thought she could be, he didn't know. But strange fancies took him at times.

He could expect no help from anyone. It would be his strength alone that would keep the realm from tearing apart.

 

[HypoSoc]

Is it an si that got inserted at a wrong time @nd circumstance?

Click to shrink...

There is no SI. This is a pure AU.

 

[ThedudeManBro]

The plot keeps thickening like tasty delicious oatmeal. Yummy!

 

[Paradosi]

Joffrey, even trueborn, is a trainwreck. That tracks.

 

[HypoSoc]

Eddard II​

Eddard was well acquainted with the Small Council chamber after so many years. Some would believe that the business of the realm was conducted here, far more than upon the throne before the court. Long experience had taught him that few decisions were truly ever made in this room, with the king so often absent. Rather, it was a place where the lords of the small council simply bickered. The real decisions happened behind closed doors, or outside the eyes of one another. Disgusting as it was, Eddard had learned the easiest way to get something done was to simply order it, rather than let the committee dissect and deliberate over every petty matter.

Most days, the Small Council was a loathsome chore to suffer through. Most days were not today.

"It… ah.. could be considered quite auspicious… quite appropriate, really. For the High Septon to die so shortly after the king. Mere hours, they say." Grand Maester Oswyn sputtered out in his meandering way. "I presume it will be said, among the smallfolk and lords alike, that the two were great friends, for the High Septon to follow him so."

For all that there were more faces in the chambers, it was the absence that Eddard felt most keenly. The absence, so common as to lack note on any other day, was a gnawing hole given the reason.

"It is good that the realm should be reminded of my husband's strong ties with the faith, sacred in life, and tantamount after." Margaery was not an uncommon sight in the Small Council chamber. She made a point to observe, more so than her late husband.

If not for her elaborate mourning garb, the queen's presence would have been entirely unremarkable.

Not the queen, Eddard reminded himself. Sansa was the queen now. Or would be once the coronation took place. Margaery was simply the Queen Mother now… or perhaps the Queen Widow would be more appropriate a descriptor. It would be queer to claim the Tyrell girl as a Queen Mother when she was scarcely older than the king to be.

Eddard would avoid commenting on the title until he had a better grasp of the etiquette. Even after so many years among the Southrons, most often his best tool in the court was to remain silent.

"Oh yes. The pious king, Robert." Baelish drawled. "It was the most prominent of his many virtues."

"Enough. What is the point of this nonsense, Oswyn?" Joffrey, the king to be, snapped. "What does it matter that the fat old oaf of a Septon passed? We have a funeral to plan. A coronation to plan."

There was a bristling from Tommen at that, but other than the king's younger full brother, no one in the chamber refuted Joffrey's description.

Years at court had done little to endear Eddard to his wife's religion. The High Septon in particular had struck him as a greedy and grasping man. He clung to excess worse than Robert, while nominally the speaker for the Seven. It was not a shock that he had passed. The wonder came from him having outlived Robert at all. Either the Southron Gods were far more decadent than their holy book portrayed, or the Church was less their representative than they claimed.

Though he had more tact to admit it, Ned still did not understand the point of a church and all its rituals, compared to the personal connection one held with the Old Gods. The priesthood seemed, to him, a mere excuse to extract a toll. Seeing the vast wealth of the Church of the Seven was proof enough of this corruption, in his mind.

"That… well, that is to say, it is a matter of logistics, Your Grace," Osywn swallowed. "The High Septon was an integral part of the planned ceremonies, both for the funeral, and your coronation."

"What use is this mummery?" Stannis groused. "We all know Robert had no care for the church in life. He certainly has no care for it in death. Dispense with the Septon and change the ceremonies. I doubt my nephew cares either in the matter of coronation. We have more important business than this."

"Quite right," Joffrey agreed. "If the oaf wanted to preside over my coronation, he should have lived longer. We don't need him. Some other Septon would do, it we must."

Despite agreeing with the sentiment, Eddard knew he needed to interject. "We should not underestimate the value of the High Septon at the the coronation. It would concern the realm if you appeared to be breaking ties with the church. Besides, it will take many months yet for the lords of the land to gather from cross the kingdoms. Perhaps a new High Septon would be chosen in that time."

"I am in awe of your optimism, Stark." Baelish smirked. "In my experience, men of the cloth dither more than a baker's wife at a fishmonger's stall."

"Lord Baelish, ah, may have the right of it." The Grand Maester nodded. "The Most Devout have, historically, not been the most brisk in the matter of selecting their representative. On one notable occasion, I believe, in the reign of Viserys II, their deliberation took a total of two years. Though on that occasion there was a great deal of fracturing. Some scriptural dispute if I believe. My insight into the, er, politics of the church is limited. But I would note that the ravens have only just departed. It would certainly take time for the Most Devout to gather."

"The Most Devout understand the importance of their duties," Margaery said. "If the matter takes time, it is because it needs to take time. For something as important as putting my husband to rest, we should be willing to accept the need."

"I am surprised, My Lady," the Mister of Whispers rasped. Walder Rivers was an ugly man, with a pock-marked face and a voice that grated on the ears. But Eddard could not say that he was not fit for the position. "I would have imagined House Hightower to already have a candidate at the ready. But if that is truly the case, Your Grace," he bowed to Joffrey, "If I may make a humble suggestion, why not take this opportunity to declare your own High Septon?"

"What?!" Eddard had seldom seen the queen so unnerved.

"That would be most unusual!" Oswyn said.

"It has been done before," Rivers said.

"Yes. By Baelor the Befuddled." Baelish drawled. "Which will it be, Your Grace? A stonemason? A child? Perhaps a mummer would make for a fine Septon."

Eddard frowned. "It seems distasteful to interfere in such a manner. The man will be seen as a puppet of the crown."

"As opposed to a puppet of the Reach?" Stannis said. "Let us not pretend that the High Septon has ever been as neutral figure as they claim. Choose and be done with it, or let them choose and ignore them if they fail to choose in time. It doesn't matter."

"This is the Faith of the Seven!" Margaery's rage was palpable. "You cannot interfere!"

"No, it is a matter of the realm. It is my every right to see this done properly. And I do not see why you care so much. You may pretend to be pious maiden, but we all know you are anything but. How many woods witches have you consulted? Essosi maegi? Did you meet with them before or after your womb got cursed?"

"I would ask you to not cast unfounded aspersions on my character." Margaery spoke coldly. "The Faith of the Seven has no cause to doubt my devotion."

"No. I imagine they do not." Joffrey smirked. "You have raised an excellent point, Rivers. Why should this not be a matter for the king to decide? Better me than the Hightowers. And no, Baelish. I am not so uncouth as to elevate some smallfolk rat. I have just the Septon in mind." He grinned. "Congratulations, Tommen."

"What?!" The quiet boy shouted for perhaps the first time in Eddard's recollection. "Joffrey, you can't just…"

"'Your Grace,' Tommen," Joffrey glared. "I am your king before I am your brother. And why not? You are a Septon, are you not? You certainly spent enough time with the old oaf. One could say you were an apprentice or what have you."

"I'm not qualified! I am not a member of the Most Devout! I am much too young!"

"Then spend more time reading The Seven-Pointed Star, I would have assumed you would have had the thing memorized by now. And what else is there?" Joffrey sighed. "Really, Tommen. You should be thanking me. We both know you are too much of a coward to go anywhere in life. Even among the Faith, you would be trampled upon. Now you don't need to flounder about." He grinned. "Oswyn, write a letter. Inform the Starry Sept that I have done them the favor of selecting their new High Septon. It saves everyone time, really."

"Your Grace… I, er… I fear that the Faith might take this action quite negatively."

"Are they traitors, Oswyn? Do you believe they would refuse an order from their lawful king? Do you believe they would have a problem with Tommen? A Septon in good standing, who is the king's full-blooded brother?"

"That… that is to say…"

"Send the letter, Oswyn. Let it reach them as soon as they learn of the fat oaf's death. That is an order. If they rebel, we will deal with it as it arises."

"Ah, so we are adding Maegor the Cruel to Baelor the Befuddled." Baelish japed. "Shall I secure new funds for a new Red Keep, Your Grace."

"I trust the Faith knows not to displease me. But I will be Maegor if I must. Or Jaehaerys the Wise. Or Robert the Good." Joffrey lifted his nose imperiously. "Are their other matters? I am bored of this."

"Yes," Eddard cleared his throat. "There have been disruptions in the shipments along the Roseroad. King's Landing is not receiving as much grain as it should."

"What's wrong with the Roseroad?" Ser Moore grumbled. "Bandits?" Eddard could imagine a rumble of enthusiasm behind the Lord Commander's fish-like eyes. Decades of peace had left many knights bored.

Eddard shook his head. "Not to my knowledge." The Lord Commander looked to have lost interest entirely.

"I have no word of organized banditry in the Reach, nor Crownlands." Rivers shook his head. "Have you any explanation from your father, My Lady?"

"There is little to explain, my lords," Margaery bowed her head. "The autumnal harvests were weak, and the first snowfall caught many off guard. I presume many lords are opting to build up their own stores rather than sell grain on. It would explain any shortfalls."

"Regardless," Eddard continued, "I wish to preempt the matter by ordering shipments from Essos. It will help shore up our own stockpiles as Winter approaches. Your Grace, if you would approve the expenditure, I will see this addressed."

Joffrey frowned. "Baelish, how are our coffers?"

"As well-managed as I can manage, Your Grace. But given how much I am reserving for the funeral and your coronation, we many need to acquire another loan. From your lord uncle, perhaps? I presume the Faith would not be so agreeable."

Stannis scoffed. "Do you intend to waste away coins like Robert did, beginning your reign with yet another loan? Cut from the funeral or the coronation."

"Do not presume what my intentions are, uncle." Joffrey glared. "No, I will not take a loan. And no, I will not diminish my father's funeral or my own coronation. They must be grand Anything less would be unworthy of the Baratheon dynasty."

Eddard raised a brow. "Will you do nothing, then? The price of food will rise. Many in King's Landing will suffer for it."

"Why should the crown be forced to pay when it is the Reach's fault that the food is diverted? No. I will not be tricked into worthless charity. Is there anything else?"

Eddard frowned.

"I wish to note the absence of your Master of Laws, once again." Stannis glared. "Perhaps your should consider a replacement."

"You may have forgotten, Stannis, but some of us have holdings we must visit on occasion." Baelish said. "Tedious as it is to visit my very many, scattered domains, it must be done. You shouldn't begrudge Renly for seeing to Storm's End on occasion, just because you lack any at all anymore." He smiled. "Why don't you come with me to the Vale on my next visit? I'm certain your daughter and goodson would love to see you."

Stannis grit his teeth. It was a wonder the man still had any after all these years. "Robert is dead." He said simply. "If there is ever a time for the Master of Laws to be here, this is it. That he has not hastened back is an insult."

"Your Grace," Rivers spoke up, "I feel it is important to note that word last said that Renly has been seen at Highgarden."

"Highgarden?" Stannis scoffed. "Perhaps you can explain, queen, why my brother is cavorting with your family at this time?"

"I could not say, Lord Baratheon," the former queen spoke softly. "Renly's friendship with my family is well known. But I cannot imagine the specifics. Perhaps I can ask Loras if he has any idea."

"Enough." Joffrey interrupted. "I do not care about my uncle or his wanderings. It does not matter in the slightest. Unless there is an issue that would delay my coronation, I do not care. Stark! Have you found the mummers I asked for? The acrobats? The chefs?"

Eddard sighed. "Yes, Your Grace. Many of Robert's favorites still remained in King's Landing. I have put the troupes on retainer for the coronation."

"Good, good." Joffrey rubbed his hands. "I will be making a trip to the Street of Steel today, to commission a new set of kingly armor. I wish to have a new crown forged, and a new cloak made for myself."

Eddard sighed as the king-to-be carried on with his demands and specifications. For a moment, looking at the dark-haired boy, Eddard could imagine it was Robert once again wasting the realm's coin on tourneys and frivolities, rather than his son.

 

[HypoSoc]

Sansa I​

Sansa was happy. How could she not be?

She was married to the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms. Her father was one of the most powerful men in the realms. She had a beautiful little girl. She lived in the heart of the court, among the most fashionable and cultured people. She was going to be queen.

As a girl, she would not have been able to imagine a better life. She had no cause to complain, or regret or feel concern. Because life had to be as perfect as it could be. She knew she was happy.

There were some… discrepancies. Such was the life that the Seven-Faced God crafted for them. Without anything to break from true perfection, the faithful would not be able to distinguish the world that has been crafted for humankind from the Seven Heavens that served as the ultimate reward. The little issues kept one humble, providing one with the opportunity to practice the virtues that pleased the Seven.

This was simply one of the little trials. Sansa was faithful. Devout. She had spoken with Septas and Septons on this matter, and knew it to be true. But that did not make the trial any easier.

The luncheon the widow queen Margaery had arranged was an elegant affair. The décor was tasteful punctuated by an expanse of flowers which could not be properly found in the Crownlands this late in autumn by any but a daughter of the Tyrells. The furniture had been selected and arranged by a master of the craft, all casually draped with dyed lines from the far east in an effortless pattern. The platters of finger foods and sweets were as readily available as the goblets of watered down wine. A musician from Tyrosh with his strangely dyed beard plucked at his instrument.

All of Margaery's ladies in waiting were dressed in the finest silks, an elegant display of fashion. Even the widow queen herself, late in her pregnancy, was wearing a grand assemblage. Sansa's own ladies were similarly dressed to the sevens, in the most expensive cloth she could find. The cuts and styles of her own ladies were distinct, a creation of herself and Jeyne, that contrasted with the daring cuts of Margaery's. And yet, despite the effort and expense, it was the widow queen's style from which the court took their cue.

It was galling: but another trial by the Seven. No doubt once the coronation took place, the court would know to seek her favor, and the widow queen would be allowed to wither away to dust.

Until then, Sans knew she must suffer these incursions. She could not yet refuse Maegery's invitations without losing standing.

"I feel, Lady Sansa," the former queen continued, "that your Lord Husband believes we are at odds. It is shameful that I have somehow failed to convey my intentions. Prince Joffrey is the brother to my sons. Both of us mourn for my dearly departed Robert, myself as a wife, and Joffrey as a son. In our shared grief, we are proven to be greater family than ever before." Margaery reached out a gloved hand for Sansa's. "Lady Sansa, I hope I am not reaching beyond my station in seeking you out in this matter. I have always thought of you as something of a sister, here in the Red Keep. I would ask that you speak with your Lord Husband, to help bridge this growing rift, before it can lead to tragedy."

"Lady Margaery," Sansa bowed her head, "you have been as true a sister to me as my own." It was the truth, even. Margaery was every bit as much as much a loathsome, spiteful shrew as Arya. Truly the Seven had cursed the world in their creation of the treacherous villains. "I will, of course, convey your intentions to my Lord Husband. It is important that he knows of your desires."

The widow queen smiled. It was all too pretty on her whorish face. A smile like that concealed only lies. A girl who had seduced the grieving king at the age of five and ten was no true lady to be trusted. "I am glad. It is in times of change that House Baratheon must be united, more than any other. We, who have both married into the dynasty, must ensure that the men don't make a mess of things. I would love to foster a stronger bond between my children and their brother."

"Hm." The queen's get were practically bastards in Sansa's eyes. Remarriage might be accepted under the Seven, but it would always be lesser.

Good King Robert was in the Seven Heavens now, reunited at last with his true wife. It was pleasant to imagine, knowing that Queen Cersei could finally be at peace. When Margaery passed, she would be left in the cold as she deserved, if she even made it to the Seven Heavens.

In lieu of answering, Sansa snatched a dainty meat pie from the platter that had been set for her. She took a bite and almost gagged.

It was unbelievably bitter. Had the meat spoiled? Were the herbs wrong? It took all that she could to swallow the blasted thing. Nobody else seemed to be displeased with the pies. Was it just her own?

"Are you alright, Lady Sansa?" The widow queen looked concerned. "You look pale."

So she hadn't managed to keep it from her expression. "The pie disagreed with me. The recipe was not to my taste."

"Oh? That's a shame. I had my chef prepare that special for you. I'll have the servants take it back." The widow queen smiled. "I have heard you were pregnant."

Sansa grasped for something sweeter, to better remove the taste from her mouth. "That is not something that we have made public yet."

"Servants gossip. We can hardly stop it. I simply wished to commiserate. My own pregnancy is further along, but it serves as another tie between us. Are you hoping for another daughter?"

"Joffrey and I wish for a son, of course. I have been praying on the matter." A daughter would not be enough. There had been pressure before, of course. Joffrey was a gallant man. He wished for a son to raise. But now it was the kingdom at stake.

It was her duty to provide a son. She could not fail again. Her own recent… misfortunes… upon the birthing bed were setbacks.

"I admit I am jealous. I have long hoped for a daughter. Robert proved quite a virile husband, only siring boys upon me." She batted her stomach. "It is my dearest wish that my final child will be a girl, but I fear our late king was only capable of siring warriors such as himself."

"You say that this is a consequence of your husband's virility? An interesting theory." The attempted boast was obvious: three children to Sansa's one, boys to her girl. It was a dagger of court. But coming from Margaery, the dagger was without an edge. "How is little Orys? I so seldom see him at court."

The widow queen smiled, but there was no warmth in her eye. Sansa knew she had won the exchange.

Orys. Margaery's youngest. The little freak, two and ten. He was proof of the widow queen's evil: a living testament to her sin. What vile deed had the queen committed, to be granted a child like Orys? What wickedness had forced the Seven to curse her so, that all her children after were stillborn and monstrous?

At least, in the case of Sansa's own… misfortunes… upon the birthing bed, the children had possessed skin and eyes.

The Seven would hear her prayers this time. Her trials would be over soon. The Seven were good and would not leave the Kingdom's succession unguarded. They had done their work in ensuring Sansa had the proper virtues already, humility, graciousness, piety…

This time her son would live.

The vile taste was still in her throat. Watered down Arbor Gold cleansed it well.

Margaery's ladies in waiting took over the conversation to defend their mistress. And Sansa allowed her own handmaidens to take over. The tedious event continued on, but Sansa could, at least, enjoy the music.

She retreated to her rooms, to spend some time observing her daughter at play. Then she brought herself to her husband's chambers, when she knew he would be done for the day.

She knocked on his chamber door. "My love?"

"What?!" was the irritated reply. Sansa knew it was not personal. After a long day of important business, any true man might have their tempers raised. It was the passion of a warrior, ready to defend one's home from invader's. It was the right of a husband as the Father to act without courtesy at times.

As a wife, as a representative of The Mother and The Maiden, it was her duty to soothe her husband and accept him as he was.

Sansa was happy. She truly was.

Sansa entered the chambers. Joffrey was perusing images of crown designs with the aid of an attendant. Some of them looked quite fetching.

"It is wonderful to see you, my love. The tedium of the day washes away with your presence."

"Hrm," he grunted, sighed, and rose to his feet. "Leave me, Forley. My wife won't leave me to work."

The attendant bowed and left, taking the images with him.

"I apologize if I interrupted." Sansa began.

"You apologies mean little. The task is lost. My time is already wasted. What do you want, Sansa?"

"Ah… I wished to report my meeting with the widow queen to you."

"Oh? Go on, then." He gestured vaguely.

"The woman is as horrible as ever. Not a single tear for the death of your father beyond those she plays at like a mummer. She still holds a grudge over your father coming to get mine while she was first pregnant. Her spite never ends." It wasn't Sansa's fault that the old hand had died at such a time. Really, it was Magaery's fault for seducing the king at all. "She keeps talking about her pregnancy as if anything will come of it. No doubt she has found some new woods witch in secret, to be so confident. But we all know it will be another dead Maelys or worse."

"You are telling me nothing that I didn't already know. Did you find this woods witch at least? If we could parade them around, that might convince the worthless smallfolk that the bitch isn't as pious as she pretends to be."

"Ah… no. I've asked my handmaidens to investigate, but they have not found anything, not even a whisper… Magaery's own handmaidens interfere with any attempts. But we know there must be something!"

"Worthless. My mother would not have been so feckless."

"Magaery wanted to reconcile with you," Sansa quickly added. "She is concerned about your displeasure with her, and begged me to try to intercede on her behalf."

"So she knows to fear me? Good. But, again this is nothing of note. Has she confessed to working against me? Have you found her spies among the staff?"

"Not as such… no. But I have my ladies investigating."

"What good are they? What good are you? Gods… why I must I be saddled with such a worthless wife?"

Sansa was happy. She needed to be happy.

"Cersei was asking about you. Our little girl asked if you might come and visit her some time."

Joffrey scoffed. "Does the child not realize how busy I am? Of course not. She's a babe. But I would think you would do a better job dissuading her of such notions."

"I… well, I was wondering if you might consider it after all. Checking in for a spare moment… she loves you dearly and it would mean so much to her."

Sansa could see the growing scowl. She jumped to speak before her husband could. "The nursemaid knows to keep her hair chalked. You wouldn't have to see it."

"Feh," Joffrey spat. "I never should have let you talk me into the name. It is an affront for a girl named Cersei to have hair as dark as coal."

"But… you were so happy with the name when I suggested it… I wanted to…"

"That was before you birthed her wrong. If you truly wanted to use mother's name, you should have given her mother's hair. Not your father's."

"She has your father's hair, though. Your hair."

Sansa knew she shouldn't have corrected her husband the moment the words escaped her mouth. It was not her place to gainsay him.

The slap across her face was one she had earned.

She bowed low, tears in her eyes. "My most sincere apologies, my beloved. It was not my place to speak against you. All I can say is that my eyes are less discerning than yours, and that I foolishly wished to avoid the blame. Please accept my deepest regrets."

There was another slap. Sansa fell to the floor.

"If you want my forgiveness, then do your fucking duty and birth me a son, you whore. Your constant miscarriages are an insult. I have half a mind to seek an annulment and find a better broodmare. Now get out of my sight before I become wroth."

Sansa swallowed her tears, bowed, and left.

 

[Ct613hulu]

I feel like it says some dark things about Ned's character as he either can't tell how Sansa is being abused or has decided to not do anything about it.

 

[HypoSoc]

Robb I​

This was not the first time Robb had visited Castle Black. He made a point to visit his base-born brother whenever the opportunity arose. Sadly, it was not an opportunity he enjoyed often. With his father down in King's Landing, Robb found himself inundated with duties as the Stark in Winterfell. Even the aid of his mother couldn't allow him the freedom to travel so far north on a whim.

But Rickon had returned from White Harbor, and Robb found himself free. So, he prioritized taking the trip to the Wall before he had to journey down South. It would mean a more hurried pace for his trip to the Coronation, but Robb felt it was worth it.

The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had truly grown into himself over the years. Gone was the awkward, anxious boy of his youth, replaced by a steadfast and respectable leader of men. He had all the image of a proper Northman, a proper Stark. Robb could admit he was jealous of the fact. He loved his mother, truly, but he hoped that his own children would take less of the Tully blood than himself.

"I've heard you've had another child," Jon said, after they had both settled in the office with a nice cup of warmed wine. The drink was marvelous in the cold. The encroaching Winter was hitting the Wall faster than even Winterfell, and Castle Black lacked the miraculous hot springs of his own home. "I sent a letter, but I still wanted to congratulate you in person."

"Yes," he grinned. "Serena. My adorable little scamp. She's got the wolf blood in her, already crawling around the castle. I have no idea how she ends up were she gets. It drives me and Alys insane. Little Cregan still doesn't know what to do about her, but I know he's going to grow up to be an adoring big brother."

Jon smiled. "I never really pictured you for the domestic life, but I suppose family really suits you."

"Hah. It really has. I miss them already. I would have taken them along with me, but Alys would have my hide for taking them. Not old enough ot travel yet. Not here, much less all the way to King's Landing. And you? Got any… er…" Robb froze, realizing the question he was about to ask.

"How's my vow of chastity?" Jon raised a brow. Then smirked. "Relax, Robb. It's been years. I'm still happy with my decision. The Night's Watch has worked well for a bastard like me."

"I'm glad. I know you felt it was the only option for you, but… well…" he shook his head. "Why don't I stop making an ass of myself. You've been doing good up here?"

Jon nodded. "It's been a long time coming, but I think I've made something respectable out of the men. There's a sense of pride here now, and I'm proud to have been a part of it. Bran has been writing to me, you know, asking for advice on dealing with the Mountain Clans. I don't think the freefolk up here are precisely the same as those in the Vale, but my experience apparently means enough to him to be worth discussing. He's claimed it has helped."

"I'm not surprised. You have more experience with fighting that most of the Seven Kingdoms, I'd say. I've heard you've smashed another one of Mance Rayder's children this year. As a Stark of the North, I should thank and congratulate you for keeping the realm safe. But, Gods, how many sons did that deserter have?"

Jon laughed. "Oh, not so many. The man was a devoted husband. It's one virtue I can allow him. The freefolk hate kings, you see. They hate 'kneelers' and those that would demand it. But freefolk are men like any other. They wish to rule. And they liked Mance. So, when one of them gets the idea of being a king of them all, they call themselves 'heir to Mance Rayder' or something like that, to make the whole thing more palatable. This latest one was simply a Nightrunner chieftain with more greed than sense. I would be shocked if he shared a single drop of blood with the former King-Beyond-The-Wall."

"Ah," Robb nodded, taking another sip of the warmed wine. "I see. I suppose the rumors spread to make it more fantastical. But I still must offer my thanks for the good work you and the Night's Watch do."

"We do not serve for recognition, but it is appreciated all the same. The support House Stark and the North as a whole provides to our brotherhood is thanks enough."

"Hm… well, you can expect the support to continue for a good long while. The winds of the kingdom seem to be in our favor. Speaking of, will you be attending the coronation? I would love for you to travel with me."

"Ah…" Jon looked uncomfortable at the question. "No. I was not planning on attending."

"Why not? Our sister is going to be queen. And it wouldn't be inappropriate for the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch to attend the coronation of the new Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. You aren't 'just a bastard' anymore, Jon."

"It is because it is our sister that I hesitate. I believe Sansa has done her best to forget about me. It would be a disservice to remind her of my existence."

Robb frowned. It was true that Sansa had, more than any of his other siblings, taken their mother's fearful word's to heart. But surely she would have softened on their bastard brother after all these years. Jon had proven himself a man of honor and joined the Night's Watch, had risen through its ranks to the very peaks, and maintained the duty with virtue. Not even his mother could have asked for more of him.

Moreover, if Jon had been the duplicitous bastard as his mother had feared, then it would be Robb who had the most to lose, not Sansa. And Robb had no fear from his brother. So, by all good sense, no one should be concerned.

A 'Ramsay Snow' Jon was not.

"Actually, it is good that you are here," Jon turned at his desk for a trunk. He rummaged through it and retrieved a bundle. "Here. A gift for the new king and queen. Please deliver it on my behalf."

"Oh? What's this? I wouldn't think the Night's Watch would have anything to offer. Not that anyone would demand it of them."

"Yi Ti spices. Silks. Some bits of porcelain."

Robb's eyes widened. "What? How? Have the wildlings become traders?"

"Definitely not. A Mossovy convoy crossed the Ice Bridge days ago. They entreated the castle and offered some goods. You must have passed them on the way up here."

"Mossovy? I don't think I recall Maester Luwin's lessons ever covering such a people."

"That is because they did not. Mossovy is a nation to the far east of Essos, north of Yi Ti, beyond the Grey Wastes. They are a strange people, but hearty and reliable. Trustworthy if one can get them to speak. They are something akin to Northmen of Essos. It was quite a shock to see them, let me tell you. There was a great debate among the Watch, as to whether we should let them through or not. But it is not the Essosi that the Night's Watch was founded to guard against."

Robb nodded. "They are hardly wildlings, after all."

Jon was silent. There seemed to be a far away look in his eye, as though he were caught in a memory. His hand was rubbing against that strange scar on his nick.

When Jon didn't speak for moments more, Robb cleared his throat. "I'm baffled that anyone would cross the Ice Bridge. Why did they not sail like sane men?"

That seemed to shake Jon out of his stupor. "Right. It's not a journey I would advise to anyone. But the Mossovy have no naval tradition. They leave that to the Ibbenese. Rather, they make use of dogs and sleds, over the snows and ice. The Ice Bridge was of little difficulty for them, or so they claimed. They are greatly attached to their dogs, placing immense value in them. And they were quite impressed with Ghost." Jon smiled. "One of the traders tried to get me to stud him. He offered a great sum for the opportunity. He seemed to believe that a direwolf would breed true with his huskies."

"Oh? Did you?"

Jon shook his head. "What would I even do with money? I did not feel comfortable with the idea. Though perhaps it is strange of me to hold Ghost to the same vows as myself. But I can look the other way when he explores the Haunted Forest, but it feels strange to knowingly arrange the matter myself."

"A shame. I'm sure Ghost would be devastated to learn you kept him from indulging in a well-bred Essosi bitch." Robb laughed.

"Oh, you laugh, but the Mossovy are likely to visit Winterfell next. What will you do when they make the same offer for Grey Wind?"

That caught Robb up short. It was strange. If a man asked about his horse, or one of the kennel dogs back at the caste, it would be a simple matter of arranging an agreeable price and determining if the man were trustworthy enough. But the idea of studding out Grey Wind gave him pause in an unexpected way. It felt more like arranging a betrothal for his daughter, or himself even. It felt like there was a great deal more to it than for any simple beast.

Perhaps it was to be expected that Jon had hesitated. "I suppose I would have to see how I felt at the time."

"I see you understand. Perhaps you would have fewer issues, with a wife and children yourself, but it feels too strange to me, having been in my position for so many years." He shook his head. "The man wasn't insulted, at least. He gave me those spices and fine goods regardless. I imagine he was trying to butter me up so that I would be amenable when he returned. But I do not think he will cause any try issue. The Mossovy had a great many goods on their sleds. I doubt they will have much ease trading them much further south, but the North will enjoy a selection of fine Yi Ti goods, if they can come to a good price."

"It's strange to think of such a thing being available outside White Harbor," Robb scratched his chin. He was not a merchant by nature, but serving as the lord of Winterfell in his father's absence had forced him to deal with many matters in this vein. Good from a land as far east as Yi Ti were expensive, passing through a great many ports, tariffs, and trade barriers. By the time they reached Westros, few could afford them. With the North being as poor as it were, few merchants of silk and porcelain would bother coming to White Harbor.

Merchants who came directly from the east would likely have the goods available at a far lower price than normal.

As strange as it was to imagine, one of the greatest collections of wealth in the North was likely, at this very moment, traveling by sled, pulled by dogs, and driven by strange Essosi Northmen. He could imagine there would be a clamor for the Yi Ti-ish goods among the nobles, if the Mussovy offered even a halfway reasonable price.

Robb had never really considered the implications of the Ice Bridge before. It's discovery had been a shock, to be certain, but it had always seemed to be too far north for it to actually matter. But apparently the Mussovy didn't think so.

Maybe something good actually had come from the Sunless Moon. Though he would never dare imply such among his people. Even one and ten years later, the cold still bit into one's memory.

"Really, I'm astounded that you are willing to give it all away," Robb continued. "This is a king's ransom all on its own."

Jon shrugged. "As I said, I have no need for wealth. The Night's Watch is in good shape so I don't need to sell it for funds. And it would be a pain to find a buyer anyway. Besides, I'm not actually giving it all away. Samwell, the maester here, took a liking to the tea, so I let him have it. And one of the spices has been added to the pantry for special occasions. And," he grinned, "I might have kept some silken bed sheets for my own use."

Robb laughed. "Oh, to think the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch would fall into the pit of decadence. What would our father's bannermen think, knowing a prancing Southron boy commands the Wall against the forces that would threaten the realm?"

Jon laughed and smacked him on the shoulder. It was good to find these short moments to be with his brother. Robb resolved to make it happen more. Perhaps he could convince Jon to visit Winterfell again.

 

[Paradosi]

The Mussovy worldbuilding is interesting. Now I'm wondering what this Ice Bridge actually looks like.

 

[HypoSoc]

I feel like it says some dark things about Ned's character as he either can't tell how Sansa is being abused or has decided to not do anything about it.

Click to shrink...

It is not his greatest showing, though, but Sansa tries to keep it hidden.

The Mussovy worldbuilding is interesting. Now I'm wondering what this Ice Bridge actually looks like.

Click to shrink...

A massive sheet of ice, bridging from the Lands of Always Winter, across the arctic circle, to the lands directly north of the Five Forts (near Mussovy), that appears to be suspiciously similar in composition to the Wall.

 

[HypoSoc]

Joffrey II​

Joffrey was departing the stables when one of the household staff accosted him.

"Your majesty? Were you heading into the city? Have you not heard?"

Joffrey was set to ride onward, ignoring the man, but his uncle had stopped and motioned for him to do the same. He sighed and glared. "What? Of course I was. What of it? Why should I not venture into my city?"

The servant bowed. "Of course, of course. It is your right to do so any time you wish. But I wanted to ensure you were properly informed, in case this… small matter… had failed to rise to your concern."

"Stop dancing around the subject. What is it?"

"Right. Yes. Ah. The smallfolk of King's Landing are, ah… riled up may be the best way to describe it?"

Joffrey scoffed. "Riots then? Are the Goldcloaks not dispelling them? Why are we even funding them if they cannot do so much."

"Oh, no sire. Not riots. Not as such. Rather… well the smallfolk have somehow come under the impression that the crown plans to offer them food or alms, in advance of your coronation. They have taken to gathering in the streets around the Red Keep, in anticipation."

Joffrey blanched. "What? Where would they have gotten such a stupid idea from?"

"I would not know, your majesty. The city folk are queer and can get strange ideas in their heads. As a group they can stubbornly cling to rumors even if a moment of good sense would see it for the mistake it was." The servant scratched his scraggly beard. It was an ugly thing, barely appropriate for a man working the stables or kennels. If he were a proper palace staffer, Joffrey would have him whipped or sacked for the affront to taste. "If I had to guess, the older among them might be recalling your father's coronation. He made a point of offering table scraps and silver stags to the crowd when he became king. Perhaps some of them got it in their head that you would be doing the same. Though I can't understand why they believed you would do so before the actual event."

"Have the Goldcloaks disperse the morons then. Why is this worthy of my attention?"

"I believe the Goldcloaks are monitoring the situation. But as the people aren't actually rioting, simply waiting, they have yet to force the issue. Still, your majesty, I would advise delaying your trip. It wouldn't do to excite the mob, I believe."

"I will not," Joffrey spat, "permit the unwashed masses of this disgusting city to delay my tasks. They will part for me or they will be trampled." He snapped the reigns of his horse.

"My lord! At least take more guards!" The servant whined.

Joffrey was again set to ignore the worthless advice, but his uncle's hand once again stayed him. He rubbed his forehead. "Fine, fine. Darkstar! Greenfield!" He shouted. "Some fool get my Kingsguard!" He ordered, and watched the stable boys scramble.

The delay was interminable, but his Kingsguard were prompt enough, he supposed. The Dornish and Westerman knights were at the stables soon enough.

"Your majesty," the Darkstar bowed. "How may we be of assistance?"

"It seems my uncle feels he is not up to the task of defending me from a mass of addled lowborn. So, you two are join me on my trip to the Street of Steel and Great Sept."

"Of course, your majesty," they clasped their hands over their hearts. "We shall get saddled up at once."

"Be quick about it. I have lost enough time from my errands already."

The two knights did as he commanded. Joffrey turned to his uncle. "Is that sufficient, Uncle, or shall I summon the whole of the Kingsguard? Perhaps the castle guards too?"

Jaime nodded, face as stone as ever.

And so, finally, he was able to set off. The gates opened as he bade, and the four were on their way through his city.

And… that was a lot more smallfolk than he had thought. The rats seemed to be lined up along every street, crammed into alleyways and buildings. He saw scores of gold cloaks keeping the center of the street clear, putting some semblance of order into the teeming mass, but it looked like a river barely held back by a dyke.

Had all of Fleabottom come to infest his streets? It was disgusting.

The rats were cheering as he rode by, as was appropriate, but he would have much preferred if they had simply stayed away. The stench and the sight of the mass was almost more than he could take. The chants praising his name, as desirable as they might be, fell into an indecipherable cacophony of ugly voices.

Darkstar took the lead, while uncle and Greenfield were on either side, forming a cordon. Each kept a hand readied by their swords. Joffrey kept his gaze ahead, to better ignore the swarming mass and the Goldcloaks holding them back.

Perhaps… perhaps uncle had not been paranoid in demanding more guards. Perhaps a fourth would have been appropriate, to stand as rear guard as well. But Joffrey did not permit himself to second-guess his decisions, no more than he could permit himself to turn around and flee from cheering smallfolk.

The street they turned upon narrowed further. The number of wretches meant even the Goldcloaks could not clear as wide a travel lane. No matter how much the city guards pushed and shoved, it simply wasn't possible to fit the smallfolk into smaller space. Joffrey found they could no longer travel three abreast on horse. Wordlessly, his uncle fell behind to guard the rear, leaving only Greenfield by his side on the left. Joffrey's right was unguarded and he found himself pushed closer to the wall of wretches, with no way to prevent it.

Joffrey kept his gaze forward, his sword hand tapped on the hilt. The roar of the cheers were deafening.

A hand brushed at his leg. Joffrey snapped to the side, and saw an ugly matron brushing at him.

"Seven bless you, King Joffrey. Seven bless you. I am a simple widow. My family has been with little food for a week. Please, spare us your kindness, your grace. We know you are sent me the Seven to deliver us, just like your father, Good King Robert."

"Get off me!" He shouted, kicking. The woman tumbled back.

But the crowd seemed emboldened.

"Blessed King Joffrey! Might I have a stag, a single stag? It would mean so much!"

"Bread, your majesty, even a stale loaf. I would be so gracious."

"Please, just your hand on my brow. That is all I need. Not even a copper star."

"Bless my child, your grace! I have named him for you!"

The clamored and pushed and the Goldcloaks struggled. Even the drawn swords of his Kingsguard did not deter them.

Then a single, shrill voice screamed above the crowd, a distance away from a man he could not see. "A gold dragon, King Joffrey?! Your generosity is too much for a poor beggar like me!"

And then there was a shift. The dam broke. The tide rushed in.

"Back! Back!" He shouted. Darkstar and Greenfield yelled as well, but their voices were lost in the crowd. Greedy, grubby, disgusting hands pawed at him, at his horse. They grasped for him, pulled at him.

Joffrey found himself pulled from his horse, down into the muddy street below. His sword fell out of his hands. His horse fled away. He landed in a heap among the throngs, but the crowd would not part. They still reached for him, to touch him, arms extended to help him up.

He rolled out of the way as best he could. Screamed for them to stop. For order. But the crowd had deep and evil madness.

It was his training as a knight that saved him. A glint of the sun. One of the smallfolk among the many had a knife in his grasp. The blade was stabbing for his neck.

Joffery, bereft of sword and shield, grabbed the arm of the nearest smallfolk. He pulled the woman in front of the blade, saving himself. The woman screamed, but she could not be heard above the crowd.

Again, the knife stabbed at him. But Joffrey rolled away. His sword, trampled and trod upon fell into his grasp once more.

The knife cut into his face, leaving a deep, bloody gash. But Joffrey's own strike was true, and his battered blade pierced the assassin. The ugly man staggered, and fell.

A gauntlet-clad hand reached through the crowd and grabbed him. His uncle heaved him off the ground and onto a horse with him. Around him the many Goldcloaks had drawn their sword and were slashing away at the fearful crowd. Darkstar stabbed through a pair of men and continued cutting away like a thresher at the harvest.

The screams of pain and fear and dying soon began to overtake the chants of joy and jubulation as the worthless smallfolk suddenly seemed to finally understand what was going on. They fled, en mass. But Joffrey did not have an easy sight of it all as he clung to his uncle. They road through the crowd, trampling over worthless wretches for the Red Keep, followed by Ser Greenfield.

Joffrey kept his hand to his cheek to stem the bleeding. But his rage was boiling beyond comprehension.

They were able to make their way back to the Red Keep without further incident, but Joffrey hardly noticed. The swarm of lowborn was replaying in his mind, over and over again. The assassin's ugly face danced through his memory, the gleam of his knife, the pain of his cut. A maester stitched up the cut on his face, but he hardly even noticed. His hand remained firmly locked upon his blade, his grip tight as death. His uncle watched on with a stony glare.

Darkstar returned, his blade still running read with lowborn blood. Joffrey offered him a nod of approval.

The maester said something or other about facial scarring, but he could not be bothered to pay attention. It was only when he proclaimed the injury treated that Joffrey spoke.

"Bring me Magaery." His mind was cold as ice, as piercing as the blade which cut him.

"My lord?" Greenfield questioned, but Darkstar was already on the task. His uncle remained on guard, as he should. Joffrey's hand remained clasped to his sword.

The Dornish knight returned, and the whore who had seduced his father strode into the room, alongside her guard, her brother.

"Joffrey," the witch bowed in mock greeting. "I have heard of the dreadful news. How can I aid you?"

"Aid me?" her gall was outrageous. "Aid me? I have no need for your aid, whore. I know it was you. The assassin you sent failed."

"Assassin?!" She looked shocked. Practically a mummer alongside a whore and a witch. "Your majesty, I swear, I do not know of what you speak!"

"Your word is as meaningless as your worthless cunt! You are a traitor and a murderess, Magaery. And your plot has failed. I will see you beheaded for this!"

"Your majesty," Loras interjected. "My sister is innocent! You have no proof of any crime."

"I do not need, proof, Tyrell." Joffrey glared. "I am the king! Now stand aside, Ser, unless you are as much a traitor as your sister!"

Loras hesitated, looking between himself and his sister. Joffrey felt his wroth boiling. Traitors, even among his very own Kingsguard! His father never should have accepted Loras among the ranks. His father never should have remarried to this treacherous whore!

"Please, Loras," Magaery bowed deeply. "Do not stand in Joffrey's way. This will all be worked out. Please forgive my brother for his poor comportment, your majesty. I will do as you command."

Joffrey grunted. He turned to Darkstar. "Take her to the Maidenvault. Her and her children. Have all of them confined." He glared. "And keep Tyrell far away from them. I will figure out what to do with them later."

He would have her head, he decided. The very moment he could get away with it. Steffon too if he could manage it. But he wasn't a fool. He would need to curtail the Reach before he had her executed. At his coronation, perhaps, he could entrap the Lord of Highgarden and force him to accept the necessity of the punishment.

Executing her out of hand would just lead to damnable rebellion. It would be better to crush it in the cradle.

Joffrey's hand tightly gripped his sword. Things had been all too close on this day. He had never dreamed of the whore being so bold as to strike in such a way. But he had proved better than her scheming, better than Steffon.

He would prove himself as king. The whore had taken her shot and failed. The only question remained was how many other traitors scurried through the Red Keep, waiting to strike.

 

[HypoSoc]

Robb II​

"Robb!"

The call of his name forced Robb out of his bored affect. Torn from watching the decent-enough juggler, he set his wine goblet on a servants tray and turned around.

"Theon!"

He didn't really care for the impropriety or stares. He rushed across the hall to his friend.

They hugged, and he gave Theon a hearty smack on the back. "Gods! It's been years!"

"Yeah, ten or thereabouts, I'd say."

Ten years… Gods. It was so strange to think of it. At the time, having his best friend depart for the Iron Islands had been life-shattering. Now though, he had a wife, he had two kids. He was well settled. Time had just flown by, passing without a thought.

It was only in seeing Theon again that all of it came rushing back for Robb, as if he were a child again, playing monsters-and-maidens with his friend. A loneliness he had not realized he had been carrying for all these years came crushing back with full force.

"You arse," Robb grumbled, good naturally. "Why haven't you responded to my letters?"

"Eh, you know how it is. Busy all the time. Always something to do. Besides, I can't be seen being too keen on letters. My captains already know that I am The Reader's nephew. I can't have them think I am a Harlaw more than a Greyjoy," he shrugged. "It matters little." Theon gestured with his shoulders. "Gods, have you seen the court fashion here?"

Robb nodded with a smirk. "I know. All those fabrics and dyes… it wouldn't shock me if the garb cost more than a good suit of mail. I won't begrudge a man for enjoying his clothing. Good fur to keep you warm is nothing to be scoffed at. But it doesn't even look comfortable."

"Hah. Southron Mainlanders through and through. Though I can't say I don't appreciate the court styles of the women. Far more a treat for the eye than these foppish men, aye?"

Robb nodded. "Quite queer, yes." The cuts were quite daring. Perhaps he could see about buying some Southron dresses for Alys. Though she would be as liable to slap him as put them on. More for the waste of good coin than the indecency, to be sure.

"Yes. If nothing else, this makes the spectacle more interesting than some mummers or jugglers. Certainly worth the trip." Theon, gazing around the room, suddenly stilled, turning green. "Eugh. I may have spoken too soon. Perhaps there is value in decency for some."

Robb turned to glance where his old friend had been looking. There, it seemed, was a much older crone. She seemed to believe herself a maiden for how she dressed akin to one. He shrugged his shoulders. "Really, it's the hair that strikes me as strange. Is this to be a new Westrosi fashion? Blue dyes in Tyroshi beards, white chalk in Southron hair?"

"Gods, it look so stupid," Theon commiserated. "What's next? Rubbing dog shite about when brown surpasses blonde?"

"Oh? Are you not already making use of such in your locks?" Robb grinned.

"No more than you soak your wife's moon blood in yours." Theon punched him in the arm. "I've heard the chalk is favored by the prince. So greedy and desperate fools ape him, hoping to curry favor. I wonder if they are as disgusted by it as we are, and simply hold their noses, or if they have convinced themselves it truly is the height of fashion. It's pathetic really, but not every lord belongs to Great Houses like us."

"Well, may that be the worst trait of our new king." Sansa liked that kind of Southron foppery. She could imagine her quite happy a husband who set trends among court, even if those trends were idiotic. "But enough of all that. Seriously, Theon? How have you been? How's being Lord of the Iron Islands treating you?"

"How's still being just an heir treating you?" Theon grinned. "I'm a lord now, Robb. Little boys like you need to show me respect."

"Arse." Robb grinned. "And are you avoiding the question? Or have you really spent the last ten years doing nothing at all?"

"Nothing at all would have been a blessing. I'm telling you Robb, being a Lord is exhausting. If it's not one thing, it's another. All my captains are being petty, shortsighted, idiots. It's a one of the Seven Hells to keep them on task, when all they want is to raid and plunder. And Asha s being a bitch. She's jealous of me, you know? She somehow got it in her fool head that just because she kept the seat for a few moons after the Crow's Eye went mad that she would be allowed to keep it. As if the laws of the realm and inheritance didn't matter one whit. It's been ten years and I know she still resents me. Really, Robb, you're lucky you are the eldest. An older sibling, no, an older sister, is just the worst. I'm certain she is riling up the captains, just to annoy me."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Theon waved his hand. "I'm griping. The matter is being handled. My sister, my captains, they're stuck in the past. They can't picture anything but what they know. But I'm going to lead them to glory regardless, to wealth. I'm going to make the Iron Islands rich! It's the mines, you see. Not the boats. Nobody seems to realize it, but it's clear as day for me. I'm opening as many mines as I can. Salt. Iron. Hells, if there is gold or diamonds to be found, I will have it dug up from the bottom of the sea. People will look to Pyke and see it put Casterly Rock to shame." He grinned.

"There's that much mineral wealth to be had?"

"Of course! It just takes someone with vision to see it. And, well, some coin to get it started. That's been the sticking point really, getting loans. Mainlanders treat us unfairly, and are unwilling to offer reasonable terms, if they offer terms at all. But once I've gotten good loans, the Iron Islands will rise." Theon frowned. "Gods, will I need to put fucking chalk in my hair to get a damned loan?"

Robb chuckled at the image. "Maybe. But I can see about talking to my sister on your behalf."

"Thanks, Robb. Actually, do you think you could talk to your other sister? Get her to lean on the Iron Bank? I'm sure she has the keyholders by the bollocks, hah!"

Robb's easy cheer evaporated in an instant. "Theon." He spoke coldly. "Do not jape about such things."

The seriousness in his tone seemed to catch his friend off guard. "I'm sorry," his laughter ended. "That was unbecoming of me."

An awkward silence grew between them. Robb was the first to break it. "We don't speak." He explained. "Arya and I, I mean. I haven't heard from her almost as long as I hadn't heard from you." It was more painful to think of his littlest sister. With Theon, they had not parted on bad terms, at least. Theon had his duty, with the death of his father. King Robert and Robb's own father had needed a man they could trust heading the Iron Isles. The parting had been tearful, but understandable.

With Arya though, it was like a festering wound. Often times he managed to forget about it. But every time he was reminded, he was forced to battle his regrets. Had he made a mistake? Had he failed his littlest sister? It certainly felt like that, but he could not see himself making any other choice. Even if he had known… how would he have stopped it?

"Rickon gets some letters," Robb continued. "And I think Jon does too. But, if not for that, I wouldn't ever know if she lived or died."

"Ah…" Theon looked quite awkward at that admission. "Well, she always did get along with the bastard, right?"

"Hm."

"Changing topics back," Theon pivoted. "There's a chance I might not even need to take out a loan. I've heard the Tyrells were getting uppity. Maybe I'll be able to send my captains out to reave them. That will calm the fuckers down, no doubt, let them vent their aggression. And if I can plunder some gold dragons and thralls for my mines, all the better. I'll certainly make better use of them than those mainlander fops."

"Theon," Robb hissed. "Don't say such things, lest you bring it upon us."

"What, war? It's not a taboo to speak." Theon was entirely too blithe.

"This is an era of peace, Theon. It's been three and twenty years since the last conflict." Arguably, the war against Mance Rayder's wildlings should be considered, but Jon had done an excellent job keeping that from the lands of the Seven Kingdoms. It would be more dismissive of his half-brother's effort if he were to count it.

"And the last one was my father's foolish blunder," Theon shrugged. "Now it seems like The Reach will be making the same mistake. We've had a generation of peace? So what? We've had a dozen years of summer too, and now winter snows are falling. Don't drown your head in the sea, Robb. Look! Look at who is here. Here for the coronation, here to pledge loyalty to the crown? And, more importantly, look at who is not."

Robb was not oblivious. He understood exactly what he was seeing among the guests.

Few Northmen were in attendance. That was understandable. It was a long ways, and most of the Northern lords were not rich or prestigious enough to attend such a thing. Other than the Manderlys, who had taken their own ships with some of their own vassals, all of the Northmen in attendance had journeyed with Robb. The Iron Islands, headed by Theon, had their representation.

The Riverlands were well in attendance. The Vale had sent their host. The Westerlands had sent a whole comportment to see the elevation of the king whose mother was their prize. And the Crownlands, with so little cost to attend and so little excuse to avoid, were practically the mass of it all.

But there was not a single lord of the Reach in attendance. Not a single Dornish lord or lady. And even the Stormlands seemed strangely underrepresented, despite the dynasty of the king.

Lines were drawn, easy to see, and all in attendance knew it. It was the unspoken word upon everyone's lips.

And Theon dared to voice it.

"You see? Of course you do. You aren't an idiot, Robb. You've heard Joffrey had the widow queen locked up in the Maidenvault, same as me. Mace Tyrell will not let that stand." Theon sighed. "It's a shame, you know? I was looking forward to seeing Queen Magaery in person. Half the rumors paint her as the most beautiful woman in the realms. The other half paint her as monstrous as the beasts she birthed from her cursed cunt. I wanted to see which was the truth."

"Theon, regardless of everything else, Magaery was King Robert's wife. We owe her that much respect, if only on the late king's behalf."

"Yes, yes. Her appearance doesn't matter, I suppose. But the fact she's locked up cannot be forgotten. On my journey here, I heard rumors that the Reach was mustering. What Tyrell thinks he can accomplish with his daughter as a captive, I could not hope to say, but he is calling his banners or so they gossip. I, of course, have had my captains ready themselves. They will strike when we have word we can reave."

Robb frowned. "It's… we have not been ignoring the developments. But it is not a simple matter to call the banners. Winter is coming, as you yourself have said. To take our smallfolk from the fields before the final autumn harvests are complete would be a death sentence, especially for a crisis that might not yet come to pass."

"Right, right. It's harder for your Northmen to muster, across so much empty land. And you would have further to get. But this 'crisis' as you call it, is certain to come. The only question unanswered is who will get to plunder Highgarden. And our longboats are quite swift." Theon chuckled. "Perhaps it is for the best you do not call your banners. By the time you all got past the neck, the fighting would all be through."

"If it must happen, let that be how it goes." Robb was no long a young man, to have no fear and little wits. He was a married man with a loving wife, and he had two children he adored. Death and uncertainty cast a pale upon him more now than it ever had.

Theon slapped him on the back. "You know I'm here for you, right? As your friend, and your brother. I will fight for your sister's rights as queen. You can count on me and all of the Iron Islands to come to your aid." He grinned. "And if we get an excuse to reave, that's all the better for us, right?"

"Right," he clasped his best friend's arm.

"Now, it's been entirely too long since I've had my last cup of the crown's wine. Shall we enjoy ourselves?"

Robb grinned and followed his friend to less heavy topics.

 

[HypoSoc]

Eddard III​

"Ser Umber succumbed to his wounds in the night, joining Ser Greenfield." Ser Moore stated blandly. "Making it two of our number the traitor slew."

There was no emotion in his voice, no sign of concern on his face. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was a strange man, with few, if any, friends to his name. Eddard, himself had little to say about him, one way or the other. The dispassionate way he described the death of his own brothers only emphasized the point.

A Ser Barriston Selmy he very much was not. In the normal course of seniority, it would have been the Kingslayer who replaced the man. But Lannister had refused the office, and his vow of silence made it impractical regardless. So the title had fallen to Ser Moore, to the pleasure of nobody at all. Not even Moore, from his lack of reaction.

Perhaps he was being too harsh. It stung that one of the slain men was his own bannermen.

"I do not care about the Whitecloaks," King Joffrey hissed. "What of the traitor and the widow queen? Did they escape? How?"

Ser Moore nodded. "Tyrell escaped into the night. We alerted the goldcloaks to prevent all traffic from leaving, but a large number of vessels set sail before the order could get out. None of the intercepted ships and carts held the escapees. We believe they have escaped from the city."

Eddard rubbed his forehead. "For so many ships to depart at once, in the middle of the night… this was planned. I presume the captains were detained?"

Moore nodded. "They claimed they were paid to leave before first light, delivering letters or goods. We examined the letters and found nothing of substance."

Joffrey smashed a goblet against the floor. "How could you let this happen, you imbecile?! I ordered you to guard the Maidenvault with your lives!"

"To be fair, your majesty," Rivers spoke, "the Kingsguard did that very thing." He shook his head. "I must admit my own fault in this matter. I had been watching the servants and secret passages, hoping to catch any communication or treachery. And we kept Ser Loras and Ser Tarly apart, lest the Reach knights conspire. We did not consider that Ser Loras would simply charge through his brothers in the night."

"You can practically hear the songs they will write," Baelish sighed. "The King of Flowers valiantly fought his own brother to save his sister and nephews. Mace Tyrell is no doubt spending a fortune on minstrels to spread word. I am already sick of it and I haven't even heard a single verse."

"No one should sing of the traitor's deeds," Moore grunted. "I will strike him from the White Book."

"You should have stricken him down with your blade, not your pen," the king hissed. "Incompetents! Imbeciles! Do you not realize how much you have risked the realm with your failure?! Magaery already tried to have me killed once. She will do so again!"

"I'm afraid the danger is already here, your majesty," Eddard said. The missive had come a mere hour before. "I have gotten a report that Reach forces have breached into the Riverlands. They fought a skirmish at the Stoney Sept, drove out the local forces, and have begun to garrison the town. I have received missives from both Lord Tully and Renly, who claims to have been aware of the expedition."

"Tyrell was so arrogant as to invade another kingdom before his daughter was safe?" Stannis scoffed. "Truly, the Seven smile upon fools, allowing them their treason yet unpunished. And he had Renly admit it to the crown directly?"

"According to the missive, Fossoway was chasing a known bandit group across the border, which took shelter in Stoney Sept," Eddard had to resist rolling his eyes. "We can, of course, ignore such a blatant falsehood."

"My father's bones are still warm in his grave, and the treason as already begun," Joffrey spat. "How insane is Tyrell, to think he can get away with this madness?"

"Quite, your majesty," the Master of Whispers nodded, "but I believe I might know the method. Your half brother Steffon has always been seen more positively in the Reach. Mace Tyrell has spent much to elevate his grandson's reputation among his people, often at the cost of your own. Only now, I am hearing new whispers in the Reach, rumors that you are not the son of King Robert, and that Steffon is the true heir. I expect, once Tyrell has secured possession of his daughter and grandson, he will send letters accusing you of bastardry."

Eddard could barely hold back his own rage. "They dare sully the name of a woman long dead?! It's despicable! Absurd! Anyone who looks upon the king knows that he is Robert's son!" Steffon might have inherited more of Robert's build, but Joffrey was his departed friend's son through and through. He had the Baratheon hair, the Baratheon nose, the Baratheon temper.

"The smallfolk levies will never have seen the king," Rivers shrugged, "and the high lords will choose to believe what they want to believe. A falsehood does not have to be reasonable to be believed."

"Perhaps Renly will claim to be your father?" Baelish mused with a smirk. "No. Not a soul would believe it. Only Stannis would be less believable."

"It matters not," Stannis growled. "It is simply self-serving nonsense, as one would expect from Renly. Fools will believe him, as they always have, simply because they find his mewling pleasing to the ear. We should not waste time even considering the lies. What matters is that the Reach is planning treason. And Renly has betrayed his family. The law of succession is clear, and King Joffrey is the rightful king."

"Too right, uncle," King Joffrey nodded. "We will crush those rebellious curs as my father should have done back when they sided with the loathsome dragons. The Tyrell line is finished! Mace. Loras. Magaery. Steffon. All of them must die."

There was a pause in the room. Eddard was the one to speak. "My king, I understand your rule is being challenged. But Steffon is but a boy. He is your half-brother as well. Would you really become a kinslayer over this? He is being used as a threat to your rule, yes, but the Wall exists for this purpose."

"Do you think, Stark, that my brother isn't planning kinslaying right now? That he and his whore mother don't need me dead? When the realm sees my brother's head on the block, they will know that it was not I who started this fight."

Again, there was silence in the council chamber. The Grand Maester was the one to break it this time. "Ah… if… well regardless of such, which can only be determined in the future, there is the matter of the Small Council. If Renly is, indeed, outlaw and traitor as we believe, then we must establish a new Master of Laws, your majesty."

"Ugh," the king rubbed his forehead. "Summon Rosby to do it. I don't care."

Rosby… if nothing else, he was a friend of Joffrey's, and owed House Baratheon for aid in his succession. But that might be the only quality of value in the boy.

Eddard considered arguing the matter, but there were more important issues at stake. He could bring it up at a later time.

"Mace Tyrell is a fool, but even he knows the Reach is not sufficient to take on the Seven Kingdoms." Joffrey drummed his fingers. "Who else does he believe supports him in his treason?"

"The North is with you," Eddard said. "Completely and without reservation."

"Yes, yes," Joffrey waved him off. "You are the hand and your daughter is my wife. Whatever men are in that frozen wasteland of your belong to me, not Steffon."

Eddard ignored the insult. "In the same vein, we can trust the Westerlands and the Riverlands to be true. The Westerlands will no doubt be enraged at the aspersions the Reach will cast upon your mother, and Lord Tully can be trusted to fight on behalf of his niece. To say nothing that the Reach have already stuck against him."

"The Vale, too, is in your corner." Baelish smiled. "The Young Robert won't forget his cousin. And, if he did, I would make sure to remind my old ward of the best way forward."

"Your presence is unneeded," Stannis glared. "Shireen is not a traitor, nor will she permit treachery from her husband."

"Indeed," Baelish smiled. "Your majesty can rest assured that house Arryn is with him. There may be some treacherous lords. We all remember how Gulltown rebelled in your father's war, but I will take care to hold them to account."

"And the Crownlands will support me, of course," the King nodded to himself.

"Such would be ideal, my king, but I do not know if it can be assumed." Rivers interjected. "Magaery and Steffon were popular among the people. Though most will, undoubtedly, bow to good sense, some might prove treacherous. But they are near. I will have my agents keep a close eye on them. It is the narrow sea houses that concern me more. The islands are not as easy to reach."

"The narrow sea houses do not concern me."

"Of course they don't." Stannis glared. "You were lord of Dragonstone for five years. Why did you not endear yourself to them, as Robert intended?"

"I do not need to explain myself to you, uncle. Matters of court were more important than some barren rock."

Given said 'barren rock' was snatched away from Stannis to be given to Joffrey, Eddard did not think it was appropriate to describe it as such.

Stannis ground his teeth.

"So then, is it simply the Dornish, the Reach, and the Iron Isles against the rest of the Kingdoms?" Joffrey asked.

"Not the Iron Isles. My son informed me that Lord Greyjoy supports your unquestionably."

"I do not trust the Ironborn," Stannis growled. "Even if the boy lord intends it, the reavers may go their own way. Don't count on them for anything."

Eddard wanted to put more trust in the boy he had effectively raised, but he could not fully disagree.

"Ahem…" Oswyn drew attention to himself. "Perhaps, your majesty, you are forgetting the Stormlands?"

"I am not forgetting my father's Kingdom," Joffrey rolled his eyes. "They will not betray me no more than they would betray my father."

"It's simply… well," the Grand Maester coughed more. "Well, the sitting lord at Storm's End was Renly, and we believe he is in league with the Tyrells, so…"

"The Stormlords belong to me, not my treacherous uncle. I am a Baratheon and they will acknowledge it."

"Very good, your majesty. Perhaps, though, the matter should be clarified? At the very least, Storm's End should not remain with Renly."

"Yes. Right. Very well. As Head of House Baratheon, I am stripping Renly of his holdings. Storm's End will revert to me. All of the Stormlands will revert to the crown, to be joined with the Crownlands as my direct holding. So I declare."

Again, there was silence. "Your majesty," Eddard spoke. "That is… an extreme act. There is a reason your father did not keep the Stormlands as a personal holding." The power of the crown was paramount, but it wasn't infinite. To be lord of the Seven Kingdoms and possess a full kingdom as well… it was more than the Great Lords could be comfortable with."

"It is as the Lord Hand stated. Your father's decision was a wise one. And this may not be the time for such… extremes. As, well, as an alternative," the Grand Maester said, "perhaps your should consider your loyal uncle?"

"Stannis? Are you a fool?" Joffrey scoffed. "He has no issue but the greyscale girl. Do you wish for the Stormlands to belong to the Arryns?" He shook his head. "Really, uncle, you never even remarried. Bed a whore and beget a bastard and I might grant you Storm's End, but why would I bother giving it to you when I would simply need to take it back in a few years time? No. best to do it now."

Stannis grit his teeth. It was a marvel they had survived so many years. But Robert had insulted his brother worse in Small Council Meetings.

"You are the Master of Ships. You don't need to be more than that." Joffrey concluded. "So, tell me the state of my navy. Will we crush the traitors at sea?"

It was a testament to Stannis's professionalism that he was able to move on. "The Royal Fleet and your uncle's fleet at Lannisport are more than a match for the Reach and Dorne combined. If the Ironborn can be trusted, we will be able to crush the Reach at sea, take the Shield Islands and Arbor, and lay siege to Oldtown. We can expect naval dominance once our fleets have joined together."

"Excellent. Baelish, what is the state of our treasury?"

And so the war planning began in earnest. It was disturbing, in a way, to see the king's rage be replaced by glee as they discussed war.

War was far from a game. He hoped that this generation would never need to learn such a lesson.

 

[HypoSoc]

Joffrey III​

Aegon the Conquerer was a blithering imbecile. It was the only explanation Joffrey could believe. Oh, sure, the Iron Throne was a marvelous symbol: the swords of the conquered reforged into the very chain that shackled the Seven Kingdoms. Hundreds of blades, many of which were the named, ancestral weapons of hundreds of Andal lords, were destroyed beyond recognition to become the very seat of power. Mummers could and did sing of it.

But you know what it wasn't? A bloody decent chair.

Gods, the damned thing was awful. It prinked him as he sat, threatened to tear the seat of his clothes to ribbons should he tear across it. The back of the seat was jagged and sharp. If Joffrey were to lean back and rest his weight, he woud be nicked and cut. And the arm rests? There was nothing restful about them. Should he try to support himself with them, his sleeves would be shredded, his arms as well.

Sitting on the damned throne meant that Joffrey had to hold himself up for hours on end, like he were riding a horse. At least with a horse he could shift in the saddle, redistribute the weight, and try to be more comfortable. But he couldn't do that here, because the throne was made of fucking swords.

If that wasn't bad enough, it was bloody cold. The metal soaked in the chill in the air and stole the heat from his arse. It was like somebody decided to make the worst seat imaginable.

No wonder his father hated holding court from the blasted thing. A moon into his reign and Joffrey was already sick of the damned throne.

If Aegon throught the tools of war would make a throne of any value, he was as mad as his descendants. Perhaps that was the secret to the dragons: every single one of them was insane. It almost made Joffrey wish that there was still some Targaryen around, if only so he could strangle their neck himself. But it wasn't to be. The last of that forgotten and unmourned excuse for a dynasty had gotten themselves killed in Essos a decade or so ago.

Joffrey would have had the stupid thing melted down if he thought he could get away with it. But he was the King on the Iron Throne. He couldn't be the King on the Iron Throne without an Iron Throne. So he, like his father before him, and all the insane, imbecilic Targaryen kings before the both of them, simply had to sit in silent suffering, trying to maintain a regal bearing while dealing with the worst godsdamned chair in all of the Seven Kingdoms!

The worthless petitions from the little bootlicking lords were not enough to distract him from his suffering. Nothing he had heard all day was worth his attention. It would have been better to have Stark handle it all. But he had decided to hold court himself and have Stark handle other matters. And now he was stuck with the consequences of his own decision.

But the next supplicant, at least, might prove interesting.

"Presenting," the herald declared for the court, "Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne."

There was a murmuring through the assembled court as the mindless busybodies excited themselves with speculation of the event to come. Joffrey himself was not wholly ignorant. The perfidious Dornish would not be permitted in the throne room if Rivers and Moore had not determined it to be safe. Joffrey gestured for the herald to let her through.

Arianne Martell strode into the throne room, accompanied by an honor guard of four. Given said 'honor guard' consisted of only Dornish women, he had permitted their presence. It was not as if a bunch of women were a match even for the goldcloaks, much less his Kingsguard. Dornish pretensions to their warrior women did not change the stark realities of the world. As it stood, they only served as a strange feast for the eye, rather than an actual threat to his life.

"Your majesty," Arianne, and her guard, all bowed in proper supplication. "I thank you for receiving me."

Joffrey tried to recall what he remembered about the Dornish princess. Her brother, Quentyn, was the Prince of Dorne. She had been banished to Essos some years ago for something or other. Something about poisoning her own father? Joffrey honestly did not recall or care about the matter. Dorne and their strangeness was beneath his notice.

He would still make use of a food tester for the duration. It was only prudent when it came to the sandy bastards.

"You are quite bold, Martell," he spoke imperiously, "coming before me in this manner, when Dornish spears have been seen joining rebels in the field against my good and loyal subjects. What have you to say in your defense, princess?"

"It is precisely because of the rebellious Dornish spears that I have come, your majesty." Arianne rose to her height. Her garb was some strange Dornish thing, many thin flowing layers in a flattening cut, juxtaposed with the armor of her 'honor guard.' "We have something in common, King Joffrey, a shared trouble: a younger brother who, against all law and custom, would usurp us. Your trouble is named Steffon. Mine is named Quentyn."

Joffrey gestured for her to continue.

"Six years ago, my treacherous brother, took control of the palace guard, accused me of a crime I did not commit, and had me exiled to Norvos. I accepted this, because I did not wish to see my countrymen suffer through the strife a conflict would demand. But now I see that I made a mistake then. I did not realize his grasping nature would lead him to greater folly, that he would risk all of my subjects in a bid to support an illegitimate usurper like himself. And so, I have returned to the Seven Kingdoms to see this affront corrected."

"And what, precisely, are you requesting, princess? Have you come to beg for my armies? For my treasury?" Joffrey drummed his fingers and immediately regretted it.

"My king," Arianne clasped her heart, "I require little of the sort. All I wish for is your recognition. When I come to liberate Dorne from my conniving brother, I wish to be able to tell my loyal countrymen that I come on your behalf, with the knowledge that our armies will not work ar cross purposes. I know that the Iron Throne respects the laws and traditional rights of the Kingdoms, Dorne included. I wish you to reaffirm your stance, to acknowledge Dornish succession in Dorne, and to make clear that I, and not my usurper of a brother who has risen against you on behalf of the damned Tyrells, am the true Princess of Dorne. I will rally my kingdom to your side, your majesty, and oust my rebellious brother. And," she clasped her arms, drawing more attention to her bosom, "I will offer my own, close, personal friendship to you, as much as can be desired." Though she was not a spring maiden, it was an attractive bit of supplication, which Joffrey could appreciate.

The court, predictably, was enthralled by the perceived development, but they hung on Joffrey's own reaction. They would mock and scoff if he scoffed, and they would cheer if he accepted. It was as it should be, the court waiting on his superior judgment before they could agree. At his smirk, they bubbled up in enthusiasm, but he silenced them with a gesture.

"So you say," he drawled. "But I will note that your countrymen have indeed risen against the Iron Throne. If they are as innocent as you claim, then why has this come to pass?"

"They are being misled, your majesty. Quentyn's lies have spread far and deep over the years. It is why I did not fight him at the time when I should. His outrageous accusations caught me completely off guard, but were believed by far too many. But your acclamation of my status and innocence would assuage many."

"Hrm." Joffrey nodded.

"That is not to say all are innocent. It is a consequence of the Dornish, King Joffrey. We are not a united people. Much like the rest of the Seven Kingdoms has Andals and First Men, we among the Ryonar have the Stony, the Sandy, and the Salty. And the Stony Dornish lords, with whom Quentyn conspired, have always chafed at the traditions of Dorne. They prefer the Andal traditions, cultures, laws. And they and my brother would cling at the teat of the traitorous Reach, who dare to scoff at all rights and customs in their greed. Just as Steffon and the Tyrell wish to overturn all order and sense in the Seven Kingdoms for their own gain, so too do Quentyn and his supporters wish for Dorne. The Sandy and the Salty Dornishmen will know the truth in my words. They, and anyone else of true Ryonish blood will rise for me."

"Darkstar," Joffrey called to his Kingsguard. Despite being Dornish himself, Joffrey trusted the man. He was competent, unquestioningly obedient, and had saved him from Magaery's assassins on the streets of Kings Landing. "You are Dornish. You knew the Martells. What do you say of the princess and her claims?"

His Kingsguard stepped forth. "Yes, your majesty. I knew the Martells in my youth. One could say I knew the princess before anyone else had the opportunity. She was a good… friend… to me so many years ago." There was a grin on his face. Arianne stiffened slightly but did not otherwise react to the provocation, even as the courtiers chuckled. "And I will go on to say that I am a Stony Dornishman myself, even. There is a ring of truth to the princess's words, but more than on lines of blood, I expect there to be divides on geography. The feuds between the Red Mountains and the Marches of the Reach and Stormlands. Even among the Stony, I suspect many houses chafe under alliance with the Reach, and would love nothing more than to settle old grudges. Nobody in the Kingdom would be particularly enthused to fight on behalf of the demands of the Reach, when they stand to gain little. There is reason to expect many would happily follow Arianne, if only for the chance to raid, or for the chance to not fight side by side with Reachmen and Stormlords. I recommend offering legitimacy to the Princess. If nothing else, it promises to take enemies from the field of battle, both those that would rise for her and you, and those that would be forced back to Dorne to defend their keeps."

"And, if I may interject, your majesty" Walder Rivers, "it costs us very little to proclaim our support. But the strategic value is outsized. A loyal Dorne, or even a contested Dorne, offers an additional front our enemies must split their forces for. And should the princess commit to raiding the rebelling Kingdoms, the usurper's cause will lose both men and support."

"Hm," Joffrey nodded. "Will you, then, Princess? Commit to raiding our treacherous foes? To exact justice for their rebellion on behalf of the Iron Throne?"

"Of course, your majesty," Arianne nodded serenely, "though I will seek to defeat my brother in the field, I will ensure to instruct my scouts and foragers to harry the Reach and Stormlands at every opportunity. When my brother lies defeated and his supporters are dispersed, I will further commit the whole of Dorne's Spears to aiding the crown. And, I, of course, will be quite pleased to show you my gratitude."

"Very well," Joffrey gestured vaguely. "Let it be known that the Iron Throne commits to respecting Dornish Customs within the bounds of the kingdom, that it recognizes Princess Arianne Martell as the true and legitimate sovereign over the Kingdom of Dorne, subordinate only to myself and the Iron Throne. Let it be known that Quentyn Martell is to be considered both a rebel and an usurper, and that the Kingdom of Dorne is not considered to be in rebellion, but rather to be under the occupation of illegitimate lords. Record my words, Oswyn, and have them proclaimed throughout all of the Seven Kingdoms."

The Grand Maester nodded, directing his scribes to write the letters.

"I am ever so grateful for your wisdom and forethought, my king. I knew that I could trust you to see the righteousness of my cause and the wickedness of my brother." Arianne smiled. There was a cruelty in her grin that Joffrey enjoyed. "I will be sure to express my gratitude as much as I am able."

Joffrey nodded. "We will speak at a later time. Both on coordinating forces and on other, personal matters. For now, I must continue court."

The Dornishwoman and her guards all bowed as one. Joffrey watched them leave as the next supplicant was announced.

 

[HypoSoc]

Sansa II​

Sansa clutched at her stomach, holding back the tears in her eyes.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Her life was supposed to be perfect now. Her trials were supposed to be through. The Seven ere supposed to look upon her and smile.

She was queen! Her beloved Joffrey was king! The realm loved and adored them both! And the wicked witch Magaery had been thwarted.

Sansa was supposed to birth a prince and heir, and the world was supposed to see a new age of peace and plenty, with the perfect king instead of a sad, deceived, drunk, and with herself as the benevolent and adored mother of the realm.

Instead, her father's house words proved true: Winter was coming. No, it was here. The dark and cold nights of misery were upon her and all of of the realm. The snowfall of the season heralded the misery of the land.

The Knight of Flowers had proved to be a knave of the gravest sort, treacherous and murderous. He had absconded with his wicked sister and her monstrous brood, had slain his noble and true brothers, and had thrown the whole of the Seven Kingdoms into war.

The chivalry of the Reach betrayed all that was right and true, following the dastardly Tyrells into open rebellion alongside the Stormlands and the Dornish. Loyal and valiant men of the Seven Kingdoms were being slain in the field of battle by the false knights of the rebellion.

And the Dornish… they had sent a harlot, an olive-skinned whore to seduce her honorable husband, to lead him astray in a time when the Seven Kingdoms demanded virtue above all else. Her beloved was beyond such indiscretions, but Sansa could see the aged bitch attempt to corrupt him. The necessities of war prevented her beloved from tossing the worthless harlot out as she deserved, but Sansa knew in her heart of hearts that Arianne was as evil as her openly rebellious brother.

And her heir, the son she was supposed to have…

Her trials were supposed to be over! The Seven was supposed to be smiling upon her! Why was everything going wrong?

Did she not pray enough? Did she not fast enough? Did she note devote herself, her life, and her court to the tenets of piety?

Had she failed in some way? Had she sinned? Why were the Seven punishing her? She would do anything they required to place herself back in their graces, if only she knew what they required.

Justice, law, and custom favored King Joffrey in this unjust war. The Seven would never accept the usurper Tyrells from achieving their aims. The only explanation of misfortune was one of punishment, the evils of the rebellion serving as the tools of the Seven as they sought to teach her a lesson. The failures of the birthing bed were their retribution.

Her Septa insisted that all she needed was to put her faith in the Seven, to devote herself in her entirety to their works and their virtues. Children would come for the faithful. Was not Magaery's own horrific failures proof of such, for a wicked woman to be punished so?

But Sansa's heart was open. Her prayers were deep and true. What was she doing wrong? Why did she deserve such miseries? How could she be near equal in the eyes of the Seven to the wicked woman who partook in woods witches and queer foreign magi, who threw the Seven Kingdoms into war for her own ambition?

It was maddening.

It was all Sansa could do to make it back to her chambers. She didn't wish to see anyone right now. Not her daughter. Not even her beloved. She needed to be alone.

It was just her luck that a servant was present. "Get out," she hissed. "This is not the time to…"

"Sister." The voice shocked her out of her state.

Sansa glared. "You. Who let you in to my chambers, Arya?" She would have them sacked. She would have them flogged.

"I let myself in," her disgusting sister said. Of course she did. Arya Underfoot, always sneaking about, always going where she was not wanted. Westeros was made all the brighter when her sister had departed.

"What are you doing here?" Why here? Why now? Why in her chambers?

"I came to speak with you, Sansa."

"Oh really?" Sansa spat. "You came to see me? How pleasant of you. Coming to see me now? After all these years? How fortuitous timing. It is strange that you didn't wish to see me for my wedding, or for my coronation." They were the two most important event in Sansa's life. That Arya was absent was all the proof Sansa needed to know her sister cared as little for her as she did for Arya.

"… I did attend your wedding. You just didn't recognize me."

"You expect me to believe I somehow didn't see you? That nobody saw you?" Lies. Arya, despite the decade of time since they last spoke, was easily recognizable. It was just like the girl to lie over such simple things.

"Yes, because it was part of… it doesn't matter. Believe me or not. It is inconsequential. My point is, you didn't need me before this. But now the family is being threatened. So I have returned." Arya huffed. "We don't have to like each other, Sansa, but I still don't want to see you overthrown. I want to offer all the aid I can provide."

"You? Aid me?" Sansa scoffed. "What possible aid could I receive from a Braavossi whore?!" Sansa made a mocking gesture of bringing her hand to her lips. "Oh! My sincerest apologies. I meant to say a Bravossi courtesan." She spat out the word.

It was baffling that Arya had become such a thing. Not that Arya had the ill temperament to be willing to sell her body. Such was a clear possibility for a girl who shunned everything to do with being a lady, and instead wallowed like a swine with stable boys.

No. It was that the men of Braavos were willing to pay for her sister that baffled Sansa. Even before Arya had fled the Seven Kingdoms, people had tried to flatter her wild sister by claiming that she had been growing into Aunt Lyanna's looks. But Sansa could never see it. Then and now, Arya was still Horseface, an unpleasantly ugly girl that Sansa could barely believe she was related to. There was no great beauty in her sister akin to the woman who's appearance had torn the realm into civil war. An ugly northerner could never ensnare a prince.

Though, Sansa supposed it was possible that her deceased aunt was a match for her sister. The Targaryen's were mad, after all. It would fit for Mad Prince Rhaegar to lust after a northern horse. And it would say quite peculiar things about the men of Braavos that they had such poor tastes to match.

"Perhaps you could service the loyal soldiers in the field?" Sansa mocked. "In which case, go with my blessing. I do not care, in equal apathy to that which you had shown our family."

Arya glared. "I do care. The only reason I have come back to this stupid place is because I care. If it weren't for my duty to family, to my old home, I never would have returned."

"Duty?!" Sansa could not hold back her screech. "Duty? What do you know of duty, Arya? You have never, not once in your life, accepted your duty. You were a wild child, who shirked lessons and propriety, who refused all semblance of responsibility, who only got away with all your mischief because father doted on you. You have never put a moment's thought into anyone but yourself. And, the very instant you heard that father was considering the possibility of finding you a husband, you attempted to flee into the night. No, Arya, you know nothing at all about duty." She spat.

"And what do you know?" Arya glared. "Not just about me and why I left, or why you think I left, or about what I have done. But what do you know of duty? Of, how dreary it must be, that duty demands you marry your darling prince, that duty demands you be queen of the Seven Kingdoms? Don't make me laugh."

"You know nothing, Arya," Sansa hissed. "Nothing of my struggles, or all the work I do, or all the suffering I endure."

"You're right. I do know nothing about that at all. I'm sure choosing seating arrangements or picking which pie to serve at a tea party is more than you can bear. Gods! Of course you are still a stupid, empty-headed bint. I don't know why I bothered speaking to you at all. Queen or not, you know nothing and do nothing. You certainly wouldn't be able to make use of me. It was a waste of time speaking to you at all!"

"As if the time of a queen is less valuable than that of a whore!" Sansa shouted back. "Begone, Arya. Go back and wallow with your wolf. Leave me and never enter my sight again, lest I summon the Kingsguard to have you taken to the Black Cells."

"Don't worry, Sansa. You will never see me again." Arya glared. "But I will do one thing for you at least. One final coronation gift, from your sister." She tossed something onto the floor. It clattered. "There. A dagger. One used by Braavosi ladies. You can hide it in your hair, or in the folds of your dress. It won't show. If I could get in, so could an assassin. So, keep it on you. Or don't. I don't care." And with that, her sister flung herself out the window.

Sansa blinked, and huffed. Over dramatic harlot, climbing over the ramparts as if she were Bran… Sansa refused to deal with her a moment longer.

The glinting knife she left on the floor. She would have a servant take it away at some point. She did not want to deal with the thing right now.

Instead, she sat upon her bed, and fumed.

Eddard IV​

There was someone in Eddard's chambers when he opened the door.

"Father."

He did not allow his shock to show, but he removed his hand from his blade. "Arya." His voice was stone. It was all he could manage. "What are you doing here?"

"I tried speaking with Sansa. It went poorly." Despite the calm in her wards, Eddard could imagine the expression on a much younger girl, squabbling with her sister. "I have heard about the rebellion. I've heard about the losses in the field. I have heard about the losses Northern forces have been bleeding."

For such rumors to already reach Braavos… it painted a sorry picture of the kingdom he was trying to manage. "You do not need to concern yourself over that."

"I do, father," Arya insisted. "You taught me about honor and duty. I am in a position to help, so I will. Tell me, father, the names of the enemy commanders. Tell me the financiers. The spymasters. Who are the most important lords in the rebellion. Tell me their names, father, and they will die."

Eddard closed his eyes, and exhaled. After a long pause, he spoke a single word. "No."

"No?" His daughter was outright incredulous. "Do you think me incapable, father? Do you think I would fail? I am not a little girl anymore. I am not Arya Underfoot. I am a killer. So let me serve my house."

"Arya, you will always be my little girl. No matter who you kill, or how many. Nothing you do can change that fact. So, I refuse your offer."

"Do you even realize what you are giving up? I am not permitted to kill everyone, but a few names… you have to know how this could change the course of the war. You have to realize how much you stand to gain here, with no cost to anyone but myself." Arya glared. "Will you let your bannermen die when you could have stopped it? Will you let the Tyrells overthrow your daughter's dynasty out of simple stubbornness?"

"I may be stubborn, Arya, but I stand by my honor. If the kingdom needs my little girl to kill in order to save it, it does not deserve to live. I refuse to ask that of you."

"This is exactly why I left, you know?" Arya glared. "This entire thing. I can never be a person in Westeros. Just a girl."

Eddard bowed his head. "I'm sorry, Arya. Even though I failed you, please know that I still love you."

Arya was silent for a good long moment. "You didn't fail me, father." Her voice was soft. "It was the Seven Kingdoms that failed me." She turned away. "Goodbye."

And Arya vanished from his sight. Eddard bowed his head further. The second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms felt his abject failure, a wound that would never be allowed close.

 

[HypoSoc]

Theon I​

Pyke was a miserable castle, windy, cold, and damp. Theon had thought he had gotten used to the blasted thing over the last decade. It's creaks and moans, and its insufferable drafts hounded him and defied his attempts to fix. One would need a treasury greater than Casterly Rock if one wanted to fix all the leaks and miseries of the place. But Theon had thought it manageable.

Nobody had told him just how much worse the damned castle was in Winter.

Theon had been in the North during the Sunless Moon and he didn't recall feeling nearly as cold then as he did now. Winterfell was simply that much better a castle. The hot springs piped through the walls, well maintained without a single draft, where roaring fires could be trusted to keep and not extinguish in the damp, salty air… Bran the Builder was clearly a superior architect to whomever built this shoddy thing.

It wasn't fair. Were not the Greyjoys equal to the Starks? Was not the Iron Islands equal to the North? Did they not possess the same depth of history, the same triumphs of conquest, the same dignity of culture? Why then was he stuck with a miserable, leaky, shit-hole of a castle instead of something to be proud of?

It was the same with the whores. As ruler of the Iron Islands, lord of Pyke, Theon Greyjoy had the pick of all the brothels on his island. And what a sorry pick that was. The tavern wenches of the North were better-looking than the port callers of Pyke. He could barely remember the girls he knew as a youth, so much time had passed. He couldn't even remember their names, much less their faces. They were just vague bits of tit-flesh and pretty smiles now. But Theon was certain they lacked the spots and toothless grins of the subpar prostitutes he suffered now.

The whores he had chosen to help warm him were disappointing enough that he wondered why he even bothered.

Gods, they were so ugly. No wonder the sailors of the Iron Islands went to reave so much. The women here were ugly enough to drive any men to sail. Take any common farmer's daughter from the mainland and she would look like the Maiden incarnate next to any of these salty whores.

His mood was dashed, so he sent the girls away, pulling himself closer to the fire.

His mood was dashed further when his sister entered. He could tell, from the weight of her feet on the creaking floor, and the arrogance of her gait.

"Done with your harlots, brother?" she mocked.

"I thought I was," he spoke without turning from the fire, "but a new one just walked in." He turned to glare. "What do you want, Asha? I have little desire to see you and I presume the feeling is mutual."

"Indeed. I'd be happy to leave you to your whores. Alas, I am a loyal daughter of Pyke and feel compelled to bring a matter to your attention."

"If you are going to make me beg for this information, you should get out."

"Hm. The captains are grumbling. The words have not yet become mutinous, but it is close enough to be worth taking note. There are whispers of demanding a kingsmoot. Nothing definitive as of yet, but there is more substance to their displeasure than you should be comfortable with."

Theon scoffed. "The captains are always grumbling. Sailors complain as much as old wives. What reason could they possibly have now? I've gotten them the reaving they crave. They are free to raid the Reach as they see fit."

"If you really think that the chance to reave is all the captains care about, you truly are a greenlander milksop."

Theon bristled. "Do you think I chose that? Do you think I asked to be taken hostage?" It was ridiculous. Theon was an Ironborn, born and bred. He was the rightful ruler of the Iron Islands. And, at this point, he had even spent more time among his people than he had among the North. And yet they mocked him for it, for years and years and years. Would these petty captains ever get over it? "You could have just as easily been taken to foster as well."

"No, Theon, you did not choose to be taken. That was father who made that choice. But you insist on making the choice every since day. Shall I spell it out for you, brother?"

Asha mocked him. Theon knew she did it because she had nothing else. Grasping and cloying she imagined herself his superior in some way, refused to see any evidence to the contrary. There was nothing Theon could do to make his bitch of a sister respect him, because her whole identity revolved around her mistaken delusions.

His sister took his silence as permission to continue. In truth, he didn't care. "The captains are prideful men, Theon. Petty men, even. I won't deny that. They see insults and carry grudges, against each other and against all. Reaving appeals to their greed, aye, but proud captains are not base coin counters or merchants. They crave respect. They scorn dismissal. And they hate to be treated as mangy mutts, attack dogs at the beck and call of the king. You say they can reave? Yes, it is true, but only at the orders of another. It is not freedom. It is not respect. It is not what a captain demands of the world." Asha glared. "Look me in the eye, brother. Don't ignore my words. Your captains chafe under the Baratheons."

"No, sister. It's you who chafe." Theon rolled his eyes. "You go on and on about the captains, but I know you only speak for yourself. You are the prideful one, the petty one, the spiteful one. You resent the Baratheons for installing me, for enforcing the laws and customs of the kingdom, after you sat yourself upon my chair." That was the core of it. His hateful sister wished to have a cock. She wished to be a lord. "You think that just because you sat upon it after father's death you are entitled to the Seastone Chair? You think managing the isles through the Sunless Moon means you can keep them? If I were there I would have done the same. I thank you for serving in my absence, sister," he spat, "but a castellan is not a lord."

"Sitting on the chair? Is that what you think I did?" Asha clutched her axe. "How easy for you to claim you could have done what I did when you were sitting cozy on the mainland! How dare you minimize it!"

"Oh?" Theon mocked, "will you kill me like you killed uncle Euron?" Theon kept the corner of his eye on the axe. His sword was within reach, hidden beneath the table. If his sister lashed out, he would be well-prepared to slay her. His build out-sized her, his reach was superior, and his training with the blade would dominate over her axe-work. Despite his sister's delusions, Theon knew he was her superior in a fight ten times over.

But Asha did not strike. She laughed. It was a deep and disturbing thing. "Oh, Theon. I've slain scores of men in my time, but I would never count the Crow's Eye among them. When my axe cleaved him in twain, it was not the flesh born of man that met my blade. The beast that hatched from Euron's skull in his guise, the spoke with his voice and wore his eye… I cannot call it kin to you or I. What man has so many eyes? What man's skin is so pallid and cold, the rubber of a kraken beneath it? What man grasps for the soul for his presence, lives in the terror of shadows?" Asha laughed. "When you slay a man, do the skies bleed? Do the seas crack? Does the earth shake? No. It can only be called a demon. The kingdoms should kiss my feet in joy for the miracle I delivered onto all of them, the miracle you think was simply sitting my ass upon a chair."

Madness. His sister was mad. But her hand was no longer on her axe, so Theon let the grip on his concealed sword loosen.

"Make no mistake, I would have killed Euron. For all the evils he did. For killing our father. I would be a kinslayer like he and be proud to state it. But I cannot believe it was Euron that I slew." She shook her head. "You think I hate the Baratheons? Correct. I spit on them. And I spit on you, and will continue to do so, so long as you keep proving yourself unworthy of the Seastone Chair. But it is not hate that drives me to speak with you. I simply wish what is best for the Iron Islands."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, you want what is best do you? How considerate. Perhaps I should spell it out to you then. The Iron Islands are in a shite state. We don't have men. We don't have money. The Baratheon's have all the cards. The Reach, Stormlands, and Dorne cannot fight all the rest of the Seven Kingdoms together. The crown is rich. The Westerlands are rich. The Reach cannot compete against both. Even with our men, the armies do not match up. They will be crushed and this rebellion will die a pointless death, like our own father's rebellion did. So, let us simply take advantage of the situation, reave to our heart's content, then get on with our lives when this all ends. Siding with the Tyrells is a fool's game." This was why his sister could not be a lord. She did not think matters through. She was just as short-sighted and arrogant as all the rest of his captains.

"For fools, they seem to be winning quite handily, over and over again." Asha shot back. "Are you blind to realities of this war? Do you think the Baratheon's command true loyalty of the Seven Kingdoms? How do you suppose the Withered Rose escaped King's Landing? Did she and her brother just dance away? The chalk-haired buffoon had her snatched out of his hand.

"And, once again you are stuck thinking like a greenlander. Why care about armies? What matters are ships. The Royal Fleet sits trapped in the narrow sea, waiting for winter storms to pass. The westerland fleet sits in the harbor for the same. But we Ironborn do not fear the storms. Our captains yearn to defy the Storm God. We can fight the Baratheon fleet piecemeal, destroying them before they can link, and achieve naval superiority. We can have free reign of the coasts, and reave every kingdom we wish."

She was ranting, a dark gleam in her eye. "You want to talk of money? Then let me talk of grain. Winter is here and starvation is coming. You, cozy on the mainland, did not starve, but I know hunger. I know how men will turn to beasts with empty bellies. The Reach has stockpiles aplenty, more than every other kingdom combined. Should we control the sea, block imports of the same, I can tell you exactly what will happen. You think the rebellion will lose? Hah. If the Early Spring had not ended, you would have been correct. If the Reach had been crushed in the cradle, losing their first battles, you would have been correct. But that is not what happened. And if we prevent Baratheon from controlling the seas, it is not what will happen.

"This war will be long. It will be bloody. And that is precisely what we want. We want a great and ugly and terrible war so we can reave and reave and reave. Think of the riches, Theon. Think of all the thralls you could take, to work those bloody mines you obsess over. Ending the war for the Baratheons gains us little. Protracting the war for the Tyrells gains us everything."

There was an echo of truth to her words, damn her. Asha was overstating matters, but there was something there hidden behind the bravado. Objectively speaking, it would be better for the war to be extended. Raiding and thrall-taking from the Seven Kingdoms was more lucrative than and industry, even if it were unsustainable. The Baratheons would crush the Reach if he aided them, and that might be too fast for his liking.

But outright rising in rebellion for the other side? It was ludicrous.

"You would have me betray the oaths I gave to the king, to the both of them." Theon glared. "You would have me betray my friend, my brother."

Asha spat in his face. The disgusting phlegm fell on his desk. "Are you a Stark? Or are you a Greyjoy, brother? What a mewling hound you are, so eager to serve at the mainland's beck and call, so enamored with a gaoler who kept a blade against your neck." Her fist pounded against the desk. The wood creaked. "Why are you not angry, Theon?! Why do you not hate them?! Why are you not a proper and proud Ironborn?!"

Theon glared. "You are trying to lead me to ruin." She was plotting his downfall, he knew this. She was trying to betray him, to tear him from his seat.

"No. I am trying to do what is right for the Iron Islands. You are already in ruin." She turned her back on him. "Care for my warnings, brother. If you disregard them, I will not be the only captain considering mutiny."

Damn her. Damn her to the depths. Theon's hand rested on his blade. He considered slicing her in twain, here and now, as she had done to their mad uncle. It would be sanity to do so.

But Theon stayed his hand. He turned to the fire, trying and failing to dismiss Asha's words.

 

[HypoSoc]

Sansa III​

The dresses her ladies in waiting had found were beautiful, but Sansa could not focus on them in the least. The fabrics, the cuts, the new styles… she could not engage with them at all. Her mind danced away from the subjects at hand to those more dire.

But Sansa did not permit herself to show it.

She was queen. She was a symbol. She was the greatest lady of the kingdom, from whom all the rest would take their cues. Even among her carefully selected handmaidens, her task did not stop. She had to present herself as perfection, as an unflappable paragon of grace.

Her fears could not be visible. The true state of the Seven Kingdoms could not be permitted to reflect upon her visage. She needed to present herself as strong, so that she could be strong, so that the realm could be strong.

Some of her handmaidens were vapid fools. A selection of morons had been useful in the years before, knowing they would not be able to think to betray her to the horrible queen. Those ladies might not even recognize the danger of the rebellion, so long as she kept herself stiff.

The others, the more competent ones? No doubt they were wearing their own masks of joy and ease, same as she. The pressures for her ladies were far, far less than those upon herself, but they existed all the same.

If Sansa broke, they would break in turn. It was all the more important that she keep smiling, no matter her fears or her worries.

Sansa could not confide in any of them, nor could she allow any of them to confide in her. To voice one's worry would be as bad as treason.

So she and they pretended all was well, while the vapid dunces happily believed it actually to be so.

How much of the Seven Kingdom was like that, Sansa wondered? How many vapid dunces were going about their lives as if nothing were falling apart? How many were only pretending?

But there was only so much Sansa could handle before the weight of the mask became too heavy. She found an excuse to dismiss her ladies and retreated to her chambers.

She did not expect to run into Lord Baelish in the hall. He seemed just as surprised to run into her, but his face adopted a warm smile.

"Sansa, dear. How funny it is that I found you. I was just thinking about finding time to meet with you this week."

"Lord Baelish," she bowed her head. "What did you wish to speak with me about?"

The Master of Coin smiled gently. "Come now, Sansa. We are practically alone here. You can call me Petyr. As for why, can a man not simply wish to see the most beautiful treasure in the realm?"

Sansa looked down. "Oh, stop. I don't need to be flattered right now."

"It's not flattery if it is true, why, you are the spitting image of your mother when she was your age. The pride of the Riverun has become the envy of the Seven Kingdoms." His soft smile was infectious. Sansa found herself mirroring it. "As for the reason… well it is nothing particularly urgent. If you are busy I can call upon you some other time."

"No," she shook her head. "Now works well for me. I was simply taking a break from hosting court. We can speak in my chambers, for privacy."

"Indeed." Lord Baelish made an extravagant bow, then held out his hand for hers. "Shall I escort you, my lady?"

Sansa giggled, and allowed him to take her.

The servants parted ways for them. They knew better to comment. If Sansa wanted to pretend she was a little girl again, if only for a moment, that was her prerogative. And Lord Baelish was a more doting, and far better dressed, father than her own dour example.

Petyr pulled out her chair for her in her chambers, and took a seat across. His hand remained clasped on her own.

"What did you wish to speak of, Petyr?"

"Little and much," he said with a smile, his thumb pressing into her hand. "Primarily, my intent is to inform you of my upcoming departure. I am planning a trip to the Vale, to survey my holdings. Well, my holdings in that kingdom, that is to say. My lands in the Riverlands are not easily accessible in the moment, for reasons I am sure neither of us would enjoy to discuss."

The war. The rebellion. The damnable Tyrells. They were running roughshod over the lands of her mother's house. They were making a mockery of all the lords who claimed dominion.

Sansa did not keep abreast of the specifics. Battles and warfare were domains of the Warrior and Father, not the Maiden and Mother. It was not her place to know about or speak of such things. But the tidings she heard were not forgiving.

Had the treacherous rebels seized Harrenhal? Had they stolen the castle from poor Lord Baelish? Certainly the roads were risky, with armies and brigands who would waylay any careless travelers. But how tight was their hold?

She did not know. She did not wish to ask. The pain and fear in her heart were stabbing. She could barely feel Petry's reassuring hand on her own. She could barely hear his voice.

But his voice was an anchor to cling to. It pulled her out of her tumult.

"Though I believe I will be making something productive out of the trip. I have heard there is a castle in poor repair, within reach of one of my own. The lord is a spendthrift you see, and has an unfortunate taste for gambling. Given his mounting debts and winter's approach, I imagine we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. It would make for my seventh holding. An auspicious number wouldn't you say, my dear?"

"Quite auspicious, yes. A proper and holy number." She nodded.

Sansa found the wholesale selling of lands and titles business quite strange, for all the Petyr engaged with it so often. It struck her as wrong… a violation of the Seven ordained order. It was Essosi in a way insensible to proper Westerosi sensibilities. She had heard some of the court whisper about the Master of Coin's practices, whispers she had made sure to quash.

Petyr wasn't the one doing anything wrong, after all. If men of poor habit fell into such a sorry state, to the point they were willing to give up their land and title… was that not proof enough that they lacked the nobility to be lords? That Petyr was a willing buyer for their disturbing transactions just meant that the lands ended up in the hands of a proven and able administrator.

Lord Baelish had risen high in his service to King Robert. It was proof that the Seven favored him and his virtues. That he was so well suited to find these desperate loafs was a matter of providence.

"Of course, I plan to take some time touring around Gulltown as well. I imagine the city will be mine in due time. Before the year's end, perhaps."

Sansa blinked. "Why would that be?"

"Oh you know how those Graftons are. Disloyal and contentious. We can never forget how they rebelled against their liege lord to fight on the side of the Targaryens. Dreadful occurrence. Almost cost everything. I have no doubt they will prove just as perfidious here again, and side with those dastardly Tyrells. Perhaps they plan to elevate the Gulltown Aryns as their puppets. Perhaps they plan to seek the whole of the Vale for themselves. Either way… I have my men searching for evidence. We will present some letters to the king to prove their guilt. At which point Gulltown would need a caretaker."

He grinned, his hand grasping her more tightly. "And who would be a better caretaker than myself? An important port town like that, who else but a Vale lord with a small talent for finances? Lord Arryn won't deny me. We have such a good relationship, he and I. He considers me his father in many ways. As for King Joffrey… I have been a loyal servant of the crown, have I not? He is a reasonable man. And can I not count on you, my dear Sansa, to speak in my favor as well?"

Petyr was so happy, so jovial, so carefree. Sansa couldn't believe it.

Surely Lord Baelish was not a vapid fool? The Master of Coin was a deeply intelligent man, a kind man, a caring man. That he would look upon the world and not see it crumbling down was unthinkable.

He was wearing a mask, trying to cheer her up. The deeply considerate man was trying to let her play pretend.

But Sansa was queen. She was not a little girl. She could not play games. Right now, she didn't need another handmaiden putting on some mummery. She needed a confidant, a man with which she did not need to disguise her fears.

"Don't play up your false cheer, Petyr. Don't lie to me, singing about some simple tomorrow. How can you not see how awful the world has become? How can you plan to triumph over traitors when those traitors may very well destroy us all?"

Petyr blinked. His smile turning to confusion, then concern. "Oh, Sansa dear. Are you afraid? Please trust me that the situation is not as bad as you fear."

"Not so bad?! Every day I hear of our losses in the field. I hear of traitorous Reach knight incurring on our lands. I hear of lords rising in rebellion. I hear the witch's name spoken in the streets." Sansa could barely contain her tears. Her breath hitched. "They will win. Gods above, they will win. They will kill Joffrey. They will put that wretched Steffon on the throne. They will destroy everything, Petyr!"

There was a flash of something in his eye. Annoyance? Irritation? It wasn't something Sansa recognized from the kindly and generous man.

"Come now, Sansa, you are being silly." His hand reached up to rub her cheek, wiping away a tear that had fallen. "Let us talk through your fears. Suppose you are right. Let us say that Joffrey is deposed. Seven forbid it, I mean" he hastily added, "but for the sake of argument, let's assume the Tyrell are triumphant, and all the Seven Kingdoms fall to the Reach and their allies. In that case, what do you think would happen to us?"

"We'd be killed! Beheaded! Thrown to the dogs!" Putting the words to voice, she could not help but sob. "You for being a loyal servant of the crown. Me, because of the spiteful whore. Magaery is a cruel witch. She would relish slaying me! Perhaps she plans to sacrifice me to some strange demon, to try and become fertile again. Gods!"

"No!" Petry shouted, almost shaking her. "No! Sansa, you are being hysterical. Quiet down, girl. Listen to me." Sansa swallowed her tears as Petry hugged her tightly against his chest. His clothing was soft, but his shoulders were thin. He did not have the firm chest of even her husband. "Joffrey would die, yes. It would be... unfortunate. But I would not die. You can trust me on that. I have contacts as it were. Business associates. People who can whisper in the ears of the traitors to ensure that I am treated right, if I do not manage to evade capture. As for you, Sansa, dear, you are far, far too valuable for the rebels to ever kill. You are a daughter of the North. Your uncle rules the Riverlands. Your cousin rules the Vale. They cannot kill you, not even in the direst of fates."

He hugged her tighter.

"Come now, Sansa," he whispered. "We can make arrangements. We can have you sent to a motherhouse, a specific one. I can have my men abscond with you in the night, to be taken to safety, along with little Cersei. You can join me in one of my holdings, where I will keep you safe and hidden. I have so many territories, you would never get bored of them, hah!"

He ended it with a joke, a little bit of levity, cutting through the misery of the conversation.

Sansa allowed herself to smile, but it was a false one in truth.

Petyr was too optimistic. His words were but a comforting lie, and Sansa was no little girl to be taken by them. Though she appreciated the intent. The bold faced truth was that, as rich and powerful as Petyr Baelish was, he could not control the vile enemy. It did not matter how valuable Sansa was as a hostage. People so hateful as to rise in rebellion may kill her for a simple lark. If the Tyrells took King's Landing, if they captured the Red Keep, Sansa would be killed.

And, if they did not, if Sansa kept her life, but lost her husband, and lost her crown… then what would even be the point of living any longer?

 

[HypoSoc]

Eddard V​

The state of the realm was a snowstorm of dire tidings, each flake threatening ruin. The news was miserable enough that Eddard had little idea what to discuss first. It scarcely mattered, for all was important, and all must be dealt with.

"The armies of the North united with Lord Tully's banners near Fairmarket, under the direction of Lord Mallister. They met a Reach force in the field, augmented with Dornish spears. Dickon Tarly was the commander. Accounts say that Recah calvary outflanked the Riverlands horses and broke the ranks of the infantry. Our forces managed to escape the field without routing, and regrouped near Oldstones, but Fairmarket was lost, and Lord Mallister fell in the fighting. Two of Darry's nephews and the heir to Pinkmaiden were captured, along with four Freys. Of Northern losses, Glover was slain, Karstark captured, and noble men of the Houses Talhart, Mormont, Reed, and Flint were taken hostage."

The king was silent, drumming his fingers, a dark expression on his face.

"Tarly, of course," Stannis grumbled. "The boy is proving as troublesome as his father. It is a shame grasping fools like Mace Tyrell are blessed with such able subordinates."

"Speaking of Tarly, how is our own?" Lord Baelish mused. "It feels strange to permit such a person on our Kingsguard, when his own cousin leads our foes into battle."

"Ser Franklyn Tarly has shown no signs of disloyalty," the Lord Commander said, voice bereft of any feeling. It was hard for Eddard to tell if the man was earnestly defending his sworn brother, or if he were disappointed to not be rid of the man.

"Neither did Loras, and look how that turned out," the Master of Coin mocked.

"Ser Tarly has voluntarily submitted to observation," Rivers said, voice rasping. "We have been monitoring his communications and keeping him from duties where he could inflict true damage. Besides, I recall that Ser Franklyn Tarly's appointment did not sit well with his lordly uncle. Some broken engagement or other."

"Enough about fucking Tarly," the king spat. "We will kill him if he betrays us. Until then he is my Kingsguard. There is no more to be said. Are you done explaining how you are letting the rebels steal one of my kingdoms, Stark?"

"All is not lost," Eddard hastened to add. "When the Westerland forces arrive, we can expect to retake the kingdom. The rebel forces are split, fighting as small groups as they siege down the castles of the Riverlands. We will be able to vastly outnumber them and defeat them piecemeal. My heir still holds Pinkmaiden and the road to the Golden Tooth, so the route for reinforcement remains open. But until then, battle seems to be a losing proposition, after so many losses." He frowned. "It is quite unfortunate, but we are not able to thwart the rebels at this time. The Ironborn reave unhindrered, and the rebel troops are able to do as they please. A Stormlander force under Tarth intercepted a large grain shipment meant for the capital. We will be feeling the loss soon."

"Worthless failure after worthless failure," the king grumbled. "Uncle, tell me how my navy has proven as worthless as my armies. Or is there another reason you are even here right now?"

The Master of Ships grit his teeth. "Winter storms held the Royal Fleet in port for a moon. We routed the Stormland's fleet, little as it was. We succesfully crossed the Stepstones, despite the Ironborn and sellsail harassment. But the Westerland navy was not in position to meet with us. Lacking safe ports in the west, and harried by the Reach and Dornish navies, the Royal Fleet was forced to turn back."

"Ah, so you were worthless. As I expected."

"We did our duty," Stannis spoke coldly. "We overcame more sellsails than our estimates predicted. We fought off the Ironborn despite their treachery. If the Westerlands had done as our plans demanded, our fleet would be ready and waiting in the Sunset Sea to demolish the rebellion. Instead, Wersterland ships sit uselessly in Lannisport, and the Royal Fleet is stuck in Duskendale, waiting for timber sitting in Lannisport.."

"Hm… Westerland armies failing to show, Westerland fleets stuck at port," Lord Baelish rubbed his goatee. "Why, your majesty, I wonder if there is something of a pattern emerging. Is their something the matter with your mother's house?"

"Do not speak of my family that way, Littlefinger," the king glared. "I am well aware of the Imp's failures. But that does not give you leave to excuse your own. Where is the Vale, Baelish? Sitting uselessly at The Bloody Gate, staring at a Reach and Stormlands army? Why have they not smashed the rebels, Baelish? Can you answer me that?"

"I do have some good news on that front, your majesty," Eddard interjected. "My son, Brandon, led a daring raid of his knights into the rebel camp. They were able to capture the commander, Lord Fossoway of Cider Hall, along with some other nobles of not."

"Oh, how marvelous," the king sarcastically remarked. "And I suppose the rebel army collapsed without their commander? Can we expect the banners of the Vale to pour into the Riverlands and be of bloody use instead of posturing opposite the rebels?"

Arguably, even without fighting, the Vale was doing a great service in keeping so much of the rebel forces tied up in their strange mutual siege. But Eddard was not going to bring that up right now. "Not as such, your majesty. But Brandon's success will damage enemy morale, and rob the rebels of an able commander, to say nothing of the value holding Fossoway can offer."

"Gods," Joffrey rubbed his forehead. "Fine. Have your son send me Fossoway's head to parade around and I will offer congratulations."

Eddard was not the only one staring at the king.

The Grand Maester coughed. "Your majesty, killing a noble hostage outright… it is not the most expected course of action."

"Fossoway is a traitor. All his family are. The punishment for treason is death. Do you expect rebels to be treated with care and kindness? Hah! They renounced the privileges of their station when they renounced the one from whom those privileges emanated. They have no more rights than brigands!"

The Grand Maester swallowed. "Such… such would interfere with future reconciliation, your majesty. For the masterminds such as the Tyrells to be destroyed is one thing, an expected thing. But if all the lords believed they might be executed, they might fight to the bitter end, your majesty!"

"Then they never should have followed their foolish lord into rebellion," Joffrey said, no warmth in his voice. "They never should have betrayed me."

"Regardless of your intent for dealing with the traitors," Eddard spoke up, "the practical reality is that our foes have many more hostages than we do. We do not wish them to start executing our loyal nobles, lest our own force's morale plummet. Men ride bravely into battle knowing that, even if they are to be defeated, all they risk is their glory, not their death. Lord Fossoway should be kept for hostage exchange at this time, for simple practicality if nothing else."

Eddard had dealt with Robert's rage. When Joffrey's tempers cooled, more reasonable decisions could be made. It was important to not let hasty acts decided in fury to lead to greater ruin.

"Fine. Fine!" Joffrey spat. "Let Fossoway escape. Let us all be overthrown without even a single head to parade. What worthless Kingdoms I still have. Westermen stuck in their beds. Northmen who cannot win a battle. Riverlanders who collapse in the field. Valemen trapped in their own mountain passes. Gods… what about the loyal Dorne? How is Martell proving worthless?"

"Ah, your majesty," Oswyn gulped, "I hesitated to disappoint, especially as matters are not yet confirmed, but I have received ravens saying that Arianne Martell was defeated in the field of battle, and has been taken prisoner by her brother's forces."

"Gods! What was that bloody imbecile of a woman doing on the field?" Joffrey shouted. "So many promises made and she fucked up at the first engagement? How could she let herself be captured?!"

"I… I do not know, your grace. The information is still unconfirmed. It may not prove true."

"If I may help get all the bad news out of the way?" Rivers spoke. "There have been protests in the streets. Nearby towns have risen in revolt. The Crownlands has been infested with a treacherous fever." The Master of Whispers raised a hand. "I should clarify, all the discord is coming from our smallfolk. The nobles of Crownlands do not dare to step out of line."

Joffrey huffed. "You made me think there was an actual issue, Rivers. Uppity lowborn are a pest, not a crisis. Moore," he ordered. "Have Darkstar deal with it. And have Tarly go with him. Better to make use of his sword arm than have him guard nothing at all." He shook his head. "Really, these ungrateful bastard lowborn… where is this nonsense coming from."

"It is hard to say what drives the small minds of smallfolk, your majesty," Rivers said. "But if I hazard a guess, it is often the Faith driving them. Their sermons have been quite… incendiary of late. And not against the proper targets. My people have arrested some begging brothers and wandering septons after hearing some outright traitorous sermons."

"What? The Faith? What is my worthless brother even doing?"

"I do not know, your majesty. I have taken the liberty of summoning him for questioning, just in case you wished to ask." Rivers smiled. "Shall I have him brought in, or sent on his way?"

"Brought in, of course," Joffrey nodded. "At least one of my small council isn't completely useless."

It was uncomfortable how confident the Master of Whispers was in his initiative. Eddard was the Hand of the King and even he would hesitate to demand the High Septon brought to the Red Keep. And he was not even a follower of the Faith of the Seven. Rivers, a man with no title but his position as Master of Whispers, who nominally followed the Faith, had no such compunctions.

There was a cruelty to the pock-marked man. Eddard had never accepted the Southron depiction of bastards, but Rivers certainly lived down to it.

Or perhaps Eddard was simply allowing his bias against the position to color his views. The last spymaster had proved a Pentoshi traitor. Why they had ever trusted a man who had served on the Mad King's court Eddard could not, for the life of himself, remember.

Wherever Rivers had the High Septon stashed away was apparently near, as a pair of ugly guardsmen escorted the man into the council room. Tommen's dress over the last few months had become even more austere. It was a start contrast the to bedecked fat man that was his predecessor.

"Joffrey, you can't just…" the priest began.

"I can do whatever I wish, brother. I am king." Joffrey interrupted.

"I'm not… King Joffrey, as part of my vows I have forsaken my name and my mortal ties. You should not refer to me as your 'brother.'"

"Oh? Did your vows also make you forsake your loyalty to your king? Why have I heard rumors of treacherous sermons?"

"Treacherous? No! Your majesty, I have preached nothing of the sort! I have preached for peace, yes, reconciliation, yes. But only in the hopes that the war end immediately, without rebellion or further bloodshed."

"Not your, you oaf. Your flock. Septons are riling up the lowborn for the Tyrells, here in the heart of the Crownlands."

"None of my priests would dare say something like that. They know they would be killed for it. No ordained minister in King's Landing speaks against you."

"And yet I hear of begging brothers preaching otherwise. You were supposed to keep the Faith under control, Tommen. So are you incompetent or treacherous?"

"Jof… King Joffrey… I do not control every septon and septa in the Seven Kingdoms. I warned you, months ago, that I lacked influence. Many septons obey me, but many more listen to the Starry Sept. I have sought to prevent them from making… politically unwise decisions… but many of the Most Devout favor The Reach. To say nothing of how the Tyrells have assumed the crown's debt to the Faith."

"What?" Joffrey turned to the Master of Coin, "what is this about the crown's debt?"

Lord Baelish shrugged. "Steffon Baratheon, or rather Mace Tyrell, has taken to paying off the loans your father took, both to the Faith and the Iron Bank. I presumed you would be happy to let them do so. It saves the treasury quite a bit of fees."

"What?!" It was Eddard who interjected. "You are allowing the rebels to take over the debt without saying a word about it? What does it say, if one son of King Robert shirks his obligations, and the other accepts them? Who would the realm believe is the true heir? King Joffrey, this is an attack on your legitimacy."

"No, Stark," the Master of Coin sighed, "it is not an attack on our legitimacy. It is an attack on their treasury. Let them spend their money paying our debts. Legitimacy will come at the end of a sword, either way." He shrugged and turned to the king. "If I was mistaken as to your wishes, and you wanted us to keep servicing the debts, I can resume payments. I'm sure the Faith and the Iron Bank both would simply love to be paid twice."

"Calm down, Stark, Littlefinger is correct." Joffrey waved the matter off. "Let them waste their coin. It would not do to step in and fix it for them We are getting distracted. My brother was explaining how the Stary Sept is full of traitors."

"That's not what I am saying at all!"

"Oh? Did you not just say that there are many in the Most Devout that would prefer Steffon to myself?"

Tommon looked down, his silence an answer.

Joffrey clenched his fist. "Traitors. The lot of them. It does not matter if one is a lord, a lowborn, or a man of the cloth. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms is my subject, no matter their circumstances. And everyone who defies me is a traitor all the same. Would we let a merchant spending his coin to direct mercenaries against us? Of course not! How is that different from a priest spending his words to direct rabble against us? It is treason, worse even than wielding a sword, for how far words can reach. If the Starry Sept is my enemy then I shall treat it as such."

"Gods!" Joffrey rubbed his forehead, chalk staining his hands. "Damn the Targaryens. Again and again the Faith has made itself an enemy of the crown. And yet the mess remains for me to clean up. Look at our history. Oldtown is a blight upon Westeros. The Starry Sept. The Citadel. The Hightowers. What good has ever come from that blasted city? Nothing but misery. Nothing but attacks on the crown that again and again go unpunished. We must burn the whole damn city to the ground before this war is through. Salt the fields, tarnish the ashes, let nothing remain."

"Oldtown? You cannot be planning…" Oswyn sputtered.

"Of course, your majesty." Rivers nodded with a smile. "If such is your desire, we shall see it done. I have some ideas you may consider. It is not precisely fire, but I have friends near Sothoryos. If you wish then I can reach out to them and…"

"No!" Eddard interjected. "Rivers, do not encourage this insanity. This bout of temper… we cannot handle matters of state via the rage of a Baratheon. King Joffrey," he turned and bowed his head, "we have learned much disturbing news on this day. There is certainly much to be done, but like your father before you, this storm of emotions would be your undoing if you permitted it. We must let cooler heads prevail. Your fury is righteous, but it is untargetted. Trust us, as your loyal subjects to see your will done."

"And what, Stark, will you do?" the king seethed. "What else is there to be done to traitors? Do you expect me to forgive and forget those who at this very moment plot my downfall?"

"Send me," Tommen rose to his feet. "Send me to Oldtown. To the Starry Sept. There is only so much I can do from here, from letters alone. Let me speak with the Most Devout, to teach them of their folly. I will convince them to preach as they are supposed to, not for petty politics. Please, your majesty, allow me to speak with them before you do anything rash."

The king was silent in thought, examining his brother for some time. Tommen did not flinch under the king's gaze.

"Very well," Joffrey nodded. "Speak with them. Cut the traitorous words from their tongues. If you succeed, I will have little reason to be wroth." He huffed. "Now begone, everyone. I am done with this miserable session. I don't want to see any of your worthless faces till the morrow. Except you, Rivers. Let us speak."

Eddard considered insisting on staying, and discussing the rest of the agenda, but there was little point if the king had already decided he was done. The boy was quite like Robert in that way.

 

[HypoSoc]

Tyrion I​

Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, ruler of the Westerlands, lived a farce. He was an ugly dwarf living in a mountain of gold, overseeing the wealthiest land in the Seven Kingdoms. Tyrion could easily imagine some Essosi playwright, thinking themselves all too clever, crafting his character for their mummery. Perhaps he was meant to be a parable of greed? A living symbol of envy? Or perhaps the playwright simply wished to mock silly Westrosi barbarians who would permit a fool from their menageries into a position of importance. Not doubt the Essosi loved to poke fun at their neighbors across the Narrow Sea, as much as the people of the Seven Kingdoms loved to mock them in turn.

His father certainly saw it as a joke, and one he greatly despised. Tywin Lannister could not suffer a jape, so he could not suffer the thought of his misshapen son as lord and master. More fool to him. For the Proud Lion never got around to actually doing anything on the matter.

Oh, his father had planned to act, Tyrion was certain. The man remained ever hopeful that Jaime would return, as if the Whitecloak could be set aside for enough gold, and ignoring how his golden brother had practically torn out his own tongue years and years ago. A mute lord would be even less effective than a dwarf, by Tyrion's account.

Perhaps he had meant for Tommen to inherit. But the boy had joined the Faith. He was even High Septon now, no matter how provocative his appointment. Perhaps he had plans to work with the Crakehalls, granting Myrcella's husband the Lannister name and Casterly Rock.

Perhaps he had even considered having his own nephew to inherit. It was hard to say whether his departed father would be more irked by not having his own direct blood inherit, or for a dwarf to do so. Tyrion would ask, but the rotting bones in the crypt would have little to say.

In the end, Tywin Lannister had no doubt been juggling all the available options in his mind. But he never got around to actually disinheriting his dwarf son. The old, decrepit lion did not even consider the idea that he might die before coming to a decision. And now, three years on, it was his ugly dwarf son who sat upon the most vaunted seat.

The playwright would be fellating himself over that, the bastard.

Tyrion had not wasted time making the castle his own. He was rich. He could afford to pay for the accommodations to make his life easier. But his father's solar he left untouched. Other than an extension of the chair to make the desk better fit his unnatural stature, the room where his father did most of his business was otherwise identical.

Tyrion loathed a great many things about his father, but his competence as a ruler was not one of them.

His choice of confidants, though… Tyrion gave an annoyed glare to his uncle Kevan. The old man seemed frozen in the doorway.

"Is the sight of a dwarf at a desk still so shocking, uncle? I would think you would be used to it by now." Though it was a truth that an old dog could not learn new tricks. Perhaps an old lion was just as incapable.

"Ah, my apologies, Tyrion." Kevan seemed to shake himself out, "I assure you, it is not you that caught me off guard. Rather, I found myself immersed in memory. So many times I have entered this room and it was Tywin sitting in that chair. And this time… well, I was struck by the absence. I realized that I simply never expected to see anyone else there." He held up a hand, "It has nothing to do with you, specifically. Anyone at all would have been as strange." He shook his head. "In some ways I never expected Tywin to see Tywin die. He always felt immortal to me, somehow. Or, at the very least, I expected to die before my older brother did. The idea that I would survive beyond him… it feels wrong. Undeserved of me, so much lesser… Forgive an old man his melancholy, Tyrion. The years are weighing me down more as of late."

"Hmph. Well, father is dead, so your melancholy must learn to manage. What is it you want, uncle? Have you come to badger me about succession once more?"

Tyrion was deeply aware of the irony, in how he was matching his father in failing to secure a direct heir. The difference between the two of them, though, was that Tywin had cared very, very deeply on the subject of his legacy. Tyrion on the other hand, didn't give a whore's used pantaloon on the matter.

Perhaps, in some fantasy world, he would find a wife, who would love him, and he would sire an heir off of them. But his current marriage prospects were limited to those enamored with the wealth of Casterly Rock. And if Tyrion wanted a whore, there were cheaper ones down in Lannisport who were more skilled with their tongues.

No, he planned to simply enjoy his time as Lord of Casterly Rock. If nothing came of his line, so be it. Let others figure out succession at his passing. He planned to be too dead to care at the time. And if his apathy meant that the Proud Lion's direct line failed to hold onto the seat, well that was just a nice bonus, wasn't it?

"The succession is important, yes, but I hardly think either of us can pretend it is the most vital issue at this time. The war, Tyrion, the war! The rebellion! Tyrion, why are our men not yet in the Riverlands?! Why have we not joined forces with the North at Goldtooth?! It has been months since the call to arms! The situation grows more dire with each passing day, and yet, all our men are sitting in the field, uselessly!"

"They are not sitting uselessly. Our army defends our southern border from Reach incursion, keeping a portion of their host occupied, even as I have a second one trained up to aid in the Riverlands. I have made no secret of this fact. Would you have me leave the Westerlands ripe for invasion? The Reach outnumbers our people, if you have somehow forgotten. They can afford to attack us and the Riverlands simultaneously if they wish."

"Your second host has been training for months now! Surely they are ready at this point!"

"You would think that, wouldn't you. Really, I'm just as surprised as you are that training has been going so slowly. It turns out, after so many long years of peace, this newest crop of lowborn barely know how to hold a stick straight. And all our old veterans from Robert's Rebellion have started rotting, sad to say. It turns out it takes time to teach farmers how to march in a straight line."

Tyrion sighed. "There was an outbreak of dysentery, you know, among the second army. It turns out people forgot how to shit in latrines! Imagine that! Hah! Or imagine if that had befallen them in the field instead of in training. Now, uncle, I could order part of our army away from the southern border, to march into the Riverlands as you suggest, perhaps cycle in some of those inexperienced youths to replace them. What do you imagine will happen? You've fought before, I have not. Do you expect a good showing of our fine Westermen when we are outnumbered two to one? Hm?"

Kevan frowned, but did not dispute outright.

"And that only speaks of the men. There is the small matter of logistics, an inconsequential matter, really. It's hardly as though soldiers need to eat. And, even if they did, I am certain that starving all the Westerlands to feed them will be a very popular act. If my sarcasm is going over your head uncle, then allow me to emphasize that it is very hard to establish a robust supply line in the middle of Winter when the Ironborn are harassing our merchant vessels and when our number one supplier of overland food just declared war on the Seven Kingdoms, while so many of our would be farmers who might otherwise grow our crops are out in the field learning to hold sticks properly."

As it turned out, the well integrated economy of the Seven Kingdoms was no longer quite up to the task of dealing with its own constituent Kingdoms warring upon one another.

"So, yes, uncle. To briefly answer your question, I can indeed order the mass of untrained troops to march past the Golden Tooth into the Riverlands. But I suspect my lords of my Kingdom would revolt if I sent their sons and smallfolk to be slaughtered and starve."

"There will not be a Kingdom if the crown gets crushed in the field!" Kevan retorted. "Yes, the circumstances are not ideal, but do not pretend we have time to fix everything. At a certain point, terrible action is demanded because to do nothing would be worse. We can not allow the folly of our fleet to repeat again!"

"Hm. That mess cannot be laid upon our oars entirely, uncle. If Stannis had not been so impatient, we would have been able to join up with the Royal Fleet. Refitting a merchant fleet for war is not an instantaneous endeavor, especially with those dastardly winter storms." He shrugged. "Besides, it was a blessing in disguise, was it not? If we had sent out our fleet as planned, the Ironborn would have struck us in the rear. Instead, we were ready to fight them off, and our navy protects our shores." He snapped. "Oh, there's an idea uncle! Shall I have our marines and coast guards dash off into the Riverlands? I'm sure our lords would greatly enjoy having their land plundered and their daughters taken as salt wives."

"Tyrion, I make no claim that these decisions are easy. I do not pretend you have not been balancing a myriad of interests as best as you are able. But what I question is how you take on all the work yourself." Kevan placed his hand on his heart. "Use me, nephew! Delegate! Allow me to manage the movement of troops, or secure the supply lines, or see to the protection of our coasts. Delegate! Even Tywin did not attempt to do everything himself."

"I am certain a man in his dotage is exactly what our war effort requires."

Kevan glared. "It is not for my glory I offer my services. If you do not see me fit, fine. But my sons, Tyrion, your family, use them. Lancel, Willem, Martyn… use your good nephew Crakehall if you please. Do not try to run the war all on your lonesome."

"Your advice has been noted. Is that all?"

"Damn you, boy. You are as proud and stubborn as Tywin at his worst." Kevan huffed. "Do you not feel the urgency? Your nephew's crown is at risk! Your sister's child! Does the magnitude of the crises not stir you from your complacency?"

"Really, trying to stir my sympathies by invoking my sister?" Tyrion scoffed. "My sister was an awful, petty, spiteful, malicious cunt. Do not try to pretend otherwise. Anyone who actually knew her would agree. And yet, she wears her cloak of death most beautifully, hiding all her flaws through the distance of years. But from my vantage, my squat, dwarfish position, I maintain a different view. Reminding me of the king's mother does little to aid your position. All it does is cause me to doubt your judgment."

Tyrion had drank himself into a stupor the day his witch of a sister had died. It was only for Jaime's sake that he had hid his celebrations.

Why his brother had sworn an oath of silence over a woman as vile as Cersei, Tyrion would never understand.

He sighed, aching for a drink. Kevan would keep bothering him if he didn't do something to appease the old man. And Tyrion much preferred to have no busybodies snooping around his business in the Rock.

"If you are so desperate for your children to be useful, I'll have Lancel manage guarding our shores." Reavers… they were a real pain. The Tyrells could be trusted to act as expected but not the Ironborn. Why Greyjoy had opted to turn coat, he wouldn't bother to guess. "But if any nobles complain, it will be on his head, not mine, understood."

Kevan bowed. "I thank you for seeing the wisdom of my advice, Tyrion."

"I am not my father, uncle. I will not have you follow me around to wipe my arse for me. It is best that you remember that. Now, depart. I have letters to compose and the stench of decrepit old men makes it hard for me to concentrate."

His uncle did not rise to the insult. He departed without further word.

 

[HypoSoc]

Jon I​

The lands beyond the wall were beautiful.

It was not a thought Jon would have ever imagined having in his youth, nor was it a beauty he would have been capable of seeing. But, as the weight of his near three decades seeped into his bones, it was the crisp air of the lands far north that soothed him.

It was the silence. The stillness. The empty expanse. It was blessed silence to the ears, the eyes, the nose, and the thoughts. Vistas of white snow over the hardiest of trees covering the tallest of mountains among the rainbows formed of ice. The lands were untouched by man, unseen by all but the most adventurous of freefolk. The endless expanse swallowed the stress and the noise. Not a sound intruded on this vista.

It was solitude manifest, a singular place without compare, one of thousands to be found in the empty wilderness beyond the wall where the freefolk rarely tred.

It was a shame his brothers would never truly get to experience this joy. To them, the lands beyond the wall were treacherous and deadly, riddled with ambushes and the bones of fallen brothers and defeated freefolk. To them, there was no difference between this solitary clearing and the one miles before where a troop of Thenns had been waiting in ambush. To them, it was a deadly cold, and a promise of starvation, should their supplies run out. Jon could not blame them for their anxieties, so far from the Wall that promised shelter.

To Jon though, bonded as he was with Ghost, there was no danger. He could tell they were alone in the clearing. He could simply take in the view for what it was, and empty his thoughts.

It was a shame to be Lord Commander. As First Ranger it would have been so much easier to arrange excursions like this as he pleased. Convincing his brothers to let him go, much less go alone (save for his constant companion, Ghost), was as much an ordeal as actually traveling the whole way. And that was to say nothing of all the work he was letting pile up as Lord Commander for his absence. Even with Samwell's aid and a trusted second, there was much that remained up to him.

As it stood, he could only make excursions like this one when the need was great. The pleasure alone could never justify his absence, and few ranges beyond the wall truly required him over another brother.

But for this purpose, no one else could serve. And so, for this fleeting moment, as gentle snow fluttered through the clear skies, he could enjoy the solitude.

Like a snowflake on the tongue, the moment melted to nothing, vanishing as though it had never been. Ghost's ears flicked, and Jon opened his eyes and gazed at the sky.

It was the beast's silence that was most disturbing. Not its size. Not its scales. Not its teeth or great scars of battles' past. Like it owl its slow wing beats did not press against the wind. Its breath did not shift the air. If not for the absolute stillness of the clearing he was in, not even Ghost would have noticed the beast's arrival. Even looking straight at it, the dragon seemed to shimmer against the bright, cloudless sky.

Drogon landed in the clearing opposite Jon. It had grown since Jon had seen it last. Now the whole of him would fit inside the beast's mouth, armor and all, behind it's sword-sized teeth, where before it would have at least needed to chew.

But Jon's eyes did not spare a moment for the heaving dragon. His eyes were locked with the woman on its back, wearing a white dress and sporting long, silvery-gold hair.

His fingers danced upon Longclaw's hilt, but he left it out of his gasp.

"Daenarys," he greeted, voice flat.

"Jon," she said with a smile, leaping down from Drogon's back. "How good it is to see you, after so many years. How long has it been, I wonder. I've found it difficult to keep track."

One and ten years, his mind answered. One and ten years, eight moons, and six days since the Sunless Moon ended. One and ten years, eight moons, and six days since he had parted from Daenarys. Jon could not forget the horrors of that time, no matter how much he wished. The nightmares plagued his every sleep. The losses pained his every dawn.

Some days he wondered if he had truly survived that final night at the Five Forts. Perhaps he was still there, bleeding out beneath the claws of the Lion of Night. Perhaps the monster was still tormenting him, making him dream of this strange present, even as it brought about the final winter.

Ghost's whine shook him out of his gloom.

"Long enough," he said finally, answering the dragon-rider. "What do you want, Daenarys? You should know not to call on me unless it is vital."

"Your words are so harsh, nephew. Can you not trust my purpose is true? I have respected your decision until now, have I not?"

"Do not call me, nephew, Targaryen," Jon glared. "It does not matter whether the tale is true or not, I am a bastard either way. And I would much rather be the son of an honorable man."

"Hmph. It does not matter what you believe. The blood of kings and dragon riders flows through your veins, same as mine. The legalities of your birth are irrelevant. One such as you, who has done what he has done, is never baseborn, no matter what the Andals might claim." She shook her head. "But I will not press on this matter. You can pretend Eddard Stark is your father, if such makes you happy."

Eddard Stark was his father. There was no pretending about the matter. He was the man who had taken him in, had raised him, had allowed his own honor to be stained by the implication of adultery, simply to protect a child who was a living threat to the entire kingdom. Eddard Stark had let him grow up in peace, gave him the freedom to make his own choices, and had taught him the value of duty and honor.

Rhaegar Targaryen was a just worthless madman who had actually spurned his wife in the way that Eddard Stark had allowed the realm to believe he did.

Of course Daenarys Targaryen, who had never known a parent and had been raised in strange circumstances, did not understand that. But there was little he cared to explain.

"You claimed there was something important then? Get on with it. I only have so much time before my brothers expect me back."

"You know why I am here, Jon. You are not blind and deaf. The crises in the realm your guard cannot be missed. The Seven Kingdoms are tearing themselves apart. Not even a single generation of the Usurper's reign, and his sons bleed the realm dry." Daenarys scoffed. "What does it say that I, so far removed from Westeros, have heard of these rumors? Even as the winter storms threaten all with cold and famine, armies fight in the field and ships sink one another on the coasts."

"The internal affairs of the Seven Kingdoms are none of my concern. I am Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. My duty is to safeguard the realm from that which lies beyond it, not interfere in the disputes of the kingdoms themselves." His voice was cold. His duty was bared like the Valyrian steel of his blade.

"The enemies of men are dead, Jon. There are no more threats from the north. We have already succeeded in this task. Your watch is unneeded. But the suffering is real. The death and destruction can be averted." Daenerys clutched at her heart. "Jon, the Seven Kingdoms are suffering, but we can stop it. You and me, together, we can bring order to the chaos, can bring peace to the dying. We can return the lands to their rightful rule." Her eyes, a deep and terrible blue, bore into his own. "Please, Jon. It is not too late to change your mind. The decision you made when we last met… I can forgive you for it. We can choose again." Her hand reached for his.

Jon's heart jumped. But he shook her hand away. "Do not pretend that the Targaryens were better than this. The Blackfyre Rebellions. The Dance of Dragons. Maegor the Cruel. Time and time again the realm suffered war under your family's rule, just as they suffer war now, and just as they suffered warring against one another before Aegon the Conquerer stirred from Dragonstone. You would bring war to end war, and would accomplish little and nothing for your troubles." He steeled his gaze. "You say the enemies of man are dead? Well, I see one standing right in front of me."

Daenerys laughed. It was a cold and cruel sound, beautiful and deadly. "You would fight me, Jon Snow? Really?"

Her dragon shifted. It rose to its full height, towering above the clearing. Its piercing blue eyes burned into Jon's soul. Its heaving breath froze his skin.

Ghost growled. Jon rested his hand on Longclaw, clutching it tightly.

"Yes," he said simply. His word as steel and his will as fire. "After all, I have fought worse before."

Silence reigned in the clearing. All was still, but for the gentle flakes of snow. Time seemed to freeze. For however long it may be, Jon did not know. His eyes never once left Dany's. Her own expression was cold and alien.

His decision on the final night, so many years ago, might haunt him forever. Even now, with that decision echoed in his face, he found the words almost as hard. How many times had he considered simply accepting the woman's love? How many times had he considered allowing the Night's Watch to think him dead, and accepting a new life in Essos once the task was done?

But he couldn't do so then, and he couldn't do so now. Jon Snow had sworn his vows, to the brotherhood, to the Night's Watch. He would never take a wife, hold any lands, father any children. No crown would rest upon his head. And no glory would be earned for his deads. He would die at his post, as the shield that guards the realm of men.

It was the honor of man that allowed them to triumph over the demons that would hunt them. It was honor that his true father had taught him Jon could not count himself a man if he discarded it.

Both then and now, there was only one choice.

The silence continued. Neither moved.

Then Drogon lowered itself, displacing the snow beneath it in a heap. Daenerys turned aside, avoiding his gaze. "Fine then," she said in a huff. "I will not force your hand. For my love of you, and for all that you have done for me, I will not kill you. I will depart the Seven Kingdoms as you have demanded and as you have promised. For now, my hand will be stayed, and the suffering of my people will be ignored." The woman mounted the dragon's back. "But know this, Jon Snow, you will not live forever. And there will be a time again when the reign of a Targaryen will be demanded. When that day comes, know that I will come and take my throne."

Drogon began to flap, rising into the air. Its movements were as silent as the snow.

"I pray that you realize your mistake, nephew. If you call for me, I will come." And with those final words, Daenerys Targaryen flew off into the winter sky.

Jon watched in silence, letting time tick by, lost in his thoughts. The skeletal dragon and its ethereal rider disappeared into the distance.

Daenerys was right. He would not live forever. He certainly not live as long as her. But the realms of men would remain defended.

It was not the Wall that served as Bran the Builder's greatest shield, just as it was not the Five Forts that thwarted the Lion. It was the men that stationed them, the brotherhoods that had been forged, links of men that stretched from generation to generation.

Long after Jon perished, the Night's Watch would remain. And this time they would not forget the truth of their purpose. Jon would ensure it.

 

[Crouchinghiddenwriter]

"We do not serve for recognition, but it is appreciated all the same. The support House Stark and the North as a whole brovides to our brotherhood is thanks enough."

Click to shrink...

 

[HypoSoc]

Sansa IV​

Sansa's father seldom came to her wing of the Red Keep. The man seemed to shun the woman's side of the castle, too stubborn and blunt for the subtle games of court that women played. Even as a youth, torn from her home and mother, thrown into the grand dance that was the Royal Court, her father did not have time for her.

He was busy. Of course he was. He was Hand of the King. It was to be expected. And, in truth, she did not begrudge him for that. He could work the matters of state with his king, and serve in a position of power, all from a safe distance away. The ladies of court could respect her for the power her father wielded. Such respect would die if they were reminded of how much of an uncouth dullard he could be. And her ladies were better company.

And when her father did wrest free from the duties of office and from the companionship of his friend, the fat old king? It was Arya who he doted on, Arya who he spent his time with, Arya whose whining he placated. The two suited one another, father and daughter, bumbling fools too blind to see the splendor of the society that danced around them.

Mother had an inkling, at least. She was not a proper lady of the court, but she knew enough to recognize the ploys of power and the etiquette of the culture. She was stuck chaperoning Robb in the North for so many years, but it was pleasnt when she visited. That was until the fashions of court progressed beyond her mother's memories, and the old woman failed to keep up with the trends. The slow, dead, life at Winterfell had infected her aging mother.

So it was suprising to see her father voluntarily venture into the part of the castle she had claimed from the witch of a former queen, which had likely belonged to the good Queen Cersei before the harlot had invaded.

"Sansa," he greeted, without an ounce of warmth in his voice, or a bow upon his hips. As always, he was ignoring the niceties of court, as though they were alone and not before all her ladies.

"Lord Hand," she returned pointedly. It was a stabbing reminder. She was Queen. He was an agent of the crown. There was protocol here and she would insist on it, even if he would ignore it. They were not father and daughter here. She was not a little girl for him to chastise for some slight he imagined she must have committed.

"I have news. I should not wait. Dismiss your ladies in waiting so we can speak."

Oh, so her oaf of a father did notice all her handmaidens around her. He simply tromped over them in his courtesies like a blundering barbarian. "Of course, Lord Hand." She gave a sharp smile, and gestured. "My Ladies, it seems there is an important matter that the Hand must bring to my attention. I apologize that our time must be cut short. Jeyne will see that you are properly entertained in the garden for the duration of my absence."

Her ladies made a show of bowing and, one by one, displayed the proper courtesies as she dismissed them from her presence.

Her father stood in silence, clearly irritated. He was a patient man, she knew, but only for matters that he was capable of recognizing as important.

Her father did not respect her ladies in waiting. He saw them as little more than her companions, as if she were some little girl still learning her heraldries through game. He, no doubt, felt them inadequate for some worthless reason of other, not recognizing how much work she had put into selecting ladies of high standing who could not be seduced by the whorish Rose.

Only after the two were alone did Sansa allow her anger to show. "What do you possibly have to say that cannot wait, father? Do you know what a fool you have made me seem with your tromping about?"

"Sansa." Her father's eyes were cold. There was no proper warmth of the South in them. Only the ice of the wretched North. "There was a battle recently."

"The Folly of Pinkmaiden, do you mean?" Sansa sneered. "Do you think I am so ignorant as to not hear about it? Even ladies of the court have our gossip, and I learn of these matters before you would think to inform me. So, what is it that you wished to discuss? Was it how your Northern banners, despite holding a castle, got soundly routed by a force supposedly their equal? Is it about how your cowardly, worhtless host lost yet another battle, and melted before the trecherous Reach, abandoning the field? Perhaps you wished to inform me how the damned Tyrells, with a host led by Steffon himself, managed to take the pass to the Gold Tooth, and how the king's leal allies in the Westerlands will not be able to relieve the Riverlands any longer?" Sansa nearly spat in her anger. "Which of these facts, which I already know, were you trying to tell me about, father?"

"Sansa!" Her father barked, but his anger was that of a chained dog, not a wolf, so Sansa was unafraid. "Do not speak ill of our dead. Brave men were slain on the field of battle, loyal men, true men far from home, fighting for your rights and the rights of your future heirs. They deserve respect from their queen!"

"Hah! Brave me you say? Perhaps imbecilic barbarians lack capacity for fear, just as they lack any thoughts in their empty heads! What use are brave, loyal, and true men, father, when they die without consequence, losing battle after battle? If they were truly loyal, they would have won. And yet the damned traitors grow bolder every day, unhindered by the fools you call leal banners!"

Was there not a single man of worth in all the Seven Kingdoms to serve in their armies? Why must every man be a traitor or incompetent?!

"Sansa," her father's voice was quiet. Cold. Ice. The repetition of her name sent a chill down her spine, matching the winter cold that the Red Keep tried so hard to keep out. "Robb led our forces in the battle. Robb was slain with his men. Your brother is dead."

Sansa froze. Shock and disbelief overcame her. And it was swiftly replaced with anger.

"I see." Dark were her words and thoughts. "So my eldest brother has proven just as worthless as all the armies of the North. How little did you train him, father, for him to fail me so? Or perhaps the fault lies with me, for expecting anything of worth to come from you Northerners."

Imbeciles at court. Useless in trade. Worthless at war. What good were these barbarians if they offered nothing to the Seven Kingdoms at all? They were just wildlings caught south of the wall. The First Men who escaped extinction offered nothing to their Andal masters. They were nothing by a drain on the kingdom. Empty land and empty heads, the North was nothing.

"Sansa, are you not a Northerner?" her father asked.

"Oh yes, father, I am. And it is my greatest shame. Damn your blood for tainting me so. Would not I have been born free from that wretched association that offers me nothing but embarassment."

Her father was quiet. He was speechless of course. The man had no thoughts in his head from which to voice.

The let the silence simmer, stewing in her victory. Her father's hand was rubbing against his brooch of office.

Then her father spoke. "Rejoice, Sansa. For on this day you will be shamed no longer." Her tore the symbol of his office from his garment and threw it upon the floor. "Sansa, daughter of the South, child of no one. I renounce you. Let all who see you know that not a drop of the North flows through your veins. For we will not recognize you as being one of us."

Sansa stared at the brooch and her father. "Are you turning traitor then, you damned knave?"

"No, Queen Baratheon." His voice was cold and quiet. "I am resigning as Hand. If my friend is not king and my daughter is not queen, I have no reason to stay in this cesspit any longer. Too many years of my life have been stolen by the court and its miseries. Too many of my children have been lost. So I will depart. There is work to be done as Warden of the North. I will serve loyaly in the field, as duty requires of me. But I will not do anything more than what leal service demands. I am done with this nonsense." He shook his head. "Damn Robert for asking this of me. Damn me for agreeing. But I will not cling to this mistake anymore. Goodbye, Queen Baratheon. Even if we should both survive this cursed rebellion, we will never meet again, gods willing."

And with that her father departed, leaving Sansa to keep staring in mute shock.

 

[Crouchinghiddenwriter]

And, in truth, he did not begrudge him for that.

Click to shrink...

 

[HypoSoc]

Joffrey IV​

Joffrey had grown to detest the small council chamber. It was an ugly room with an oversize table, and full of people who seemed to only present him with troubles. But, as king, this was his task to suffer. If he allowed vital matters of state to be decided without his knowledge, it would be too easy for traitors to slip into his midst.

Traitors. Rebels. Incompetents. Deserters. There were too many disgusting people in the Seven Kingdoms. The lickspittles, at least, flattered his ego. But even they could hide treacherous, ambitious greedy aims. Nobody could be trusted to stay loyal. Even the momentum of leal service was not enough. Only the direct attention of the king could put the proper terror into his subjects, that they would not think to reach above their station, or join forces with those hateful usurpers.

The number of individuals Joffrey could truly trust could be counted on one hand. And sadly most were in this dreadful room.

Moore was a brute, loyal to the crown, too stubborn and pig-headed to even consider treason. Joffrey could trust him to serve as a sword, but he lacked any view of the wider picture. His uncle would have made for a better Commander than Mandon Moore. Joffrey had half a mind to dismiss him and place the silent lion in his place. But only half a mind. At least Moore, middling as he was, was willing to speak when spoken too. His uncle's silence was a great blessing compared to most dullards in this realm, but the man's miserable vow made him just as annoying at times.

Stannis was much the same. A dour man, with a much worse swordarm than Moore, he was still useful in some respects. He was stubborn and obsessive, loyal to whomever the law stated was king. And as Joffrey was the true ruler, Stannis would be too stubborn to ever betray him, no matter what he did. The man could not think for his own sake, and that suited Joffrey well, for all that he wished the man weren't so miserably unpleasant. But between him and the traitor Renly, better an odious uncle than one who would stab him in the back with a smile.

Rivers was his creature through and through. The Frey bastard could be trusted in ways no other man could be. For his purpose as a spymaster, he was ideal. Even when his father still lived, and even when the Withered Rose still stalked the halls, Rivers had known that Joffrey was the future, and sought his patronage. Someone like Moore or Stannis would never think beyond the current king. Rivers joined him much earlier than the rest, and tied himself completely to Joffrey's banner.

Rosby? He too was Joffrey's creature in a far more pathetic way. The man was empty-headed, too dumb to speak up unless addressed, because he had no thoughts of his own, other than effusive praise. He was a flatterer through and through. Rosby was like Joffrey's wife, but with worse tits. Rosby was too stupid to think to betray him. Which was good enough.

Oswyn, the creature from the citadel, could not be trusted. No maester could. Their loyalties were inherently divided. But Oswyn was a coward and that was practically the same. Joffrey could cow the Grand Maester into submission, and trust the man was smart enough to imagine just what he would order if he ever suspected betrayal. Oswyn was half the reason Joffrey needed to keep showing up to these stupid meetings.

Which he really needed to get over with. "Well?" he demanded. "What disasters need to be discussed today?"

"Ah, you're majesty…" the man stammered, proving further evidence to his cowardice. "There is… well, a matter that should be brought to your attention."

"The position of your Hand," Stannis spoke gruffly. "Who will be replacing Stark?"

Stark. That was a man Joffrey despised. He was like Stannis and Moore in a way, but with a level of entitlement that boggled the mind. He was loyal yes, and did as he was ordered. But he spoke as if his voice had weight. The northern barbarian seemed to think because he was a friend of his fathers and the father of his bride he had any say at all in things. He served ably as an administrator, to the point Joffrey had not demanded his immediate resignation at his father's death, but he made everything much more annoying than it needed to be.

Joffrey was glad for his absence. He hoped the man died in the battles he had fled to, ideally only after killing some rebels. But the northmen had proven incapable as such a feat so far, so Joffrey did not hold out much hope.

As for the matter of the newly empty position of Hand… of course his uncle was the one to bring it up. The man no doubt expected to be elevated to the position, as if length of service mattered to anyone but him. But Joffrey had no intention of offering it to Stannis. His ugliest uncle would serve him fully regardless of rank, so why bother granting him more power?

"Ah, yes," Oswyn nodded jumping on the subject. "That seems a prudent matter to start with. With Lord Stark's sudden and unexpected departure, we find our Small Council lacking a member."

"I never would have guessed our joyless pile of snow to quit," Littlefinger mused, scratching his chin. "It will be strange having one fewer miserable sap in the room."

"I presume, given the death of his heir, his priorities were shifted northwards," Oswyn mused.

Littlefinger rolled his eyes. "Yes, Grand Maester. We all know that. None of us are such great dullards as to not be able to put two and two together."

"Oh?" Rosby blinked. "I guess that makes sense. Since he needs to get another of his sons trained up."

Littlefinger frowned. "Perhaps I was mistaken. Well, King Joffrey? Please enlighten us as to whom you will elect to have wipe your shite. I, of course, am willing to take on such a momentous honor, but I presume I am not your first choice. It would be hard to find another Master of Coin like me, after all."

"You presume many things, Littlefinger," Joffrey glared. "I do not have a replacement prepared, because I do not see the need. I am a King capable enough to not require another to serve as my limbs. I will simply do it all myself."

"That would be most irregular, your majesty," Oswyn frowned. "The hand serves as your representative and voice, able to speak on your behalf in vital situations without risking your royal person. Much less is risked when the hand can be sent as your proxy. And, in practical terms, the position serves to lighten your workload. Even the greatest kings may be overwhelmed by the workload of the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Don't be a stubborn fool, nephew," Stannis glared. "It costs you nothing to appoint a man, and costs you much to refrain. You can toss them aside as frequently as Aerys if you wish. But you must appoint somebody."

"I wonder, Stannis, if your view comes in part from envy. Does it sting for your little brother to be Hand of the King while you are simply Master of Ships?"

"Renly is not Hand of the King, Baelish," Stannis seethed. "Seeing as Steffon Baratheon is no king."

"Steffon is no king, yes, and he is no Baratheon either." Joffrey said. "I question the legitimacy of the marriage. Magaery proved a monster, birthing her demon spawn, rather than the maiden she pretended to be. Such a beast cannot truly wed a king in the eyes of the gods. Oswyn, write it down. Have Tommen proclaim such for me, annulling that marriage retroactively."

"That would… I mean… it's…" It was that stupid annoying stutter again.

Joffrey interrupted him before it could pain his ears anymore. "If you all are so insistent that I must name a Hand… congratulations Rosby. I appoint you."

Rosby blinked, his eyes slow and dull. "Oh. Oh! Thank you, your majesty! Your honors are too much for me. I am in awe of your great wisdom that allows you to see potential in one such as I. I will do my utmost to live up to the task which you have bestowed upon me, to live up to the worshipful example your represent, your grace."

"Shut up, Rosby," Joffrey scowled.

Stannis was gritting his teeth as expected. But the man was never going to be in any other office than the one Joffrey permitted him to keep.

"That does leave Master of Laws vacant once more," Littlefinger mused.

"And shut up, Littlefinger. I will figure it out. But first, Oswyn, what in the Seven is it that has you so shaking? Your tremors are driving me mad."

"Ah! Your majesty! It's… well… I need to inform you of… there was a letter and…"

"Get on with it, you fool," Stannis grumbled, matching Joffrey's own irritation.

"The High Septon has denounced you!" The Grand Maester shouted in terror. "He had ravens sent to all major holds, declaring you a false king. He proclaims that the Seven, knowing of your vile intentions, sent forth Steffon as a savior to topple you from your throne. He demands that all of the faithful, both lowborn and high, rise up against you in any way that they can, and for all the priesthood to rally their communities against you." Oswyn froze. "Ah, please, your majesty, forgive me. I am simply reciting the words as I have read them. I would not otherwise dare to say such… disgusting filth… if not or the need to inform you. The letter is seven pages long, but that is the summary."

Silence befell the council chamber. Joffrey clenched the arms of his seat.

"My," Littlefinger quipped. "It seems you have competition, Stannis. Tommen may hate his brother more than you despise yours."

Always with the jokes. Always with the mocking asides. Littlefinger's voice was grating to his ears. It was as if the man refused to take matters seriously.

But Joffrey did not have words to spare for the insolent Master of Coin. His fury was boiling at his traitor of a brother.

"Damn them." He seethed. "Damn the faith. Damn the Starry Sept. Damn Tommen most of all. If the Seven are against me, then damn the gods. If it is nothing but puppets of the Reach that speak against me, pretending the heavens favor them, then I will show them the Seven Hells myself." They would die. Slowly. Painfully. Torturously. Every member of the Most Devout would be confined to the Black Cells. Every septon who preached against him would be mounted on a spike.

As for Tommen, his worthless, cowardly, traitorous brother, Joffrey would flay his skin and use it to bind a copy of the Seven Pointed Star he professed to love so much.

"If there is justice in this kingdom, Oldtown will burn for this insult. And if there is no justice to be found, I will make it myself."

Family could not be trusted. Blood could not be trusted. The moment Tommen had left his sights, he had turned traitor in the worst way. The only people Joffrey could trust were those he could control.

"In that case," Rivers rasped, "I have some good news my king. It seems that, according to my sources, a plague ship from the East slipped through quaruntine at the Oldtown port. The Bloody Flux has made its way into the city. By all accounts this may cause an epidemic." The pock-marked man grinned sharply. "It is quite fortiutious timing. Perhaps the Seven are on your side after all."

"The Bloody Flux?!" Oswyn screeched. "In the Seven Kingdoms?!"

"In the Reach, yes." Rivers nodded. "It is quite a nasty infection, I have been informed. Very lethal. Very contagious. And very undignified."

Joffrey laughed, so much tension draining. "Hah! How very appropriate! Yes, indeed! Perhaps the Seven favor me after all. Is not plague under the province of the divine? Misfortune should strike those who deny the sovereignty of their king. Speaking of, Moore, what has come of Darkstar's mission?"

The commander of the Kingsguard nodded. "Ser Darkstar and Ser Tarly returned last evening. They report success in their pacification. Fifteen wandering septons have been arrested. Three towns were put to the torch. The rest have fallen in line. Castle guards from local lords have been set to patrolling the countryside, and a group of hedge knights have been employed to monitor the area between fiefs. The smallfolk have been cowed, your majesty. Peace and order have returned to the Crownlands. The rot has been excised."

Joffrey laughed. "Good. Very good. Commend Ser Darkstar for me. He has done precisely as I desired." How good it was to just take an axe to the traitors. Just cutting them down, burning them out… it was the only way to maintain order.

"I am happy my castle guard was able to be of aid, your majesty. Those which haven't been sent off to war." Rosby smiled. "I am ashamed that the matter got so far in my lands."

"It is disturbing how embedded the faith is, for them to prove so treacherous," Stannis grumbled. "So many lowborn led astray, soft to the lies of the Tyrells and Hightowers. What a waste."

"It is baffling how up-jumped smallfolk thought they could rebel so close to the capital. Did they expect anything else?" Littlefinger asked.

"Yes, the minds of up-jumped lowborn are a mystery," Joffrey agreed. "Speaking of, Moore, arrest Littlefinger."

No one seemed to comprehend his order. Thankfully, Ser Mandon Moore was the type of dimwit who could follow orders without needing to comprehend them. The Whitecloak was on the Master of Coin immediately, sword drawn.

It was only with a blade to his neck that Littlefinger seemed to realize the situation. "Your majesty! I don't understand! Why would… I've been a loyal servant of yours! Of your fathers! Whatever evidence you think you saw… it was a lie!"

"Why, Lord Baelish?" Joffrey mused. "Perhaps because you are a traitor to the crown. Perhaps because you lusted after my wife. The why of it only matters for the crowd at the headsman's block. All the reason I need is that I am king and I demand it be so."

In truth, Joffrey did not care if the man was innocent or not. The problem with Littlefinger was that, unlike the rest of his small council, Joffrey did not know what could compel the man to stay loyal.

He was not a stubborn, duty-bound fool, like Stannis or Moore. He was not a coward like Oswyn. He was not a simpering imbecile like Rosby. And he was not someone personally loyal to him like Rivers.

Littlefinger was a man who Joffrey did not control. A man like that could not be permitted on his small council. Better to kill Baelish now before the greedy, up-jumped son of an Essosi lowborn could decide to betray him. Excise the rot.

Joffrey gestured to the door. "Have him escorted to the Black Cells, Moore. And make sure he is guarded well. If the rat escape, it will be your head on the block instead."

Ser Moore nodded solemnly and dragged the screaming man away.

Stannis stared at him blankly. "Do you plan to make a habit of imprisoning members of your small council without trial or reason?"

Joffrey scoffed. "Do you think yourself Master of Laws now, uncle? Do you truly believe slime such as Littlefinger is innocent of crimes against the crown? Embezzlement perhaps. Treason at worse. The Lord Confessor will determine the extent of his crimes." And if they found nothing, Rivers would discover evidence of some sort. It wouldn't take much to convince a man like his uncle, who already despised Littlefinger.

Stannis glared, gritting his teeth, but otherwise said nothing.

Oswyn gulped. "Ah… your majesty… I hesitate to note that… with the arrest of Lord Baelish, you are now missing both a Master of Laws and a Master of Coin."

"Be quiet, Oswyn!" Joffrey hissed.

 

[HypoSoc]

Pate I​

Pate weren't no poacher. His da were, of course, so he was the son of a poacher, but not one himself. He knew this to be true, because when they got caught way back when he was a youngun, his da got the rope, and he got whipped. Poachers get the rope. His da always told him that. But he didn't know what got the whip instead. It were some other crime, that, something Good Lord Footly decided on him being.

Even though he were twice as good a shot as his da, and even though it were his arrows in the stag, Good Lord Footly said he weren't no poacher, and you can't disagree with highborn, specially not when they are saving you from a hanging.

His back still smarted good from the whipping, specially when it started to rain, but Pate figured his da's neck smarted much worse up in the Seven Heavens, so Pate didn't complain.

He weren't a poacher after that, cause of Good Lord Footly. He weren't much of anything. Two and ten to his name, and no pa to be his da no more, and no ma ever so long as he could reckon. But he had a strong back and a good shot and he were faithful to the Seven Above. So, boys like him made due.

It woulda been nice to get a 'prenticeship. Short Hugh got picked up by a blacksmith, but Pate weren't so lucky. Too old, they said. Too big. Tall Hugh said he were too thick in the head too, but Pate socked him good for that. Bet Tall Hugh wished his own head were thicker. Would have smarted less.

But Pate were patient, and he were hard-working. Being a son of a poacher taught you good. You gotta be patient or you ain't getting no food. You dash out like a fool and your quarrel hops away something fast, or a lordly knightfolk spots you and you get a rope round your neck. So Pate could do bits of labor. Farm work.

He kept up his shooting, course. His da had taught him good. He could fletch a bit. And rabbit meat and pheasant made stew all the better.

It weren't poaching, cause Pate didn't have a rope round his neck. Whatever it was just was a whip on his back, and that was worth a full belly, Pate knew. Ain't no fun to be hungering.

His life were pretty nice, he'd reckon. He had food in his belly, and a girl he were sweet on. Tansy liked it when he got her a rabbit stew and a rabbit pelt. And he even made it to the preaching Septon on the occasion. Cause he was a good and faithful sort. The innkeeper let him sleep in the barn if he mucked out the stables each night, and that weren't no problem when there weren't so many horses. And it weren't cold none, even when snow started to fall.

One day, a hedge knight from a small ways down the river came to Pate's village. He promised a handful of copper groats to any that could hold a spear, and a whole silver stag for those that could shoot a target way cross the river.

Pate could hit a target like that. He were the son of a poacher. So he asked the ser knight if he could get two silver stags for hitting a target twice as far. The knight said no, sad as it were, but Pate shot the target true, and he did it even better than Dafyn, the shepherd's get, who were also sweet on Tansy. Pate had to smack Dafyn on the head a few times when he caught him sniffing around his girl. And Pate won a stag. He was pretty darn pleased at that. He was looking to buy a cloak, so he and Tansy could get married all proper like.

The hedge knight didn't pay him his stag, though. Said he'd get it when he shot some rebels. Said he'd get a stag for each battle even, so long as he kept shooting rebels.

Pate had heard about the rebels, of course. When Good King Robert died, the people down south went all crazy-like, and started stomping around. Pate didn't know why the rebels had come to the Red Fork to make a bother of things, stealing grain and killing good, honest folk. It didn't make a lick of sense to Pate, but he were happy to get to shoot at them, if he could earn a silver stag or three for the trouble.

There weren't much shooting, sad to say. Lots of digging. Boy did that irk Alyn something fierce. The boy were the gravedigger's get, and he thought he could be a soldier to get away from the digging. Pate didn't mind. Digging was simple. He were good at it. Not as good as shooting, but he were.

Alyn got a lance though the head in the first fight. Not much of a soldier that. But Pate knew animals and saw the horse coming, so Pate got out of the way when Alyn got lanced. Pate didn't much care one way or the other for Alyn. Pate wished it were Dafyn who got lanced instead.

It weren't a good battle, that one. Pate got his arrows in a couple rebels. But then rebels came on horses and Alyn got lanced. The highborn lords on their horses called for a retreat, which was like running away, only it were an army doing it, not a poacher. So Pate ran away with the army. He didn't even get to check the rebels he shot, to see if they had any coins on them.

His da's da had fought with Good King Robert, on the Ruby Ford even. He swore he got one of them actual rubies from the mad dragon prince, from when Good King Robert bashed him in good. A whole ruby. Pate ain't never seen a ruby before, except maybe at a distance, when highborn folk were about at Tumbleton.

That was how you could get rich, his da said that his own da said. Knights can take ransom and so, but lowborn folk can't. They gotta scavenge. You gotta kill someone rich, so you can get the rubies in their pockets.

The rebels he shot didn't look like they had any rubies, but they might have had copper groats.

He asked the hedge knight for his silver stag. The hedge knight told him he'd get it when they were done.

He'd ask if they could be done. The hedge knight said that if Pate left, he'd be a deserter, which was just as bad as a rebel, and he'd get the rope.

Pate didn't want the rope, since he weren't a poacher, so he said he would stay. And the hedge knight said he was keeping count, so he'd get all the silver stags he earned after all the rebels were killed.

He nodded, because the knight was a knight and took their vows before the Seven and you could trust a knight. And, even if you can't, he was a knight in Good Lord Footly's land, and Good Lord Footly wouldn't let any knave be.

So, instead Pate asked if they would be running away from the next battle too, since he wanted to scavenge his kills next time, and the hedge knight smacked him in the face and told him that retreating was up to the good lords, but if he did a better job shooting, maybe they wouldn't need to retreat.

So Pate nodded and promised to do better. He wanted to kill the rebels, so that they could be done and he could get his silver stags so he could buy a cloak for Tansy.

He told all the folk from the village what he had learned, and how he hoped to scavenge. Tall Hugh called him an idiot, thinking the rebels had any groats in their pockets, so Pate socked him in the head. But it were true, perhaps. Since Pate and his folk didn't have any groats in their pockets, so maybe the rebels didn't either.

Dafyn said it were the highborn that would have coins in their pockets, and bragged that he were going to kill a noble and scavenge him. It were alright, he claimed, because they were rebels, so a lowborn like them wouldn't go to the Seven Hells for killing one.

Pate didn't believe him, but Dafyn swore up and down that he had asked a septon about it. Pate wondered if Dafyn were just trying to get him dragged down to the Seven Hells, so he could be sweet on Tansy. But if Dafyn were lying about what a septon said, he'd be dragged down too.

Short Hugh said you couldn't kill a noble because they had armor, and he knew that you couldn't beat armor without a sword because he was a blacksmith 'prentice. But Dafyn said he was a good enough shot to get a noble between their armor, and that made Pate mad, because Pate was the better shot, so he said he would be the one to kill a noble and take their rubies.

They got into a fight with that, and the hedge knight came and smacked them all a bit, and set them to digging more holes.

In the next battle, it were snowy and Pate couldn't see much at all, and his arrows wouldn't work in the wind and Short Hugh got lanced and they retreated again. Dafyn said he shot a noble, but Pate knew he was a liar because it was snowing too hard.

But on the third battle, they were set up right and proper on a hill, and Pate spotted a shiny rebel in the most fancy looking armor he had ever seen. Pate imagined all sorts of rubies must be hidden in there.

So, the son of a poacher took his bow, and took his arrow, and he shot it. It was far easier than a rabbit. The rebel in his shiny armor didn't even jump out of the way!

 

[HypoSoc]

Joffrey V​

"It is with great jubilation," the herald proclaimed, bringing the whole of the throne room to silence, "that the crown can announce, that the would-be usurper, Steffon, son of the Withered Rose, has perished along the banks of the Red Fork. The traitorous pretender to the throne has met his end most ignobly, fitting for a knave with such vile intent. The Seven show their wisdom in ending this terrible threat before he could endanger King's Landing. King Joffrey, in light of this splendid news, has declared there will be to be a celebration. A feast will be held for all the highborn in attendance on the morrow, and a procession of alms will be distributed to all in King's Landing who pray for the just damnation of this cursed rebel."

The throne room erupted in cheers and excitement. Joffrey was barely perturbed by it all. He couldn't keep the smile from his face. His mood was simply too good. Yesterday, he got Littlefinger's head mounted on a spike (the up-jumped lowborn had been even more of a traitor than Joffrey had expected), and then the ravens had flown in with the joyous news.

Steffon dead to an arrow. It was fitting. The boy had no business being about armies. No knight of honest sense had ever believed that the boy at four and ten had actually earned his spurs. And yet, fool that he was, the idiot had decided to gallivant around with his armies and get himself killed.

Joffrey was a true and proper knight. Joffrey was a real combatant. Joffrey wouldn't have died to a silly arrow. But Joffrey was also too smart to ever end up on the field of battle in the first place. Campaigning was both an uncomfortable, miserable experience and far less valuable than time spent ruling. Joffrey had lords and generals to handle the fighting for him.

Though, his generals had proven incompetent thus far. Until yesterday, they seemed to get nothing done. But Joffrey would not take the field himself unless the situation were truly dire. It was not worth the effort otherwise. And now Steffon was dead.

His court had erupted in congratulatory conversations, proclaiming to one another that the war was over and justice had been done. But Joffrey was not so naive as to figure that. Steffon was a treacherous cunt, but he was hardly the only one. It was the Tyrells as much as the boy himself who rose up against him.

Rivers had reported that, even now, they were rushing to have Borros crowned as king. Tommen himself, the traitor, was traveling to oversee the mockery of a coronation. But a boy of three and ten was even more pathetic than a boy of five and ten. And the rebels no doubt had taken a major blow to their morale now that their 'perfect prince' has proven so mortal.

Borros would die too. Either in the field, like his brother, or in some other way. And after that, what would the rebels do? Crown Orys? Joffery laughed at the idea. He welcomed it even. Let the rebels be ruled over by a little monster. It would prove the evil of their cause to even the blindest of men.

But this was enough of a celebration for now. All the licksplittles were being too noisy. Joffrey didn't knew if the courtiers knew how ridiculous they all were. Perhaps they were simpletons who earnestly believed the stupid words they spoke. Some, he figured, were greedy fools, or cowards perhaps, who shouted their affirmations in the hope that he would favor them for it. They were like motley fools or mummers, playing a part, dancing at what they thought was his direction, in the hopes he might laugh.

They were laughable, really. Pathetic. Play acting the mood they thought they should have, not realizing he wished for them all to quiet. Their dress was that silly clump of fabric his wife thought was fashionable and their hair…

Why were they wearing chalk? It looked ridiculous. They wanted to ape his own locks, he could tell, as if such simple techniques could even hope to match his own golden adornment. He was kingly and natural in all parts, while they were just strange and off-putting.

But he had enough of this. There was other tasks to get done, here before the petitioners he despised.

The herald, at his direction, quieted the court. Then the man announced the next attendant.

"Presenting," the man bellowed, "the Archmaester of the Silver link, master healer of the Citadel, Archmaester Umbert."

But the man who entered the chamber wasn't a decrepit old celibate. Rather, it was a woman, dressed queerly in pants instead of a skirt, and with an axe at her hip. She led a man trussed up with rope and a bag of cloth over his head, as well as two rough fellows holding the rope like a leash.

There was a sputtering from the herald and a hush from the crowd, but the woman and her entourage stopped a proper distance away. His whitecloaks in attendance placed their hands on their swords but did not draw them without his direction.

Joffrey raised a hand to silence "Unless the Archmaester grew teats in the last year, I do not believe you are he. So, who are you and why have you barged into my throne room?"

The woman removed her head and bowed with a flourish. It was scandalous how brazenly she acted, but Joffrey could not help but be intrigued. "Captain Asha Greyjoy at your service, your majesty. And I'm sorry to come uninvited to your lordship's keep, but I have a present to deliver to your royal person, one I'm sure you'd enjoy having enough to justify the impropriety" The woman smirked. "I'd have said it would be your favorite present of the day, but now I'm hearing the rebel Steffon got himself killed, so I'm feeling a tad upstaged, but I will make due. It I pleases your majesty?"

Joffrey observed the gruff men and the women. They were not at risk of breaking through his guards, nor did they seem to be able to fit a crossbow beneath their thin cloaks. He judged it safe enough. He nodded.

Asha grinned. "Boys! Show the king his present!"

She stepped aside. The tied up man was kicked forward onto the ground by one of the men. The other ripped the cloth bag from his head.

The face below was ragged and bruised. Joffrey did not recognize it in the slightest. But it was screaming, wordlessly.

"Your majesty," Asha said, "may I present to you, my brother, Theon Greyjoy, rebel Lord Reaper of Pyke, and unrepentant traitor to your august self. He is yours to do with as you please, as a gift from me and the loyal captains of the Iron Islands to you. I apologize for his poor condition. He was spewing all sorts of vile lies, so I had his tongue cut out of his mouth."

Joffrey laughed. "Hah! Of course. Theon Greyjoy! Now I recall. A perfidious cur who swore loyalty to me, then reaved my loyal subjects and fought against my navy."

"It was a shame, your majesty. I don't know what got into my traitorous brother's head, for him to decide such an evil thing. Reaving the Westerlands instead of the Reach as duty demands? It left me aghast. But I imagine you have similar experience with little brothers turning rebel for no good reason."

The bound man screamed, but one of the grunts smacked him on the head, reducing the cries to a whimper.

Joffery chuckled. "Yes. Vile things, little brothers are. I've had a great misfortune to have to deal with four who claim to be mine, all treacherous rebels. But why are you presenting him to me now? What is your aim?" What did this Greyjoy want? Joffrey was not naive. Everyone wanted something. He needed to understand this game before he fell into any trap.

"Oh, the treachery became too much for me. Even a poor girl such as myself has a limit, when her brother and lord strikes at her king so blatantly. I was able to gather the loyal captains, to depose the
rebel, so I brought him straight here. He's a gift, as I said. There is nothing else to it."

"Don't play coy," he glared. "What do you want?"

"Oh! You wish to know what I want! I see, your majesty. Well, I definitely have a few things I'd enjoy, as your loyal servant. But I can think of three, to better serve you in this time of conflict, your majesty. Nothing that would put you out at all. I wouldn't dare ask for too much."

"Name them," he was getting impatient.

"Three things, your majesty, and you'll get all the Ironborn on your side, serving you as they should have done from the start. First, I'm the last loyal Greyjoy. I'll be the last living one soon, unless I mistake your intentions. So, I'd appreciate if you could clarify my rights as Lady Reaper of Pyke. It would help me get some of the more independent-minded captains in line. Second, I ask for formal permission to reave your foes, and take our dues. We wish to hurt your foes, your majesty, so let us. And third, I would like amnesty for anything any foolish captain has done under my brother's orders. In the chaos, it is hard to determine where each captain gained their wealth, whether legitimately from your foes and Essos, or illegitimately under Theon's orders. It would be easier to wipe the whole slate clean, which will help me get the captains in line." She smiled. "It's all to help me help you, so that we can crush this rebellion as it deserves."

Joffrey laughed. His good mood dominated. He understood this Asha Greyjoy's game. She was ambitious, greedy, and treacherous in her own way, but she understood that his banner would carry her to victory, and simply wished to take advantage.

That was fine enough by his account. Let the Ironborn do what they should have done from the start and ravage the Reach. Let them be ruled by a woman. It would be funny enough.

"Granted. It shall be so. Serve me loyally, Asha Greyjoy, and you will be afforded the rights you have requested. Tarly! Have my present escorted to the black cells!"

Asha grinned. "I'm glad we were able to come to an agreement. I believe we will be staying for that celebration, if you don't mind, then I'll get back to Pyke to set the Iron Islands to rights. If we can borrow a raven, I'll have the news delivered to my uncle immediately."

Joffrey waved her off. "Yes, yes. Oswyn, get her a scribe. And get going. I believe an Archmaester is meant to be bothering me with something right now."

The audience shuffled. The Ironborn departed. And the herald took stage again. "Ah… Presenting, the Archmaester of the Silver link, master healer of the Citadel, Archmaester Umbert."

This time an old man did stumble in, surrounded by scribes, looking a little dazed. He had his silver mask of office and his silver rod. Joffrey was immediately annoyed.

"Your majesty," the old man bowed, "I come to speak with you in my capacity as a man of healing. There is a plague in the Seven Kingdoms. The Bloody Flux has entered Oldtown and has spread into the Reach. It will spread, your majesty, unless something is done. I am here to request aid from the crown, in curtailing the spread and treating the sick both."

Joffrey glared. "You have some gall, Archmaester, coming in here demanding aid for a kingdom that has thrown aside the laws and customs of men and has risen in rebellion."

The old man swallowed, but stood firm. "I know the Reach is in open rebellion, your majesty, but please believe me, this is not a matter of politics. An epidemic does not know loyalties or borders. I speak here as a maester of the citadel, neutral in all things but for knowledge and the good of life. I speak as a man who wishes to protect all of the Seven Kingdoms, no matter who they swear allegiance to. Even if you only care about your own loyal subjects, would it not be best to stop this now, before the rest of the kingdoms suffer preventable devastation."

There were murmurs among the courtiers. The morons seemed to be considering their words. "Grand Maester," Joffrey addressed his obedient stooge, "do you agree with the Archmaester? Should I provide aid and succor to my most hateful enemies simply to prevent the possibility of plague in my land?"

"Ah, your majesty… if that is your desire you can do so. The Archmaester is correct about the nature of plague, though he is an overly pessimistic man by nature. And he has little consideration beyond his own domain of expertise. Considering the circumstances, and considering the nature of the rebellion, it may be that by providing aid against this plague, one would extend the rebellion, costing more lives in total, both for deaths in the field and for starvation of lost food. Moreover, there is no guarantee that it will actually spread further. As such, I cannot unequivocally support the Archmaester's conclusion."

Joffrey nodded, satisfied. "It seems the Grand Maester disagrees with your assessment."

"You damn coward, Oswyn!" Umbert yelled. "You have a silver link! It's the damned Bloody Flux! You know how serious this is! Thousands will die! Millions maybe! Will you not see reason?!"

"No, Archmaester." Joffrey narrowed his eyes. "This plague is killing enemies of the crown. It is the justice of the Seven made manifest. I will not intervene. Perhaps these rebels will learn regret as they shit themselves into their grave. Begone now, citidel rat, before I consider you a spy. My decision has been made."

Umbert exhaled, defeated. Joffrey was disappointed to see that the old man didn't challenge him more. It would have been fun to have his guards smack him around. But the Archmaester and his students simply left without further argument.

And Joffrey prepared for the next petitioner.

 

[Crouchinghiddenwriter]

the mockery of a coronation. Bt a boy of two and ten was even more pathetic than a boy of five and ten. And the rebels no doubt had taken a

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[Crouchinghiddenwriter]

"Granted. It shall be so. Serve my loyally, Asha Greyjoy, and you will be afforded the rights you have requested. Tarly! Have my present

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