The Good, the Bad, and the Surprisingly Competent - ASOIAF SI

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 30: Pirates

When Asha Greyjoy's fleet entered Blackwater Bay, a not insignificant amount of alarm ensued.

Tales of ironborn raids were well-known, even here on the far side of Westeros. Rape and murder and plunder. And so when the kraken hoved into view across the horizon, carried upon the sails of ironborn longships, the panic was all very understandable.

And to me, quite amusing.

Mercifully, the reality of the matter was revealed swiftly enough as the true extent of the ironborn force became apparent, the ships struggling against the unfavourable winds, eventually abandoning their sails in favour of oars. No more than perhaps a dozen longships made for the docks of Kings Landing - a significant force to be sure, but not nearly enough to mount anything resembling a true raid. The gold cloaks were sent to man the defences at my command in case anything went awry, not that I anticipated any difficulties, even as another detachment of the City Watch set about protecting the peace from any sudden panic.

I had sat and watched the ships near the dock from one of the terraces of the Red Keep, with what I presumed was the Black Wind leading the lot, aware of the air of palpable tension around me. Rows of guards stood in tense silence. Here they were watching their city presumably about to be raided, and their king was sat perfectly calm, smiling against the ocean breeze, feasting on some of the last fresh slices of peach of the season. I could not help but imagine what a queer sight it must have seemed to them, after the tempestuous chaos of Joffrey and Cersei and Robert, to see such placid confidence on the face of a king, even if it was partly an act.

Yet once the number of ships was known to me, any lingering notion of danger promptly disappeared.

Asha Greyjoy, for all her arrogance, would not be stupid enough to sail so brazenly to her own demise. And any other captain stupid or brave enough to venture into Kings Landing would likely go under the cover of night, hoping to leverage the element of surprise, and with far greater numbers besides.

Even still, as the minutes passed, I was gratified to be proven right.

In the distance I could see the little figures of the ironborn longships slowly approaching the dock - rolling across across the relatively calm waters of the bay, which occasionally glittered as the sun peeked through the clouds. Then the ships slowed to a stop, only to send a single man out on a rowboat the rest of the way to finish the journey, presumably to ensure they were not falling into a trap. When he reached the quays, he was pulled ashore and out of sight, though not five minutes later he was back in his boat again, returning to the waiting rows of longships, his arms furiously working the oars. When he arrived, a lull ensued, and then three ships slowly pulled into port and began lowering their gangplanks.

I knew it had been a good idea to send Tyrion to greet them. His silver tongue had once again availed itself.

Finishing my slices of peach, I sent the plate back to the kitchens in the arms of a servant and cleaned myself with a damp cloth, gently stirring the cat curled up in my lap from it's slumber, and set off for my solar. Though the view was pleasant and the autumnal ocean breeze refreshingly bracing, a more formal setting would no doubt grant me greater leverage over the ironborn captain. Across a desk, outnumbered with guards waiting outside and her capacity for violence effectively neutered, Asha would be out of her element, stripped of all advantages. And though a witty woman she might still have been, she was still working blind.

I wasn't.

Still, it was never wise to leave oneself unprotected, especially when faced with a woman well-known for wildness. In place of a cat I laid a crossbow across my lap, and loaded a single bolt, a dagger hidden at my hip. If she really was stupid enough to try anything, a single shot would be enough to end her.

And so when Asha arrived at the door of my solar perhaps a half-hour after setting foot on solid ground, I was prepared. There were some briefly raised voices outside, but then Ser Loras poked his head through the door to announce her arrival - an open scowl on his face at having to tolerate the presence of the ironborn; that plague upon his people. She sauntered in not a second later, a slightly sour look on her face as Loras shot her a baleful glance and returned to his post, her usual choice of weapon - the hardy dirk - surrendered at the door.

She was a lean and long-legged woman, with a wiry sort of strength evident in her slim build, even beneath her jerkin. It was open at the front, showing the brown tunic she wore underneath hanging loosely off her breasts - an intentional decision, no doubt - and the rounded waistline of her green woollen breeches. There was no mistaking the womanly figure beneath the loose fabrics. A certain sense of caution defined her gait, even as she tried to project an air of confidence with her back straight, her head held high and her hips swaying from side to side. Her dark eyes darted up and down me from over her nose - a touch too large for her face - searching for something before settling on the weapon sat quite openly on my lap, my fingers gently stroking the woodwork like it was a purring kitten.

She wandered to the other side of my desk without a word, pulled herself a chair without my permission, sat herself down and then offered me wicked smirk, almost as if daring me to object. Doubtless she meant to unsettle me with the silent show of disrespect, judging me by the fat still lingering in my cheeks and my short stature to possess the disposition of the child I technically still was, without the stomach to use the weapon in my arms. Her eyes flicked briefly to the door, no doubt thinking some other lord would enter; the true power behind the throne.

I returned her smile, my wedding ring tapping the wood of the crossbow just once as I broke the silence.

"I gather you understood the offer in my letter?" I opened without delay, without exchanging so much as a single pleasantry.

Asha's eyes narrowed slightly. "You?" she asked, incredulous. "You look young enough to still be suckling at your mother's teats!"

"Not my mother's," I japed, offering her chest a very pointed glance, "but I have been known to enjoy a nice pair of teats from time to time. You ought to meet my wife. I imagine we could all find a great deal of enjoyment in each other's company. But now I must ask again: Did you understand it?"

"I did," she returned without hesitation, though with a hint of suspicion lacing her tone.

"And?"

Asha licked her lips. "You will offer us independence?" she asked. "A route to raid Essos?"

"No," I said bluntly. "That offer was predicated on your success in the Kingsmoot. Euron sits the Seastone Chair in your place. War is now inevitable. And so, my lady, independence is something I am no longer willing to offer." Asha's expression soured. "And yet, that does not mean we cannot come to some agreement."

Asha clenched her teeth, and then unclenched them with a sigh. "I will not treat with a child," she spat, acting insulted. "And you are too young for my tastes anyhow. Where is your Regent? Your Hand? I much prefer real men to share my bed, though I'll admit you might make a good maid."

I snorted at her deliberate misinterpretation of my words. "You know, a great many men would say that trying to reason with a woman is a waste of time. I am beginning to understand what they mean. Here I am, intent on deciding the fate of your lands, and all you can think to do is speak of what lies between your legs."

"Give me your terms," she bit out, scowling.

"I will seat you on the Seastone Chair after I win it from your uncle - though as a lady this time, not as a princess or queen - and even grant the Iron Fleet safe passage to the Stepstones to raid, so long as you can promise to bring the raids on Westerosi trade and territory to an end, as well as any raids on allies of the crown, chiefly the Braavosi. You will pay taxes on the incomes derived from these raids, of course. The Iron Islands will remain under the authority of the Iron Throne, with the understanding that so much as a single rebellion will result in a complete eradication of all captains and lords in the islands, as well as a full occupation by a combined force of westermen, northmen, reachmen and riverlanders, whom I assure you will be less than kind to whatever will remain of your kin."

Asha seemed newly incensed. "You make such threats and still expect me to agree?"

"I should have thought I was being kind," I retorted. "I do not need you, nor your people. I do not desire their destruction, of course, but in the face of such circumstances one must be firm, and if I must go myself to slit the throat of every man, woman and child then I will." I let my smile briefly turn into a snarl. Her dark eyes widened slightly in disbelief at the sudden turn in my demeanour. "Do not mistake my mercy - nor my desire for peace - for weakness. Remember I was raised in the lap of my late father, King Robert Baratheon, who bested Balon without so much as breaking a sweat, and that I am the grandson of Lord Tywin. If pushed, I can and will make the Reynes of Castamere look fortunate in their fate after I'm finished with you and all your ilk." Then my smile slowly returned as I relaxed back into my seat. "But if the ironborn can be welcomed back into the fold, the Old Way turned against our common slaving enemies in the east, and Lord Quellon's grand ambitions accomplished, then I should much prefer to do just that."

"And all this out of the goodness of your heart?" Asha asked, her voice thick with an almost sarcastic scepticism, still visibly wary at seeing the venom and vitriol of which I was capable, and the speed at which my fury seemed to wax and wane.

"There will be a more direct price, of course," I said. "Firstly there is the issue of hostages. I understand you have Lady Glover and her children with you?"

Asha sat briefly stunned. "How...?"

"The crown has eyes and ears in every corner of it's lands," I assured her nonchalantly, as though the exercise of such power was routine. "Even in those areas presumed to be under the control of our enemies. Not a single word said nor written in Westeros goes unheard or unread. Regardless, I expect any such hostages to be handed over to me without hesitation. Secondly, the ironborn under your authority will cede any claims on any part of the Westerosi mainland, and withdraw from any occupied territories immediately upon your ascension. Now, if this goes well I will see to it that you are granted royal assent for expansion into the Stepstones as well - the construction of trading ports and towns, the creation of a shipping guild, a real presence beyond simple piracy, potentially even one day permitting you the authority to collect tolls for the crown."

Asha nodded, her jaw tight even as her eyes glinted with greed. "The north gave us precious little but pebbles and scars. To give it up is no great loss."

I smiled widely, almost from ear to ear. Who knew Asha Greyjoy of all people would prove so pragmatic? "Excellent! So then-"

"Not yet," Asha cut in over me. "I have some conditions of my own I want met before I agree to anything."

I nodded, my smile wilting on my lips. "I suppose that's only fair. Very well, let's hear them."

"I want my nuncle left alive," she started. "Euron you may need to slay, but Victarion will live. I will have need of him to exert my authority. Him and Rodrik Harlaw."

"I see no issue with keeping Lord Harlaw alive," I said. "From what I understand he is an eminently reasonable man - at least by the standards of the ironborn. Hells, I might even elevate his kin! Any handsome young men in his house you fancy for a husband?" I allowed myself a little grin before I became grim again. "As for Victarion... That will be more difficult, and there is no guarantee, but it is doable. Of course, assuming he does not pass in the midst of battle, I shall still have to punish him - he is after all a traitor. But in place of a life a limb will suffice. An arm or a leg should send an adequate message."

Asha scowled again and stared me down in stubborn silence for a few long seconds. "And as for the Stepstones," Asha pressed on, conceding my point, "I want those now. I want to be able to sail my ships out of the bay and begin building my fortune and asserting my claim without delay. I need something substantial to satisfy the ironmen upon sitting the Seastone Chair. Something to rally their spirits to my rule, quell their thirst for conquest, and hold back the inevitable calls for rebellion."

Now that point was a tad more difficult to concede, even if her justification was surprisingly compelling. "And what assurance have I that you won't run off some place beyond my power, or get yourself killed, or even go back to your uncles to warn them and hinder my plans?"

"You have none," she spat. "You'll just have to trust me."

"Hard to do with a woman so wanton," I snapped back. "Yet I believe I can agree to even that so long as I can claim a few hostages from your crew, and replace them with an agent of my own to keep you honest. Earl Harlaw and Hagen's daughter should suffice, so long as I can be certain that you understand the consequences for breaking whatever pact we make today. If you do not answer my call when the time comes, if you disobey me in any way, I will know and I will do precisely as I threatened to. Men, women, children. None will be spared my wrath."

Asha cocked her head to one side in silent outrage, but nonetheless nodded. I could tell I was more than beginning to test the limits of her tolerance with these threats. Yet still her ambition stayed her hand and held her tongue even as she again eyed the crossbow held tight in my arms.

More concerning for me was that my words were not empty. The Ironborn were a pest, none could argue that. Yet women, children? That had been a spur of the moment addition, meant to better sell the threat. Even still, I could not help but note how easy it was to condemn an entire people to death from on high!

"And I want to keep whatever land in the Stepstones I can control if you don't deliver," she added at the last second.

"A little fiefdom to call your own, eh?" I chuckled, shrugging. "Well enough, not that you need worry. Disposing of Euron may be expensive, but I can assure you it will be easy enough for me." I smiled, my lips stretching almost to a grin. "Now relax yourself, Lady Asha, for on this day you have won yourself a kingdom! Go, enjoy the delights of Kings Landing for tonight whilst my scribes draw up the documents necessary for setting our agreement into stone. I will see you by the end of the week, and not long after all arrangements have been made you can set off with your fleet towards the Stepstones, and establish yourselves around Torturer's Deep - which by all accounts seems the best suited place for such things."

Asha stood from her seat slowly, eyes wordlessly meeting mine before she turned sharply on her heels and stormed out. I could not help the sigh that slipped past my lips at her departure. A dangerous woman, that one, volatile. I set the crossbow in my lap down on the floor, leaning it against the side of my desk. Yet not much more than a minute after I was alone I found Tywin Lannister walking through my door.

"I noticed the Greyjoy girl just left from here," he idly noted as he seated himself. No, not idly. Tywin Lannister was never idle.

"Yes," I said. "And with any luck she'll prove herself quite useful to me."

Tywin gave a curt nod. "Care to enlighten me?" he said.

"Of course," I said, and then gave him the abridged version of my encounter with Asha, watching his eyes observe mine carefully, almost warily. There was hint of approval in his gaze as I described my threats, and then concern at the deal I had struck.

"A foolish notion," he said bluntly after I was done. "You have lured a hostage. Throw her in the tower cells and use her against her uncles. Why let leverage go?"

"Because whilst Victarion might care," I said, "Euron won't, and it is he who sits the Seastone Chair. And she came to me willingly besides. What would it say of the honour of the new king if he ordered a guest he invited to be imprisoned without just cause?"

"So instead you will place her in prime position to threaten our trade with Essos?" Tywin asked, his unchanging expression shifting just enough to hint at incredulousness. "You would place such great faith in a Greyjoy?"

"I will place her in prime position to deplete the fleets that Daenerys Targaryen might use to one day darken my door," I retorted. "The fleets of slavers, which comprise the majority of trade passing through the Stepstones in any case. Even if she turns on me most of the damage she will be able to do will be to them. The trading ships of Tyrosh, Myr, Lys and the like frequent those routes far more than any Westerosi fleet. And I do not expect her to turn traitor so easily. Not after impressing upon her the intent behind my threats. Not after taking hostages of my own and placing one of mine among hers." I waved my hand dismissively through the air. "The potential damage she can do is relatively minor in comparison to the benefit she can deliver. By placing Asha on the Seastone Chair instead of smashing it to pieces I can save us a costly occupation, and preserve the lives of the fighting men who could be put to much better use elsewhere - like in the Vale or the North. In this case, winning the war is almost trivial; winning the peace almost impossible. Hence Asha's importance."

Tywin nodded, still unsatisfied, but willing to accede to me that much. "And how do you intend to win the war?"

"Lady Asha gave me more than just her allegiance, she also gave me confirmation of something my men had long suspected but never been able to prove," I lied, grinning and gesturing to the door. "You see, Euron is planning an attack on the Reach, with the hopes to plunder as much as possible and build the necessary power and support among the other ironborn captains needed for more ambitious plots. I intend to take full advantage of the opportunity this plan presents. As such, grandfather, I was wondering if you would be so kind as to send for Lord Randyll?"

He stood from his seat in silence, ventured briefly beyond the door to relay my orders to one of the guards, and then came back in and reclaimed his seat.

"The man you intend to place among Asha Greyjoy's crew, who will he be?"

I shrugged. "That has yet to be decided, but I was rather thinking Sandor Clegane might suffice."

Tywin quirked an eyebrow. "Once a turncoat a man cannot be trusted. And you expect the Hound to keep the Greyjoy girl honest?"

"I'll have leverage to ensure his loyalty," I answered. "At least according to what Arya tells me of their journey through the Riverlands. Give the two one last meeting and I do believe he'll do anything to come back to her. To be frank, he's the only real fighter I can think of who we can afford to take such risks with. If Asha kills him, it will be no great loss to us. Same if he turns tail. But if he redeems himself I'll have one more man at my disposal. The only alternative I can think of might be one of the Kettleblacks, but given they are still spies for Baelish I don't want him getting any funny ideas about forging alliances with the ironmen."

"If they are spies then why haven't you rooted them out?" Tywin asked, apparently unfazed at the revelation.

"I have been building a trap for Baelish," I explained, "and using the three brothers to feed him false information, to lull him into complacency. By what my own men tell me the plan is working, though Ser Osmund appeared to have had a change of heart shortly after donning the white cloak, and has ceased feeding secrets to our enemies. With Ser Osney disposed of, that leaves only Osfryd to contend with - which is no great concern."

Tywin nodded in approval. "And your threats," he continued, his gaze intense, "are they empty?"

I let a silence settle in as I mulled over the question, a long moment stretching to a minute, and then two. The curtains fluttered with the breeze, the flames in the hearth flickering to the sound of cloth gently flapping against stone. "I don't know," I finally answered. "I'd be willing to kill, that much I already know, but innocents... Women and children..."

"All war requires a sliver of ice in your heart," Tywin said, in an oddly tender tone. Well, tender for Tywin, at any rate. "It is good that you already understand this. But you can only know through experience. Have you ever taken a life before, Tommen?"

I shook my head. "Not directly. I've commanded men killed, seen them die, but never by my own hand. And, to be entirely honest, I'm not eager to start slitting throats." It was a line I had yet to dare cross. Once I had sullied my own hands I accepted that there was no return, no resolution. It was an act beyond intellectual plotting or assassination. Once I had killed Westeros would have claimed my soul.

"Then that must change," Tywin said. "Perhaps not today, but soon. To rule is to do a great many things, among which one is kill. And a weak man without the stomach for blood makes for neither an old monarch nor a wise one."

"I know," I said resignedly, just as Ser Loras entered to announce the presence of Lord Randyll.

"Send him in," I said, and so he came. Lord Randyll was a lean man, wiry and narrow with an iron will smouldering behind his eyes. His face was permanently set into the same expression - jaw clamped shut, eyes slightly narrowed, lips pursed and brow furrowed. His silver beard seemed to bristle around his jaw, rising to his ears before reaching his bald head, shaved completely smooth. He wore mail and boiled leathers covered by a mantle bearing the sigil of his house draped about his shoulders, Heartsbane's bejewelled sheath hanging from his hip.

"Come," I said, allowing a pleasant smile to pull on my features again, "take a seat, my lord."

Randyll pulled himself a chair and settled himself in it. "How can I serve you today, Your Grace?" he asked in a flat tone, spying Lord Tywin from the corner of his eyes.

"Well, Lord Randyll," I said, "it seems as though I finally have a war for you to wage."
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Hopefully this chapter has picked up the pace a little.
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. Not totally happy with this chapter, especially with the way Asha came out. May be subject to a partial rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 31: Jaime III

Though Littlefinger had been named Lord of Harrenhall, he seemed in no great haste to stake his claim.

Jaime sighed. Of course not. Baelish was a traitor, destined for nothing more than an early burial. And so that task would fall to him.

And what a task it was! That Harrenhall was in need of a good 'sorting out' was in no doubt. The claim had been Gregor Clegane's before Cersei had called him back to Kings Landing and the Red Viper had severed his small head from his seething corpse. Yet the Mountain's men had not left, and were no doubt still scurrying around the crumbling halls and passages like rats in a sewer drain.

Unfit to restore the King's Peace, the lot of them. The only peace any of these men had ever given anyone was that of the grave.

His outriders had informed him that the gates to the castle were closed and barred, so Jaime drew up his men in force and sounded his horn, letting three sharp blasts announce his presence. After the sound had rolled off the surrounding hills and bounced off the stone and dissipated into the air, Jaime could hear the creaking of rusted iron hinges as the doors were slowly pushed open.

Under a dozen different murder holes he rode with his men, bearing witness to the sheer hubris of Harren's folly, the tattered stones around him black on one side where Balerion's flames had licked them and grey on the other. He emerged into sudden moonlight from the flickering torchlight as he entered the yard, the hooves of the horses behind him falling silent as their journey over the hard-packed dirt - occasionally dotted with weeds and rotting corpses - came to an abrupt end.

A handful of Gregor's men stood awaiting to greet him as yet more came streaming from the towers, their eyes hard as they watched him dismount. About the best that could be said of them is they were not quite as savage as the man they swore loyalty to. Gregor had been an animal. These men were merely cruel.

"Fuck me," one man said, slack-jawed. "It's the fucking Kingslayer, boys!"

Jaime felt a dull spike of fury at the name, one he quickly suppressed to keep his icy composure. I am no more that man, he thought. His hook ached, his long gone sword-hand baying for blood. "And who might you be?" Jaime asked instead.

"They call me Shitmouth, they do," the man said, grinning.

"Do you hold command here?" Jaime asked, impatient.

"Me?" the man asked, almost incredulous. "Shit, m'lord, no. Bugger me with a bloody spear."

"Ser Illyn, you heard the man, find a nice long one and shove it up his arse," Jaime said. He did not have a spear, but it was not long before one of the other men threw him one with a grin on his face.

Shitmouth paled. "Keep that bloody thing away from me," he said warily, stumbling back.

"Make up your mind," Jaime said. "Or better yet, clean up your mouth. Now, if not you then who? Who has command here?"

"Polliver," another man said. "Only he was killed. Him and the Tickler both."

"By the Hound," Jaime finished. "At the crossroads inn, correct?" His conclusion was met with a series of confused nods. "Well, if nothing else you need not worry about the Hound. He's been dealt with. I'm surprised such a thing was necessary. Did you not send men after him once you'd heard?"

Shitmouth frowned, as though this thought were entirely new to him. "No, my lord. Fu..." Shitmouth caught himself. "We never did."

"When a dog goes mad you cut it's throat," Jaime said, doing his best impression of his father. His proclamation was met with a flurry of uncomfortable glances. "You were all scared of him," he quickly surmised.

"Well, he were Ser's brother, so..." Shitmouth tried to say.

"He was the Hound," another interrupted. "You'd have to be mad to go after him. Or someone better. Someone like Ser. Or like you."

Jaime felt just a touch of discomfort at the looks in their eyes - admiration earned by another lie - and a second spike of fury at being compared to the elder Clegane. If only you knew, he thought. As he was, even after all those months with Bronn, he did not doubt Sandor at full strength would make quick work of him. "You have a name?" he asked.

"Rafford," the man said soberly. "Or Raff, if it please you."

Jaime nodded in approval. "Rafford, gather the garrison together in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, and your captives too. I'll want to see them. Oh, and Hoat as well. I was distraught to hear he had died. I'd have liked the pleasure of killing him myself. Even still, I'd like to gaze upon his head."

And so the men went, and Jaime wandered to the hall himself to await the completion of his commands. In the meanwhile he sat and watched as one-by-one his men went around the hall and slowly set a fire in each hearth, giving the Hall of a Hundred Hearths it's characteristically orange glow. Yet his breath still emerged from his lips in cold mist in the midst of night. It would take a while for the fires to displace the chill that had settled into the space.

Before long, Hoat's rotting head was dropped into his lap. The Goat's lips had been sliced off, along with his ears and most of his nose, right down to a stubby little bit of bone that showed under the rotting flesh. It was Hoat - that much Jaime knew for sure by the greasy beard alone - but twisted beyond belief. Crows had supped his eyes, and only a few strips of shrivelled skin stuck to his cheeks.

"Where is the rest of him?" Jaime asked, steeling his stomach.

Nobody seemed to want to answer, and so that burden fell to Rafford. "Rotted, ser," he said. "And one of the prisoners was always begging for food, so we gave him the body to eat. Hands and feet, arms and legs. Ser said to see to it all the prisoners got a taste."

Jaime felt the steel in his stomach rust and decay, sickened. The prospect of vengeance seemed to lose it's shine right before him. Seven save us all, he thought, and tossed the rotting head into the nearest hearth. What little patches of fat remained on the flesh seemed to bubble and melt as the fire licked the skull clean and caught upon the grease in the beard, allowing the flames to climb higher and burn briefly brighter.

"I'll see those captives now," he said, remembering Tommen's orders. "Starting with Ser Wylis Manderly."

"He the fat one?" Rafford asked.

Jaime nodded. "He should be. And I warn you now if he is no more for this world, then you all will surely join him in his fate in short order."

Rafford swallowed, nodded and then opted to bow, and then finally turned tail and ran. Not long after, a line of prisoners were pushed forth through the doors at swordpoint. Of Lady Whent's people only a handful remained that Jaime remembered. A cook and an armourer, both looking half-starved, and a formerly pretty serving girl named Pia who'd no doubt been raped ragged, blood still staining her skirt. When she saw him she fell to her knees and clutched his legs and sobbed, mumbling pleas for mercy through shattered teeth and bloodstained lips, offering herself to him in desperation if only he would make her torment stop.

Jaime felt disgust and pity in equal measure as he shook her off his leg, and the poor girl sobbed all the louder when he assured her that she would suffer no longer. This was not the pretty, giggling little chit Qyburn had sent to his chambers after he'd lost his arm.

Mercifully, it seemed the other prisoners had been treated a little better. Wylis Manderly was the one Tommen had insisted on, but there were also several other highborn northmen Gregor had captured during his campaigns along the Trident, each of whom would no doubt prove useful to the king. They were ragged, filthy, some bruised and others broken, but they were still alive in all the ways that mattered.

And so, one hostage at a time, the north falls further into my nephew's hands, Jaime reflected. Into my son's hands...

The wailing only intensified when Jaime informed each man of his fate. Wylis collapsed into a heap on the floor and wept in relief at the news that he would wind his way back to White Harbour, and though the others had more muted responses upon learning that the capital was their destination, the notion that they would be hostages of the king and not of the Mountain's men seemed nonetheless welcome, and many broke down into tears of gratitude.

He commanded them to sit at one end of the table, to sup with dignity and be silent. Their meal was simple fare, for the Mountain's men apparently had little use for cooks. And once it was done, Jaime began issuing his commands. The Mountain's men would be split up - that he could not trust them was now clear. A third would go with a few of his own men to see to the delivery of Ser Wylis to the Saltpans, where a Manderly ship would await, and another third would take the rest of the political prisoners down to the capital and present them before the king.

The final third would accompany him, their presence supplanted by a force of a hundred men from his own company who would hold Harrenhall in his trust. This third would be made of only the most savage, Jaime decided, save for Rafford. If nothing else they will make fine fodder for the walls of Riverrun, Jaime thought as he issued his commands. And breaking them up would surely lessen the risk for any further indiscretions, the kind the king was eager to put an end to.

Not that Jaime had any silly notions of putting an end to such savage habits. Such cruel men were not like to change. Yet with cruelty came cowardice, and under his watch their worst tendencies would be restrained under threat of harsh consequences.

That night Jaime slept with his sword at his side, satisfied at a day's work. The next morning he washed and dressed at dawn, and took advantage of the castle's rookery to write and send a few short messages back to the capital with news of his progress whilst Harrenhall was still quiet. Another raven went north, to inform his cousin at Riverrun of his intent to see to the siege himself. The very thought of meeting his Frey friends made him tense. The king's commands were clear enough, but Jaime had no desire to wind up like Robb Stark. And so another secret he'd have to keep till the time came to drop the pretence and start the slaughter.

But his cousin could be trusted with the truth, Jaime was certain. He could be sworn to secrecy. But what of Aunt Genna...?

Jaime sighed. That was a question for another day. Not long after he was done the noise returned as men set busily about making the necessary arrangements.

The four groups were arranged; three heading out - one north, one south and one west, with one staying back. Jaime made sure the last lot were all loyal Lannister men. That would be important to seeing Tommen's other plans through. Parting words were offered, some touching and others torturously mundane, and then Jaime sounded his horn again, impatient, and all the men were ahorse and riding out to do their duty. They rode for perhaps a little more than two days and made camp for three nights without incident, moving fast across rolling plains and fording several streams. Jaime made sure to keep them away from villages and towns.

The cot may have been worse for his back than a bed, but if that meant there would be no trouble than Jaime considered it a sacrifice worth making. The riverlanders had suffered their presence enough. If he could avoid bothering them, especially now that he had the Mountain's men in tow, then he would.

As it was, he had difficulty keeping the rowdiest men in line. Three had lost their heads by the time the relatively short march was over.

And so Darry hoved into view.

All around, the fields surrounding the castle were under the till. It was mostly women working the fields, Jaime noted, many of their sons and fathers and husbands and brothers lost to the war. Weeds were pulled by hand even as a number of ploughs were pulled by oxen as other women trailed, planting seeds every so often in the wake of the oxen and patting the earth flat. Seeds and ploughs paid for by the crown, Jaime did not doubt. Lady Amerei Frey would be that type of woman.

Just like Harrenhall, Jaime found the gates closed to him, looks of fear in the eyes of the women at the golden lion emblazoned on his armour. I have to get duller plate, he thought at first, but then thought better of it. With my sword-hand perhaps the lion of Lannister is all that stays the hands of all who surround me. Nevertheless, it was enough for the gatemen of Castle Darry to slowly swing open the doors when he blew his horn, and Jaime led his men yet again under the murder-holes.

Most stayed behind, making camp beyond the walls, but Jaime was not fool enough to wander into Frey hands without a fearsome guard. Within the walls, Jaime saw workmen flanked by crossbowmen and archers up on the ramparts, watching out of the corner of their eyes. The stones were blackened and some cracked. During the fighting Darry had been burned once and sacked at least twice, and the evidence of that was still all around, despite Lady Amerei's continuing efforts.

When he had finally arrived, only a lone maester emerged to greet him.

"Lord Commander, Darry is honoured at this... unexpected visit," he said. "I was under the impression you were headed to see to the siege at Riverrun."

"I am here on behalf of my king," Jaime simply pronounced, dismounting and producing from under his armour a crumpled version of one of the letters that Tommen had given him when's he'd first been given this fool's quest. Mayhap the Seven will be kind and this little delay will allow me to keep my oath to Lady Catelyn to never take up arms against her family. Jaime resisted the urge to shudder at the thought. If the Seven are kind I'll never have to face her again.

"Very well," the maester said after a moment's silence. "I know Lady Amerei will be pleased to see you, and wished to welcome you herself. In fact, she's seeing to the preparation of a feast in your honour. It is her hope that you will join her at the table this evening."

Jaime quirked an eyebrow in the style of his father. "A hot meal would be most welcome, but I do hope this feast is not paid for with the funds the crown so generously provided. I'd hate to have to tell His Grace that his generosity was being wasted on frivolities. Humble fare will suffice for me - no more than the daily meal of the lordling. I come with purpose, not for pleasure."

The maester nodded nervously. "Yet I trust you'd still like me to show you to your chambers?"

Jaime nodded. "And to a hot bath, if you would. The road has been long and hard and muddy and cold, and I think I can permit myself that much."

The maester nodded, and they set off through the halls of Darry, ending with his chambers. Jaime did not spend much time there, and instead allowed his companions to strip him and fill the tub as he lowered himself into the water. Pia blushed as she saw his naked flesh, and Jaime had to restrain himself as he was suddenly reminded of the lovesick young slut she had been when she'd first slipped into his bed and tried to seduce him.

Mercifully, she and all the rest left soon enough and Jaime was left alone in the water, letting his arousal slowly fade away. The prospect of so much time away from Cersei had taken it's toll on his self-control.

When he finally departed his room for the feast that night, he came dressed in fineries, though he left his whites and sword behind. His gilded hook glinted threateningly in the light of the lone hearth in the hall, it's edge still razor sharp.

"My lord!" Lady Amerei Frey greeted him, curiously alone. She was a hearty wench to look at, that he could not deny. Long legs and smooth skin and full breasts that threatened to spill out the top of her dress. Such a shame her face let her down. She might have been pretty, but she would never beautiful.

"Is there nobody else to join us?" Jaime asked.

"My poor mother is still in mourning," she said. Amerei offered him a coy smile. "In any case, I was rather under the impression that I was not allowed to spend the king's gold on such things? Those funds are meant for the fields and the keep, no?"

"Of course," Jaime agreed as he he sat himself and the food started to arrive, all in the arms of suspiciously buxom serving-girls for a keep managed by a lady. Still, the food was good, and Jaime enjoyed eating something not burned or roasted after so many days on the road, and attacked his food with gusto. He used his hook to cut his bread and meat, the edge more than sufficient for the task.

And before long, the subject turned to wolves.

"They've lost all fear in men," Lady Amerei idly said. "Packs of them just seem to attack our men randomly. We had to kill half an entire pack - a dozen of them - yesterday before the others gathered the good sense to turn tail and flee."

Jaime felt himself pale a shade, his appetite suddenly gone. He'd heard similar reports from some of his own men when he'd sent them out as scouts. Wolves watching, following, but only occasionally venturing so far as attacking. Lady Catelyn...?

"I see," he cut in. "And aside from wolves have you any issues with warriors? Outlaws?"

Lady Amerei lost her perpetually pleasant expression for a second as she scowled. "Outlaws killed my father," she said. "Lord Beric's lot it seems like. And though we lost them we got reports of a one-eyed man and a hooded woman."

Jaime steeled himself. "A woman?"

"Aye," Lady Amerei said. "The peasants would have us believe that this woman is an old one, with white eyes and a torn face. They claim it was the woman, not the man, who was handing out the orders."

Seven save us all, Jaime reflected with horror. Lady Catelyn's corpse truly does haunt these lands. Suddenly, he missed having Oathkeeper at his hip. No matter, Jaime told himself. Tommen had a plan. He's seen all this. I just need to have faith.

"Woman or man," Jaime said, feeling suddenly dizzy, "they are scoundrels all the same."

Amerei nodded. "My men have all been unsuccessful in finding those responsible for my father's fate," she said, her features almost shifting into a pretty sort of sadness. She reached over the table and reached to grip Jaime's hook. "But I'm sure you could find them, Ser Jaime," she said in a lusty tone, fluttering her lashes. "Please, my lord, I beg of you, stay and help us with Lord Beric and this woman." Her hand caressed his hook almost seductively.

Jaime cleared his throat and withdrew his hook, still feeling faintly queasy, reaching with his one remaining hand to produce the letter he had shown her maester earlier. "Much as I appreciate your proposition, Lady Amerei," he slid the letter over to her, "my place remains besides my king. Even still, I do have a proposal of my own."

Lady Amerei unfurled the letter and read it quickly. "A betrothal to your cousin Lancel?"

"Ser Lancel," Jaime reminded her. "It is a better match than most."

"Better than most," Amerei agreed. "I accept, of course. It is a great honour."

Jaime nodded as he pushed his plate away. "A great honour indeed," he said. "Be grateful you hold a seat as significant as Darry. You are very lucky. Lannister lads are typically sought after; they do not seek."

Amerei had a coy smile on her face. "Were you one of those lads, ser?"

"A long time ago," Jaime said, thinking of Cersei.

Amerei's smile grew slightly. "Oh, not as long a time ago as you think, I would wager."

"Eager to have my hand, were you?"

"Not so much your hand..." Amerei allowed her smile to slip from coy to suggestive.

"What would I tell Lancel?" Jaime asked, still outwardly calm yet growing increasingly curious and frustrated.

"Who says he need know anything?" Amerei asked in such a tone, leaning forward as though to afford him the best possible view between her breasts and down her dress. "I am not a maid in any case. You would not be despoiling anything for him. It can be our secret." The target of her touches went from his hook to his hand, caressing and stroking and massaging. "You've sworn vows of celibacy how long, my lord? I can see the effect of those oaths all over your face, in the way your eyes linger. Deny it all you like, but I can see you want me. Don't worry, I won't say so much as a word to anyone. And you can have me any way you please."

"I don't deny I desire you," Jaime said, and snatched his hand away, apprehension and unease supplanted by anger as he arose from his seat, a fresh wave of arousal tightening his breeches. "But I know better than to betray my oaths. You may not be a maid, but for Lancel's sake you will behave like one. No man other than him will you touch in that away ever again, do you understand me? You will stay as pure as the Maiden herself till he arrives from Kings Landing."

Amerei cocked her head to one side, and then nodded. "That should be no difficult thing," she said. "I've heard Lancel is a handsome one, and gallant, like you. Easy enough to wait for, even for a wench like me."

"He's better than you deserve, certainly," Jaime spat, and stormed out. Through the halls and up the steps till he was back in the chambers the maester had given him, his guards in close pursuit as he left Darry's great hall. The sheer gall of that girl! It was one thing to keep secrets for his king, but that...

Jaime shook his head, suddenly unhappy to be surrounded by stone walls and windows and shadows. He felt trapped. His arousal refused to abate. He went to the rookery and sent another message - meant in this case for his Uncle Kevan - and then returned to his room to find his urges still threatening to overpower him. And so, in a fit perhaps of madness, he sent for her.

Pia came into his room meek as a mouse, offered a deep bow, silent as she awaited his instructions.

"Look at me," Jaime commanded. Pia raised her head, and Jaime caught a glimpse of her mouth before her lips pursed. I've lost a limb and you've lost your looks, Jaime lamented. Still, at least she can close her mouth. I can hardly hide my hand, now can I? "That night you came to my bed, just after I'd lost my hand, you claimed you'd always dreamed of me. Was that true?"

Pia blushed and nodded.

"And is it still true?" Jaime asked, in a softer tone.

Pia nodded again, the hue of her cheeks reddening till her blush became a flush.

"Well," Jaime said, "now's your chance. If you truly desire me, you'll drop your dress, and stand before me completely bare, bereft of secrets."

Pia averted her eyes as she lifted her hands and undid the lacing on her brown roughspun dress before lifting her hands to her shoulders and pushing the cloth away. The dress hung briefly from her breasts, and then her hips, but before long it lay in a pool on the floor, and Pia was naked. She was still a shapely girl - with round breasts and wide hips and a pert arse - though a few of her curves had lessened with hunger, and much of her skin was still marred with splotchy, faded bruises.

The worst victim of her captivity, however, seemed her cunt. It was a mess - all swollen and bruised - and looking at it Jaime doubted if it'd ever fully mend. Her arse will be worse, Jaime knew without looking. We all had her a hunnerd times, Jaime remembered one of the men he'd been forced to behead had said after he'd been caught trying to rape her on the ride. A hunnerd each, honest! Gregor's men had seemed genuinely surprised when Jaime let his blade fall on the man's neck.

Yet the girl did not seem reserved, and instead eyed him with naked hunger, a desperation in her eyes that bordered on uncomfortable to be aware of. This was a dreadful idea, Jaime knew immediately, but he did not allow himself to be deterred. The girl was willing, and wanted him very much, and he knew he'd rather not suffer the guilt of denying her a second time, even if any desire he'd felt for her had already long since disappeared.

"On your knees, Pia," Jaime gently instructed her. The girl lowered herself to her knees without complaint and slowly crawled to him, nestling herself between his legs. She kissed his belt, and before long it was undone and his cock was buried deep in her toothless mouth.

Again, Jaime felt disgusted, but now only at himself - at what he'd become. She was so much smaller than him, so much younger. A little girl, that's all she is, Jaime suddenly thought. A little girl in a woman's body, scarred and scared. Yet Pia's tongue did not give his cock so much as a moment to wilt, and before long he had finished under the influence of her ministrations. She swirled his seed around her mouth and swallowed, before setting enthusiastically on his softening cock again, eagerly lapping up any stray drops as she committed herself to seeing it stiffen once more.

Jaime placed a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her away. "Do I not please you, ser?" Pia asked, lifting her hand to cover her mouth as she spoke.

"You please me plenty," Jaime said, not wanting to hurt the poor girl's feelings. "But it seems I have other matters weighing on my mind. Gather your things and go. We ride for Riverrun at dawn. Mayhap there you can find a more vital man among the soldiers, someone more suitable than I."

"But I only desire you, ser," Pia assured him. "I dream of you, all in white with your golden curls during Lord Whent's tourney, ever so gallant and brave. Allow me to please you properly, ser, even if it's only ever for one night. That's all I ask. You'll forget all your troubles once I start, I swear it."

Jaime grunted - unwilling to crush her hopes - and waved her away. Once she had dressed herself again and departed, Jaime turned to face the blade he'd set down on the bed. He pulled Oathkeeper from it's sheath, observed the swirling pattern of grey and red, ashamed at himself as he recited his vows in his mind.
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P.S. May be subject to a partial rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 32: Arya III

The godswood at Winterfell had always been quiet, Arya remembered.

As she trudged across the leaf-covered ground, boots tromping in snow, she passed by thickets of ash, chestnut, oak and ironwood trees towards the pale branches of the heart tree. Blood-red leaves formed a thick canopy over the heart tree itself, covered on one side by a thick sheet of white. The snow seemed to get deeper around her. She was up to her knees in it now, legs numb and feet frozen through.

Little flakes of snow and ice battered her face as she advanced, a sudden gale blowing against her, pushing her away from the pale trunk of the heart tree. Her hair whipped about her face, her cheeks flushed red in a futile attempt to fight away the worsening chill. She had only a scant dress on, she now noticed, a silken gown of the type she had always imagined she would hate to wear. The cloth was so thin as to almost leave her nude, and did next to nothing to ward away the cold. It was the sort of garment a young bride might choose to don to please her lordly husband.

Why would I ever wear such a stupid thing? Arya asked herself. Where were her furs, her leathers? Where was Needle?

Nevertheless, something about the tree spoke to her; the eerie, still face carved into the wood speaking to her in some indistinct, unmoving tongue. Arya shielded her face and eyes with her forearms as she pushed forwards, suddenly barefoot in the snow. The tree seemed to get further away the further she went, but she didn't stop. Her body was so slight, the wind so strong that she had to lean forwards into the gale, shivering with every step now, still struggling even as she felt the brief panic that came before the cold pierced all the way to her heart and ended her life.

When Arya finally touched the trunk of the tree, the gale disappeared, and she fell face first in the snow. When she arose she was completely bare, the face in the heart tree as still and lifeless and eerie as ever, and in the distance she saw a column of smoke rise. The cold was gone, the gooseflesh that had erupted on her skin flattened to perfect smoothness.

The column grew thicker in the distance, and possessed by a sudden curiosity, Arya ventured forth. She couldn't quite bring herself to venture from the protective shadow the heart tree, the branches stooping over her almost as if to ward her from danger. Yet Arya went as far as she dared, climbing up the side of a snow-covered hill even as the branches of the heart tree seemed to stretch to shield her.

When she scrabbled to the top and peered over the crest of the hill, she saw the cause of the smoke.

Winterfell was aflame.

Men charged at the walls in waves, clad in furs and bones and plate alike, clambering up the walls and being hurled back down from them. Corpses littered the ground, thick as a rich Myrish rug in some places. The stench of death suddenly filled her nostrils. Blood, bile, shit and piss. Fear and rot and hate. The broken tower had seemingly toppled over, the glass gardens had shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. Down the way it seemed as though Wintertown had been entirely flattened.

She awaited the inevitable panic to come, and yet nothing was aroused within her at such a sight. Not a single tear glazed her eyes, not a single shiver shook her limbs, not a single sob slipped past her lips. She observed the chaos coldly; impassive, uncaring.

Here my home is aflame, she thought. But it is not my home, for there must always be a Stark at Winterfell.

"Aye," a hoarse, breathy voice hissed behind her as a pair of spindly, bony, rotten hands grasped her bare shoulders, ice-cold to the touch.

Arya awoke that morning with a scream ripping through her throat. Brienne loomed overhead, hands grasped tight around her shoulders, pinning her to the bed, her brow furrowed in concern. "My lady?" she asked as Arya stopped struggling.

Arya sat unmoving for a moment, and then shook her head. "I'm fine," she immediately insisted, through gasps of air. "Just a nightmare."

Brienne lingered over her for a second more, and then slowly leaned back, easing her bulk off Arya's shivering, sweating form. "Anything you'd wish to speak about or share with me, my lady? In my experience it can help ease one's burdens."

Arya shook her head defiantly. "A good few hours in the yard will ease my burdens plenty enough, Brienne. I need to hit something."

She hauled herself out of bed, feeling sick to her stomach, and hurriedly went to don a fresh pair of breeches and her jerkin and swordbelt, Needle sliding smoothly into it's sheath at her hip. She revelled in the feel of the worn leather of her boots, grateful to not be standing barefoot in the blustering winds. Silently she awaited Brienne, waiting for her to don her armour, almost quivering with impatience.

There were some new entrants into the training yard, Arya noted when she arrived.

A more savage group than the rest, she immediately knew. Ironborn. Their jerkins looked sea-worn, the leather faded. They wore tattered skins and bones atop their mail instead of plate, crudely fashioned to scare instead of stop any true blows.

Brienne demonstrated that well enough on the first day they showed their faces, where they dared to gawp and jape and then challenge her to a bout. Needless to say she beat them black and blue, up and down the muddy length of the yard. The edge of her blade fell like a hammer, and as the men limped away Lyra noted a few limbs clutched in a way as to indicate a break or fracture.

It was an almost aspirational display, the way Brienne moved. There was none of the finesse of Syrio, as she already knew, but there was no savagery either. Here was a woman in control of herself, aiming each blow with lethal intent.

Intent echoed in the eyes of the watchers.

At first they had been hidden from her, and now they lurked out in the open, indistinct faces peering through murder-holes and windows and over parapets and balconies. All day long her hackles lay on the verge of rising. Were they the king's men? Were they Lord Tywin's? Or was there someone else taking an interest?

Does someone know Needle's whispers? Arya thought. It seemed likely. Her appearance had barely been changed. Tommen's lie was a good one, but it was not immune to scrutiny, and she knew all too well just how bloody Kings Landing politics could become. If Baelish could pit wolf against lion and start such a bloody war what could someone with real power do? Lyra wondered.

Not for the first time, Lyra longed for Winterfell. The bitter cold of her dreams was well worth the thought of seeing the old stone walls again, of seeing the broken tower and the First Keep and the godswood and the Glass Gardens. Her chest heaved, heart pounding as she whipped her sword from side-to-side, raising and lowering her guard, darting forwards for a strike and then retreating just as quickly to evade the riposte.

The squires that frequented the yard had learned to respect her in recent weeks, even if she lost more bouts than she won by a large margin. She always gave her all, and suffered bloody lips and bruises without complaint, attacking at times with what one of the boys called a 'savage intent'. She knew better than to trust any of them, but she couldn't help herself from liking them. There were a few bullies and future brigands among them, but most seemed to want to live up the oaths they were due to take, untarnished by the notions of older men.

In short, they seemed as stupid to her as Sansa had been last she'd seen her. It was almost admirable, in a way.

Yet, like always, her smaller frame and slimmer arms gave out only a few hours in, and she left with Brienne behind her just a few hours after entering the yard, filled with no less nervous energy than when she had entered.

At least the aches were soothing. The throbbing pain reminded her that what she saw was real. There were no bony hands on her shoulder, no smoke lingering in the air besides that of cooking fires.

A strange sense of dissatisfaction hung over her as the sweat dried from her skin, as the pounding of her heart slowed to a normal rhythm. No, not dissatisfaction, but rather unease. It was no secret Tommen was beginning to tighten his grip on power, but things were moving faster than she could follow. Lords flitted through the halls at breakneck speeds, all seemingly on urgent business. Messengers came and went with petitions and promises. Ravens seemed to fly to and from the rookery at all times of the day, and sometimes even at night. The servants bows seemed just a tad deeper, a little more deferential than just a few weeks ago.

The keep certainly felt tense, and the sigil of the kraken on the sails of the longships docked in the bay surely didn't help matters.

It was little surprise, then, when her weekly summons came a few days early.

Through the halls and passages of the keep she walked, Brienne just behind, her boots heavy on the stone floors, the plates of her armour clicking. Not for the first time, Arya felt a touch of irritation at how loud the older woman could be. She's not bad, Arya thought, but even if I could somehow convince her to flee with me, those big feet of hers would surely get us caught.

Not that escape was ever really possible, not with shadowed eyes following her every move, but that didn't make Brienne's stature or stride any less annoying.

And so Arya arrived outside the king's solar with a sharp stiffness in her step, her brow pushed down in a petty frown. She had to wait a few minutes before the king became available, Ser Loras not paying her any special mind even as his gaze stuck to Brienne like a limpet, alternating between a scowl, a strained smile and simple flatness. It was no small mercy, then, when Lord Tywin emerged from the solar, shut the door behind him, a sheaf of papers in his hand, and stopped to glance at them.

Since that first unfortunate night - the night of her arrival in Kings Landing as a captive - Arya had only encountered Lord Tywin on one other occasion.

She occasionally caught glimpses of him and the king from around the keep, usually immersed in some sort of discussion. It was rare their eyes would ever meet. But today he spared her no such mercy, his irises cold as their emerald colour, and Arya felt her courage and irritation bleed away. She averted her gaze from his, yet the strange tingle that had started in her brow merely moved to her cheek.

His gaze felt almost like a cold burn. A tingle to indicate damage that peeked through a curtain of numbness. Arya felt herself begin to shiver.

No wonder he's Tommen's Hand, Arya thought. What use is an army or a sword when a single look is enough to make a man piss himself?

And then, just as suddenly as he had emerged and locked his gaze upon her, Lord Tywin offered Brienne a solitary nod, turned wordlessly on his heel, and marched away. And as his eyes flicked away, Arya could have sworn that the corners of his lips twitched up into the ghost of a smile.

Ser Loras bid her enter, but she almost didn't hear him, her ears ringing with the clicking of heels on stone in time with Lord Tywin's gait. Only Brienne's tight grip on her shoulder kept her steady as she walked into the king's solar in a daze and claimed one of the two seats before his desk. The cold breeze shifted the curtains beside her, making the folds dance, the scratching of a quill on parchment emerging as the only sound during the brief moments when the breeze died.

Only when he was finished with his letter did he set his quill gently down on the surface of his desk and lift his eyes to meet her own. The same shade as Lord Tywin's, she couldn't help but note.

"Are you well?" he asked, his tone soft, gentle, almost maternal. She might have believed he genuinely cared if she hadn't known better.

"Why am I here?" Arya retorted, some of her bravado slowly returning to her.

Tommen sighed and pursed his lips as he leaned back in his seat. "You said you wanted to meet the Hound, yes?"

Arya's eyes widened first with surprise and then narrowed with suspicion. "Yes..."

"Well, he's doing quite a bit better now than he was doing when you first asked," the king said. "So, if you still want to meet him..."

"I do," Arya confirmed.

"Good," Tommen said flatly. "You'll be glad to know he's on his way up from the cells. But till he gets here, I think it's important that we talk."

"About what?" Arya asked.

Tommen reached down and pulled a single letter from one of the drawers on his desk. He tossed it down onto the surface of the table, the seal already broken. "For you," he said. "From the Wall."

"Jon?" Arya breathed in disbelief.

"Lord Jon," Tommen corrected her. "But yes. I want to be clear that this doesn't mean I'm allowing you to in any way write him. The political situation at the Wall is still far too unstable for my liking, certainly too unstable for this. Your brother may be Lord Commander, but that doesn't mean his control is absolute, especially with Stannis and his men seeking his aid. How do you think it would look if Stannis discovered Jon had a sister under my control? What do you think he would do?"

"He would brand Jon a turncoat," Arya realised.

"And then he would kill him," Tommen finished, "and seize the Wall for himself."

"So you're saying I can't respond?" Arya asked.

Tommen nodded. "Not for a while yet. This secret of ours might be poorly kept, but there is still much value in it. That letter is yours to keep, and yours to cherish, but till I deem it safe I think you ought to know it's not wise to do anything more than read it."

Arya ran her finger across the folded parchment with tears pricking her eyes. One of the wolves from my pack still lives. But instead of opening it like Tommen no doubt expected, Arya tucked it away into the pocket of her doublet. She would open it and read it later, in private, where she could weep and mourn freely without making herself look weak. She blinked away the emotion before it could run off onto her cheeks.

"And you, Dame Brienne?" Tommen asked. "I trust you are faring well?"

"Well enough, Your Grace," the larger woman answered.

"I saw your performance in the yard this morning," he said. "Yet again, you excel yourself. The power, the ferocity! I remain, as ever, impressed."

"You flatter me, Your Grace."

Tommen smiled. "Hard-earned praise is scarcely flattery, but it is nice to know you have not lost your humility, nor your honour. Patience, my lady. I can tell you lust for movement - for purpose. Alas, I cannot provide. All I can do is ask for patience."

"You have it, Your Grace," Brienne said, shifting her weight in discomfort at being the object of the king's attention.

She was saved at that moment by a knock on the door, and the sight of Ser Loras emerging into the solar a moment later to announce Sandor's arrival. Tommen waved him in and Arya turned in her seat to observe her former guardian. And there he was, just as she remembered him, with his helmet tucked under his arm, clad in plate and mail and missing an ear with burns down half his face. That main difference was that he seemed considerably slimmer, his frame having lost much of it's strength in recent weeks.

Yet if one could have called him humourless before, he was almost lifeless now. The fire she knew to linger behind his eyes had been reduced to a few stray embers.

"A little courtesy before you leave," Tommen said to Sandor as he stood from his seat and gathered some papers in his arms. "I thought you two might like to talk. Come with me, Dame Brienne, you can wait outside."

Sandor's vision shifted to Brienne even as she arose from her seat, eyeing her up and down. Brienne met the Hound's looks head-on, a warning in her eyes. Then, following the king and Ser Loras, she disappeared through the doors and vanished from view.

Silence yet again reigned supreme. Seconds passed awkwardly, then a minute, then two. Sandor didn't meet her eyes.

"What did he mean 'before you leave'?" Arya suddenly asked.

"Ironborn," Sandor answered in his gravelly tone. "I'm meant to go with them and keep an eye on them for the crown."

"So you're a dog again?" Arya asked with a touch of venom in her voice. It was more an accusation than a question. You're leaving me.

Sandor scowled and grit his teeth, yet kept his peace. Then, with a deep, shaky sigh, Sandor unclenched his jaw.

"I'm sorry," he said, without emotion.

Arya shook her head, refusing his apology. Guilt suddenly gnawed at her. "Tommen isn't Joffrey," she said. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

Sandor briefly turned his gaze to the door. "No, he isn't," he agreed.

"What did he promise you?" Arya asked.

"Redemption," Sandor said, then scowled, as though offended by the notion that he needed to be redeemed. "Freedom."

"He promised to let you off your leash?"

Sandor shrugged.

"So not freedom, then."

Sandor's eyes finally met hers, brow furrowed as though to indicate he was at war with himself. "I'm a dog," he agreed. "But I won't be one forever."

"Promise?"

Sandor nodded, the embers in his eyes briefly flaring into sparks. "I swear it."

Arya accepted this without saying a word, and let the seconds pass yet again in silence. Not long after, Brienne returned through the door, Sandor offered her one last look, and then turned his gaze away and marched stiffly through the doors. Part of her wanted to stop him, to pull him into a tight hug and weep and never let go. Another part of her wanted to stab him for all he'd done. You killed the butcher's boy. Yet in the end all she did was stand and watch as he walked away from her, feeling hollow inside.

The next morning, after a night of dreamless yet fitful sleep, Arya leant against one of the windows in her chamber, overlooking the bay as the Ironborn longships departed from the harbour and started on their voyage to the Stepstones. She noted the ship Sandor would be on, following it's path till it vanished past a set of cliffs after several excruciating hours.

She sat alone, having dismissed Brienne for the day, promising not leave her chambers without calling for the larger woman first. She ran her thumb over the parchment of Jon's letter, hesitant to open it. It had been sitting in her lap all day. What if he's like Sandor? What if he's changed?

She felt drained, exhausted even though all she had done all day was sit by a window and eat. Not even the prospect of escape seemed to excite her anymore. And though she had yet to cry, she felt too tired for tears.

Arya sighed, unfolded the parchment, and started to read.
-----------
Sorry for the delay. I had a work deadline and some family troubles to deal with that disrupted my regular schedule.
Regular fortnightly updates should resume hence.
Chapter was written in a bit of a rush, so apologies if it feels a tad like filler.
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 33: Jon III

"The realm will curse us all for this," snarled Ser Alliser Thorne from atop his horse. "Every honest man in Westeros will turn his head and spit on the ground at any mention of the Night's Watch."

What would you know of honest men? Jon thought but didn't say. Ser Alliser had grown quieter since Ser Janos had lost his head, but the undercurrent of malice still lingered, evident in the corners of his mouth and the dark onyx of his eyes. None of the men had been very happy at what the last few days had forced them to do. Making nice with wildlings, ensuring they were settled and that everything was smoothed over; it was no easy thing for them to do. Assisting those they had sworn vows to defend against would not sit well with any of them, especially when the one who had made such an act necessary had long ago left the Wall and returned to Castle Black.

"These wildlings..." Bowen Marsh began, pulling up his mount beside Jon, his hair thinning and greying, his red, round face seemingly lopsided and unbalanced by the absence of an ear. "Do you think they will keep faith, my lord?"

"Some will and some won't," Jon answered. "We have our cowards and knaves, as do they. We also have our honourable men. So do they."

"Yet our vows... We are sworn to protect the realm..."

"Once the wildlings are settled in the Gift they will be tamed and become part of that same realm," Jon pointed out. "These are desperate days, and likely to grow worse with every passing week. We have seen the faces of our real foe, dead and cold. The wildlings have seen it as well. Stannis is not wrong, in that respect. We must make common cause with the wildlings whilst they still live, or else we will face them in battle once they die."

"Common cause against a common foe is all well and good," Bowen agreed. "But letting tens of thousands of half-starved, half-crazed savages beyond the Wall does not seem right to me. Let them return to their villages and fight and die there. We will use the time to seal the gates and fill the tunnels. The Wall should do the rest. It stands tall and thick and strong, making it easy to defend against climbers and miners alike. Mance Rayder's bowmen must have loosed thousands of arrows at us. Mayhap a hundred actually reached us, and those were carried by errant gusts of wind. Whether we face a hundred foes or a hundred-thousand, once the gates are sealed it will not matter. So long as we are atop the Wall and they are below they cannot touch us. So what reason have we for this?"

He's not wrong, Jon thought, but that thought went against his every instinct. Jon racked his mind for a retort, but came up short of anything he could say to Marsh. King Tommen says Bran is beyond the Wall. Safe, for now, but not if we block his way back down south. Not that he had any proof. Like all the others, that letter had gone straight into the hearth the moment after it'd been read. And after Arya, Jon knew better than to doubt the Boy King's word. "If we seal the gates we cannot send out rangers," Jon said, rather lamely. "We will be effectively blind."

"Each ranging costs us valuable men, my lord," Bowen pointed out. "Even with the flow of crownlander boys coming in, we still need to preserve our strength. The lives lost ranging beyond the Wall could be better spent patrolling the top of it."

"And if ever we should leave the enemy beyond the Wall enough time alone for them to plot and plan a way to bring the Wall down? I don't trust that the horn the Red Woman burned was the right one. Or what if the swollen ranks of the Others should find a way to pierce our defences, or else keep winter alive for far longer than it is possible for us to survive?" Jon asked. "It's a moot point either way. Stannis has promised every man who comes through the gates food and shelter. He'd never permit us to seal the gates."

Marsh hesitated. "My lord... I am not one to tell tales, but there has been talk that you are becoming too... friendly with Lord Stannis."

Jon scowled. When were the Lannisters ever going to stop causing him trouble? Even when they offered their aid it always seemed to find a way to ail him. "I know all too well what men say," he growled. "What would you have me do? Lord Stannis has thrice our numbers, and is our guest besides. We cannot take up arms against him."

"That we cannot," Marsh agreed, "but we can stop harbouring him. His cause is doomed. As doomed as us if we keep helping those the Iron Throne deems a traitor."

"It is not my intent to choose any side," Jon said. "And I have been writing the crown, and have received assurances that we will not be punished so long as we do not actively aid Stannis in any military campaign. King Tommen does not mean to punish us for our desperation. He is a boy besides. I doubt he'd have the stomach for it."

"A boy he may be, but King Robert was well loved, and Lord Tywin is still widely respected for a reason. Most accept him as the legitimate heir to the throne. The more the men see of Lord Stannis, and particularly of Lady Melisandre, the more they complain. They mislike serving a false king and his false god."

"I mislike it too," Jon confided, not quite believing himself as he spoke, "but I must work with what I have. Men love to complain. They complained about Commander Mormont too. So long as they continue to do their duty it is of no concern to me what they whisper to themselves."

Bowen frowned, but accepted Jon's words for what they were and fell silent. Soon enough, the Wall grew small behind them and Castle Black burst into sight behind slowly falling snows, busy with life. Men seemed in a bit of a furore, hurriedly preparing for a march. Jon quickly dismounted his horse when he arrived, dusting off his shoulders and arching his spine to relieve the aches of riding. Having sighted his arrival, Samwell rushed over to greet him.

"His Grace wants to see you," he blurted out.

Jon shot a baleful glance towards the Lord's Tower. "Aye," he said with sigh. "Say, Sam, what do the men say about him?"

"Stannis, you mean?" Sam asked, frowning. At a nod from Jon he looked briefly away.

"Not good?"

"They say Lady Melisandre made the wildlings burn their weirwood branches. They say that she sees the gods - both old and new - as false. I'm inclined to agree."

"Religious tensions can be smoothed over," Jon said with a grimace. "Anything else?"

Sam shrugged. "They also say that the King-Beyond-the-Wall died craven. That he died screaming and denied he was ever a king."

"He did," Jon said stiffly, marching onwards, Ghost rushing to his side and matching his stride. Or at least that is what I saw. "Stannis's sword - Lightbringer - was brighter than I'd ever seen it. Like the sun." Ghost shivered beside him, his white fur shaking off snow till he settled.

"His Grace is not an easy man," Sam said.

"Still 'His Grace', is he?"

Sam shrugged. "I won't deny I have my reservations. But Maester Aemon said that many good men have been bad kings, and many bad men have been good kings. I won't gainsay him. At his age, he would know."

"That he would."

Sam placed a hand on Jon's arm to slow him. "There was one thing I wanted to ask before you went into that tower."

Jon stopped and turned. "What?"

"I've been going through the annals, like you asked, and whilst I have yet to find much on the Others, I did find a bit about Lightbringer, and the hero who once wielded him. Passages about Azor Ahai. Tell me, when Stannis wielded his sword, did it feel... warm? Hot? Because that's what the records describe."

Jon cast his mind over his memory and came up short. "It was bright, but I don't remember anything besides light. No warmth." Sam frowned. "Why, are you saying the sword Stannis wields is not the one the Red Woman claims? That it's a fake?"

"The records may be wrong," Sam said, though Jon knew he did not truly believe himself even as he said it.

"You think the Red Woman may be leading Stannis on?"

"I couldn't say," Sam said. "It seems clear to me that she has her own plans..." Sam trailed off, and then shook his head. "What I will say is that I don't think it's a good idea to keep His Grace here much longer. Whispers will become words before too long, and the discontent is sure to grow if nothing is done. It's best to face the threat before it can become dangerous."

Jon scowled, and then gave a single sharp nod as he shook Sam's hand off his shoulder. Ghost fell into step beside him as he turned and made for the entrance to the tower, taking the steps two at a time to reach the doorway behind which he would find Stannis. The guards took his weapons. Then he grasped the door handle, and hesitated. Sam is right, Jon thought. I need to find a way to get His Grace out of my hair. The thought irked him. How was it that the Lannisters had sowed their seeds so deep into his men that even his closest advisor was now telling him to find a way to dispose of the man who rode to their rescue in their direst hour of need?

With a single twist, the door sprang open to reveal the same room Jon had entered just a few weeks prior. A wave of warmth rolled over him, hot air blasting past his face to flood the stairs behind him. Jon shut the door even as his mind turned idly to the Boy King's letters. Before him was stood Stannis, but also a collection of his best lords all crowded around a table with their eyes affixed to a map, pensive looks on their faces. A stroke of good luck, Jon thought. I've just walked in on a war council.

"Lord Snow," Stannis said, looking up from the map. "Before we begin, I have a gift for you."

Melisandre stepped forwards, waving Rattleshirt forwards. "I believe you were still complaining of a lack of men, Lord Snow," she said, smiling. "Our Lord of Bones fills that need rather well, wouldn't you agree?"

Jon opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it. What are you up to, woman? Jon wondered as he met Lady Melisandre's gaze. His eyes flicked over to the Lord of Bones. If Tommen tells the truth then... Why is she offering you to me? Might you be Mance? "Aye," Jon said with an unenthusiastic look on his face. "He might do."

"Lord Snow, attend me," Stannis barked, breaking Jon out of his own thoughts. "I have lingered here with the thought that the wildlings might chance a second assault on the Wall. They have not. So now that they are dealt with, it is time to turn my attention to other enemies."

Jon frowned. "I have no love for Lord Bolton, nor his son, but the Night's Watch is sworn to never take up arms in a conflict involving the realm. Our vows-"

"Yes, yes," Stannis said heatedly. "I know all about your vows. Spare me your sermon, Lord Snow, I have men enough without you. Rather what I want is your advice. I mean to march on the Dreadfort."

Jon balked.

Stannis smiled when he saw the shock of Jon's face. "Good. What surprises you might surprise another. The Bolton bastard has gone south, taking the bulk of his strength with him. Most likely they plan a strike against Moat Cailin, to make way for Lord Roose to return from his campaign in the Riverlands. But in doing so, he has left his flank exposed. I am told no more than fifty men hold the Dreadfort. If I take it-"

"You won't," Jon blurted out, and then quickly continued when he saw the stir his words were likely to cause. "The road to the Dreadfort is long and treacherous from here. It'll leave your men exposed - easy prey for the Bolton bastard to pick apart. Remember a march is no small thing. He will almost certainly be forewarned, with enough time to prepare a trap. And even if by some miracle of the gods you make it," Melisandre bristled, "you must remember that the Dreadfort is not some crumbling castle. It will be well provisioned, and it's walls and gates are tall and thick. Fifty men may hold the approach, but behind the walls they will feel like five-hundred. Stuck in a siege, again you will become easy prey for Ramsey."

"Only if he's willing to abandon his own siege of Moat Cailin and strand his father below the Neck," one man said.

Jon dismissed the man's claims with a wave of his hand, and the man's face flushed with silent outrage. "Moat Cailin will fall long before you ever get to the Dreadfort. It's a tough fort to take from the south. From the north it is poorly defended. The walls have been reduced to ruins by years of neglect. You are already outnumbered. If you were caught by the combination of Roose and Ramsey whilst busy with a siege..."

"It's a risk," Stannis said. "But all war carries risk."

Jon shook his head. "It's not just a risk, Your Grace, it's rank foolishness."

Stannis's look turned stormy, and if such a thing was even possible, his face became even more dour. "Leave me, all of you. I wish to speak with Lord Snow alone."

The abrupt dismissal did not seem to sit well with the men, but nonetheless they all filed out, their feet shuffling across the floor. Only Lady Melisandre remained. Jon shot her a strange look, but kept his peace when Stannis did not object to her presence.

"The men who just left are all good men, Lord Snow, but they are men of the south. They don't know this land as you do. So once again I will ask you... What would you have, if you were Lord of Winterfell?"

"My sister is Lady of Winterfell, Your Grace," Jon repeated. Arya or Sansa or... Jon felt his mouth go dry. Or Bran, assuming the Boy King again speaks the truth. Any of the three would better than me.

"I have heard all I need of Lady Lannister," Stannis spat, and Jon thought it best not to mention the annulment again. "You could bring the North to me. Your father's banners would rally to your cause. Even Lord Manderly would struggle out of his seat for a son of Eddard Stark. You could wed the wildling princess - I see that way you look at her pretty face and ripe breasts - and be a lord in your own right."

How many times will he make me say it? "My sword is sworn to the Night's Watch."

Stannis looked vaguely disgusted. "Your father was an honourable man. Stubborn. It's what got him killed." The disgust soon disappeared, supplanted by exhaustion.

The Lady Melisandre smiled, as though at a jape she'd just heard. "A wolf may change it's skin," she assured Stannis, shooting a look at Ghost, "but not it's stride."

"My sword may be sworn, Your Grace, but my mind is still my own," Jon said. "If I offer my thoughts, will you heed them?"

Stannis's brown furrowed in thought. "I cannot swear that, but I can say I will listen."

Jon nodded, his gut twisting in discomfort as he avoided meeting the Red Woman's eyes. Is this what Tommen had intended? he wondered. The Boy King's letters gave him an idea, one that would put him in a much stronger position. But at what cost? Was he about to send Stannis barrelling headlong into a trap? The stag will slay the kraken with ease. Savages from beyond the Wall will slay savages from beyond the shore. The flayed man will not fall so fast. The fat man should not be disturbed. The meaning of the riddles written in Tommen's letters suddenly became clear in his mind. Melisandre frowned, and Jon silently cursed. This sort of plotting was not what he had envisaged when he had accepted the position of Lord Commander.

"Forget the Dreadfort," Jon said, pointing at the map and then moving his finger due west. "Your focus should be here, at Deepwood Motte. If Bolton means to make war with the Ironborn, then so must you. Deepwood is a motte-and-bailey in a thick forest, making it easier to catch unawares. A wooden castle. The goings will be slower through the forests, admittedly, but a slow victory is better than a quick defeat."

Stannis tapped his index against the surface of the table, eyes narrowed in thought. "I beat the ironmen at sea once, where they are fiercest. On land, caught unawares..." He nodded in agreement. "It would be an easy victory."

"One that would help cement your legitimacy as a true claimant," Jon said. "You must not forget the north is almost as big as all the kingdoms of the south combined. You are too badly outnumbered to stand much of a chance in pitched battle. But from Deepwood you can control much of the western shore and win more lords to your cause. For now they might ignore you as another doomed pretender, but if you stand and show them your strength they will have no choice but to listen when you speak. This will be a slow campaign - winning hearts and minds always is - but if you are careful you will eventually amass enough of a force to be able to confront the Boltons in straight fight."

Stannis nodded sharply. "And then the north will know it has a king again."

Jon nodded, his gut twisting into ever-tighter knots. The north will never accept a king that fights beside wildlings, he thought. That was Tommen's plan all along, wasn't it? To spend Stannis's forces on this campaign, weakening Bolton in the process, and then stroll in once all the hardest work was done and take the kingdom for himself, using either Sansa or Arya or Bran as his pawn. Was that why he wanted Lord Manderly left alone? Were the two plotting together? Plotting to put a Stark back in Winterfell? Possibilities ran through Jon's mind, some filling him with hope and others with dread. The future shrouded itself behind a veil of mystery he could not seem to manage to look beyond.

Well, Sam, Jon thought sourly, at least you got what you wanted. Stannis won't overstay his welcome.

Melisandre's gaze was affixed to him. "Did you see something about this in your fires?" Jon asked when the silence grew too much for him to bear.

She shook her head. "I have yet to look in that direction, but I will be certain to do so."

"Well, the flames ought not to gainsay me," Jon said. "Unless the gods themselves mean to meddle."

"The Lord of Light will not obstruct the path of his chosen champion," she said.

"I wouldn't mention that to any of the lords you meet along the way, if I were you," Jon said. "They will not take any insult - intended or otherwise - to the old gods lightly, and it may cost His Grace much-needed support."

"I know," she said with a knowing smile. "But you need not have any fear of that, Lord Snow. So long as the enemy continues to rise in the far north, my place is here besides you and your black brothers."

Jon nodded and looked away from her strange, unblinking eyes, suppressing the shiver that threatened to run down his spine.
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Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 34: Davos II

"We'll make King's Landing within the hour," the captain announced.

Davos nodded, accepting the news with the grim certainty of a man facing the chopping block. He went to the rail on the edge of the deck of the ship and looked at the churning seas below. The bow of the ship cleaved a path through the waves, frothing bands of white curving away from the front and slowly dissipating behind the stern of the ship. These were familiar waters. He leaned over the ledge to study the waves more closely. Once, they'd defined his life as a smuggler and a sailor both. Davos considered climbing over the ledge and letting those same waves define his demise.

Alas, no. That'd be far too easy an end for a man like him.

And to think a few more leagues could take me home, to Marya...

He lifted his head from the water to observe the rocky coasts, and then to the ship in which he was stood. The Storm Dancer was an impressive vessel, by all accounts. A two-masted galley with sixty oars, it was a warship in all but name. No match to the flagships of the Redwyne fleet or the Royal Navy, but nevertheless a fearsome sight.

Davos felt his stomach churn. They'd sailed from White Harbour straight into the mouth of storm winds that had followed them down the Fingers and through the Bite, only falling behind as they approached Blackwater Bay, almost as though the skies themselves were repulsed by that cesspit of a city. He'd suffered rocking and creaking and howling winds whistling through gaps in the walls and floors. He'd suffered the bitter cold and long nights. And all without complaint. And yet the prospect of landfall scared him more than any storm ever could.

The fate of a kingdom, a continent, now rested on his shoulders. Diplomacy was never my strength, Davos thought as the tallest towers of the Red Keep peeked over the top of the horizon, slowly growing larger in his vision atop Aegon's high hill. His missing fingers ached from their stumps. Unlike in White Harbour, he was expected - though as a prisoner rather than an envoy. I am a better prisoner than a peacemaker, he mused. Though perhaps my plain style will persuade the Boy King.

Even as he thought it, Davos knew his chances were slim to none. He was King Stannis's Hand. Tommen would have to be a fool to let him leave the capital alive, to not claim him as a hostage. And perhaps he was. Perhaps he could be convinced, cajoled or else bribed, but Lord Tywin couldn't. No matter what plan Davos tried to create Tywin Lannister always emerged from the back of his mind to make it all go awry. And that was without even mentioning Stannis himself. His liege was notoriously stubborn, and Davos had not been afforded a chance to consult him. Who was to say that any terms Davos was able to secure would be acceptable to Stannis?

And so it was with a quiet resignation that Davos leant against the ledge and watched the city grow nearer. It was eerily beautiful, in the morning light. The city covered the shore as far as the eye could see; granaries and manses and arbors, taverns and graveyards and brothels - all piled atop one another. Broad streets cut through the chaos. Red tiles made up the view from above, the city crowned by it's walls, rising strong and true, sections encased in scaffolds, the crown adorned by the Dragonpit, the Great Sept of Baelor and the Red Keep. Suddenly he was Davos of Flea Bottom again, coming home to his city atop it's three high hills.

Here, where the ocean breeze guarded Davos's nostrils from the stench, he could almost appreciate the city.

And then the smell hit him, and reality set back in. He knew as much of ships and sails and storms as any man, had fought his fair share and then some of desperate battles atop slippery decks, swords scraping swords. But to this sort of battle he came a maiden, frightened. Smugglers did not bandy words. They did not think in plots and plans and manipulations.

Davos braced himself, squaring his shoulders even as irons were clapped around his wrists and his blade was lifted out of the scabbard hanging from his belt. At least they let him keep his mantle, and some semblance of his dignity. He was hauled into an old wagon without so much as a word of ceremony, the wheels creaking as the driver lashed the reins against the back of the poor horse pulling him along. At a sedate pace they trundled through the streets, attracting odd looks but no more.

That was strange. Davos had expected screams and jeers and hurled shit, crowds of people called together to watch the Hand of the false king be humbled. But no. There was no crowd, no... anything. Grimy, grease-coated men went about their business, filth-covered children flitting between the alleys in play, whores eyeing the teeming masses for prospective new customers.

Things became no less strange when they finally arrived at the gates of the Red Keep, beady eyes commanding Davos to exit the wagon and walk the rest of the way from behind a helm. But here it was the same. Indifference was all that greeted him. Perhaps a little annoyance. No more.

Though Davos had only seen the halls of the Red Keep once - during the Hand's tourney - he still had a vague recollection of the layout of the castle. He trudged on and on, the guards pushing him through passages and corridors and up and down steps, seemingly leading him in circles. They must have made three laps of Meagor's Holdfast before he was down in the yard and then hurried up the steps of the Hand's tower and then back down again, till finally a firm hand grasped his shoulder and pushed him through an archway onto a terrace overlooking the ocean.

"The gods gift to me, I call it," a high voice declared. "The ocean has a kind of beauty not even the fairest maiden could hope to match."

Davos spun around, his gaolers suddenly gone. Instead he found a table with a lone chair behind it, the Boy King leaned back observing the waves with his hands settled in his lap. He was flanked by his Kingsguard. Ser Loras to one side - obviously, going by the finery on the armour - and Ser Balon to the other, if Davos had to guess. He was wearing a fine leather coat, dyed a rich Baratheon black, his crown lopsided on his head. A thin belt girded his waist, and from it hung the sheath for a dagger, the hilt tucked beneath Tommen's arm.

Lord Tywin was nowhere to be seen.

Davos cleared his throat. "Your Grace."

Tommen's head slowly shifted from the sea to observe him, cold green eyes flicking from his boots to his belt to his face. "Your Grace, is it? I was rather under the impression you thought my uncle the rightful king?"

"King Stannis is the one true king," Davos confirmed. "I have sworn my sword to him."

"A king without a kingdom is not much of a king," the lad said, the corners of his lips tugged up in a small smile.

Davos stood silent.

Tommen scowled. "Someone take the irons off him. He's my uncle's friend, for Seven's sake. And he's unarmed."

Davos observed the guard that approached to slip a rusted metal key into his irons, a heavy metal click followed shortly by the clatter of chains falling onto stone. The guard retreated to his post, and then slipped away out of sight.

"I was told you had designs on peace," Davos tentatively began.

"Of course." Tommen waved his hand dismissively. "You'll see for yourself soon enough. But for now we have more urgent matters."

"What can be more urgent than ending this war?" Davos asked.

Tommen cocked his head, as though in thought. "How is Shireen?" he asked, his voice oddly quiet, contemplative.

Davos frowned. Had Tommen called him all the way down from White Harbour just to ask after his cousin? "Well enough," he answered, cautious.

"I suppose that's all anyone can ask for, these days," Tommen said, with a sad shake of his head. "I am dreading the notion of rendering her an orphan."

"You could always surrender," Davos suggested, half in jest.

Tommen quirked an eyebrow. "To the man who so callously killed his own brother? I'll profess some love for Uncle Stannis - I won't deny that - but I'm not fool enough to believe that he feels the same for me, or what remains of my family." Davos made to object, but was quickly cut off. "Nor am I fool enough to believe any promises or claims you might make of my uncle's even hand or honour. But I suppose a gesture of good will is in order. Hmm. Should Stannis surrender his claim, he can live out the rest of his days in the Wall, choose a husband for his daughter, and they will inherit Storm's End."

"Is that your proposal for peace?"

Tommen shrugged. "It's the most lenient long-term solution I can see. I'd leave him unpunished, but doing so would only indicate weakness to all the watching eyes. And so I must be firm without being fervent or cruel. The result is that most other options end with my uncle's head on a chopping block - an eventuality I am not all too keen on, as you might be able to tell. But a more temporary truce... Well that seems in both our interests."

Now it was Davos's turn to quirk an eyebrow. "I haven't the authority to negotiate on His Grace's behalf."

Tommen smiled. "I'm not asking you to negotiate, I'm asking you to deliver a message. And to do me two other services, if you would be so kind."

Davos shot suspicious glances at the two members of the Kingsguard.

"Don't worry, they can be trusted," Tommen assured him.

"Rickon Stark."

"Yes."

"How? How do you know?"

Tommen shook his head. "That's the wrong question to ask. You know I won't answer."

Davos furrowed his brow with confusion.

Tommen sighed and leaned forwards. "You want Rickon Stark safe, no? I presume not only because he is an innocent young lad, but because Lord Wyman offered his support only if you'd bring the young boy into his custody. Well, I want him back too. I don't care where he goes, so long as he's safe."

Davos blinked. "You don't?"

"I met Rickon briefly when my father dragged us all up north to conscript Lord Eddard Stark as his Hand. I met all the Starks, actually. And though Eddard and Robb and Catelyn have passed, the remaining four have not. Now, Sansa and Arya and Bran I have clear eyes on, and can protect and even control without too much difficulty. But Rickon... In Skaagos he is beyond my reach. He was a nice lad, I remember. He doesn't deserve to suffer, or to die."

"No, he doesn't," Davos agreed. If Tommen spoke the truth about the other three Starks, then the likelihood of Lord Wyman siding with Stannis was slim to none. But perhaps with Rickon he can be convinced to not take up arms against His Grace, Davos thought. Neutrality was better than enmity. And Lord Wyman would likely aid them anyway, if only so far as it helped to undermine the Boltons.

Tommen smiled. "I'm glad you concur. Because you're going to be the one that gets him from those isles. I need a smuggler, and a good one to go that far. I can't think of many others better than you. All the North agrees Lord Bolton and his bastard make for ill wardens. But though I have all the Starks I need to arrange their replacement, my conscience demands I step in to help young Rickon. It demands that I send someone to brave those storm waters, to brave the cannibals. To bring Rickon to White Harbour - into the custody of Lord Manderly - or else to Kings Landing. And if you succeed, I can promise Shireen will inherit Storm's End regardless of whether Stannis succeeds in his war against me or not. I can also promise I will bear no ill-will against your family in Cape Wrath, in spite your loyalties. I can even promise it in writing, if you should so desire. In case you are worried I will renege on my word."

"All that for one boy?" Davos asked, incredulous.

"For one innocent boy who also happens to be the son of Eddard Stark, yes." Tommen shrugged. "What's the harm? I never desired to hurt you or Shireen in the first place, nor even really Stannis, though I am by now resigned to it. You have served your liege, as you should, and Shireen is an innocent girl who has committed no crime, and she's my cousin besides. I'll not suffer the stain of kinslaying if I can avoid it."

Davos nodded, accepting the explanation for what it was. Then he frowned. "You said you desired I do you two favours."

Tommen nodded. "Regarding our common enemy beyond the Wall, and that truce I suspect might serve us well," he began. Behind him Ser Loras shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He did not seem best pleased by the notion of his present master aiding the man who'd killed his previous one.

"King Stannis has the wildlings well under control," Davos said.

"It isn't the wildlings that have caught my attention," the Boy King said, a grim smile gracing his lips. He turned back to face his guards. "Ser Loras?"

"Your Grace?"

"Fetch some bread and salt for us, would you? I'd like to speak to our guest alone."

Both Sers Loras and Balon frowned. "Your Grace-"

"I'm well aware of the risks, Ser," Tommen said. "But Ser Davos is an honourable man. He wouldn't turn his hands on me after taking bread and salt. And even if he did, I am armed and he is not, and you two will be waiting just beyond the doors in case of any danger. You have my permission to burst in if you hear the beginnings of a fight or I cry out for help or aid in any way."

Ser Loras seemed on the verge of grumbling some objection, but soon straightened his spine, martialled his face and nodded, leaving to do his king's bidding. A bowl of coarse salt and steaming fresh-baked bread soon arrived before Davos, and before the king's appraising eyes he dipped the bread in the salt and took a hearty bite. With a wave of his hand, the king commanded the bowl taken away and his guards to depart.

And then they were alone.

"You're a Kingslander, aren't you?"

"Aye," Davos said.

"When you were marched up here, what impression did the city give you?"

Davos frowned and scratched his beard. "Quiet," he said. "Just as smelly as the last time I was anywhere near here, but not as filthy. In some respects it seems better, but for the most part it seems unchanged."

"For the most part it is," Tommen agreed. "I've done my best - repaired a few broken buildings - armouries, granaries, storehouses and the like - shored up the walls, reformed the gold cloaks and come down hard against all sorts of crime. But there's still much work to be done to correct centuries of neglect. The city was not built to house so many, and the strain this mismatch causes shows if you know where to look."

Davos felt his impatience grow. "Forgive me, but why are you telling me this?"

Tommen turned his head briefly away to glance back out at the ocean. "So when I next tell you what I am about to you'll know I haven't lost my head. I'm not the Mad King come again, nor am I Prince Rheagar with his fickle notions and dreams. I'm a practical man with my head firmly planted on my shoulders, much like your own liege."

"And what do you want to tell me?"

Tommen's eyes met his own, emerald gaze sharpening. "The Others are rising again, and bringing an army of wights with them. 'The enemy,' your Red Witch calls them. She's not wrong."

Davos leaned back in his seat, a frown masking his incredulousness. "The long night that never ends," he murmured.

"Pardon?"

"Something she said," Davos answered. "How did you know? Hells, how can you be sure she's right?"

Tommen shrugged. "She has her secrets, and so do I. Though mine are likely more mundane than hers. The Lord Commander knows - you can confirm with him that I have not knowingly told you a single mistruth. Lady Melisandre knows. Stannis probably knows. I know. And now so do you."

Davos sighed even as he felt a small shudder creep up his spine at the thought. Stranger things have happened. Part of him wanted to refuse to believe such a fantastical tale, but his good sense knew better than to so flagrantly gainsay a king - even a bastard one. He would do as the Boy King suggested, however. He would be sure to ask Lord Snow - and the Lady Melisandre too - if the threat truly was as large as Tommen claimed. "So what do you want from me?"

"There are a variety of ways to counteract the coming darkness," Tommen began. "I've been making preparations. Dragonglass and Valyrian steel can kill White Walkers, as can most forms of fire. And it is said that wherever a White Walker and his wights go, winter follows. Cold and snow and so on. So it seems sensible to presume that if only we can stop them venturing south, or else find a way to kill all the White Walkers before they can raise enough wights, the long night your Red Woman spoke of may never come to pass, or else be ended before it can truly begin. But all that is useless without the numbers necessary to face the army I suspect the Others may be able to muster."

"And how many is that?" Davos asked, still holding his scepticism close to his chest.

Tommen shrugged. "Reports vary. There may be anywhere between a hundred to a thousand White Walkers, though likely not more. As for the numbers of wights they could raise... The cold in the far north means corpses don't rot, which means they can be raised as wights. So, assuming the worst possible outcome, we may be facing an invading army numbering anywhere up to four or five million troops? Certainly no less than one, given the vast numbers of wildlings that have lived and died beyond the Wall."

Davos leaned back in his seat in disbelief, allowing the numbers to wash over him. Then he rubbed his eyes. "Seven save us all."

"The Seven may lend their aid, but only we can save ourselves," Tommen crowed. "So long as the Wall stands strong I'm not too worried, but you can see why I'm eager for peace - even a temporary one. We can't afford to lose many more fighting men by making war amongst ourselves with this threat lurking over the horizon."

"I can see that."

"Presently I rule over a bunch of squabbling lords and ladies, each of whom hate each other too much to ever be able to fight side by side. If a true war is necessary in the North - and I pray it is not - then that simply will not suffice. I need something to overshadow their rivalries and jealousies, something to spur them to action. Something they can see with their own eyes. Something to rally them - whether they rally behind me or Stannis matters little, so long as they can be convinced to work together."

"You want a White Walker," Davos realised. "A live one."

"Two might be nice," Tommen said with a smile. "Though I suspect a wight would be easier to capture, and would prove just as useful. Simply put, I want you to go north and speak with the Lord Commander. Tell him of my desires, and make a small delivery. I think he's been paying attention, and taking the necessary steps, but it's always nice to be certain."

Davos frowned. "What delivery?"

Tommen clapped his hands. Ser Balon came through the door. "Your Grace?"

"Have the men bring the prisoner. The nameless one I had prepared when I heard of Ser Davos's arrival."

Balon nodded, bowed his head, and then rushed back out.

"A prisoner?" Davos asked.

"Just take him to the Wall and make him take the black."

"How do I know you aren't asking me to plant a spy in the Lord Commander's ranks?"

Tommen gave no answer save to tell him to wait and see. Silence lingered for a few more moments before a man stumbled in dressed in filthy rags, spear points herding him into place before the guards who'd brought him here each bowed and left. A scraggly beard covered much of his face, capped by a hooked nose caked in dried blood, his head shaved bald. His eyes were rounded by dark circles, sunken and deprived of sleep. His frame was that of a fighter, even as thin as it was, half-starved. His feet were bare, and his legs seemed to shake, struggling to hold his weight. And when he met the Boy King's gaze, his eyes seemed to widen with a mix of panic and fear.

"Now, what were your instructions?" Tommen asked.

"To take the black if I want to keep my cock," the man muttered. "To serve the Lord Commander loyally. To protect his life with mine own if necessary."

"Good."

Davos eyed the man critically. "What crime did he commit?"

"He tried to fuck my mother," Tommen answered, almost nonchalantly. "And then my wife."

Davos felt his brows climb up his forehead. "He put horns on his own king?"

"I said tried," Tommen said in a bemused tone. "Obviously he failed. I'd kill him, but death would be too easy. I promised him a hard life for having the gall, and I was getting tired of watching him just waste away down in the Black cells, so..."

Davos nodded. "So to the Wall he goes."

Tommen nodded in confirmation. "I'm already asking a great deal of you, so I know better than to press the issue. You may be an honourable man, Ser Davos, but you are not mine to command. All I can do is ask and pray. Pray you will retrieve Rickon alive. Pray Stannis listens when you convey my request for truce terms, and understands why. Pray the Lord Commander can find us a live wight. Pray this wretched cur will keep his word. But enough on that. We are pressed for time. You must soon go, and I have other urgent business to attend to."

"Aye," Davos simply said. "But I'll have your word in writing before I leave."

Tommen smiled. "So you will."
------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 35: Sansa II

It took all the Lords of the Vale a little more than a few weeks to arrive.

That much made sense, at least. The roads between many of the keeps were narrow, and infested with hill tribes. Many of the lords arrived to the Eyrie itself with tales of repelled ambushes and buried guardsmen.

For the most part, however, Sansa kept clear of them.

Ever since the revelation of her identity, her whole world had been thrown into a tense silence. Petyr had denied her identity, of course, but the Lords Declarant would not accede. So concessions had been made to avert the possibility of conflict. One of their guards stood besides one of Petyr's, the men eyeing each other almost as much as they eyed her. For now, Sansa maintained the pretence, but she could tell they did not much believe her. Hells, the keep itself seemed even more suspicious than the guards.

So for the meanwhile, Sansa - Alayne - had confined herself to her apartments in the Maiden's Tower. By all measures, it was not a bad prison. Her rooms were larger and more lavish than anything she'd known in the Eyrie when Lady Lysa had been alive. She had a dressing room and a privy all her own, a balcony and a bedchamber and another room besides, one in which she might receive guests. Most of all, it was that room Alayne spurned.

The balcony, as ever, called to her.

Over the ledge she could see the many mountains of the Vale. The air was cold, stinging her extremities and buffeting her hair, but Alayne did not care. The view was enough to make anyone forget their troubles, if only for a moment. The Eyrie had seven great towers, of which she was in the eastern-most, and it provided a clear vision of the land around. Forests made thick carpets of green on the mountainsides, individual trees indistinguishable in the distance. Rivers and streams cut through sheets of rock and carpets of golden wheat and trees, winding their way down. Snow-capped peaks glinted in the golden sunlight.

From here it looks like one of the Seven Heavens made real, Alayne thought. But below the reality below would be quite different. The men who made these lands liveable led hard, short, brutish lives. Growing food on the slopes was difficult. Frequent hill-tribe attacks ruined families and endangered towns and villages. Avalanches and rockfalls were common enough hazards to be wary of. Mountain lions and leopards roamed unchecked. The vision she was presented with masked the reality of what lay below.

And above it all, falcons soared - the sigil of House Arryn - majestic in the roaring wind.

Would that I had wings as well, Alayne thought. I could leap off this ledge and just... fly, leave all my troubles behind.

Alayne leaned forwards and rested her hands on the ledge, peering forwards over the edge. The wind blustered through and blew up her skirt, travelling up her whole dress to deliver a chill all over her body, but Alayne ignored the sensation even as her skin reddened and rose with gooseflesh. Her hackles rose in anticipation. The drop from here was substantial, easily a few hundred feet - certainly more than enough to kill her on impact.

And really, what was the harm? She had lost her family - neither her parents nor a single one of her trueborn siblings still lived - and she had lost her friends as well. Men had died, given their entire lives, for her. A war had been waged and lost for her. And now it seemed Petyr might be next to suffer for her sake. Everywhere I go death and despair seems to follow, Alayne thought. Mayhaps it's better that House Stark should die with me, so at least all those who are ready to give their lives for me and mine can stop suffering for a false hope.

Yet as much as the abyss called to her, Alayne stood frozen. As she gazed at the drop before her, she stayed rooted in place, her head spinning, her arms gripping the ledge so tight her fingers turned white. She might have lacked much desire to live, but she also lacked the courage to die.

Suddenly, Alayne felt very dizzy, and she stumbled back from the ledge and fell onto her hindquarters. Slowly, Alayne lifted herself back to her feet, finally shivering after so much time spent out in the cold as she herded herself back indoors to the relative warmth of her rooms. One more day, she thought. I'll take one more day for myself. And then will come my time to fly. Here, without the wind, the silence was even more cloying, yet what choice did she have but to bear it? The alternative was to be gawped at and spied on by strangers.

But her solitude could not last long. Hunger rumbled her stomach, and she would soon have to emerge from her den of silence, if only to send for a servant. And a girl such as Alayne would not be so cavalier with making use of servants. If she were to maintain the ruse of her identity she would have to venture further out into the rest of keep and face the wandering eyes and questioning looks.

But before she could muster the courage, a sharp knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," Alayne called out, curious.

One of the guards came through the doors, gently pushing them apart to reveal his helmeted face. "My lady, I'm here on behalf of Lord Robert. He... He refuses to eat, and demands to see you."

Alayne quirked an eyebrow. It was true enough the little lord had become attached to her over the course of her stay at the Eyrie - almost uncomfortably so, she thought. Honestly, that he had not called for her sooner surprised her. Alayne sighed. No matter. The gently-bred bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish would not refuse such a request from Lord Robert - now her liege lord. "Take me to him."

The guardsman briefly nodded, gave a hesitant little half-bow that made it clear to Alayne that he thought the Lords Declarant told the truth, and led her from her chambers. Down the winding steps and through the halls and passages of the keep they went, her slippered feet padding silently on the stone floors behind the loud thumping of a guardsman's boots. Even now, with all the Lords of the Vale assembled, Alayne was struck by the enormity of the Eyrie.

It was easily the most sparsely populated keep in all the Seven Kingdoms, save perhaps for Harrenhall. The few servants that did wander the halls were old and knew to keep themselves quiet so as to not agitate their young lord. There were no horses in the Eyrie, no hounds either. There was a training yard, but with the wind and the cold few of the arriving knights and lords deigned to use it for very long. Only the wind broke the silence, whispering between the gaps in the stone and making the walls moan and hiss from time to time.

Lord Robert sat alone in his chambers when she arrived, his legs swinging off the edge of his chair as he pushed a spoon listlessly through a bowl of quickly-cooling porridge. "I want bacon," he said. "And eggs. Lots of eggs."

"You can have all the eggs you like in a little while," Alayne promised him. "But with all the lords here, eating all the Eyrie's food, we haven't any to spare for the moment. We'll have some more in just a few days time."

"It isn't fair!" Robert whined. "It's my castle! My food! Why do they get to eat it? Why do they even have to be here?"

Alayne pursed her lips. "I wish they weren't here either," she said quietly after a moment's thought. "But they are your subjects, and they are here for a purpose. It is a lord's duty to hear the complaints of his subjects, to host them as well when necessary. And a lord needs to be big and strong, which means he has to eat, even if it means eating something he may not like all that much."

The lord was unappeased. "I am the lord! I want eggs! I want bacon! I want beef! How am I supposed to grown big and strong if I can't have that?"

"You'll grow big and strong by eating what you're given," a third voice interjected. Alayne whirled around - it was Petyr. "You could do a great deal worse than porridge and honey," he said, lowering a small cup of it down to the table.

Alayne nodded, grabbed the cup, and proffered it to Lord Robert. "Please?" she said. "For me?"

Lord Robert gazed at her suspiciously - as though she were offering him poison - but eventually his sweet tooth won out, and compelled him to take the cup and dump it into his still-warm bowl of oats, tasting it gingerly with his spoon to see if it was to his liking. Before she could ask if he was satisfied, Petyr placed a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him even as he gently pulled her away from Lord Robert and into a corner of the room.

"What is it?" she asked in a low voice, noting that for the first time in what felt like weeks she was alone with him - save for Lord Robert, of course.

"The trial is tomorrow," Petyr began.

"Are you ready?" Alayne asked.

"Ready enough," Petyr said. "I've been making preparations, currying favour with the right lords to build enough of a base of support. Lord Royce, it seems, has neglected to do the same."

"So either he is a fool or else he knows something more," Alayne said, her brow creased with worry.

Petyr smiled. "Lord Yohn is a fine enough knight, but all those years spent being beaten over the head with training swords seems to have blunted his cunning. Not that it matters what he knows or what he doesn't. The outcome of this trial hinges on your testimony."

"I know," Alayne said. "And I'm to say you didn't push Lady Lysa through the Moon Door, but rather that the singer Marillion was the killer."

Petyr nodded. "Exactly. Lord Yohn's tale is so fantastical that all the lords of the Vale are incredulous of it. A simple lack of evidence ought to be enough to force the Lords Declarant out of our hair."

The tale Lord Yohn tells is the truth, Alayne thought. "And what about Cersei?" she asked.

"The Vale lords do not answer to Kings Landing," Petyr assured her, hands raised to cup her cheeks. "In the Eyrie we will be safe, no matter what Cersei Lannister - or the Iron Throne - has to say about it. And one day you might even find one of those same Vale lords to your liking. With the full backing of the Knights of the Vale, it ought not to be too hard to retake your old home. A bright future awaits you, my darling daughter."

"So long as we win this trial," Alayne said.

"Remember what you need to say and say it," Petyr said. "I will handle the rest." He pulled her close and pressed another kiss to her lips, equal parts passionate and reassuring. When his lips parted from hers Alayne felt her face flush, snakes writhing in her stomach. "I'll not allow you to be hurt." Alayne nodded. Petyr gave her another peck on the lips, and then let her head go. "Now go," he said. "We mustn't be seen to be conspiring like this."

Alayne left Lord Robert's rooms in something of a daze, wondering back to her own apartments almost without noticing, the guardsman escorting her back, all traces of hunger in her stomach forgotten. When she came through her own doors, she observed the balcony through her windows, but did not venture back out onto it. Instead she stood gazing through the window out into the middle distance, deep in thought.

How did Lord Yohn know? she asked herself. It seemed clear to her that he had received something from the capital. You say you can count on the crown, but I wouldn't be so certain of that, Lord Yohn had said. But if so, how did the crown know? Are there eyes in the Eyrie? Alayne thought. One of Lord Varys's little birds? Or else did some piece of news wind its way down south, enough to direct the suspicion of the crown to the mountains of the Vale? If so, it seemed likely that it had been either Lord Tywin or Tyrion who had managed to piece the truth together. They were the only ones with the brains for it.

The hours passed in thought, till eventually the light through the window faded down into darkness. Alayne dressed in her nightgown and settled down into her bed, laying wide awake for hours as she alternated between pondering her condition and playing through the various things she would have to say during the trial tomorrow. Sleep came with exhaustion, and when Alayne awoke it was with her back aching something fierce.

She bathed, made use of her privy, and dressed herself all in silence. Today was the trial. Judging by the position of the sun in the sky, it had already begun. So when would her time to speak come? Alayne noted a meal had been sent to her room whilst she had prepared herself, but it was all she could do to take a few unenthusiastic bites and force them down to keep up her strength. She felt sick. At any moment she could be called down to offer testimony before all the Lords of the Vale, and she would have to stand before them all and lie through her teeth.

What does Lord Yohn know? Alayne asked herself again. Could he catch me out in a lie? Condemn me right besides Petyr?

Alayne nervously flattened the creases in her dress. Petyr had given her access to Lady Lysa's wardrobe after her death; a wealth of silks and furs and fabrics far beyond anything she had ever dreamed, but since the arrival of the Lords Declarant she had not touched so much as a single garter. She observed herself in the mirror - yet another luxury - the gown she presently wore more than adequate. It was a brown dress - brown had become her colour, now that she was Alayne - embroidered with periwinkle blue silk, but nonetheless it was a respectably drab design. She checked her hair - the black dye held strong, but Alayne felt a short moment of panic when she brushed her hand through her hair and saw her roots red.

If she settled her hair to the side it was not visible, even up close, but what happened when her hair grew out yet more? The Tyroshi dye was strong, but it couldn't colour hair that hadn't yet grown. And Alayne could not be caught colouring her hair black, lest it reveal her to be anything other than Lord Baelish's bastard daughter.

Nevertheless, it would suffice for today.

Alayne sat and waited, occasionally pacing, occasionally sat. She dared not leave her apartments, and so the normally vast rooms suddenly seemed tiny - like a cage. Every so often she would shoot nervous glances at the door, and then venture to her privy, her stomach unsettled. Her chest felt tight. What was happening out there?

And so when her time finally came, Alayne could not help the swell of relief in her chest. The guardsman offered the same half-bow as before, and led her down to the High Hall in silence. Gods, why didn't anyone speak? The silence was fast becoming intolerable.

When she arrived, Alayne was greeted by the sight of all the lords of the Vale flanking the sides of the High Hall, standing tall, shoulder-to-shoulder. Every eye fell one her as she walked, their gazes critical. Petyr stood to one side, Lord Royce to the other. Marillion was on his knees in the corner, still clad in irons. Alayne presumed he had just finished giving his own testimony. Now it was her turn.

"Do you know why you are here, girl?" Lady Anya Waynwood began.

"To offer my testimony?" Alayne said.

"Regarding the death of Lady Lysa Arryn, aye," she agreed, shooting a look Lord Yohn's way. He turned from his place and walked her way. "Now," Lady Anya continued, "I want you to know that whatever you say, none of us will hurt you. I swear that to you. On my mother's grave. You mustn't feel compelled to say anything you know to be a mistruth."

"My daughter is no liar," Petyr chimed in.

Alayne observed the lords. Their critical gazes suddenly seemed a great deal more compassionate. It seemed they leaned towards siding with Petyr, but that knowledge did little to settle her stomach. Alayne knew just how fickle some men could be.

"I never said she was, Lord Baelish," Lady Anya retorted. "I was just making sure she knew she was safe. That no matter what none of the lords in this room would allow an innocent girl like yourself to be hurt."

"I know," Alayne answered. "You won't hurt me."

Anya offered a soft smile just as Lord Yohn arrived behind Alayne, a crumpled piece of parchment in his hand. He offered it to Lady Anya, who in turn pressed it into Alayne's hand. "However, before you give your testimony, I would like you to read this."

Petyr frowned. "What is that?"

"A letter from Kings Landing," Lord Yohn supplied. "Worry not. I'll have it read out to all of us once the girl is done with it, so you can be assured that nothing untoward is occurring, and that nothing is being done to compel an answer from your daughter."

Petyr did not seem placated, but had little choice but to plaster a smile on his face and nod his assent. Alayne met his gaze, and he offered her a reassuring look. Beside her, Lady Anya smiled as well. "Go on, my lady. Read the letter."

Alayne observed the parchment in her hand. It was still sealed with the sigil of House Baratheon. Unopened. So none of the Lords Declarant had read it. Which begged the question of why they were offering it to her. Or perhaps they had read it and had resealed it. Alayne took a deep breath, and pulled apart the seal, unfurling the letter. Her fingers ran over the parchment. Her eyes ran over the letters on the page, slowly reddening. Suddenly, the ink on the page went blotchy in a spot, then in another.

Tears were falling down her cheeks, Alayne realised. She was crying. Arya...

Alayne - Sansa - briefly wiped the tears from her eyes, on the verge of sobbing, and ran her gaze over the script again. ...I forgive you... you had a hand in killing Joffrey... Tommen's king now... hide me from his mad bitch of a mother... Jeyne Poole... raped and whipped and forced to whore for him? There was no mistaking the chicken-scratch, nor the foul language. My sister is alive, Sansa thought, fingers trembling. I'm not alone anymore.

Below, Petyr's placid face had become a confused frown. Disbelief mingled with a happy relief, fear, desperation, confusion and a sudden surge of venomous hatred in her mind when she met his eyes from across the Hall. He's kissed me more than once, Sansa thought. Does he mean to make me whore for him too? Using sweet lies instead of stinging lashes to take me to bed? Lady Anya placed a comforting hand on Sansa's back, rubbing in soothing circles. "Well?" she asked in a soft tone.

Sansa nodded, sobs wracking her body even as she clutched the letter tight to her breast. Suddenly, the future Petyr had proposed to her didn't seem to possess the same appeal that it had just a day ago. And before she knew it, the words came spilling from her lips.

"It was him..." she confessed. "It was Petyr... he killed her... he killed Aunt Lysa..."
------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 36: Jaime IV

A horn cut through the cluttered air.

The riders were already dismounting when Jaime emerged from within his tent; the sounds of hooves and boots and armour mixing in with all the others noises of camp. It seemed to be a half-dozen knights, with two-dozen other men in tow. "Jaime!" roared a shaggy-haired man from the front of the lot, the Lannister sigil proudly emblazoned on his surcoat in all it's red-and-gold glory atop his ring-mail. "We feared for you after the Whispering Wood," he said, clasping Jaime by the arms and pulling him into a brief hug. "Heard Stark's direwolf tore out your throat."

"Did you weep for me, Daven?" Jaime asked, a smirk on his face.

Daven snorted and shook his head. "I don't weep," he said. "I rage." Then his gaze softened and turned pitying when he saw the gilded hook at the end of Jaime's arm. "So it's true," he said. "The bastards took your hand. Which one was it?"

"Hoat," Jaime said. "Don't fret, he's long dead. And don't worry for me. I find there's much to recommend having one hand. Fewer urges to scratch my arse, for one."

Daven's smile returned with roaring bark of laughter. Jaime couldn't help but grin back. His cousin's laughs were infectious. But alas, the moment could not last. He had his duty to do, and wolves to watch out for. Jaime straightened himself. "Come inside, cousin. We have much to discuss."

Daven nodded, and followed him behind the tent-flaps. In the corner, Pia was mulling wine for them, occasionally chattering with some squire from his retinue. She shot him a look, and Jaime refused to meet her gaze. Another pang of guilt hit him, then disappeared again. He was here to decide the fate of an entire kingdom, not fret over the feelings of some smallfolk girl. And so, with the wave of his hand, Jaime sent them both away.

"I need to know what awaits me," he began once they were alone.

Daven shrugged. "The siege drags on. The Blackfish sits in his castle, refusing to bend, and we sit in our camps and threaten day after day to kill his nephew. Bloody useless, if you ask me. And boring. I'm itching for a fight. Tully ought to plan some sort of attack. And kill some of the Freys whilst he's at it. Like our own Lord Emmon," Daven spat the name like a curse. "Seven save us, that man. Still angry about not getting Riverrun. He's been a pain the whole time."

Jaime nodded and fetched the cups of wine once they had been heated. His mind was awash with thoughts as he pushed one into Daven's waiting hands and took a meagre sip from his own. "You were speaking of Freys you wanted dead..."

"Ah, there's some good ones too," Daven blustered. "But some of them are right whoresons, I tell-"

"Can I trust you?" Jaime cut in. Daven's eyes widened, his brow furrowed. "To keep my secrets, I mean. I know all too well you'll watch my back in the heat of battle. But I have orders from His Grace, and to see them completed it is imperative they be kept secret. I can ill afford loose lips."

Daven's look of outrage softened somewhat at that. Then his face hardened and he nodded curtly once. "You can trust me."

"His Grace wants the Freys dead," Jaime said. "Not all, but enough to atone for the Red Wedding."

Daven frowned in confusion. "His Grace? These commands are from Tommen?" he asked. "Not your father?"

"His Grace issued the orders, my father merely approved them."

Daven nodded, looking perhaps a tad surprised at that, and then asked: "But why?"

"Politics," Jaime said. "After the Red Wedding the Freys will not last long as Lord Paramounts of the Riverlands. The other Riverlords won't wear it, nor should they have to. So, to strangle any future notions of rebellion in the cradle, the source of the discontent must be removed. And it will help to bring the Vale lords and the Northerners back into the fold, too. To see justice done for Robb and Catelyn Stark, and all the lords and ladies who died fighting to protect them. We'll not be slaying innocents, mind. Just those who partook in the slaughter, those who broke guest right."

"I... I suppose I can understand that. So what am I supposed to do?"

"Nothing, for now at least," Jaime said. "The first priority for the moment will be bringing the Riverlands back under the crown's control. But once all the sieges have been ended and all the keeps have been captured..."

"We march on the Twins," Daven finished.

Jaime said nothing, but let the silence speak for itself.

"Seven save us all..."

"Give the gods some time," Jaime said, swallowing that last dregs of wine in his cup. "If His Grace has his way, they surely will. Now you must come with me to the camp. Time is being wasted that we can ill afford to waste. We can speak further as we ride."

Daven nodded, swigged the last of his wine and made to follow. He eyed Jaime strangely as they pushed past the tent-flaps. "You've changed, coz," he said.

"I know," Jaime said quietly. "Hopefully for the better."

"You seem more like your father," Daven said as they approached the horses. "Certainly cleverer than when I last saw you. Colder, too. But perhaps more dutiful."

Jaime felt his expression sour a little at the comparison to his father, but ultimately he kept his peace. His hook ached where his hand should have been. But, truth be told, he did not mind it much. He liked this life. At least he liked it more than King's Landing. Walking among the soldiers, between the tents, blending in among all the other men at the warcamp. There was a certain simplicity to it he liked. Like living among northerners, Jaime reflected. No time for backstabbing or treachery or conspiracy with a common enemy to rally against. For them the enemy is the cold, for us the Riverlords. And perhaps the ladies too...

Jaime suppressed the shiver that threatened to creep up his spine at that thought as he approached a mount and leapt onto it's saddle. Beside him, Daven did the same and the pair soon set off towards the great Tully castle, soldiers rallying behind them all the way to the siege. The rest of the warcamp would come tomorrow. "Be wary," one of the men warned. "There are wolves about." Jaime nodded. He already knew. They went some way in silence, before Jaime opted to call Daven over with a look.

"Tell me, in greater detail, the state of the siege."

Daven shrugged. "What is there to tell?" he said. "I've been having them building rams and siege towers, but we have yet to chance an assault on the walls. Meanwhile, Ser Emmon has raised a set of gallows. Every day he takes Edmure Tully out before the walls and threatens to hang him. Every day he returns back to camp with Edmure still alive. He wants to kill him, but so far I've been keeping him under control. I reckon he thinks that if the Tullys would be gone he'd get Riverrun back. But there's no chance of that now. His wife is pregnant, did you know?"

Jaime frowned. Another indication of the accuracy of his nephew's premonitions. "I know. He bedded her during the Red Wedding."

Daven's brows climbed up his head at that - at Jaime knowing such a specific detail - but after a second he seemed to accept it. "Well, Lord Westerling is of the mind that nothing ought to be done to Lord Edmure. He makes arguments of honour, but his wife and daughter - the one who was briefly Robb Stark's wife before he was slain - are hostages within the walls of Riverrun. Most likely he fears they'll be hurt if anything happens to Edmure."

"The Blackfish would not stoop so low," Jaime said. "Now I've gotten the facts, tell me your own opinion."

Daven cocked his head in thought. "We have the castle well encircled, but not much else. Half our host is made of Riverlords who came our way after the Red Wedding. I don't trust them to watch our backs in an assault. And even if it weren't so, we haven't the strength to storm the keep and guarantee a victory. Nor can we afford to starve them out. The Blackfish stripped this land clean and expelled all useless mouths before he closed the gates to his castle. He could hold quite comfortably for years. We... probably couldn't. The Freys have food coming from the Twins, but they claim not to have enough to share. And though we have fish for the men caught from the rivers, the horses are quietly going hungry. I send men out to forage, and half don't come back. Some desert. The others... We find them days later. Hanging from trees, mauled by what look like dogs-"

"Or wolves."

Daven nodded. "The shipments from the Reach helped somewhat, but most the grain went into the ground for the autumn harvest, so..."

"In other words, we have to find a way to end this siege, and quickly."

Daven nodded in agreement. "That would be my advice."

"I'll treat with them," Jaime said. "I mean to offer them generous terms."

"You are welcome to try, but I'd be surprised if it worked."

"Worry not, cousin," Jaime said, thinking of the orders burning a hole in his pockets, and of his oath to never again take up arms against a Tully. "I'll have this mess sorted one way or another."

"Hmm."

From then on, their journey continued more or less in quiet, till eventually Riverrun hoved into view. The grand Tully castle rose from the waters of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone like some great stone dromond with it's prow pointed downstream. It's walls suddenly seemed higher and thicker than Jaime had remembered them to be. If it does come to an assault, Jaime thought, then it will be a bloody one. But Tommen instructions, written as they were on the letters in his pockets, seemed plenty confident that Riverrun would fall. Jaime's stomach threatened rebellion at the thought of what he might have to do.

And if the Blackfish doesn't listen? Jaime thought. If that were the case then Jaime supposed either he'd have to truly become like his father, or else admit defeat and lead the assault himself. And then he would have to contend with the wolves...

No, Jaime thought, squaring his shoulders as they arrived and strengthening his resolve. I must have faith. Tommen's dreams have not misled me yet.

Looking around, Jaime saw for himself the state of the siege Daven had described. Riverrun was encircled by a fast-flowing moat, river water coming in one end and rushing out the other. So the siege was divided between three camps. Ser Emmon's seemed the most prominent, headlined by a set of gallows, a faintly bored-looking Edmure standing below the noose. Banners surrounded him. Mooton, Peake, Vance, Goodbrook and many more. But there were also banners missing. The Mallisters had not made an appearance, nor had the Brackens. And among those Riverlords assembled, few besides the Freys seemed enthusiastic.

This will be harder than even I expected, Jaime gloomily predicted as they rounded this side of the siege to Daven's own camp. Our new friends are no friends at all. Here was the command tent, the Lannister sigil proudly displayed. Jaime dismounted his horse, letting some stableboy lead it away as he pushed aside the tent-flaps.

"Here at last, are you?" Genna Lannister boomed, a slight grin on her face. She was a fat woman, but somehow she seemed more shapely than slovenly. Her breasts threatened to overflow her bodice, despite the fact that her waist was no longer as pinched as it once had been. Birthing four children had seen to that. Her face was broad and smooth, red in the cheeks, her neck thick as her head, her hips wider than her shoulders. Without words she pulled Jaime into a hug with surprising strength, planting deliberately sloppy kisses on his cheeks. "How are you?"

"Well enough," Jaime demurred. "What are you doing here?"

"Emmon had to come when he'd heard we'd been granted Riverrun," Genna said. "I thought it was a stupid idea, giving my fool of a husband such a great seat, but you can also imagine my displeasure at discovering that the castle was taken from us almost as quickly as it was given. Emmon was beyond irritating for a good long while."

"King Tommen takes a greater interest in the affairs of the realm than his brother ever did," Jaime said diplomatically. "He decided it was best that House Tully should survive this war, if such a thing were possible."

Genna's eyes narrowed in understanding. "He means for the Tullys to keep Riverrun?" she asked, incredulous. "But they won't accept House Frey as their overlords in a thousand years. It would only sow the seeds for more bloodshed. How could my brother have allowed this?"

"It was decided that the Freys would not last long as Lords Paramount no matter what we did," Jaime said. "The moment Lannister forces withdrew from the Riverlands the fighting would start again. The other lords would hardly bear being ruled by men who break guest right."

"So what is the plan?"

"As far as seats go, how satisfied do you think your husband would be with Harrenhall?"

Genna's eyes widened. "Very satisfied, I should imagine. Why?"

"Enough to turn his back on Lord Walder at the Twins, and bring some of his more honourable relations with him?"

Genna frowned. "Jaime... Gods be good... Are you saying...?"

"It was decided that dispensing justice for the crimes committed during the Red Wedding would serve to hasten the process of bringing the Vale and the North back under the authority of the crown. The Tullys did well to spread their influence to those kingdoms. We can use that goodwill to our advantage. And better that the Crown should be seen to be the arbiters of justice. It will help to increase His Grace's legitimacy."

"The grain shipments... They weren't just for a winter harvest, were they? They were to get the other lords to turn a blind eye."

Jaime nodded. "And when all is said and done, stability in the Riverlands will be secured in the same way as in the Reach. Carefully arranged matches between the surviving sons and daughters of the Riverlords, tying them together and conveniently to the Crown in turn. Needless to say, this is to remain a secret."

"Needless to say," Genna cackled in a delighted agreement as she shook her head. "This smacks of your father. Ambitious. The work of the kind of man who comes along once in a thousand years, indeed."

"It was Tommen's idea," Jaime interjected. "Not my father's."

At that Genna paused and cocked her head. "Is it true what they say about him?" she eventually asked. "Another Tywin?"

Jaime shook his head. "No. I don't think so. I think he's better."

Genna's brows climbed up her forehead. "High praise," she remarked.

"My father seems to agree," Jaime said. "I'd describe him as a mix of the best of all of us, muddled in with precious little of the worst. Dutiful. Cunning. A tad too soft-hearted, some might say, but never to the point of ruin. He still has a lot yet to learn, but he's learning fast."

"I remember when he was just a little babe, scared of his own shadow," Genna said. "I should go and meet this new king when I can. Get his measure for myself."

"You should," Jaime said. "But first Harrenhall. You'll have to go there once the siege is done. I left a good contingent of Lannister men there for you. They know to answer only to you. And once I'm done with the rest of the Riverlands I'll head north. Think you can keep your husband and sons from doing anything stupid when they hear?"

Genna waved her hand dismissively through the air. "I can handle my husband well enough," she said. Of course she could. Even after all these years, Genna Frey was still a Lannister in all but name. "More important is the siege. How are you planning to end it?"

"I'm going to treat with the Blackfish," Jaime said.

"That won't work," Genna immediately retorted.

"I mean to offer him good terms," Jaime said. "And I won't be alone."

Genna eyed Jaime carefully, eyes running up and down, flicking to his hook and then back to his face. "Terms require trust," she said. "The Freys broke guest right. And you, well, you are the Kingslayer. It might have been the Mad King you broke your oaths to kill, but you broke them all the same."

"I'm not the Kingslayer anymore," Jaime said.

"So I heard," Genna said. "But do you think the Blackfish will believe you? Do you think he'll care?"

"He won't have to," Jaime said. "Where is Edmure?"

"Out there, somewhere," Genna said, gesturing to the tent-flaps. "He should be back from the gallows, now. Why?"

"Edmure has been threatened with death already," Jaime said as he turned and made to leave, "so I'm going to go threaten him with life instead."

Jaime set off at a swift pace, marching stiffly across camp, making for Emmon's half of the siege. He made surprisingly quick time on his feet, and before he knew it he was across the river and wandering amongst Freys and the other Riverlords. Among the tents he wondered, till finally he saw it: The Lord of Riverrun.

His feet were caked with mud and his legs were bared. His hands were bound tight behind his back. Only a long silken tunic bearing the sigil of House Tully hid his manhood from view, long since sullied by mud and dust. He looked defeated, utterly broken. His head hung low. But when he heard Jaime's footfalls, he lifted his gaze from the ground and his eyes narrowed in recognition even as he licked his bloody lips to speak, his beard caked in filth.

"Kingslayer," he said, no doubt using the name to irk him in some stupid show of defiance.

"Edmure," Jaime acknowledged him, refusing to react. From within a nearby tent Lord Emmon emerged. With nervous, wandering hands, he seemed a fretful man. Even clad in mail and a little plate he looked small. Like a boy wearing a man's clothes. He was an eminently pitiable person, or perhaps contemptuous. In his old age, only a few white wisps still clung to his head. Time had only reduced him, and Jaime was sure that marriage to a woman like his aunt had not helped much. "Lord Emmon."

"Ser Jaime," Emmon greeted him reservedly, almost regarding him with suspicion.

"What is this business with Lord Edmure?" Jaime asked.

"I gave the Blackfish warning," Lord Emmon explained. "I told him his nephew would die he refused to yield. The same trick worked against Jason Mallister at Seagard. But it seems that Ser Brynden Tully is of a colder sort."

"You threatened to kill his nephew if he refused, and he refused. So then why haven't you killed Lord Edmure yet?" Jaime asked.

At that Emmon hesitated, reddening slightly. "If we kill Lord Edmure then we have no hostage."

"And if you don't kill him you prove your words to be a lie," Jaime said.

"I meant to preserve the lives of our men," Emmon said.

A likely story, Jaime thought scornfully. More likely our Lord Frey meant to weasel a way to take Riverrun for himself. "A noble goal," Jaime said. "But not practical. Go fetch a maid to run a bath and fetch some proper food for Lord Edmure here, and then go see your wife. I have already spoken to her. I need to speak to our prisoner alone."

Emmon nodded and set off. Edmure's gaze remained fixed on Jaime's face. "Why?" he asked.

Jaime knelt down to Edmure's level. "Emmon's mistake was trying to bargain with the Blackfish. Brynden Tully is an old man. Valiant, yes, but old. He has no children to care for, no wife to weep for him. The best he can hope for is a warrior's death. But you... You are yet young. Your wife is pregnant. You could have a future. And you are the rightful lord of House Tully. Which means that the fate of Riverrun is in your hands."

Edmure licked his lips again. "The fate of Riverrun..."

Jaime nodded. "I mean to treat with your uncle, and I mean to bring you with me. I'll send you back to him. Convince him to yield the castle and nobody dies. Your smallfolk will be allowed to continue their lives as before. The garrison will be allowed to go free, so long as Brynden takes the black. Your child will have a good match arranged for it. And you... You will be allowed to keep Riverrun along with most of it's lands for yourself so long as you swear vows of fealty to the crown, though you'll not retain your title as Lord Paramount of the Riverlands."

At that Edmure balked. "I don't believe you," he said after a while. Jaime could understand that. To Edmure it must have seemed too good to be true.

"When I was your sister's captive she made me swear to never again take up arms against House Tully," he said. "I'd rather not break that oath if I can avoid it." Edmure still seemed sceptical. Jaime reached down and pulled one of Tommen's letters from his pocket. "But you need not believe me. I have the writ from His Grace right here."

Edmure's eyes flicked over it, not quite reading it as much as observing it. Jaime folded the parchment back up and pressed it into Edmure's hands for him to peruse later on at his own pleasure. "And if I refuse to yield?" he asked.

"Then all that I'm offering you goes away," Jaime said. "Don't forget that I'm the son of Tywin Lannister. I am just as capable of cruelty as I am of kindness. We'll storm the keep. We'll show no mercy to anyone. And if your wife should birth your child before the siege is over, I'll be sure to send the babe to you. In a catapult."
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P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 37: Cersei V

"Her saddle girth burst whilst she was riding," said Ser Balmar.

Lady Falyse looked like she was about to cry. "Mother's hip shattered in the fall. Maester Franken did all he could, but to no avail. So now all we can do is pray..."

Cersei plastered a sympathetic smile on her face to hide her contempt for the simpering fool of a woman before her. "Of course, my lady. I shall add your poor dear mother to my prayers tonight."

"Your Grace is most kind."

I am more bored than kind, Cersei thought. A pity I am not supping with Lady Merryweather. Taena would be with one of Oberyn's impudent bastard girls tonight, and though Cersei knew it was best not to interrupt them, she could not help the urge when she felt it. Making pleasantries with these people was torture. Still, Cersei thought bemusedly, if all goes well this should have proven a fruitful evening indeed. Another thorn in my side removed... another tool in my hands...

Or so that had been the plan originally.

"How was your journey?" Cersei asked as though she did not already know, if only to break the silence.

"Uncomfortable," complained Falyse. "It rained most the way, and we were at one point accosted. Ser Balman dealt with them quick, but it was scary for a while."

Ser Balman nodded sagely. "Right ruffians, they were. Filthy, unkempt, with hide shields and stars on their foreheads. The Seven Pointed Star, in spite the evil looks in their eyes."

Cersei tutted in false commiseration. "It must have been terrible, my lady."

Falyse sniffled slightly uncomfortably and shrugged. "They were lice-ridden," she said. "But elsewise it was not so bad. Ser Balmar saw them off quick enough."

"Then I must commend his valour and bravery," Cersei said, laying it on thick. "I feel terribly guilty. After all you suffered on the road, I made you wait so long before granting you the simple courtesy of a meeting!"

Falyse flushed and shook her head. "Think nothing of it, Your Grace. The capital has been a pleasant enough place for us to stay for these past few weeks. Dare I say it seems cleaner and more orderly than when I was here last? And certainly safer, ever since the Mad King's wildfire was removed. To think he could do such a thing..."

"The Mad King had his name for a reason, my lady," Cersei simply said.

"Aye," Balmar said. "Year after year we seem to find evermore reason to be grateful to the late King Robert for rebelling. And His Grace has of course availed himself."

"High praise, ser," Cersei said. "Though I do agree. Tommen will make a good king when he comes of age."

Ser Balmar nodded and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Your Grace... An awkward matter yet... lest bad feeling linger between us, I should think you ought to know that neither of us had a name in the naming of Lady Lollys's bastard child. She is a simple creature, and her husband given to black moods. I told him to choose a more fitting name. One that would not offer insult upon your family. He laughed."

Cersei sipped her wine and studied the pair before her. Why must you tempt me so, Ser Balmar? Here was the perfect opportunity to be rid of her son's spymaster, and yet she could not say a word for fear of being revealed. No matter how subtle, how careful she was, Tommen's dreams...

Cersei shook herself from her reverie and plastered another false smile on her face. There is no single catspaw in all Seven Kingdoms that could hide my hand from my son's accursed sight. "My brother is known for his good sense of humour," she said, biting her lip. "And he and Bronn were close before the latter was rewarded for his brave service at the Blackwater and became Ser Bronn. I am certain he will not find it an insult."

Ser Balmar opened his mouth, thought better of it, and then pursed his lips in thought.

"And yet," Cersei said, unable to help herself, "Ser Bronn is well known as ever a tricksy sort. It would not be unwise to keep a close eye on him. Or, at least, that is what I would suggest. A burst saddle girth..."

Falyse balked. "Your Grace... Are you suggesting it was cut or tampered with in some way?"

"No, not at all," Cersei assured the pair. She might not be able to dispose of the sellsword, at least not so brazenly, but it was the least she could do to make his life a little more difficult. "I am certain Ser Bronn would never be so brazenly treacherous. But these are strange times. I mean, just a few years ago if anyone would have told you that Stannis Baratheon of all people would rise in rebellion against his own nephew, would you have believed them?"

Both Falyse and Ser Balmar shared a look. "We will take your advice to heart, Your Grace. Caution."

Cersei offered another smile and nodded, slowly standing from her seat. "It has been a great pleasure to sup with you both. I will be sure to keep Lady Tanda in my prayers tonight. And now if you can forgive me, I must be off."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Cersei turned and departed at a quick pace, eager for something besides boredom, allowing her pleasant demeanour to fall away as soon as she was alone. She marched through the halls and passages of the keep with purpose. Her gait made her feel like some great lord, an army at her back. Thoughts of Taena, and of the girl she was presently occupied testing, plagued her mind.

Nymeria Sand dreams of glory in war, she thought. Alas, the poor bastard whore was born a woman.

But that did not mean that the girl's life would be without purpose. Through the queen, she would attain power beyond her wildest imaginings. And for a brief moment before she lost her usefulness, she would have the ear of some of the most powerful people in the world. Her and her sisters both.

Bastard girls were often whores, were they not? Especially Dornish ones. And Nymeria certainly looked the part. She was slim, waif-like with straight black hair pulled back into a single long braid, breasts protruding proudly from a rib-lined chest. Large dark eyes blinked prettily, lashes batting. Lips full and luscious and red, more than fit to wrap around some lordling's cock. A violet gown covered her body, loose in some places and tight in others.

Yes, she thought, this one will make a far better slut than soldier. Not that her ambitions weren't in some sense admirable. Cersei had once desired to wield a blade and stand beside her father in battle in her youth, but such was not a woman's place. The bitch Brienne was the exception. An ugly freak. Beauty was a woman's best weapon, and wielded properly it could be more deadly than any blade.

A look from Taena affirmed her hopes. The girl is eager enough, the dusky woman was saying with her gaze. That was good, though Cersei still felt a certain hesitance. Oberyn Martell was a fiery man, after all, and Myrcella was still far away in Dorne. But in light of Tommen's dreams, Cersei would have to be more careful, and so she would need not one catspaw, but many. And having Nymeria in her circle would enhance her power regardless of how Cersei used her. The threat of the spears of Dorne would go some way in helping curb the Tyrell's power at court. It was a worthwhile risk. Especially if Cersei could pull Arianne Martell away from the Maid Margaery. The two had been getting far too close for comfort as of late, or so went the court gossip. Close enough, perhaps, to hint at scandal. Certainly close enough they might pose a threat to Cersei's already precarious position.

That was unacceptable.

And so long as she remained blatant about her intentions, Cersei reckoned, she retained the freedom to act. If she presumed that he knew everything that she knew, Tommen could not catch her unawares.

Not that he would have reason to do so. Not when all she intended to do was help him.

But these matters were best left for another day. For now, Nymeria Sand was first and foremost her informant. A remarkably useful one, as it came to be.

"Ser Osney is away to the Wall," she said. "His Grace had him in the Black Cells for a good while, or so some of the men tell me, but now he is well and truly away. Evidently they were told not to call him by name. His Grace greatly feared being found out - understandable, given Ser Osmund wears the white cloak."

"Hmm," Cersei grumbled, noting the news and disdaining it once she knew how ultimately useless the revelation of Ser Osney's fate was to her. "And Lyra? The girl?"

Nymeria shifted in her seat. Whether her discomfort was true or feigned, Cersei could not tell.

"There are... rumours, Your Grace," Nymeria began. "Here men were far tighter with their tongues, even when faced with my finer tricks. What I did learn was often confusing. One claimed she was the king's paramour. Another proclaimed her exactly as she was: his baseborn half-sister. Another claimed she was both, that His Grace has developed Targaryen inclinations in matters of the flesh, and that the girl would often leave his chambers beaming, dishevelled as though from some rough bout of love-making, or else with eyes brimming with tears. Some proclaim her Sansa Stark in disguise. Others declare she is secretly a boy, prevented from squiring to a true knight due to some grave failing, who put on the airs of a girl to win the Dame Brienne's favour as a last desperate ploy for knighthood."

Cersei frowned. This reeks of the Imp. Her son, for all his cleverness and foresight, tended to be blunter with his schemes. There was an assuredness in his movements, a certain straightforwardness that made one feel a fool when the simplistic truth was revealed - even in his grandest plots and plans - that spoke of either supreme confidence or else childish arrogance. This cloud of confusion seemed to suggest something more. That the rumours were not natural, that they were designed to confuse, to excite, to obscure the real, more plain truth beneath it all.

And then there was the outrageous element to it. A part of what she'd heard made her jaw clench, her hands tight with fury. Tommen is fucking his half-sister... Is this the dwarf's idea of a jape? Yet her fury fast morphed into fear. If someone wants to pit lion against lion than this would be the way to do it, she thought. Her disdain for her dwarf brother was well-known. The lesson of Baelish had been burned into her mind. You were so distracted by your hatred of each other that you failed to spot the real danger, sat just a scant few seats away, Tommen had said.

Her distraction, her disdain had cost her Joff his life. She could not allow herself to be led astray again, lest her last remaining son suffer the same fate. For the moment at least, she would have to swallow her pride.

I shall have to keep a closer eye on Lyra, Cersei resolved. Rash decisions at this time would only serve to weaken her. And with Tommen's dreams, Cersei struggled to see how he might be duped. He had taken this girl into his own personal confidences, and so quickly. Did he know? Was he using her, playing some hidden game for some unknown purpose? Or was he behaving his age, taken in by a little impish girl who reminded him of more innocent times? The seeds of envy stirred in her heart at the thought, a black simmering hatred that she had to work hard to keep hidden.

"And finally," Cersei said, "comes the question of your cousin."

Nymeria shifted uncomfortably in her seat, looking bashful. "Your Grace..."

"You said you wished to enter my confidences, yes? That you wished to become more than Oberyn's baseborn girl, to win some fame and glory for yourself? To perhaps even be made a dame? You said these things, and Lady Taena listened, did she not?"

Nymeria Sand seemed to wage a war with herself, hands fidgeting in her lap, eyes flitting about nervously. "Yes, Your Grace," she finally said.

"Well, I can make that happen for you," Cersei said. "But first I must ask you tell me of your cousin's plans."

"Arianne doesn't have a plan as such..." Nymeria trailed off. "She intended at first to seduce His Grace, but has grown frustrated after he repeatedly rebuffed her. Now..."

"Now what?" Cersei asked, leaning forwards.

"I'm not certain," Nymeria warned. "She could simply persist in her efforts."

"Guess."

"...The princess is a hot-blooded woman, you must understand," Nymeria explained cautiously. "As are all Dornishwomen, I suppose, but none moreso than her. She is rarely rebuffed. The Prince of Dorne was loathe to deny her anything, and has seldom punished her for her acts of defiance or daring." I'll need to correct that, Cersei thought. "And so now that she is finally faced with some resistance she is driven to evermore extreme measures to get her way."

Cersei felt herself tense. "So if not my son then who?" she asked. Who do I need to dispose of?

"If she can't have His Grace's heart," Nymeria said, squirming, bashful, "then I believe she reckons the Lord Hand's will suffice."

Cersei at first blinked in shock, then balked, then burst out with laughter. "My father?" she asked. "Ha! Let her try. Lord Tywin Lannister has not been stirred into lust since the death of my lady mother. Hells, it may well do him some good to share his bed with the Princess! As it is Arianne would be better off trying to get blood from a stone."

"That's just my guess, Your Grace," Nymeria was quick to assure her, in spite of sharing Cersei's look of bemusement. "I could well be wrong. For all I know the princess still intends to pursue the heart of His Grace. In this matter she has not taken me into her confidences. Not yet, at least."

The princess is not likely to be any more successful with Tommen than she is with Tywin, Cersei thought. Not if she has already tried and failed to win his affections. Yet she could not deny the part of her that still harboured doubts. I need to see my son.

Cersei shot a glance at Taena, and made to leave, slowly standing from her seat. Keep a close eye on this one, she said with her eyes.

Of course, Your Grace, Taena answered with hers.

"Well done, Lady Nym," she said. "You have won my confidences. Serve me well and I will see to it you are properly rewarded for your efforts."

Nymeria Sand inclined her head with respect. "Anything for Your Grace."

Cersei offered the baseborn girl a brittle smile. "Of course," she said, and turned on her heel and walked out of her solar. She passed through the passages of the Red Keep swiftly, but this time without urgency. A storm of thoughts and worries plagued her mind as she wandered. Even still, it was not long before she found herself standing outside Tommen's chambers.

At this hour, her son was fast asleep, Ser Loras standing vigil at his door.

She found him sprawled on his bed, his little wife missing. On occasion the king liked to sleep alone, more often than not it seemed as of late. In place of a little queen Tommen had little kittens adorn his bed. There was Ser Pounce, Lady Whiskers, Boots. Yet they kept their distance, sleeping on the corners. Tommen looked fitful, face furrowed and strained with worry, skin slick with sweat. He is having one of his dreams, Cersei realised.

Those same dreams that had so stymied her, ended her hour in the sun before it could truly begin. A surge of resentment rose through her gut. I could strangle him now, she thought, and all his dreams would be for naught. All notions of the Others would die with him.

Yet she did not move to wake him, simply observing for a long second. Her old love for her son was gone. He was no more her sweet little boy. He had not been since that accursed day when her eldest, her dearest, had been so cruelly murdered. Yet even Cersei had to admit the age looked becoming on his visage, much as she loathed what it had done to his character. His face reminded her of Jaime in his youth, yet untroubled by death and disfigurement, unburdened by the weight of the white cloak.

Tommen was about that age. That age when she and Jaime had shared their first kisses, their first embrace. He was older, even. His face reminded her of the days of Jaime's dogged pursuit, when he would accost her seemingly at random and press her against a wall in some distant corner of Casterly Rock and push and push till she had no choice to but to pretend to break, to pull him into her, hinting but never truly revealing that that was what she had wanted all along.

I fucked my brother, Cersei thought in a moment of impetuousness, why shouldn't I fuck my son? Is one truly any worse than the other? For all his dreams told him, it seemed likely that he would nevertheless be caught entirely unawares by such a move, left completely at her mercy. It would doubtless be pleasurable for her too, at least going by all the stories the Maid Margaery had made sure to spread around of her new husband's prowess. Yet though Jaime had made mock of himself for her many times, something told Cersei that Tommen would not be so pliable. It was better to be patient, play the doting mother, the concerned counsellor. To worm her way back into his close confidences. And if in time a opening presented itself she could act, but not a moment sooner.

Gods, Cersei cried to herself, half in lament, when did I become such a coward? The old her would have gone to any lengths. Even Joffrey, strong-willed as he was, caved to her more oft than not. That Cersei would have grasped Tommen by the cock as she had done to Lancel and offered no apologies for doing so. Her charms most certainly would have eclipsed anything his little wife was capable of. The most beautiful woman in all Seven Kingdoms is seldom spurned, she thought. She leaned over him, hesitant as her eyes flicked again over his features, half tempted to grab his face and press her lips to his, but again fear and doubt prevailed. She sighed, lowered herself to the edge of the bed, kissing his forehead as she gently jostled his shoulder.

Tommen started awake, eyes opening with a jerk, a moment of violent resistance to her touch, and then calm when he realised who it was holding him. "Mother?" a groggy voiced asked.

"You were having a nightmare," she explained, cradling his head.

"As I do most nights," Tommen said. "Yet I am not often awoken. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, sweetling," Cersei said, affecting her most compassionate tone. "I just wanted to see you, and I couldn't stand to see you suffer."

Tommen's face looked confused, half-torn between sympathy and suspicion. "That is kind of you," he said. "Yet suffer I must. I don't mind it much. The horrors I see are often distant, unlikely things. And to be forewarned is to be forearmed."

"Yet still I mislike it," Cersei complained. "Perhaps you could lighten your load? Tell someone what you see in greater detail?"

"Like you?" Tommen asked, with a glint in his eyes.

Cersei cynically shook her head. "Like anyone that you can trust. Like that Lyra girl. Or like your grandfather."

Tommen winced. "Best not Lyra," he said. Good, thought Cersei. "With Uncle Jaime gone, you are the only one who knows. I would sooner keep it that way."

"Then why not me?" Cersei pressed.

Tommen seemed hesitant. "I... I want to," he finally said. "But after all I have seen, how can I trust you? You, with all your plots and pettiness? You forget I have seen the ugliest sides of you, mother."

Cersei felt hatred and heartbreak make war in her chest. "I... I will be better," she said, forcing herself, the words emerging bitter on her tongue.

"You might well mean that," Tommen said, "but deep down I know you still want your hour in the sun."

"I do," Cersei confessed. "Yet sunlight can be shared. Is Queen Alysanne not still revered? Are not Visenya and Rhaenys? Yet still, Jaehaerys and Aegon ruled as great kings all the same, and are remembered as such. Sharing your light would not diminish it, sweetling."

Tommen smirked. "The power behind the throne, eh?"

"Would that be so bad?" Cersei asked. "To allow me to be known as the woman standing beside you, in that place, who helped you to your pride and glory?"

"No, it would not be bad at all," Tommen conceded, smirk growing to a grin. "So long as you could bear to share that place with Margaery."
-------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 38: Jon IV

In the granary were oats, wheat, barley, and barrels of coarse ground flower. In the root cellars lengths of onions and garlic and turnips and radishes dangled on strings from the rafters. Bags of carrots and spuds and barrels of corn lined the walls. On the shelves were large slabs of salted beef, mutton, pork and wheels of cheese so massive they took two men to carry from place to place. There were casks of pickled apples and pears and cabbage and all other sorts of sundry still immersed in brine. Nuts and spices aplenty. Huge jars of olive oil. Smoked salmon, venison, and other sorts of wild game.

As they moved from one tunnel to another, the sheer extent of the wealth stashed away became apparent.

"The king's bounty is indeed generous, my lord," Bowen Marsh announced. "It's not much at the moment, but with Stannis's men no longer being such a drain on our supplies, what little empty room remains should quickly be filled up. Plenty to see the Watch through winter."

"And the wildlings?" Jon asked.

Bowen Marsh suddenly seemed uncomfortable. "My lord... There are a thousand mouths to feed in Mole Town alone. And there are more besides. It was a long summer, my lord, and I have no reason to expect winter will be short. These rooms may seem stuffed with food today, but you would be surprised how quickly they can be emptied if we aren't careful with the rations. Settling the wildlings on the Gift may be well and good, but it is too late this far north to plant crops. They'll stay dependent on us all through winter, and who knows how long that will be? Or whether His Grace's generosity will last that long?"

"Worst comes to worst we could always hunt. There's still game in the woods."

"Game, aye, but also darker things," Bowen retorted. "I would not send out hunters where they could be taken down. Even as our ranks swell, it takes time to train skilled men. We can scarcely afford such risks."

No, Jon agreed. Yet you would have us close our gates forever and seal them up with stone and ice. Half of Castle Black concurred with Bowen's view, Jon knew. Mercifully, the other half seemed to see sense in keeping the gateways open. Elsewise Jon's job would have become a great deal more difficult.

"Then we best hope His Grace's generosity is not exhausted," Jon said, feeling bitter even as the words came out. Here he was, calling the Boy King on the Iron Throne His Grace. Yet what else was he to do, when Arya was down in the capital in the Boy King's custody, and all the hopes of the Watch rested on the continued flow of Tommen's ships? "No matter what, the wildlings must be fed, and so must the remnants of Stannis's men. We still lack the swords to fight them."

Bowen seemed worried. "My lord..."

"Enough," Jon said as he turned stiffly on his heel and made to leave.

"It'll be dangerous," Bowen warned. "We already have men coming from down south. We don't need the extra numbers."

Jon ignored him. He'd heard all Bowen's objections before. "Have the wagons been prepared?" he asked as he ascended the steps.

"Aye," Bowen answered tiredly. "Corn, flour, pickled fruits and all the rest."

Jon nodded even as he emerged into the blinding light, the snow glowing in the morning sun. The wagons were already arranged, bursting with the king's corn, Ghost waiting eagerly for him to emerge. The direwolf wagged it's tail half-nervously and half-excitedly as it bounded over to him and nuzzled by his thighs. Jon reached down and patted it's snout, stroking it's fur, seeking comfort in the loyal creature's steadfast companionship.

The Night's Watch has lost too many of it's best men, Jon thought sadly. The Old Bear, Qhorin Halfhand, Donal Noye, my own uncle...

The last few trips had seen some ugliness at Mole Town, and yet more lives had been lost. And so, as their journey began, Jon did not quarrel with Bowen as he insisted on bringing more guards. Though it had not escalated beyond a few sullen curses and a few resentful looks and a single fight started over a woman that had spiralled out of control, Jon knew better than to take unnecessary risks. And as he did so, he made sure to draft the Lord of Bones into his endeavours, if only to keep a close eye.

And so, as the column set off south down the kingsroad, the line of wagons wending around fords and frozen streams still flowing beneath a thin sheet of ice, a dozen spear-men and archers and a half-dozen swordsmen riding escort. Though Mole Town was best known as a place for those Black Brothers who sought to whet their appetites for women, recent times had turned it into a haven for those wildlings who had taken up Stannis's offer to settle south of the Wall.

Mole Town had always been larger than it looked; most of it buried in the tunnels underground where the residents could be shielded from the cold and snow. That was more true now than ever, as any surface signs of settlement had been reduced to ruins by wildling raids. But in the darkness of the vaults below the residents of the village endured, leading truly miserable lives, huddled and alone with death and destruction always lingering, the corpse of what had once been sitting forever above their heads.

Not today, however. The thick snows had carpeted the ruins, and the peace Stannis had struck - no matter how unsteady - seemed to be holding. For now when their line of wagons rolled forwards they were greeted by the sight of swarming children kneeled in the snow, building snowcastles and having fights and rolling around; giggling and screaming and forgetting for a second the harshness of their lives. Jon ordered his wagons to slow, saddened and comforted by the sight. These children had suffered so much that he was reluctant to disturb them.

But circumstances trumped sentiment. The children saw the Black Brothers and quickly scattered, disappearing down hatches and hidey-holes, turning a wondrous playground into another desolate waste, and a few moments later the faces of their parents poked up from the ground, red-faced and shivering. A few of the men climbed out to greet them whilst the women retreated back into their caves. The stench of unwashed bodies carried on the wind. Down in the vaults there were no baths, no rivers or streams. And even if there had been, the winter cold could render even the briefest dip deadly if one wasn't careful.

Mercifully, it seemed that the cold would be their biggest problem today. These men had by now learned their lessons. As the Black Brothers closed in there were a few moody looks and scowls and muttered japes at each other's expense, but nobody made an aggressive move. By the time the wagons had trundled to a stop, they were arranged in semi-neat rows, awaiting the food. A shout went down - it was safe - and the women and children that previously gone down into hiding emerged again. A veritable flood of them. There were thrice as many women as men, and most men were wounded - crippled and broken. Of the children Jon had seen on his approach only a handful more emerged. Of the women who had carried babies on their arrival to Mole Town, most had none. They'd lost them to cold and disease.

Everyone's faces were the same. Cold, withered, gaunt and haunted. Their eyes lurked, suspicious and angry, exhausted. The men of fighting age formed a ring around their women, but even they were thin and weak and broken. Only the Thenns fared better, clad in their bronze armour and standing apart from the crowd, eyeing Jon's black brothers with more contempt than suspicion. Wolves lurk among these sheep, he reminded himself. Jon shot a glance at Rattleshirt, standing at the back of the caravan. Depending on the way this went, the man - possibly a disguised Mance - could prove a valuable ally in uniting the wildlings or else he could prove himself an enemy and help to deepen their divisions. Only time would tell.

The black brothers began to pass out the food. They'd brought the toughest, worst pieces of meat and fruit and other sundry from their stores, but a great deal of it. A queue formed, and each person got a little chunk of everything. A sliver of salted meat, a small bag of flour, a few pickled fruits, dried beans and turnips, eggs and the like. This trip was more generous than the last few had been, and there were few complaints, but it was still deliberately meagre. How else could he entice them but by making them choose between privation and plenty?

These sorts of tactics roiled his stomach, but Tommen's advice was sound. And if he ever intended to make peace between the Watch and the wildlings, he would have to make use of more than good intentions. Steel, strength and cruelty would have to play a role as well. Deception, too. For the greater good.

Once much of the food had been distributed, Jon clambered atop one of the deliberately empty wagons, and made to speak. "We're doing our best to feed you all," he declared, to much consternation from the assembled crowd, "but a long winter lies ahead, and we only have so much to spare."

"It's not enough!" one woman cried, looking ragged and half-crazed, cradling a bundle that looked like a baby, but a second look revealed it to be a dead one.

There was a round of nodding. "You crows seem to eat well enough," one of the wildling men said. Out from the corner of his eye Jon saw the flash of steel.

Jon scowled. This was not going how he had intended. He peered down to the Lord of Bones waiting uncharacteristically patiently beside him. "Quiet them," he commanded down to the man.

Rattleshirt nodded, advanced to the front of the black brothers shielding Jon, his expression inscrutable behind his skull mask, and bellowed. "QUIET! QUIET! SHUT YER FUCKING MOUTHS!"

"You one of them now?" a wildling man accused. "A crow?" The black brothers drew their bows with bated breaths, nocking their arrows.

The Lord of Bones stared the offending wildling down, towering over the gaunt man, advancing threateningly. "I said quiet," he hissed, drawing a blade from a sheath concealed beneath his bone armour. "And call me a crow again and I'll cut out yer tongue."

The wildling man scowled, spat on the ground, but fell silent.

Jon cleared his throat. That had been too close for comfort. "We eat well because we hold the Wall," Jon explained. "You know the foe we face, you've seen them. Dead things with blue eyes and black hands. Wights and White Walkers. I've seen them, fought them, even slain one with this sword at my hip. They kill without mercy and send the corpses of your brethren to face you. The giants tried to stop them and failed. Same of the Thenns," Jon said, gesturing to the bronze-clad men, "the ice-river clans, the Hornfoots and Mance. And as winter advances the enemy does too. You left your homes and came south to save yourselves, but the only thing protecting you is the Wall, and the only thing protecting the Wall is us. The Watch."

"Saved and starved," the same woman spat, clutching her dead baby tight to her breast, eyes feverish and mad.

"You want more food?" Jon asked. "Well, you have to earn it. That food is for fighters. For those willing to stand against the enemy. For those willing to join us on the Wall or wander beyond it when asked."

The men in the crowd exchanged wary looks. "Fight for you?" a wildling asked. A Thenn, going by his manner of dress. The Magnar of Thenn. Sigorn. "No. Kill you, more like."

Jon shrugged. "And when the wights and Walkers come?" he asked, silencing Sigorn with a scathing look. "What then? Will you have the strength to resist them? Your father was a brave man, but Styr died trying to fight us. Same for Mance," Jon said, again shooting Rattleshirt a look. "You'll fare no better. And even if he had succeeded, then you would all be dead. The Lords of the North would have crushed you. Or else the wights and Walkers would have followed you. The Wall is only as good as the men who patrol it."

"I'd sooner go naked than don one of your cloaks, crow!" the same rabble-rouser shouted, again attracting a glare from Rattleshirt.

"Then strip and we'll have you," Jon japed. "I'm not asking you to swear to our brotherhood, though if you would like to you can. I'm not asking you to betray your gods - I couldn't care less to which ones you pray. Nor am I asking you to kneel to my king. I'm only asking for you to fight for your lives, the lives of your loved ones, and stand beside us against the enemy. It's spears we need. Spears and bows. Any man older than fourteen will do. Able-bodied, but cripples too. There are plenty of jobs to be done. Goats to be milked, stables to be mucked, even more spears and shields to be made."

A wary silence persisted at the proposition. For a second Jon thought his speech had failed, but the reluctance soon broke and the volunteers came. A small lad who looked a tad too young for fourteen was the first, then an older man missing an arm. Misfits and weaklings, but soon even the able-bodied were joining up. Rattleshirt's presence doubtless helped. A spearwife wanted to join, but Jon refused her, citing the need for someone to defend Mole Town itself. But mostly he was worried about the rapes - and there would inevitably be rapes. It would do him no good at such a precarious time to make any more room for conflict between the Watch and the wildlings. Having women at the Wall would only unsettle things, make matters worse.

Still, on the way north their caravan was filled with many more men - a little over fifty of them. There were no Thenns, and few if any looked like fighters, but it was still a hopeful sign. "Are you certain about this?" Bowen asked again, concerned. "Giving wildlings weapons and spreading them amongst our ranks? Would it not weaken us?"

"Against the Walkers they'll stand with us."

"Against the Walkers, aye," Bowen agreed. "But against Tormund Giantsbane? Against the Weeping Man? Against their fellow Free Folk?"

Jon stayed silent for a long second as the continued on, lips pursed. "It's a risk," he eventually conceded. "But it's also our best hope."

"Wildlings follow strength," Rattleshirt growled, apparently having overheard them. His scornful eyes trailed over Jon. "They follow the man. Are you strong enough, boy?"

Bowen scowled at the Lord of Bones, but still nodded in agreement, grim. Familiar words, Jon mused. Mance had told him something similar. The Lord of Bones Jon had known had been a ruthless savage, not prone to offering advice. His words were yet more evidence that Tommen spoke the truth about the Red Witch. Yet more conspiracies Jon was forced to contend with. Yet more secrets hiding in the shadows.

And so onwards they went, till finally they were back at Castle Black. The wildlings were led away to the places they'd be able to stay for the night, black brothers eyeing them suspiciously wherever they went. It'll take a while yet to make these men work together, Jon reminded himself, sullen. Old wounds did not heal quickly. But they did heal, given enough time and treatment. And they would have to. If only to stop the armies of the dead swelling even more.

As Jon entered the castle Sam rushed up to greet him. "I saw your caravan arrive," he explained. "Are these all you could muster? I thought there were three-hundred fighting men at Mole Town? Half these look like cripples."

Jon cringed. "Evidently, I misjudged the wildlings eagerness to work with us."

Sam frowned, settling into step behind Jon as he made for his quarters. "Well, then, what now? Fifty men won't be enough, especially as most won't be good to fight for some time yet. Are you planning on calling on Kings Landing for more aid?"

"Tommen's terms were clear enough," Jon said. "We need a live wight to get any more from him. Elsewise his small council would gainsay him."

"I thought he was king," Sam complained.

"Even the greatest kings don't last long without the support of their councillors," Jon said. "Especially if one of their councillors happens to be Lord Tywin Lannister."

"Perhaps Stannis could lend his aid?" Sam asked as they escaped from the open air and began the climb up the spiral steps.

"Stannis is preoccupied with the North and the fight against the Boltons and Ironmen," Jon said. "He hasn't the strength to spare. And as far as his Red Witch goes... I don't trust her."

"So if neither the wildlings, nor King Stannis, nor King Tommen can help us, then what can we do?"

"With the wildlings we can slowly build trust," Jon said. "It is true I expected more to come with me, but the fact that any came at all is a promising sign considering the contempt the wildlings hold for the Watch, and the Watch for the wildlings. The Thenns may never make common cause with us, but I reckon some of the other clans could be convinced. As for getting more aid from the south... King Tommen made his terms clear enough. We need a live wight."

"If I had one I would be happy to hand it over, my lord," Sam said, half in jest as they entered his chambers and Jon rounded his desk and collapsed into his seat, his breath still emerging from between his lips in clouds of mist, the hearth yet unlit. The room was dark, the only sources of light the thin lines of grey steaming through the gaps in the shutters on the windows, and the warm glow of a couple of candles almost burned out. Sam stayed standing. "How are we going to get one?"

"We're going to get it as we would any other wild animal. We're going to hunt it and catch it."

"A ranging," Sam realised. Jon nodded. "It's too dangerous-"

"Not me," Jon cut in, knowing Sam's words before he uttered them. "I'm not stupid enough to risk myself on such an unsure thing. Fetch Ser Alliser, will you?"

Sam stood still for a moment. "He'll think you're trying to get him killed for opposing you."

"He may well think that," Jon said. "But an order is an order all the same. He can face the snows or he can face my sword, as Slynt did. Now go."

Sam nodded, and the rushed off. Jon poured himself a cup of wine, took a few bracing sips of the ice-cold liquid, and then turned his attention to his hearth. Ordinarily the Lord Commander could call in his steward for the task, but Jon had yet to appoint a steward. He stacked a few logs of firewood, and with a little tinder and the last half-inch of wick from one of the lit candles managed to start a flame that slowly grew into a true fire. Before he knew it warm air was flooding out from the hearth, and Jon pulled off his gloves to hold his numb fingers in the heat, letting the feeling slowly return to his extremities.

Ser Alliser arrived a few moments later, looking tense. Jon told him what he intended. Ser Alliser's expression soured further, even as his mouth twisted into some cruel mockery of a smile that never quite reached his eyes; cold and hard as they were. "So the bastard boy sends me to die."

"So the Lord Commander sends you to do your duty," Jon corrected. "To range; to venture out, find our foes and slay them, to capture one of the numbers of our greatest enemy and bring it home for study and use. I don't doubt you will survive. You are skilled with a blade. You were the master-at-arms first at Eastwatch and then here."

"My duty is protecting the Wall," Alliser argued. "Not running around in the freezing cold chasing after corpses in some fool's quest!"

Jon cocked his head. "Your duty is whatever the Lord Commander says it is. You're a skilled swordsman. You'll survive."

Alliser's smile narrowed into an angry grimace, his hand straying dangerously close to the hilt of his sword. Jon tensed. Would Alliser be bold enough to draw his blade here and now? "Aye, I'm a skilled swordsman," he said, voice tight with outrage, but then let his hand drop away from his pommel in defeat. "I spent half a lifetime teaching others how to swing swords, how to fight and how to kill. Fat lot of good that will do me out in those woods."

"You won't be going alone," Jon assured him. It was strange. Jon would never count Ser Alliser Thorne among his friends, but he was a brother all the same. Nobody said you had to like your brothers. "Other skilled rangers will be going with you. Experienced men who can watch your back. And you won't be the only one. Other rangings will be sent out as well."

Alliser nodded grimly. "I'll be back, boy," he swore, half as a threat and half as a promise. "Even if I have to return as one of those cold, dead cunts rather than with one as my captive, I'll be back."

"I should hope so," Jon said. "Because if the worst comes to pass, the fate of the Watch itself may well depend on it."
------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 39: The Threads of Fate

Beneath a wave of pleasure a snowy waste presented itself.

With the gusts of snowy wind buffeting me from all sides came little sounds. Human sounds. Grunts and groans and moans and whimpers. Pain? Fear? Maybe. Probably. In dreamworld the details were always inconsistent, everchanging. Like the sands of time sifting through your fingers, or a snowflake melting in your palm. The little details may have hidden some significance or meaning, but that meaning always seemed to elude me.

Nevertheless, not one of my trips into these dreams had been fruitless. They didn't grant me prophecy, per se, but rather a strange sort of emotional insight. Hidden truths, half-remembered passages from the book and scenes from the show. Predictions and theories made terrifyingly real. Once I saw the Wall crumble beneath an assault of wights, ice-dragons bursting forth from within, the unmistakeable blare of a horn above it all. Another time I saw a kraken rise from the depths, strange crab-peoples clambering up the shores to lead the Drowned God's invasions of Westeros. I saw the Others win time after time. I saw Daenerys's descent into madness. I saw Kings Landing aflame. Saw Highgarden. Saw Winterfell razed to the ground. Heard the terrified screams of the innocents trapped in the blaze, caught in the blizzard.

I had not been here even a year, and in my dreams I had seen more than I had ever expected I would - or could - ever see. It was a strange sort of torment, or perhaps a sick sort of entertainment. If one could stay detached, it was even possible to enjoy the spectacle. These weren't predictions, I quickly discerned, they were possibilities. And possibilities are, in the end, mostly meaningless.

Still, that didn't make what I saw any less real.

And right now, what I saw was an ocean of an army, an unstoppable mass of corpses rumbling onwards. Their feet kicked up clouds of snow. Behind me was the Wall, fire arrows streaking overhead and slamming into the ranks of the enemy. I kept my composure. This was a common enough dream. It even seemed optimistic. The presence of arrows meant that the Watch had not entirely fallen. Someone far up there was still left to resist the tide.

I watched them come, eerily calm. This was just a dream. The scent, the flush in my cheeks, my rapidly numbing fingers and toes, the wind brushing my hair and the sounds of human despair that came with the breeze itself. Just a dream. Just a scene in a play I'd seen a hundred times by now.

And then the scene changed.

Suddenly the snowy plain was gone, replaced by a wood. A tangle of branches caged me from overhead, the crooked white of weirwood meeting with the darker branches of other, lesser trees. Ironwood, among others. Gnarled and warped trunks hemmed me in from both sides. The blank faces carved into the weirwoods seemed to bleed from the eyes. And before me, a path emerged, a gap in the trees through which I was clearly meant to advance. Strange. Never before had I been thusly beckoned. Always I was ripped from one scene to the next, aware yet completely helpless. And now I was in control?

Warily, I took a step forwards, then another. The snow crunched underfoot, thick enough to bury me up to the knee. The air here was dead, the breeze banished, though the atmosphere still seemed to creak and moan. Crows started to appear on the branches, beady black eyes following me as I advanced. A smattering, at first, and then a veritable swarm. Every branch had one patiently perched atop it, little heads occasionally cocked in curiosity as they observed me. And then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, they would slip away in a puff of black smoke.

"Come out, Bloodraven," I ventured. Only one figure would use such imagery. Only one figure would possess the capacity to peer into my dreams.

A swarm of crows gathered ahead of me, trailing smoke, merging in some cacophony of flesh and feathers. From within the storm a man emerged with long silver hair and a single red eye and a hood pulled over his head, weirwood longbow in one hand, the Targaryen sigil proudly shown on his surcoat atop his mail. One side of his face bore the characteristic scar, angry red marring his otherwise perfectly milk-white skin. His waist was girded with a thick leather belt, an ornate dagger in it's sheath at his side. A quiver of dragonglass arrows sat on his back, the leather strap crossing his shoulder and chest.

"Why am I here, Brynden?" I asked, in a softer, less assured, less demanding tone.

"Why, indeed?" Brynden asked, his lips moving just slightly out of sync with his voice. Utterly calm, that voice. Cold. Threatening, yet tentative, uncertain. "Why would a stranger from another world invade the mind of a little bastard boy?"

I shrugged. "I don't know," I said. "One moment I was in my old life, and the next..."

Brynden's calm expression suddenly became angry, cruel. "A victim of circumstance, are you?"

A jolt of pain throbbed through my head. My breath shortened in my chest. My heartrate began a slow ascent. My face hurt, my ears rushing with blood.

"Yes," I asserted, suddenly furious. I had been uprooted from my home, my family, everything I had ever known or loved. Any other man might have collapsed into despair. All things considered, I had done reasonably well not only for myself, but for Westeros as well. An attitude of detachment may have defined my decision-making, but the knowledge of stakes was omnipresent. Ruthless action was undertaken with consideration to the lives that could be lost or saved. And maybe, just maybe, a dream of advancement undergirded everything - the last strand of hope to cling to in the most desperate times. "This world is a shithole. You should consider yourself lucky I haven't been driven mad, or simply abandoned all my responsibilities. Most you people are cunts."

"Your intervention has tangled the threads of fate, boy," Bloodraven hissed. "In your foolish quest to save us you may well have doomed us all."

I sneered. "Prophecy is, and always was, a crock of shit. Self-fulfilling in most circumstances. Luck or the gods or fate may well decide to fuck with me, but in the end I make my own future. I won't let you, or anyone else, take that away from me."

Bloodraven met my sneer with a look of scorn. "And what does that future look like, hmm?"

"It looks like peace," I vehemently insisted. "Like prosperity. Like progress. I envisage a world with abundant harvests. A world in which war is a distant memory for most, where the majority of children are fated not to lead short, miserable, brutish lives but rather long lives full of possibility. A world with happy families and faithful marriages. A world of honest and dignified labour. A world of competent governance and human freedom and honour and wealth abound. A world in which the worth of a man is not merely in his name, but rather in the strength of his character and the sweat on his brow. It's a dream far beyond my reach for now, but mayhap I can pull us all a little closer towards it. Start the slow, unceasing march forwards that may in five-hundred years or perhaps a thousand yield fruit in a better future for everyone."

Listening to myself, I was struck by how cringe-inducingly earnest my words had been. Had I always been such a naïve sap? Obviously, I knew the world could be better, but the future seemed dim regardless. This was Westeros, after all. And even in my old life, I had never been a utopian. Never one to fall for the unrealistically grand and sweeping visions of the kind that I now espoused. And that instinct had served me well. Demagogues and god-heads are, as a rule, dangerous.

But hadn't Justinian secured the future of Byzantium for centuries to come? Hadn't Aurelian averted the crisis of the third century? Hadn't Augustus initiated the Pax Romana? Hadn't Khosrau Anushirawan essentially succeeded in his quest to remake Sasanian society? Hadn't Admiral Yi achieved the impossible in beating back Toyotomi Hideyoshi's Japan? Hadn't Metternich negotiated Austria's path to power by the ruthless application of power politics alone, and all after suffering defeat after defeat at the hands of Napoleon? Hadn't Bismarck united Germany from a dozen bickering principalities? Hadn't Adam Smith fundamentally changed the world forever for the better with just his writings alone? Hadn't Abraham Lincoln held his nation together in a time of extreme stress, and ushered it ultimately to a better future through his careful stewardship?

Great men are often unreliable, yes, but when they succeed they can work genuine miracles. Maybe that makes me a hypocrite. Maybe that makes me a gullible fool. Maybe that makes me a wannabe with delusions of grandeur. Nevertheless, I did not relent, meeting Bloodraven's gaze head-on, stern.

Brynden's scorn seemed to waver for a second, but quickly resolidified on his face. "You truly are a child," he spat. "Or else a desperate, addled fool."

I let the anger leak from my breast with a long-suffering sigh, though the physical sense of heightened anxiety did not leave me. "Maybe," I shrugged, slightly dizzy, my head now pounding. "Probably. But isn't it worth a try? Isn't it worth looking beyond the Long Night at what could be? You may think me a fool for it, but I don't agree. I'm no fool. I don't think the world will ever be perfect, but I do think it could be better. If you've been observing me for any length of time you'll know I am no stranger to the cynical games of power. I don't mind assassinations, manipulations, plots or any other such things. But I refuse to play those games purely for myself. Self-interest is surely a part of it, but it is not all. If it was I would have run off with a good chunk of the treasury to greener pastures a long while ago."

Bloodraven stared at me for a long moment, silent. Nothing moved, even as the pain in my head grew more intense, my concentration wavering. "What you are," he finally seemed to decide, "is another complication. Like the Red Woman lingering at the Wall, or the like the One-Eyed Crow setting off from his islands in the west, or like the shadowbinder Quaithe in the east. For a long while your presence in the south set the world into a state of flux. Certainties became mere possibilities, and the strands of fate tangled and untangled and obscured themselves from inspection. Even now you seem to me to hide yourself behind a cloak of shadows."

"Yet unlike the One-Eyed Crow," I retorted, "you and I don't have to work at cross-purposes. Fundamentally, we both want mankind to survive and thrive. Euron doesn't. You say my presence has disrupted the strength of prophecy, fate. Well enough. But with the uncertainty this creates comes the chance for something better."

Bloodraven laughed a bitter, cynical laugh. "Everyone seems to think they are the prophesied one. Without exception. The one fated to save the world. Or perhaps the one fated to destroy it and build anew in their own image."

"I don't," I retorted, though internally I suspected that Brynden may have been more correct than I was willing to admit. "I want to be great, I won't deny it, but I don't think I'm Azor Ahai or any such rot. I'm no saviour. I'm no champion. In my old world I was nobody special. And, frankly, I don't really want to be special. Bearing the weight of the world on my shoulders sounds dreadful. But to make good changes I don't need to be a saviour. I merely need to align the interests of others towards a common goal. And in that, I think you will agree, I have been doing well."

"So not a saviour but a schemer," Bloodraven surmised.

"Much like yourself," I agreed, now feeling faint. The pain was intense, the sensations confused. Pain, pleasure, fear. "There have always been Targaryens who dreamed of things to come, since long before the conquest. But Targaryens aren't the only ones who can have dreams."

"Hmm," Bloodraven said. "Well enough. I will accept you are not my enemy, though I know not whether you ought to be an ally. I would like to stay and discuss things further. Yet your mind... It's not like any other I've felt. Alien. Strange. Clearly of another world. Strained by this simple act of talking. Yet it is also malleable. Subject to change. Perhaps to improvement. So begone, stranger, before your mind breaks and all that potential is lost. We will speak again in future."

And, just like that, the real world returned. Every muted sensation I had experienced in the dreamscape exploded into reality with a stifled scream. My vision blurred and unblurred, my nerves alight with a haze of sensations. Yet the sounds, smells and sights were undeniably those of sex. I found myself atop my wife, who was flat on her back, her wrists pinned tightly to the bed by my hands, her bare breasts heaving and slick with blood, her face contorted with terror, whimpering, her body simultaneously frozen stiff and trembling.

I felt my face twist with revulsion almost as soon as I came to awareness. I withdrew, lifted my hands off her wrists and dismounted her. "Gods." I blinked in shock, eerily calm. A quick once-over seemed to suggest that the blood was not hers. The only visible injury I could see was the hand-shaped bruising around her wrists where I had pinned her. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Margaery seemed on the verge of tears. She opened her mouth, but failed to produce any words. "Your Grace..." she finally managed, her voice marked by a tremor.

Blood dripped on the sheets below me. I lifted a hand to my face. My fingers came away wet with the stuff. My eyes, nose were bleeding profusely. Licking my lips revealed the tell-tale metallic taste. My face ached something fierce, as did my chest. My heartrate was only now beginning to settle, the effects of adrenaline only now beginning to abate. Muted sensations gradually grew in intensity. The white of the sheets had been stained red in many places. No wonder I felt faint. How much blood had I lost?

"What happened?" I asked her, my head spinning.

Margaery gathered some of the bedsheet up in her hands to guard her modesty, her hands trembling. "You... We had gone to bed, and then... It started nice enough, but then you seemed to lose control, Your Grace. You became stiff. It was unlike you - you're always so careful, considerate. Yet men have been known to succumb to the throes of lust before, or so I thought at first, but then..."

"Then I started bleeding," I filled in for her, wiping some of the blood off my cheeks.

"I couldn't see your eyes," she said, her voice shaky. "They'd gone all white by the time you started weeping blood. I thought about calling one of the guards, yet... The sight of you like that struck me dumb with shock. Had... it, lasted any longer I likely would have found my voice again."

I could only sigh and nod. So much for small mercies. If the guards had found me like that... Well, it probably would not have ended well for me.

Had Bloodraven tried to warg into me? Is that what had caused our meeting? Is that why my visions appeared to have started whilst I was still awake, instead of after I had gone to sleep as they usually did? Or had my exploration of the dreamworld merely intersected with his? The former seemed more likely than the latter, but I couldn't be sure. Certainly, none of my previous nightmares had led to such visible consequences. There was usually some sweating, some disorientation and some panic but until today no blood. And yet, even if that was the case, what could I do? I could only hope any future meetings we had would prove less... messy.

"Your Grace," Margaery ventured, hesitant, "you need to go see the Grandmaester."

"No," I quickly overrode her. "This stays between us. Nobody else is to know. This one was worse than the last ones, that's all. I'm sorry you had to see it, truly, but I cannot have you speaking of this."

"What... What is this?" Margaery asked.

"The gods dole out their curses and blessings how they please," I reluctantly said, summoning up a suitable explanation in my exhaustion. "Daenys Targaryen was gifted with foresight, and cursed with madness. Or perhaps the foresight was her curse, and the madness her blessing. Her escape from the horrible realities of prophecy. Nevertheless, I have a little of that same blood in my veins. Joffrey got the Targaryen madness, the penchant for cruelty. I got the dreams. The nightmares. The fits."

Margaery reached out to me, tentative, still trembling slightly, her face twisting with sympathy. "Your Grace..."

Suddenly, my mood changed at Margaery's refusal to simply let the matter drop. The mental exhaustion and blood-loss were getting to me. My mind felt frayed, as though someone had decided to stress-test it, simultaneously stretching and compressing every synapse. I needed to rest more than anything. To sleep. Irritation flooded my skull, coloured with impatience and indignation. Who was she to offer me pity? To look at me like I was some sort of stray kitten?

"Forget it," I snapped, my voice unnecessarily harsh. "None of this is your concern. You continue enjoying the privileges of being a queen. I've always dealt with such problems on my own. No need for that to change. Just don't tell anyone what you saw tonight."

Margaery reared back at my tone, as though I had just slapped her. Instantly, the irritation I felt was supplanted by guilt.

"I... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that." I fell back onto my side of the bed, collapsing flat onto my back with a heavy sigh, feeling myself deflate. "My mind isn't quite right. The visions are often taxing. But don't worry, I just need to rest, to gather myself. Then I'll be all back to normal."

Margaery loomed overhead, uncertain, and I extended a little of the bedsheet for her to use to clean herself. A peace offering. These sheets would need to be disposed of. And discretely. I couldn't afford any inconvenient questions being asked by the wrong people. Margaery wiped her face with the sheet and eyed me cautiously. Much of the panic had left her by now, but there was still an underlying wariness about her. The distance of a just a few inches between us suddenly felt like a gaping chasm.

Still, to her credit, the girl nodded and lowered herself to lie uneasily beside me. "Of course, Your Grace."
--------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future. Sorry if quality was sub-par. This one was a bit of a rush job. Will try to refine when life permits.

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 40: Victarion II

The Iron Victory swept forwards, her ram cutting clean through the choppy green waters. Oars slapped the sea. Salt sprayed his face.

And ahead, the horizon lay clear.

Victarion felt his fist clench around the handle of his axe. The Drowned God had not fashioned him for fighting with words at Kingsmoots; nor had he fashioned Victarion for hunting furtive foes who'd disappear into reeds and bogs after the first strike. They had fashioned him for war, for the true battle between men. To cross blades with great warriors like the Kingslayer; that was his destiny.

And then the Drowned God denies me that destiny, Victarion thought.

To either side of him, the sea was seething with ships. The Iron Fleet in its fullest glory. Between the hulls the water was white, frothing like a bubbling stew. In the distance, though, was nothing. Have the roses wilted? he wondered. Or do they merely mean to hide their thorns?

Victarion growled in frustration. They had spent months organising their forces, gathering enough ships for a raid on the Shields. Part of him was pleased by the quiet, he could not deny. If they took the isles without a fight Euron's fallibility would be exposed. Euron's wizards aren't quite what he claimed.

Yet part of him knew better. Plunder is plunder, he thought scornfully. Most reavers would choose gold before glory. A bloodless victory might prove worse for Euron, undermining his authority, but it could just as easily serve his ends even better, cementing the loyalty of the Ironborn to the Crow's Eye. They might actually begin to believe his lunatic lies about dragons. Obedience came naturally to Victarion, as it did to most of them. He'd grown up knowing it was all he could do to serve Balon dutifully in everything. And later he'd come to accept that one day he would be forced to kneel before one of Balon's spawn.

But the Crow's Eye... Kneeling before him brought bile bubbling up from the base of his throat. The wind was raging in his ears, his loins stirring, and the bitter taste of resentment on his tongue refused to abate. Absent a battle, Victarion surrendered his place at the prow of the Iron Victory to Nute to clamber belowdecks. He needed a drink to wash his mouth of the taste. In his cramped cabin he found Euron's gift to him wet and ready; the dusky girl was always naked for him.

Victarion unbuckled his belt and pulled off his gauntlet, letting the armour clatter on the wooden floor. He slapped the girl, once, twice, then grasped her by the throat as he plunged roughly into her. The girl let out a choked, tongueless moan - all Euron's pets had had their tongues pulled out once aboard the Silence. Her breasts shook as he fucked her, small dark nipples bobbing back and forth on rolling hills of tan flesh. He had her once, filling her, then again, pulling out to paint her.

The bed creaked beneath them. Victarion handled the girl roughly, though never enough to damage her beauty. No need to be nice to Euron's leavings, he told himself. He had never liked having to share his things. His thoughts turned briefly to his old wife, his salt wife, who'd shared her bed with Euron. "She came to me wet and willing," Euron had said, though she had claimed rape. I beat her to death with mine own hands, even as she begged and pleaded for mercy, Victarion thought. But I didn't kill her. The Crow's Eye killed her when he shoved himself inside her. I had no choice.

But whilst he had contemplated doing the same to the girl beside him now, he had ultimately decided against it. She was ever so pretty. No more than twenty by the look of her, pliant and obedient to a fault. Euron said he had stolen her from the Lyseni, who had kept and trained her in their pillow-houses when she was just a young slave-girl. It showed. She was skilled in love, ever willing, never refusing him anything. And when Euron had told him that if he did not take her off his hands she would be killed, he knew he could not let his pride stop him from getting such a delicious prize. I took her from him, he told himself, though the thought rang hollow.

He pushed her off him. "Wine!" he bellowed. Obediently, silently, the girl stood, still dripping with his seed, and fetched him his skin. Victarion gulped the sour liquid down, sweating. He pulled the girl into his lap and kissed her, pushing some wine into her mouth with his tongue. She swallowed, some dribbling down her chin, and then he pushed her head down to his groin. Tongueless, she could not help her ineptitude, though he could not deny that she still put in a valiant effort with her lips alone, gagging and slobbering on his cock, taking it all the way down her throat. Victarion pulled her head off him and dragged her by her hair, throwing her back on the bed before plunging back into her for a third time, his fingers sinking into her breasts.

But even buried in her flesh, he could not distract himself from thoughts of what lay ahead. Euron had sent a dozen longships up the Mander to lure out the patrols into open waters, where the Iron Fleet could do proper battle. Those ships had yet to return. No word had come. Hell, for all Victarion knew, they may well have vanished. Yet Euron had still ordered the main force to sail ahead to the Shields, convinced they would still be able to conquer the isles. He had not been wrong. The wind was at their backs, billowing their sails, as it had been all the way from Old Wyk.

Euron and his wizards again, Victarion thought. Men whispered when they thought he was not around. Victarion was no fool. He knew what they thought. Euron had ordered the fleet to sail straight south instead of hugging coasts as was custom, and it had worked. The men had been awed by it. It was thought that the Crow's Eye had somehow curried favour with the Storm Gods as well as the Drowned God, offering up sacrifices to somehow appease them both.

The entire venture had been a stunning success. Greenshield, Greyshield, Oakenshield, and Southshield had all fallen with only a handful of losses. The keeps had either been surrendered by cowering septons or else been found entirely deserted. He had received no reports of slain knights or ravaged ladies. No reports of ships sunk or damaged in battle. There was something unsettling about that. Something vaguely sinister. It felt like a trap, like the Tyrells were using the Shields as bait.

But if this is a trap, Victarion asked himself, then who am I to stop the Crow's Eye from wandering in? He had contemplated killing his older brother after the Kingsmoot, after all. If I do not strike him myself, am I still accursed in the eyes of the Drowned God? Victarion feared the wrath of no man, but the gods... He had considered sending a killer after the Crow's Eye, but again he was struck in terror of the Drowned God. But this... was this indirect enough?

And yet, if Victarion suspected a trap, Euron likely already knew. It was his plan, after all. No, Victarion could not rely on the roses to dispose of his problems for him. He would have to find some other way. "Euron's blasphemies will bring down the Drowned God's wrath on us all," Aeron had told him, back on Old Wyk. Victarion remembered Lord Blacktyde's words. "Balon was mad, Aeron is madder, and Euron is maddest of them all."

Lord Blacktyde had tried to sail home after the Kingsmoot, refusing to respect Euron's claim. Victarion, with his damned habit for obedience, had cut off his exit with the Iron Fleet at Euron's orders, and the young lord's ship was seized, even as he was dragged naked before Euron and his mongrels and cut into seven parts. That was the service that had won Victarion the dusky woman as his thrall. The killing of his fellow Ironborn. The killing of his fellow captain.

Victarion finished with a grunt, pulling out at the last second, hauling her off his bed and pushing her to her knees on the floor, spraying the inside of the dusky woman's mouth with his seed, taking another gulp from his wineskin and spitting it into her mouth immediately after. She tried to get the doubtless vile mixture down, but a substantial amount of the murky liquid spilled out again onto the floor, staining her breasts and stomach. Victarion forced her head down, vengeful. "Lap it up," he ordered. "Not a drop of my seed is to go to waste." The girl obeyed, lips sucking and teeth scraping at the dirty floor, trying to lick without a tongue. For a moment Victarion imagined her humiliation as Euron's, imagined his elder brother on his knees, begging before him, kissing the earth he trod on. The image made his heart sing.

Victarion buckled his belt, lowering himself down to his haunches beside her. "I could kill him," he told her as she fruitlessly rubbed her face on the floor. His hand came down hard on her behind, leaving the beginnings of a deep bruise on her supple flesh. "I could kill your former master. Though to an Ironborn it is a great sin to kill your king, and a greater one to kill your brother. I could kill him with these very hands." He spanked her again, hard. She let out a little yelp of pain, eyes prickling with unshed tears. He spanked her savagely again and again, fingers probing her cunt and arse periodically between slaps as she worked.

Asha should have supported me when I'd asked, Victarion suddenly thought. With her voice behind him, he would be the one wearing the driftwood crown, not Euron. What had she been thinking? Even though she was Balon's spawn, and even though she had the Boy King's seal of peace, she must have known a woman stood no chance of sitting the Seastone Chair. Mercifully, she had at least had the good sense to flee after the Kingsmoot, slipping away with her meagre group of ships. Victarion shuddered to think what Euron would have ordered his mongrels to do to her had she stayed. The Crow's Eye spits on the gods, Victarion thought, just as I spit on his gift. He would think nothing of raping his own niece. Nothing of having her ripped apart like young Lord Blacktyde.

"Up!" Victarion commanded. The girl jumped to her feet. "You will clean yourself," he said, his hand grasping her roughly by the cunt and pulling her close. "I'll have you again as soon as I'm back," he told her, his other hand grabbing her face and making her gaze meet his. She nodded sharply, eyes wide with fear, and Victarion grinned and stroked her hair soothingly, almost lovingly, before letting her go. He snatched himself up a second skin of wine, then turned sharp on his heel, departed his cabin and clambered up the steps back onto his deck.

"Where are we?" he asked Nute, spying land in the distance.

"Lord Hewett's Town, Lord Captain," Nute answered. The castle loomed in the distance, scores of longships already moored in the harbour. At a quay were three great cogs and a handful of smaller ones for transporting back the plunder and storing provisions for the rest of the fleet.

"Drop anchor and get a boat ready," Victarion commanded. The men worked quickly and before he knew it he was ashore, the Iron Victory standing still in the sea behind him, rocking gently side to side, waiting patiently for his return like a leal wife. Ahead was Lord Hewett's Town, oddly still and silent. Smoke trailed up from some burning buildings, but most of the place looked unchanged. Doors had been broken down, to be sure, and the occasional corpse dotted the streets, but far less than Victarion would have expected from a settlement of this size.

Again, his gut twisted in anticipation. Victarion took another swig of wine to calm his nerves.

Lord Hewett's castle sat atop a small hill, the crest of the island, with thick walls and heavy oaken gates. Atop the towers the kraken of House Greyjoy flew, banners cracking against the stone as the wind flapped them. On the ramparts wandered ironborn with spear in hand, in the yard sparred ironborn with spears, axes, and swords. A feast was well underway by the time Victarion got to the hall.

Ironborn filled the tables, drinking and shouting and japing with each other. They boasted of the prizes they had won, seemingly so easily, and loudly wondered as to what conquests the future would hold for them. Every man was bedecked in stolen plunder. Long necklaces of pearls, tapestries torn off the walls and worn as cloaks, rings, armour, and all the like. They ate off plates of solid silver; glorious platters bedecked with only the finest that Lord Hewett's larders had to offer. Only the Reader sat unadorned, unmoved by the revelry, quiet in his corner with his little circle of followers.

I shall have to keep an eye on him, Victarion resolved. If he cannot be swayed by the Euron's conquests then he might well be willing to help me overthrow the Crow's Eye.

Women served the food, wandering from place to place with platters in their arms. They wore the clothes of servants, one and all; not a single highborn maiden to be seen. Many were red in the face. The rowdy ironmen had little regard for their modesty, no matter the age. Women as old as forty and girls as young as ten got the same treatment. Bottoms were pinched and groped and spanked, dresses pulled down to reveal ample bosom. One man was bold enough to cut away a girl's dress completely with his blade, leaving her bare. The men laughed and jeered as she was forced to stand and take it, squirming, eager hands wandering wantonly over her flesh, pulling and twisting and kneading.

Euron sat at the head of the hall, a cup of wine held loosely in one hand. He sat alone, without hostage. Lord Hewett, it seemed, was absent. He lifted himself from his seat as Victarion arrived, commanding silence as he rose. "I swore to give you Westeros," he said to the assembled captains, "and here is your first taste. Oh, a morsel for now, nothing more, but with much to come! What the kraken grasps it does not let go... These isles were once ours, long ago, and now they are again. The whole of the Reach lies before us! Yet we must not be sure to get ahead of ourselves. To hold our current conquests we will need strong men," Euron shot Victarion a look. "Men like Andrik the Unsmiling, Harras Harlaw, and... Nute the Barber!"

Nute's eyes grew wide as he balked. "Me...? A lord?" he asked, as though it was a cruel jape.

Victarion stood stunned. He had expected the Crow's Eye to give these isles over to his own creatures, but as he thought on it the horrible reality became clear. Andrik was the right arm of Dunstan Drumm. Harras the chosen heir to Harlaw. And Nute was - had been - Victarion's best man. His most trustworthy. Euron was consolidating his power.

A round of cheers went up for the newly appointed lords, cups banged on the table surface. When the tumult died, Euron spoke again. "We will sail again on the morrow, our fleet newly-laden with every scrap of provision we can strip from this land, and we will head east to win our dragons, leaving behind only those needed to hold these isles and secure our conquests. When we return, Westeros will be ours!"

"And when exactly is that, Your Grace?" the Reader asked, his tone cutting. He eyed his prospective heir balefully. "Your dragons are a world away, and autumn is already upon us, and winter not too long after that. The Redwyne fleet still guards the Reach coasts from the Arbor, the Dornish coasts are high and barren and lacking in many suitable landing sites and even less places where we might quickly plunder and take succour to replenish ourselves. And then sit the Stepstones, and the Free Cities, who are no friends to us. If a thousand ships set sail, no more than three-hundred might make it that far, and that will leave us dangerously weak. And that's just from depletion. What if we are struck by a storm, or run across an unfriendly fleet along the way?"

Euron smiled a thin smile, blue lips stretching disconcertingly wide. "I have taken the Silence on far longer voyages than this, and ones more dangerous. Or have you forgotten that I have sailed to Valyria, to the Smoking Sea?"

"Have you?" the Reader questioned, and the hall fell still at his gall.

"You would do well to keep your nose in your books, Lord Harlaw," Euron retorted, his tone dangerous at the insult. "As for the journey, you will note the women who walk between the tables in this hall. The price of flesh is rising, on account of Daenerys Targaryen's conquests in Slaver's Bay. Lys lies on our way, and the Lyseni are always willing to trade for slaves. From there we could replenish the holds of our ships. After thoroughly tasting the women we mean to trade, of course." His words were accompanied with a lecherous grin that was returned by many of the captains in the hall.

"So we are slavers now?" Victarion interjected. They took thralls, of course, but thralls were not slaves. They could not be bought or sold, only stolen. And the children of thralls were born as ironmen, free men. The ironborn were not slavers.

"Highgarden's close," one man suddenly said, half-drunk. "Slaver's Bay is far. Seems to me if we want gold we should go there."

"And Oldtown is richer, the Arbor richer still," another man chimed in. "With more beautiful girls than here."

"And better defended, too," Euron pointed out. "Much better defended. Already, ships mass in the Mander. It would be a foolish fight to pick, less quick conquest and more grinding siege. A fight more taxing on our fleet than any voyage east."

"A fight well worth it for the ripest fruit in all of Westeros!" one man bellowed. "If not Oldtown or Highgarden than at least the Arbor! We want the Arbor! The Arbor!" The other captains took up his call. "The Arbor! We want the Arbor! The Arbor!"

Victarion could not help the smile that came to his face at seeing Euron so thoroughly rebuffed. Almost every man seemed to agree with the sentiment that the Reach lay open to more raids. Victarion did not know if he was with them - Euron was likely right about the rest of the Reach itself being far better defended than the Shields, and the Shields themselves had been suspiciously poorly defended - but he wasn't about to gainsay them. The Crow's Eye let the cries wash over him, teeth clenched. Then he shook his head, arose from his seat, his smiling eye more black than blue, and departed the hall in a huff.

Victarion joined the feast with a grin, suddenly eager to sup with his fellow captains. They might have placed him on the Seastone Chair, he thought, but they will not follow him to Slaver's Bay. He shared a cup with Nute, showing that he did not begrudge the man his lordship, even though he had been improperly elevated above his captain. Victarion drank and drank, making merry with his fellow ironmen, harassing the girls. None of them compared in beauty or skill to the dusky woman waiting in his cabin aboard the Iron Victory, of course, but teats were teats.

Even as he sank into his cups, Victarion regarded the Reader with a close eye. Aye, he decided, a good ally indeed. Lord Harlaw had utterly humiliated the Crow's Eye with just a few softly spoken words. And whilst he was now old, and quickly becoming frail, the Reader's strengths matched perfectly with Victarion's weaknesses. The Drowned God may not have fashioned me for fighting with words, but perhaps he didn't need to.

But before Victarion could think on it any further, he was broken from his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. It was one of Euron's bastard mongrels, with skin the colour of mud. "My father wants words with you."

Victarion rose reluctantly from his seat. He followed the boy warily through the halls and up stone steps, the sounds of rape and revelry diminishing behind him. The chamber Euron had chosen likely belonged to Lord Hewett, at least judging by the elegant designs on the door. Victarion dismissed the boy, pressed his hand up against the patterned oak and pushed.

What greeted him on the other side of the door was unsightly, to say the least. Euron lay in bed, slouched against the headboard, insensate, bathed in moonlight that streamed in from the open window. There were two crossbow bolts lodged deep in his eyes, one going straight through his eyepatch, blood trailing down both his cheeks like tears and matting his beard.

Victarion took a tentative step forwards, a strange mix of dread and delight roiling his stomach, looming over his elder brother and reaching out to touch him, to confirm what he already knew.

The Crow's Eye is dead, Victarion thought.

And the Seastone Chair is mine for the taking.
------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 41: Reek

He would not run. He could not run.

I will deliver my lord that castle, Reek resolved. I will. I must.

The ruins of Moat Cailin were visible at a distance, obscured by mist. His horse jostled between his legs, rubbing his thighs. Reek did not mind it. He observed himself. For the first time in weeks, he did not stink. Lord Ramsey had gifted him not only fresh clothes, but the rare luxury of a bath in preparation for this task. But Reek could never forget how the past few weeks, months, or years had gone. Years? It can't be years, can it? Yet when he looked at himself he did not recognise what he saw. His hair had gone white. His cheeks were hollow to the touch, his forehead creased with wrinkles. He was missing his toes, forced to hobble when on his feet. I have an old man's hands, he thought. More skin and bones and half-healed scars than flesh.

Reek looked away from himself. He was too hideous to bear, well and truly worthy of his name. Fit only to inhabit the dungeon that he had called home for so long, drowning in darkness, with only Lord Ramsey and his games for company. Instead he turned his eyes ahead, to his task.

I've come this way before, a traitorous part of his mind thought, but Reek quashed it. That part of him had come to Moat Cailin atop a mighty steed, an army at his back, raging and ready to make war against the Starks, the banner of the kraken to back him in battle. The part of him that approached Moat Cailin now was on a sickly mule, carrying the standard for peace, not worthy of the title man. He was not even a dog. He was a worm; a worm in human skin, graciously given a new lease on life as a servant to Lord Ramsey.

The air was wet and heavy as Reek rode, little puddles dotting the patchwork of snow and dirt on the ground. Reek proceeded carefully between the puddles; already, he could tell he was being watched. He could feel the eyes prickling against his skin. He cast his gaze up from the ground, taking in the collapsed wall that was supposed to ring the fortress and the towers lying beyond. They were no much better: one straight with it's top shattered; another whole but crooked, threatening to topple; the third slimy with moss and infested with vines that had wormed their way into the mortar, cracking the stonework.

Pale faces peered down at him from all three. The faces of my people, the treasonous part of him again interjected. As he drew closer the road began to become lined with rotting corpses half sunken into the bog. Crows picked at their flesh, flies buzzed above. The corpses had long since bloated, pale and swollen. The sight reminded Reek of himself, of what he had become. The garrison won't recognise me, he thought. They knew Theon. But Theon was dead now, no better than those bodies slowly sinking into the bog. There was only Reek.

And yet, he thought, I must be a prince again.

"Stop!" a voice rang out, with a familiar accent. "What do you want?"

"Words!" Reek answered, his voice scratchy and uneven from disuse. "Peace."

Inside, Reek knew, the ironmen was likely discussing whether to admit him entry or to fill with arrows. It made no difference to him. A death like that would be a thousand times better than returning to Lord Ramsey a failure.

Then the gatehouse doors flung open.

"Inside!" a low voice hissed. "Hurry! Before they get you." It belonged to a lone ironman, half-dazed and crazed, hair wild about his head. A hand grabbed him and pulled him off his mule, then pulled him to his feet again. The familiar cold of steel was on him again before he knew it, a knife on his throat. "Who are you?" the man asked, sleep-deprived eyes wandering across Reek's face, red.

"I am ironborn," Reek lied, the words acid on his tongue. "Look at my face. I am Lord Balon's son. Theon."

"Lord Balon's sons are dead," the man said.

"My brothers, not me," Reek answered. "Lord Ramsey took me captive after Winterfell. I've been sent to treat with you. Who commands here?"

There was a moment's hesitance, then the blade was withdrawn. "Lord left Ralf Kenning in command, but he took an arrow in the belly and the bloat got him. Dagon Codd rules us now."

Codd... The name rang a bell in Reek's head. The Codds were not well regarded amongst the ironborn. The men were said to be swindlers and thieves; the women so wanton they spread their legs for their sons and fathers. It did not surprise him that Uncle Victarion had chosen to leave them behind.

"Take me to him," Reek commanded, affecting his best manners as prince. It felt forced, unfamiliar. Like a worm squirming in a man's shoes.

The man shrugged and sheathed his dagger. "This way, m'lord." The guard led him through a door and up a spiral stair, dusty black stone reminiscent of the walls of the dungeon in which Reek had been born. Hell, the only things missing were the rats scurrying across the floor. Moat Cailin was in the middle of a marsh, and from the stench in the air one could tell. The floor was damp; not quite slick but certainly rotted in places.

"How much of the garrison is left?" Reek asked as he hobbled after the man.

"Some, but not many," the man said. "Two of three towers is now unmanned. Most of us are dead and gone. If not from the fighting than by the disease. The water here isn't good, tainted. But that's why we have the ale."

Moat Cailin has already fallen, Reek realised. One more assault by Roose or Ramsey and it's all over.

The hall they eventually arrived it was high-ceilinged, drafty and made of dark stone. Only a single dull fire graced it with light, filling a hearth meant for much bigger flames. A dozen drinkers sat around a massive stone table, used in days past for grander feasts and gatherings than this sorry lot. The seat at the head was mine, once. His mind drew a blank as they turned to look. They were all strangers to him. The sons of thralls and salt-wives, most of them.

"Dagon Codd?" Reek asked.

"Who's asking?"

"Lord Balon's son," Reek answered. "Theon Greyjoy. Here at the behest of Lord Ramsey, who captured me at Winterfell. I'm here to treat. Lord Ramsey is prepared to be merciful if you offer your surrender before sundown." He pulled out the letter they'd given him and tossed it onto the table.

A man - presumably Dagon - scoffed. "Ironborn do not surrender."

"My lord's army lies to the north, his father's to the south. Even Lord Balon bent the knee when Robert Baratheon came. He knew if he did not he would have died. As you will if you do not accept my lord's terms." Reek gestured to the parchment on the table. "Give up now and my lord will grant you safe passage to Stony Shore. Read it."

Dagon rose to his feet and spat on the table. "I'm no craven. Dagon Codd yields to no man."

Reek felt his breath clench in his chest. If I fail now... The thought of what Lord Ramsey would do to him was enough to send piss running down his legs. "Is that your answer?" Reek asked through clenched teeth. "Does this one speak for you all?"

"Lord Victarion commanded us to hold, he did," one man said. "Hold here till I return, he told Kenning."

"Kenning's dead," another retorted.

Yes, yes! Reek leapt at the chance. "And my uncle is distracted elsewhere. He will not be returning. The kingsmoot crowned his brother, Euron, and the Crow's Eye has other wars he'd rather fight. You're on your own. My uncle won't come back for you. If he cared he wouldn't have left you behind. He thinks of you as the shit on his shoe. He scraped you off as soon as he could, and left you behind to fester."

The words struck home, Reek could tell. Perhaps a little too well. Dagon keened with wounded pride, a sneer stretching his face. "Liar," he said. "Liar, I call you. Why should we believe you?"

"Read the parchment," Reek retorted. "It's still sealed."

"If we yield, we walk away?" a man asked, leaning heavy on a crutch.

Reek nodded. "Lord Ramsey treats his hostages honourably, so long as they keep faith." He is kind, Reek thought. Kind to take my fingers and leave me my hands, kind to take my toes and leave me my feet. Kind to take my cock and not my balls. Kind to take off only little bits of skin, a piece at a time.

"Enough," Dagon snarled. "You are ironborn! Why are you all behaving like cravens? Begone now. Before I gut you and hang you by your entrails. Before-"

Dagon did not get to finish his threat. His words caught in his throat, then he toppled over, an axe jutting out of his back. Blood leaked from his mouth for a moment, bubbling on his lips with his breath, then he was dead. The man responsible merely shrugged. "I want to live," he said.

Reek afforded himself a painful smile. Lord Ramsey will be pleased with me. "Leave your weapons here," he told the men. "Anyone armed will be shot on sight."

With only a little grumbling their scabbards came off. Then they were down the steps, through the gates. Nearly sixty, all told. Nearly sixty of his men all behind him. Reek led them out the same way he'd come in, the path winding and narrow through the bog. The going was slow, and even Reek was painfully aware of how exposed they were. Even still, this was better than the alternative. Sixty men saved, Reek thought.

A rider came down to meet them. "Is this all?" he asked.

"All that are still alive."

"I thought there would be more," the man said, frowning. "We launched three assaults. They were all repelled."

We are ironborn, Reek thought, in a impetuous burst of pride that he quickly smothered. He was a worm, only a worm. Worms were not proud.

They arrived at camp with the barking of Lord Ramsey's hounds to announce their presence. Reek stumbled off his saddle and took a knee. "Moat Cailin is yours, my lord."

"So few," Ramsey said, shaking his head. "I had hoped for more. Stubborn folk. They must all be starved." Lord Ramsey gestured to one of his madmen with a cruel glint in his eyes. "Fetch some food and ale for them, will you? And show their wounded to the maester."

The gathered men quickly dispersed, and Lord Ramsey's gaze landed on Reek. Reek bowed his head and shivered. Ramsey's hand came to his neck, lifted Reek's gaze gently to meet his with fingers on his chin. He tutted. "Did they really take you for their prince?" He snorted. "What bloody fools these ironmen are. The gods laugh."

Reek felt a strange compulsion to defend them. "They just want to go home, my lord."

"And what of you, hmm?" Lord Ramsey asked. "What do you want? To be free, to go home like them?"

Reek shivered. "I am your Reek," he answered. "My place is by your side. If I must have a reward I would ask for wine, the strongest skin's worth that you have, my lord."

"Good," Ramsey softly intoned, patting his cheek. "You are my Reek. Don't worry, you'll get your wine. I'll even give you a special treat. We'll move you from the dungeon to the kennel, so you can sleep with my hounds. Would you like that, hmm? To be a dog instead of a worm?"

Reek nodded, and so it was. A collar was made for him, sharp leather with a trailing leash. That night a skin was thrown in with his dinner, a scrap of chicken the dogs got to before he did. But Reek did not care. The wine was sweet and sour and strong as promised. Even with the howling of the hounds beside him and the sounds of men screaming outside it was best night's sleep Reek had gotten in... months, most likely. By morning Reek was finally let out of the kennel, though only on his hands and knees. Lord Ramsey was off, he'd sent a letter down to his father to tell him that the road lay clear.

And yet, in spite his success, what little sense of happiness Reek had managed to scrape together lay in ruins. All around him his men were dead. They had been flayed, tortured by night. Now they lay scattered, missing heads and hands and eyes and long flaps of skin. They had been the screams he'd heard. Reek counted the bodies and mourned them quietly. Sixty-three. Seeing their corpses brought about in him a wave of rage he struggled to squash. They had surrendered. They had surrendered. They had surrendered to a worm, and the worm couldn't keep them safe.

Collared and chained and back in rags again, Reek was led forth after only a little while. Ramsey greeted them on the road, and together they watched Lord Roose's van come in, a thousand scruffy peasants, a hundred mounted knights to keep them orderly. A dozen wagons stuffed with provisions. And a man in smoky grey plate at the head. When he removed his helm it was not a face Reek knew, though when Lord Ramsey knelt it was obvious who he was.

"Father," Lord Ramsey greeted him. Lord Roose did not much resemble his bastard son. He was smooth-shaven, pale, with lips so thin that when he pressed them together they seemed to disappear altogether. Reek got the impression that Roose Bolton was not one for rage. He shared only Ramsey's eyes, but those eyes were ice, whereas Ramsey's were fire.

"Rise," he simply commanded. "Walk with me."

Reek stood still, till Ramsey tugged on his collar at his father's beckoning. And so the three of them set off away from the van.

"How are things here?"

"The North is ours," Ramsey boasted. "Winterfell is a ruin. Stark's little wolflings are dead. I saw to it myself."

"Surely you misremember," Roose shook his head. "You did no such thing." He glanced back at Reek. "Theon Turncloak, now dead, did that. You never laid a hand on their sweet little heads. Because if you had, how many friends do you think we'd have?"

Reek's head pounded. He felt suddenly sick. We dipped their heads in tar...

Lord Ramsey scowled. "We are lords of the North now. By the Iron Throne's decree. They are not our friends."

Lord Roose stopped in his tracks, cast his gaze over his son. "Sometimes I wonder whether you truly are my seed. Boltons have been many things over the years, but never before have we been fools." He started walking again. "We appear strong for the moment, yes. We have powerful friends in the Lannisters and the Freys. For now, at least."

"For now?"

"The king agreed to name me Warden of the North, but he has thus far failed to approve my request that you be named a Bolton."

Ramsey stood shocked. Shock turned to seething anger. "What?"

Lord Roose's lips parted to reveal a row of white teeth in what some might have called a smile. "Oh, it gets worse," he said. "Lord Stannis has left the Wall. Lord Arnolf tells me he marches west, though he knows not why. Karstark says he laid the perfect bait in the Dreadfort, yet Lord Stannis did not bite."

"Perhaps Karstark is more Stark than he lets on," Ramsey said. "But this is an opportunity. We ought to treat with Lord Stannis. If one king will not grant me my rights then perhaps another might."

"No, you fool," Roose said, emotionless yet exasperated. "Lord Stannis will do no such thing. Grant the North to the man who partook in the Red Wedding? Legitimise the baseborn son of the man who betrayed his liege lord? Do you know nothing? Our power rests in the image of Lannister power and the absence of a Stark for the lords to rally around. Those two things alone are all we have."

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Ramsey asked.

"You are supposed to wait," Roose replied. "Our hold is weak for now, but it can be strengthened. Slay Stannis and the Iron Throne will have no choice but to legitimise you."

"Then give me leave to lead the men and I will bring you his head," Ramsey almost begged.

"Stannis is with his army," Roose said. "Exhausted and depleted as my men are by a long campaign in the south, we would be fools to advance on him now. No. We must bring him to us. Build a trap, then lure him in."

"I thought we already tried that," Ramsey retorted.

"This time with bait he can't ignore. Winterfell."

Ramsey licked his lips, a sour look on his face. "I laid waste to that place. It's a ruin now."

"No, the ironmen laid waste to it," Roose insisted. "And in ruins it may be, but it is still the heart of the North. We should move our seat there. If I am right, Stannis will seek to gather support from the northern lords. We cannot allow that to happen. So we have to hurry him. If it seems as though we are tightening our hold, he will have no choice but to march. After all, if we can properly entrench ourselves then Stannis will be forced into a full war to remove us. He cannot afford that, not if he has any intention of taking the throne. Thus, a speedy war will be in his interest, to be able to capture the North before winter comes and march south before the Lannisters can entrench. One decisive victory won with overwhelming force. That will be Lord Stannis's plan. When he marches he will call his allies to come with him. All of them. Our friend Lord Arnolf Karstark included. Understand?"

Ramsey nodded reluctantly, jaw tight with rage at being rebuffed.

"Now go," Roose said. "And leave your pet with me. I'll have him."

"You'll have him?" Ramsey asked, indignant. "He's mine!"

"All that's yours is yours at my behest, boy. You best remember that. Now go. If you have not ruined him, he may yet serve some use."

Ramsey shot Reek a poisonous look before he let go of his leash and went back to rejoin the van. Reek felt like crying. Pain, that look had promised him.

Roose watched Ramsey walk away. "Tell me, does he truly think he can ever rule the North?"

"He fights for you, my lord," Reek blurted out, panicked. "He's strong."

"A bull is strong," Roose said, "but that does not save it from slaughter. I have seen him fight in the yard. He's ferocious, I'll grant, but not fearsome. He swings his sword like he's hacking meat."

"He's not afraid of anyone, my lord."

"He should be. Fear keeps you alive. Forces you to think. You should tell him that, next time you see him."

"To... To be afraid?" Reek felt a bolt of terror shoot through him. "My lord... If I do that... He'll..."

"I know, I know," Roose said dismissively. "His blood is bad. He has no temper. This rage, it is unbecoming of him. But I have no other choice. I had another boy, once. Domeric. A quiet boy, but most accomplished. A deft hand in the yard. Alas, he thought himself a man, desired a brother, and disobeyed me when I warned him against seeking out my bastard. A sickness of the bowels, the maester said. I say poison. And I don't think I have to tell you who I suspect for the crime."

"Lord Ramsey..." This felt dangerous, this discussion. As though Lord Roose was about to ask him to betray Lord Ramsey.

Roose nodded. "I have a new wife, now. A fat Frey one. Young, too. She has a fertile stench. I'm fond of it. But I expect Ramsey will see to any babes I sire upon her before long. My new wife may well weep to see them die, but I will not. I couldn't stop him even if I tried. Legitimised or not, he is my heir. My only heir. And I'd sooner leave my house to a bastard than a babe. Boy lords have been the bane of many a house in the past. It leaves them weak."

Reek nodded, his throat dry. He could hear the wind blustering off the leaves of the wood nearby. "My lord..." Reek licked his lips. "Why did you ask for me to stay?"

"Theon, yes?"

Reek felt his eyes widen, bowed his head, trembling with terror. "No, my lord. I'm Reek, just Reek."

"Yet you address me as my lord. Your betray your highborn heritage with your tongue. A peasant might say m'lord, as though it were one word."

"I'm Reek, m'lord. Reek. Please. I'm not the Turncloak. He died at Winterfell. I'm no highborn. I am not even a man. I am a worm. Just a worm, a quiet little worm."

"I mean you no harm, you know," Roose said patiently. "I owe you much and more. The Starks were done and doomed the moment you took Winterfell. All the rest of this is just squabbling over spoils. But you did the deed, Reek."

Reek stood silent, head bowed, shivering, unsure of what to say.

Roose stopped walking, observed Reek. "You helped me once, by taking Winterfell. Now you will help me again. And if you do, then I will help you."

"M'lord?" This is a trick, he thought. Lord Roose plays with you. The son is the shadow of the father. Lord Ramsay toyed with his hopes all the time, giving him respite one moment only to rip it away the next.

"Lord Stannis thinks to flank me from the west. Lord Wyman plots in the east. The Lannisters threaten to break faith with me in the south. On all sides, my enemies rear their heads..." Lord Roose looked Reek up and down. "You're too thin, too weak for war. Yet I hear you broke the siege as envoy, convinced the Ironborn to come willingly to terms, to their deaths. Is this true?"

Reek nodded hesitantly. "It is, m'lord."

"Good." Roose's eyes shone. "Then I might well have a reason to keep you from Ramsey."
-------------
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Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future
P.P.S. My work schedule is about to get busy for a little while, so apologies in advance if I don't upload as regularly as usual for the next few months.

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 42: Arianne II

He's killing himself, Arianne thought.

The king sat at the head of the table, leaned back in his seat, leading the small council. His eyes were red, ringed with dark circles that spoke of lost sleep. Bruises covered one half of his face, hard-won on the training yard. He looked dead, exhaustion seeping into his bones, bored beyond himself. I would be bored too, Arianne thought. She had intended to seduce him, to make him shed his scruples. But how does one lead astray a man so estranged from the very idea of pleasure? Neither boldness nor subtlety seemed suitable for such a task.

The queen had made a valiant effort, Arianne could admit. The court was slowly filled with jugglers, singers, minstrels, fools. The king had little patience for any of them. He much preferred the company of knights and maesters and septons - and always those of his own choosing. He seemed utterly repelled by the very notion of vice. Rarely did so much as a drop of wine touch the king's lips. And no matter how low the cut of Arianne's gown, the king's gaze was never cast her way. Neither lace nor sheer silk nor chiffon nor golden chains seemed to excite him. Not a single whore made her way to his bedchamber, nor a single coin to a brothel on his behalf. He had no mistresses, no midnight trysts or affairs. Nothing. If she hadn't known any better, she might even have thought him a sword-swallower.

And yet, if rumour was to be believed, the king and queen's private affairs had grown far less familiar, as of late. Did the boy feel no lust, no youthful urgings? It was one thing to be loyal, but quite another to be lustless. Was he not a man?

Tommen takes more after his Uncle Stannis than anyone else, Arianne mused. He even seemed to incite some of the same resentments. The king spends too much time counting coppers, the king is too pious, too stiff, too sanctimonious. Not that Tommen was dour in his dutifulness. He was easy to a smile, easy to a jape, and normally the Imp could be found plying him with one. Pleasantness suffused his manner. A fine pretence, Arianne had learned. A useful tool. One of the many in his arsenal.

"A thousand ships!" Lord Mace huffed. His fat face was red with outrage. "Your Grace, this must be answered fiercely!"

The king seemed unaffected by the news. "And so it will be, my lord. Rest assured, the ironmen will be forced back from your shores in due course."

"A thousand ships?" Queen Cersei asked, no doubt struggling to hide a smile behind her stern expression. It was not much of a secret, her loathing for the Tyrells. And with the Old Lion absent, she seemed more comfortable giving voice to her disdain. "Surely not. No lord commands a thousand ships. Some frightened fool must have doubled the number. Or else Lord Tyrell's bannermen are lying to us, puffing up the numbers so they don't look lax in their duties."

"It is not a word of a lie," the king interjected, before Lord Mathis could object to Cersei's words. "The Iron Fleet is a thousand strong."

"And how do you suppose we dispose of them, Your Grace?" the Imp asked.

"We do nothing," the king answered.

Lord Mace sat stunned, his jaw slackening. "Your Grace-"

Tommen held up a hand to silence the protests of Lord Tyrell. "Peace, my lord, peace. Rest assured that I understand full well the importance of the Shields. I have been preparing for such a eventuality for a long time. Or did you fail to note Asha Greyjoy's visit, Lord Tarly's departure from this council?"

Lord Mace seemed to struggle to swallow his tongue, even as he forced himself calm. "Still. A thousand ships. Only the Arbor has the strength to repel such numbers."

The king nodded his acknowledgement. "The kraken may well be mighty with it's many arms, but caught unawares it is naught more than an animal."

The Imp, as ever, caught on quickly. "A trap?"

"The Shields will serve well as a distraction, my lords," the king explained. "Bait. Lord Hewett is safe - at my behest, I might remind you - and so are his wife and daughters. Lord Tarly readies his men for a potential assault on the Shields as we speak - working in tandem with young Willas at Highgarden. The reserve fleet left at the Arbor by Lord Redwyne is being prepared by Ser Horas. The ironmen may be fearsome foes at sea, but on land they are lambs to the slaughter. And Lord Tarly was the only man who ever managed to hand my father a defeat in battle. Rest assured he will make quick work of them, and once he does we can push on to Pyke with ease, and stamp out the Ironborn threat from our shores once and for all."

"And what of Stannis?" Cersei asked. "Balon Greyjoy once offered my father an alliance. Mayhap his son turned his eye upon Stannis."

The king scowled. "Euron and Stannis? An alliance? Use your head, mother. Even if my uncle could stomach working with a pirate, what would Euron stand to gain? Stannis lacks the men needed to support the Crow's Eye in his endeavours. Not to mention that my uncle has his eye set on the throne. Most the realm loathes the ironmen. Stannis may be stubborn, but he's not stupid. He won't risk angering what few lords may still be thinking of lending him their support."

Cersei Lannister pursed her lips and flushed red at being rebuked, but fall silent she did. Her son has her house-trained, Arianne though amusedly. Like a disobedient cat. It was almost disappointing. Despite worming her way into the Lannister queen's confidences, Nymeria had not had much of anything to report. At least for the moment, it seemed as though Tommen had his spiteful bitch of a mother on a tight leash. "I see," she finally said, a sour look on her face.

Not that the matter was settled. Not by any stretch. The Tyrells would cause their own trouble in court, seeking to pressure the king to do more than he had promised, just as Cersei would wreak her own havoc to spite and frustrate their attempts. Trouble would be caused, rumours spread and tensions stoked, plots hatched and executed. Not for the first time, Arianne lamented being left out of the fray. Even here, as Dorne's voice on the council, I am an afterthought.

The king turned away from his mother. "Grandmaester, is there aught else?"

Pycelle cleared his throat. "There was a letter, Your Grace. From the Vale. The Lords Declarant have arrested Lord Baelish."

The king nodded and took a sip of water from his glass, hiding his mouth, but Arianne could swear she saw the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips. His gaze turned meaningfully in his mother's direction, and she inclined her head and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Another secret? Arianne thought. Even now, in the king's most inner circle, mystery shrouded every look. It was as intriguing as it was irritating. The king had a deft hand for secrets, she knew, yet after months of work Arianne was privy to precious few. So many secrets. How did he manage to keep them all straight in his head? "Do they have any more demands?" the king asked.

"Not as such, Your Grace," the Grandmaester said. "They merely demand justice for the murder of the Lady Lysa Arryn, for which they hold Lord Baelish responsible. They declare they have taken the Eyrie. I expect they are - in a subtle fashion - asking permission to execute him."

"Hmm."

"Is there anything you'd like done, Your Grace?" the Imp asked.

"The Vale is mountainous and readily defensible," the king said. "Any campaign in it would quickly become a bloody one. And I'm not keen to start a quarrel with these Lords Declarant over one such as Lord Baelish, to throw away the lives of honourable knights so carelessly. We'll make overtures to them for now. See if we can't usher the Vale back into the fold without violence." The king reached out into his doublet and drew out a letter. "Here, Grandmaester. To the Eyrie."

Pycelle accepted the letter with gnarled hands. "Of course, Your Grace." What use are these councils, Arianne thought, if the king has his mind made up already? Perhaps that was the problem. She had been approaching the king in the expected ways, trying to catch his attention. But even here, the king was akin to a mummer. With his guard raised, the pleasant look plastered on his face, she was doomed to fail, just as the new queen had. Working her way into Margaery's confidences had yielded little of any worth, though at least Arianne could comfort herself with the fact that it had not cost her much.

But if she could somehow catch him unawares, without any pretence to slow her way...

"If that is all, my lords, I would put an end to this meeting of the small council." The king rose from his seat when nobody objected. "You are all dismissed."

All around, the lords stood from their seats and shuffled away. Arianne stood when they did, then lingered. Thus far she had been little more than an observer in small council sessions, swallowing her instincts. Watching, learning, waiting - just as Oberyn had instructed. But her patience had withered as the weeks had passed.

"Is there anything you'd like to discuss, princess?" the king asked, quirking a lone eyebrow. "Given you have decided to stay in spite my dismissal?"

"I merely wished to inquire after your health, Your Grace," Arianne tactfully answered.

The king gestured to his young face, forcing a smile. "Just a little accident in the yard is all. I got a tad too enthusiastic. Worry not, princess, I've been chastised aplenty for my carelessness already."

Arianne shook her head, affecting sincerity and letting the seductive pretence drop, judging it the best path forwards. "Besides the bloody lips and bruises, I mean. Surely I can't be the only one to notice your eyes." A sudden surge of curiosity forced the question to her lips. "Is it truly such a burden? Ruling?"

The king snorted. "I imagine governing just one loyal kingdom would be easier than governing seven unruly ones. Don't worry, princess. It likely won't be so bad for you when you inherit. Though I can't help but think that a man like Doran makes it look easy."

"My father spends most his days doing nothing," Arianne complained, sighting an opportunity to arouse sympathy. "Consumed by gout. And that's assuming I inherit at all. If he meant to make me Princess of Dorne he would not have sent me here."

Tommen laughed. "Don't mistake his patience for indolence, princess. It is an easy mistake to make. But your father is less a cripple and more a coiled serpent, waiting to strike. And you shouldn't worry about your inheritance. Though I have it on good authority that your father means for you to be heir, it is best not to contemplate one's entitlements overmuch. The gods are fickle and play with us like toys. A simple turn of fate can rip your rights away from you without so much as a parting farewell."

"Then why work so much? Why not enjoy your time here whilst you can? Before the gods take you?"

Tommen seemed at first puzzled by the question, as though the answer was so obvious it did not need explanation, then assented to her inquiry with a shrug. "My father neglected his duties, and I don't think I have to tell you what happened next. A resentful wife, a mad child, a shattered realm, thousands dead with millions more threatened by famine and strife. I will have my share of enjoyment when I am dead and gone up to the heavens. Till then, duty will be my lot."

"You can cater to your duties and care for yourself at the same time," Arianne argued. "It will do the realm no good if you work yourself into an early grave, or else drive yourself mad. Even Jaehaerys had mistresses, fancies, entertainments."

"I have my books, my fishing, my martial training, my wife's company, and Tyrion's wit to keep me light," the king rebuffed her, waving away her concerns dismissively as he gathered up a sheaf of papers in his arm and turned to leave. "My enjoyments are different to yours; that does not make them any less enjoyable. This," he gestured to his face, "is merely temporary. The sleeplessness, the stress - it will all slowly pass as the realm settles."

"And if it doesn't?"

The king sighed, furrowed his brow even as his eyes met hers. "Then I will know I have failed, and that all my efforts were for naught. That I failed to save the lives and livelihoods of my subjects... That I failed to bring justice, peace, security, prosperity... I will die in painful disgrace of that knowledge, no doubt, my legacy torn to shreds and left to decay, my loved ones murdered and exiled and raped and enslaved, my body tortured into oblivion first by my enemies and then by the Seven Hells as well. A worse fate I could scarcely imagine." The king met her gaze unwaveringly. "Can you see, now, why I work the way I do?"

Arianne nodded silently, struck dumb, suddenly without witty retort or reply, disquieted by the king's description. So long as I have known him, His Grace has always had an artful way with words. But these were more than mere words, Arianne could tell, and they could hardly be called artful. Blunt was the better term. Blunt and brutal.

The king is being more honest with me now than he has ever been before, Arianne knew.

And then he was gone.

Arianne let free a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. How had he done that? Held her in thrall like that?

She shook off her uncertainties, her doubts, reassured herself even as she struggled to quell the vague sensation of unease rolling around her stomach. She left the small council chambers no more than a minute after the king, and wandered through the halls and passages of the keep in no particular direction for a while, almost in a daze, her mind still struggling with Tommen's words. Gods, she thought. To think he's no older than Trystane. At that age she had just stopped playing with her dolls and started growing real teats. Yet here was this boy, bearing what he thought was the weight of the world on his shoulders without complaint.

She walked and walked, and wound her way to the Tyrell queen, knowing that beyond the small council she was the only one who might have some insight into the Boy King's mind. And, perhaps, in the queen she sought the comfort of the company of one she had come to think of as a friend.

Arianne found Margaery Tyrell alone on an isolated balcony of the Red Keep, gazing out at a glittering ocean. That alone was strange enough. The young queen could almost always be found surrounded by a sizeable flock of ladies-in-waiting. Not even a single guard could be seen, the nearest having admitted her entry a door away. The little queen is not often keen to be alone. She wore a yellow gown, silk and lace, light and airy in spite the bracing evening breeze. Her hair was done up into elaborate waves that fell down her shoulders like water, topped with her crown. She nursed a cup of wine in her hands, deep in thought, occasionally eyeing the half-empty pitcher on the table.

"Your Grace," Arianne announced herself with a shallow curtsy.

"Princess," Margaery greeted her. "Please, sit. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Arianne accepted the seat. "I wished to ask what is troubling you, Your Grace."

The queen offered her a pleasant smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Nothing is troubling me."

Another secret. Arianne changed course. "I am gladdened to hear it, Your Grace. Though it is a lie, I am still gladdened to hear it."

Margaery shot her a look. "It is merely the Shields," she finally confessed. Another lie? "It pains me to hear my home is under attack, though I have full faith His Grace will help see the ironmen off before long, of course."

"Of course," Arianne agreed. "Though - and forgive me for saying so - I cannot help but notice His Grace seems a little more..."

Margaery nodded, averting her gaze, pulling at the hem of her sleeves. "The burdens of the throne are many."

Arianne shifted closer to Margaery, tentatively lifting a hand to her shoulder in comfort. The young queen seemed to tense at the touch, though she did not object. "So I hear. Yet as my own mother's fate taught me, so few seem to ask what happens to the wife when the husband suffers." Silence. "My mother and father fought fiercely," Arianne continued, "when they were together. About all manner of things. Small disputes festered and grew. Then my mother left."

"His Grace and I are not fighting," the little queen assured her.

Arianne softened her expression, rubbing the girl's shoulder soothingly. "I never said you were, Your Grace."

Margaery shook her head, relaxed with a sigh. "No, of course not."

"Yet something is bothering you," Arianne observed, pressing for an answer. She reached down and freshened the queen's cup from the pitcher, knowing the extra wine would help loosen her tongue. "Something besides the Shields."

Margaery lifted her gaze from the newly-refilled cup in her hands and met Arianne's eyes, brown irises staring deep. "How can you tell?"

Arianne shrugged, slid her arm around the young queen's shoulder, subtly pulling the pair closer together. "Call it instinct. I have grown fond of you, Your Grace. I don't like to see you sad."

A genuine smile graced her Tyrell features as she drank. "As I have grown fond of you, princess." She snorted, the slightest spark of playful mirth alighting in her eyes. "Your advances on my husband besides."

Perhaps all this effort has not been wasted after all, Arianne mused, letting the thought distract her from her own recently-felt unease. "I may have made advances on your husband, Your Grace, but only because I knew he would not accept them. Truthfully, he was not the one who caught my eye."

"Oh?" the queen asked, taking a sip of her wine to hide the slight blush in her cheeks. How many cups had she had? "Then who?"

The little rose begs to be plucked, Arianne thought. To be seduced, distracted, swept away from her worries, if only for a moment. "During your wedding men gave toasts to your beauty," Arianne said. "The greatest in all Seven Kingdoms, they said. Is it any wonder I find myself bewitched by your charms?"

"I am wed," she said, though the smile did not leave her face.

"King Robert took lovers, did he not?" Arianne asked. "I would be more than happy to share you with His Grace. To play the wanton. To play any character you would like, so long as I can have you."

Margaery's face adopted a mischievous look, her gaze drifting down Arianne's body. "His Grace would be most pleased, I expect," she said, pale fingers tracing the curve of Arianne's breasts over the thin fabric of her dress. "Though your charms are somewhat less subtle than mine." Arianne felt her heart inflame with desire. She leaned forwards, and the queen succumbed. Lips met lips, and Arianne took the offensive. The kiss was tender, patient, almost prudish. Hesitancy laced the little queen's manner, but Arianne swept her doubts aside, leading the relentless forward march.

Soon enough, the queen was flushed, giggling, biting her lip. Arianne kissed her shoulders, her nose, her cheeks, her neck. All the while, she kept an eye to the entrance of the terrace, careful not to be caught in her daring. Yet something was suspicious about this. The queen's blushes were too obvious, her hesitance too fragile, her manner just a tad too eager once the dam had broken. Is she bored with her husband? Arianne knew she would have been bored, being married to a man like Tommen Baratheon. All his charm could not change the mundanity of the life he had seemingly chosen to lead.

Or maybe she is just a slut, Arianne thought, and kissed the queen again, fingers slipping down to the neck of the queen's gown and pulling it down to reveal the curve of her shoulders and breast, a health pair the size of apples resting upon a rib-lined chest. The queen returned the gesture, tugging at Arianne's gown to let free her teats. Arianne smiled and worked her way down, leaving a trail of kisses down the queen's neck to the valley between her breasts, gently caressing the little queen's curves, lifting the queen's skirt and sliding her palm up Margaery's slender legs, her efforts rewarded by little moans and shudders.

And then, under the weight of her ministrations, the queen stiffened. Arianne quickened her motions, anticipating an oncoming release, only for the little queen to reach down and hurriedly push her away. Arianne retreated, puzzled, looked up and saw the queen with her head turned. Arianne turned her gaze to where Margaery looked, and saw the king standing silently, watching them.

"No, please," he said, tone utterly flat, dangerously unimpressed, eyes locked on his wife, "don't let me stop you."

"Your Grace," the queen pleaded, pulling up her dress with trembling hands. "I went too far into my cups, we both had-"

"Don't," he interrupted her. "Just don't. Drunkenness is no excuse, not for a queen. Did you tell her anything?"

Margaery shook her head insistently. "Nothing, I swear it."

"I can't honestly say I'm surprised by this. Very little seems to surprise me these days..." His face took on a contemplative quality. "But I am disappointed. Your grandmother extolled your virtues to me. I expected better. I thought..." He shook his head in dismay. "My father strayed so often from my mother's bed that it turned her bitter. She was not always the way she is today. I swore when we wed that I would never do the same."

"There is a difference between straying and sharing, Your Grace," Arianne interjected, letting go of her restraint. She knew part of her breasts were brazenly exposed, that her hair was tousled in a torrid way. This was her chance, the best she was likely to get. "And I doubt Her Grace would mind much if you took a paramour. I could give you both much pleasure if you'd allow me. You might think it strange, but in Dorne it is perfectly natural."

The king turned his gaze to her, his eyes alight, lingering for the first time she could remember, considering her with his head cocked. "I can see that," he finally said.

"I wouldn't mind at all," Margaery chimed in. "The princess is a... talented woman."

The king's gaze drifted back to his wife. "I am sure she is," he tepidly agreed. "Yet I won't sire a bastard, and I'm not eager to catch some pox. What of our vows? I don't know about you, but I swore mine not only before the realm but before the gods as well. Such oaths are not so easily broken. And then there's the political risk. How do I know this isn't what Doran wanted to begin with? To place a spy in that most private of places - my bed? Why do you think I ignored her advances for so long? Do you think I simply didn't notice her manner? Do you think I had no urges or indecent thoughts? No desires of my own I knew better than to indulge?"

"I'm not a spy," Arianne said, feigning offense at the accusation. "You don't have to share your secrets to share your bed. Nor am I some whore. I don't have a pox. And, if it'll please Your Grace, I am more than happy to partake in moon tea."

"Quiet, girl," he bit out, though the look in his eyes and the growing bulge in his breeches betrayed him as he advanced. Arianne felt elated. After all this time, she finally had him! "You have overstepped your bounds. Just be glad you're a woman, and a princess at that. If you were a man I'd have you flogged and gelded for your gall. Remember the Baratheon words."

"You can punish me another way, if you'd like," Arianne said with a wanton leer, her confidence slowly growing. "If it'd satisfy your fury." This king is all roar and no rage, she reckoned. He fancies himself too honourable to do me any real harm.

The king slapped her. Arianne maintained her leer, letting it curl into a daring smirk as she met the king's gaze. Tommen seemed to contemplate hitting her again, ardour and anger briefly making war on his face. Instead he retreated a step, let out a long-suffering breath and loosened himself.

Cold emerald callouses flanked the king's nose in place of the furious green of wildfire that had marked his features just a few moments ago. Only the slight unease in his stance hinted at any underlying emotion. The king's guard had been raised, his true feelings pushed down. His gaze locked on his wife, firmly ignoring Arianne. "I have more important issues to tend to than this. For the next week you will sleep alone. Should anyone ask, I will say I am too sore from the yard for love. I trust in that time you will be able to stay decent?"

Margaery nodded.

"Good," the king said. "This... incident, will not be forgotten, but if you can stop yourself from similar transgressions in future, then perhaps it can be forgiven." His gaze then swung over to Arianne, uncertain. "As for you... You best count yourself lucky I am not eager for scandal. I'll even allow you to continue meeting with my wife, if only to spare myself from the rumours. I warn you now that my patience for these antics wears thin. I mislike having to waste my time working against those meant to be my allies. You might well be an alluring woman, princess, a tempting prospect, but I'm afraid a prospect is all you'll ever be to me."

"Of course, Your Grace," Arianne acquiesced, bowing her head and making a show of reluctantly lifting up the front of her gown, hiding a small smile at the king's confession as he turned and stiffly strode away.

I'll haunt his thoughts tonight, she knew. No need to rush. Tommen won't soon forget the sight of me. Of us.

Arianne turned to offer Margaery a reassuring smile.

Just like his queen, the king wants to succumb.
-------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite in the future.

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 43: Jon V

Eastwatch or the Shadow Tower, Jon assumed, yet when he flipped it over the wax was gold rather than black. Stannis.

Jon cracked the seal and unfurled the parchment, casting his gaze over the script.

Stannis has taken Deepwood Motte. Though the Watch was sworn to take no sides in any conflict in the realm, Jon could not help but feel a swell of impotent satisfaction. The North is slowly warming to his cause, in spite the wildlings in his ranks, as they flee the Boltons and Greyjoys.

But for every bit of good news, there was bad. Lord Roose makes for Winterfell with all his strength.

Jon read the king's letter once more, then set the parchment down on his desk, watching it curl back up with trepidation as soon as he released it's edges. He could not be certain how he felt about what he'd just read. That a battle should be fought at the seat of House Stark without so much as a single Stark present felt wrong to him, almost tantamount to sacrilege. It was a painful prospect to entertain, that his childhood home might become the site of a bloodletting.

He wondered, for a moment, how many men Stannis could rally to his cause. Even ruined, Winterfell's walls and towers would confer a considerable advantage to any defender. Doubtless, Lord Roose would move to repair and reinforce his newfound redoubt, and Stannis's task would become harder still. If it were up to him, Jon might have changed his prior stance to advise speed and surprise over strength. Denying the Boltons the chance to rally and fortify was more important than matching their numbers, exhausted by a failed campaign in the south as they were. Else Stannis would have to raise a massive army, and spill an equally massive amount of northern blood.

Doubtless, that was the Boy King's intent. He must have known, as Jon did, that his uncle was a deliberate and careful commander, not given to the sort of daring boldness of his father. He must have known that such a battle would further deplete the north's already-limited capacity for war and peace alike, leaving it ripe for conquest.

A thinly-spread population scattered across rugged terrain might have shielded the North from any army lacking dragons, but it made the prospect of a peace enforced by grain and gold all the more likely. With much of the North's food stores depleted, and winter now doubtless looming large in the minds of many a northern lord, it did not take much imagination to see how the Boy King might make his approach. And if the tone of Tommen's letters were anything to go by, his lack of lingering resentments against the Stark name made his task all the more easier. His youth worked to his credit there. All around him were corpses and cripples and old men, ready to accept the blame for strife and slaughter.

No matter who won the Boy King would emerge stronger. An enfeebled House Bolton would not be able to resist his encroachment. Ironically, in their bid for independence from House Stark, the Boltons would wind up being slaves to an even more controlling master. Conversely, a weakened Stannis could not seriously threaten the south. And the northern lords - under threat of starvation - could be expected to betray Stannis with sufficient enticement. Some of them likely already had.

With the Riverlands subjugated, and the Reach and the Redwyne fleet under the Boy King's thumb by means of his wife, the prospect of aid from the south or from across the narrow sea for Stannis dwindled into nothingness. Short of the interference of the gods themselves, his cause was all but doomed.

It was only a matter of time.

In one effortless stroke Tommen Baratheon would subjugate an entire kingdom and eliminate a rival claimant to his throne. A feat worthy of the histories indeed.

When Jon had been a young boy, his hero had been another boy king. The young dragon, Daeron Targaryen, who at the age of fourteen had had the courage to launch and complete a conquest of Dorne. In his games with Robb, Jon had always been the young dragon, leading men to glory. Yet now he was a man, leading the Wall itself, and there was not an ounce of glory or daring to be seen. Only the dull, difficult reality. How did power do that? Suck the daring from one's soul? Suck the defiance, leaving only a cold, exhausted determination in it's wake?

Had Daeron conquered Dorne as Tommen planned to conquer the North? With cynical schemes and trickery? By sowing division and doubt? Had the histories lied?

Jon rubbed his eyes tiredly. The cold had intensified in recent weeks, and even the flames in his hearth seemed to shrink away from it. The snowfall had at least been mercifully light, even as the wind blustered past the Wall and through Castle Black, whistling between the gaps in the stonework. He had worked his way roughly through half the stack on his desk, writing out replies to most letters with orders or suggestions or supplications. His wrist ached. His head swam with bitter secrets and sweet lies.

Salvation came only in the form of more work. A knock on the door, three sharp raps in sequence.

"Come in," Jon called out.

In shuffled the steward, the septon and the maester-to-be. Bowen Marsh looked cautious, Jon could tell, perhaps a tad irritated. Septon Cellador simply seemed dishevelled; confused and unbalanced with his vestments rumpled. Only Sam had a friendly look about him, marred somewhat by a little frown.

"King Stannis has taken Deepwood Motte," Jon began.

Bowen's lips pursed with displeasure. "On your advice, my lord?"

Jon cocked his head in thought. "I offered a suggestion."

"Need I remind you who feeds us, my lord? The Iron Throne surely will not like this. And what of our neutrality?"

"You need not remind me of our neutrality. I know it well. And, I assure you, the Iron Throne knows and does not care." Bowen did not seem convinced by that half-truth - more confused, if anything - but at least he seemed to be willing to let the matter drop for the moment. "Now, why are you lot here?" Jon asked, eyeing Sam, who could only shrug.

"The men have concerns, my lord," Bowen began.

"The corpses?" Jon guessed.

"They make us all uneasy, I think," the septon said. "Some of the rangings you sent out have already come back with live wildlings - and we all understand why you elect to keep them. But to keep two wildling corpses locked up? And to keep them guarded besides? Surely that is a waste of good steel, unless..." Septon Callador trailed off, pale at the thought.

"Unless you mean to make them rise into wights," Sam finished for him.

Jon could only nod.

"Seven save us," the septon muttered, trembling, incredulous. "These wights are abominations, cursed in the eyes of the gods, both Old and New. Did the Red Woman put this mad notion in your head? You... you cannot mean to speak with them? Like she does with her flames?"

"Can they speak?" Jon asked, directing the question to Sam.

"Not so far as I know," Sam answered with a grimace. "Not the wights, at least. Not according to the annals. The walkers themselves..." Sam could only shrug.

"Hmm," Jon nodded. "In any case, Septon Callador, I do not intend to converse with these corpses. You might have noticed the Iron Throne's support for our cause in recent months. They have wizened to the threat posed by the walkers. But the Boy King is clear that his power is limited. Lord Tywin still governs much of the martial power in the south, and he will not be budged by words and stories. The same is true of all the other lords. They require proof before they will be moved. Especially after war has bled their coffers and killed many of their knights and levies. They need to be convinced the threat is imminent and sufficiently dire. The need to be convinced the threat is real."

"His Grace needs a wight," Bowen realised. "A live wight."

Jon nodded. "And unless you want me to send out men to go and catch one, the Ice Cells are the best solution I have." Stunned silence followed his statement. Not even the septon seemed to have a response to that. Only Sam seemed unsurprised - and that was because he already knew. "Anything else?"

"Is it on the king's advice you wrote Cotter Pyke?" Bowen abruptly asked.

Jon studied his steward's face. "Who told you?"

"I guessed when I heard the ships had set sail, my lord," Bowen said. "Cotter's focus has been to the south for some time now, my lord. Protecting the waters from pirates and raiders from both sides of the narrow sea. For him to go north is not unheard of, but it would require good reason when our ports are so busy with southern ships laden with food, men, and dragonglass. And to make for Hardhome, of all places." Bowen shook his head.

His emphasis on the name was hardly unjustified. Hardhome had gone halfway to civilisation - the only settlement north of the Wall truly worthy of the word - till calamity had struck some six-hundred years ago. The tale was always murky, and changed with every retelling. It's people had either been sold into slavery across the narrow sea or slaughtered for meat by other wildlings or - more worryingly - killed to fill the ranks of the army of the dead. Only devastation tied each version of the story together.

That, and the fire. Whoever or whatever had wrecked the place had decided to leave nothing behind. The ensuing blaze had been so bright that it was said to have looked like a second sun had risen over the horizon from the north to the men patrolling the Wall. Ashes had fallen with the snows for months afterwards - some said as long as a year. Traders reported only a hollowed-out ruin, charred with blackened corpses choking the waterways and entire woods reduced to cinders.

The wild had long reclaimed the place, but it was still considered cursed. Haunted by ghouls and demons of all-too-familiar descriptions, or so it was said.

If the ice cells failed to bear fruit, then perhaps Hardhome might.

Jon licked his lips. "More interesting news came with the live wildlings than with the dead ones. They speak of a woman - a witch. One blessed or perhaps cursed with visions of salvation. Word is she thinks that the wildlings will find salvation where they once found slaughter. Thousands seem to think so too."

The good septon seemed to have regained some of his constitution. "Salvation comes only with the Seven. This witch has led them to ruin."

"And we will lead them away," Jon retorted. "Hardhome sits on a sheltered bay and has a natural harbour deep enough to float the biggest ships. Wood and fish are plenty there. There are caves nearby, Cotter tells me. Caves that might shelter the wildlings long enough from the winds and snow for salvation to arrive. Who knows, septon, you might even have the chance to save some souls?"

Septon Callador bristled, but ultimately kept his peace. Bowen did not seem best pleased, but he at least seemed to defer to Jon's judgement. They both knew that the alternative - that these wildlings would die and join the ranks of the dead - was worse. "At least we can feed them," he finally said, in a gruff tone. "If only barely."

"It gets worse," Jon said. "I didn't just send Cotter north, I plan to send Val as well."

"King Stannis's prize princess?" Sam asked. "Why?"

Jon nodded. "She promises to bring back Tormund, and any he has managed to rally to his cause."

"And you believe her?" Bowen asked, almost incredulous, his tone bordering on outraged.

"I do," Jon said. "She knows better than most that to stay beyond the Wall is to wither and die. Her prospects are better down south with us."

"And if she meets with misadventure?" Bowen pressed. "I can't imagine King Stannis would be best pleased if his prisoner dies."

"If she falls or falters, and if Stannis succeeds in his campaign through the north and returns to the Wall in good enough time, then you might well wind up with a new Lord Commander. Till then, my decision stands. I trust you will all be good enough not to share this information with any of Stannis's people till after Val has departed."

"If she succeeds... That's hundreds, maybe thousands more wildlings," Bowen warned.

"That's thousands less wights," Jon corrected him.

Bowen's face soured. "Some might call it treason. We release a king's hostage to get back wildlings we can barely afford to feed and scarcely afford to house. Rapers, raiders, and savages barely capable of speech."

"Tormund Giantsbane is none of those things," Jon said. "I can vouch for that much."

Bowen met Jon's words with impudent silence.

"And as for housing them," Jon said, turning his gaze on Sam, "I trust the repairs to many of our derelict keeps and forts are proceeding at an appropriate pace."

Sam nodded. "Most of the keep at the Nightfort has been restored. Queen Selyse and her men ought to be moving in soon. And, from what some of the builders tell me, Long Barrow is ready to be manned. Greyguard is coming along, though it'll be years before it's fully repaired. Not ready for a large permanent garrison yet, but perhaps soon. The garrison at Westwatch-by-the-Bridge report the fort is serviceable. If my lord permits, I would expand it. Same for Icemark, Sentinel Stand, Stonedoor, Greenguard, Rimegate, and the Torches. Each keep has only between twenty and thirty men as of now. Enough to keep watch, perhaps, but not enough to defend."

"And the rest are not serviceable?" Jon asked.

"Deep Lake, Sable Hall, Queensgate, and Oakenshield all lie in ruins. They could be garrisoned, but to repair them fully would be a life's work. From what I can tell, among the keeps, the only remaining that might be quickly repaired into a useful state are Hoarfrost Hill and Woodswatch-by-the-Pool. Yet we lack the builders to even start this work, much less complete it in a timely manner."

"My lord," Bowen interjected, worry furrowing his brow, "surely you cannot mean to stuff our ranks with wildlings? To cede more than half our forts to them?"

"Some, or perhaps many, wildlings will join our ranks. This I won't deny. But most those numbers, I expect, will come from the south. King Tommen's gifts to us. Small companies of them, led by veterans of the Watch. Hard men, who can be trusted to keep order among the newcomers."

"Southerners and wildlings will struggle to work together," Bowen warned. "And we might well be lacking in such men, after losing so many to rangings and Mance's assault."

"We'll make do," Jon rebuffed him, though internally he knew Bowen was likely right. "As for builders," Jon said, turning to Sam, "might I suggest using the wildlings? They have hands and can follow orders. And it would certainly be safer than giving them weapons, or else leaving them alone to stir up trouble. The Lord of Bones is my vassal among them. I think he can be trusted to keep those more unruly of his fellows in line."

Sam inclined his head in thought. "I don't know if the builders would be happy with that. It might cost us more time to have them watch over unskilled labourers than to just let the builders work on their own. But I'll be sure to speak them, ask if anyone needs an extra pair of hands."

Jon nodded in understanding. "If that is all, then you have my leave to go."

The trio arose from their seats, and left the way they came without another word. Jon sat in his seat for a long moment, just staring at the door. He waited till the ache in his hand had subsided, then continued with his letters, letting the hours pass. That night Jon slept fitfully, having taken dinner alone. His head pounded. His gut writhed with nervous serpents.

The next morning he awoke early, before the first light. Jon hauled himself from his bed, his stomach rumbling, and donned his furs. Down the steps he went, till he emerged into the darkness. Most of the men would still be asleep at this hour, save the unlucky few charged with watching Castle Black through the night. Yet the quiet afforded to him at this hour was best not wasted. The sun would soon loom over the horizon, and Val would be forced to wait another day to make her escape.

He mounted his horse and set off on the ride north to the Wall, casting eyes around before he did so. The Red Woman had a habit for wandering around in the dark and cold, appearing in unexpected places at oft-inconvenient times. He rode hard and made quick time, running his mount at a canter. The daylight had not yet fully begun it's advancement by the time he arrived, just a purple smudge on the horizon.

She awaited him by the gate in the cold, wrapped in a bearskin so large it made her look rounder than Sam. A half-blind horse was beside her, shaggy-grey and not quite yet dead. Both gelding and girl had breath that frosted in the air, filling it with mist.

"You have enough food?" Jon asked.

Val patted a saddlebag with a gloved hand. "Hard breads and cheeses, oat cakes, all sorts of salt-meats, and some wine. I'll not starve, even if times may turn lean." She eyed Jon warily. "I swear, Lord Snow, that I will return. With Tormund or without him."

"I should hope so," Jon said. "Else it'll be my head."

Val nodded, and together they set off. The road beneath the wall was winding, narrow and cold enough to freeze one's feet. The gates opened one by one, the guards offering a curt bow to Jon but openly gawking at Val. When they emerged on the other side, Val paused to gaze at the land before her. There was the snow-covered plains that just a few months ago had played host to Mance's army, and then the haunted forest beyond. Jon turned to look at the girl.

Val's golden blonde had turned silver in the dying light. Her cheeks had turned the colour of milk in the cold. Her gaze looked worried. Scared, almost.

"You need not do this, my lady," Jon said. You staying might save my head, Jon thought, though he knew that was not the real reason.

Val laughed. "You take me all this way before the light of the morning and then offer me mercy here." She shook her head, taking a bracing breath, letting a chuckle blend into a stoic courage. "No. I will not leave Tormund to die. It is not so bad, anyways. I know those woods better than any black-cloaked ranger. It holds no ghosts for me. And the air tastes sweet besides."

Jon's tongue felt numb and dry. "All I can taste is cold."

"This is no cold," Val said. "When the Others come, when it hurts to breathe, then it will be cold."

Jon nodded, sobered by the thought.

"You have my thanks, Lord Snow. For the supplies, the blades beneath my fur - both the steel and the dragonglass - and for the taste of free air. It is good to be away from the Red Woman." Val's look soured. "I don't trust her. Fire is a fickle thing. Nobody can know which way it'll blow."

"I'll be sure to keep an eye on her," Jon said. "And you don't need to thank me - bring me the Giantsbane and I'll consider us even,"

Val smiled and cast her eyes again out to the forest. "This is farewell, then." She looked back at Jon, their breaths mixing into mist in the air between them.

Jon felt the temptation, the urge there. Not since Ygritte had he looked at a woman this way. He could not help but note her features. Had Stannis made his offer here and now, Jon didn't know if he would have been able to refuse. Winterfell and this woman. But that notion lay buried beneath dark thoughts and the stiff chill and the hunger growing in his belly. He let the moment slip away, not trusting himself, and simply nodded his assent. "I'll watch for your return."

Val almost seemed disappointed. She nodded back, mounted her horse, wheeled it's nose north, and set off at a trot.

Jon watched her go, letting the worries leave his mind for a moment.

He watched her shrink in the distance.

He watched as the woods swallowed her whole.

And before he turned back, he offered the Old Gods a silent prayer for her safe return.
---------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 44: Sansa III

Sansa could not help but flinch when the blade fell.

That Petyr would be executed had not been in doubt for days. His trial had been swift, and his conviction unanimous. Not even his supposed allies dared stand with him. His attempts at convincement fell on deaf ears. One by one, all those whose favour he'd worked so carefully to win turned around to condemn him. Neither Nestor nor Lothor spoke up to object on behalf of their employer. The murder of a Vale lady could not be so easily forgiven, would not be so easily brushed aside.

Not by the Vale lords. Not by her.

Yet his more desperate pleadings of innocence still rung in her ears. He's a liar. A liar. A liar and a murderer. Not that she'd minded when he'd murdered Joffrey. Not that she'd even really minded when he'd killed Lysa. Aunt Lysa was going to push me through the Moon Door. Both times, Petyr had acted to protect her.

Sansa felt sick. Shame and rage and fear and sorrow swirled within her.

Yet she was too far gone now for regrets. Even as her gut clenched and writhed and her heart raced so fast she thought it would run out her chest, Sansa stood fast and joined the chorus in condemnation. She had no choice. She had committed herself the moment she'd uttered those first tearful, thoughtless words. It was him. Even as she secretly wept in her chambers till it felt like her eyes would fall out. Even as she kept Arya's letter tucked tight to her breast like an invaluable treasure. Hoping with all that she had that the last bit of family she had left in this world wasn't a well-crafted trick.

When she closed her eyes, she saw Petyr, gaze chock full of longing, eyes red with the pain of betrayal, rage bubbling in his gut, heavy irons about his wrists. He only wanted to fuck you, Sansa reminded herself. Because you looked like your mother. He wanted to make you a whore. To rape you. Like Jeyne.

It was that thought that allowed her to keep her stomach as they dragged Petyr off into the cells, a doomed man.

Yet the method of his demise was hotly debated. Many advocated for the Moon Door, for him to suffer the traditional fate of scoundrels in the Eyrie. The same fate he had condemned Lady Lysa to. But the letter, arrived by exhausted raven at the eleventh hour, had sealed his fate. The king demanded his head.

The task fell to Lord Yohn. It was his hand that did the deed. The head was quickly collected and buried away in a wicker basket, out of sight of Sansa's churning stomach, and the discussions promptly began as all the Lords Declarant retired to the solar. The chattering began as soon as the men were seated, and Sansa listened half in a daze as she tried to force the image of Petyr's head from her mind.

He's not father, she had to remind herself, though for a while he'd been as good as one to her. He's not father. And Lord Yohn is not Joffrey. It was no use. Only a distraction could quell her unease.

"Are we agreed on the issue of succession?" Lord Yohn asked.

"Of course," Lord Belmore wheezed. "We all knew you'd be Lord Protector in any case."

Lord Yohn nodded gratefully. "Till Lord Robert comes of age."

"And you'll have the privilege of raising our young lord, eh?" Lord Hunter cracked a smile. "Any luck and the young Lord Robert Arryn will think of you the same way Robert Baratheon thought of his foster father."

"That brings us neatly enough to the issue of the crown," Lady Anya interjected.

Lord Horton Redfort huffed, shook his head and scowled. "What of it? We ought not be bending the knee to that boy on the Iron Throne. Stannis is the one true king."

"Stannis is all but beaten," Anya said, shaking her head. "Winter will hit the North harder than anywhere else. Even if Stannis is victorious against the Boltons, it doesn't mean his cause is hopeful. The Iron Throne has Arya Stark-"

"And we have her sister," Horton pressed.

"Aye," Yohn ground out. "But the Iron Throne has food and supplies as well. Enough to avert famine. When he offers the northern lords a choice, who do you think they'll choose? We might have avoided the worst rigours of war, and our stores may be full to bursting enough to feed us, but add the burden of another kingdom's worth of mouths to that and I think you'll find our larders quickly run dry. And the northerners get a Stark either way. No. The Boy King offers us forgiveness. We would be wise not to spurn it. That does not mean we need make common cause with Lannisters, but we are better off not making them our enemies yet."

Lady Anya nodded sagely. "Glad to see you've got some sense."

"And then there's the question of how he knew," Sansa spoke up, the words bubbling up to her lips. She had been preparing for this moment the second she had laid eyes on the letter.

All eyes turned to her. "Knew what, dear?" the Lady Anya Waynwood asked.

"That Petyr killed her. Only I, Marillion and Petyr were there when it happened. We told nobody else. Petyr made certain of it. So how did he know?"

The lords shared an uneasy look. "You mean you think he has spies? Someone else, who saw?"

Sansa shrugged. "If he has reach enough to know such a tight secret, I'd think he'd have reach enough to know whatever plans you all make."

"Do you think King Tommen capable of such a thing?" Lady Anya asked, leaning forwards with interest.

"I think Lord Tywin, or else Lord Tyrion, capable of such a thing," Sansa said. "I know not if Tommen is their puppet or another of their ilk. We got along well enough when I was at the capital. He seemed the quiet type to me. A little childish. Not entirely unlike Lord Robert. Good-hearted, I thought. Kind."

Lord Yohn lifted a gnarled hand to scratch his beard and nodded. "All the better we should make overtures whilst we have the advantage."

Sansa took a deep breath and steeled herself. "And you have the perfect envoy, too."

Lady Waynwood's look turned incredulous as she caught Sansa's meaning. "Have you gone mad, girl?"

"Tommen knows me," Sansa put in for her defence. "He likes me. And he has my sister. I have to go back."

"They could kill you," she retorted.

"Then let them," Sansa said. "Better House Stark should die with me than live on a shadow of it's former self. And I am more use to you as an envoy than a hostage. You all have fairly good relations with the North through my late aunt in any case. Holding me hostage won't give you much more. But sending me back could smooth over relations with Lord Tywin, which I know you all want."

An uproar of objections started, swiftly silenced by Lord Yohn. No matter how much it stung the pride of the Vale lords to admit, the Old Lion inspired a sense of fear in them all. A slight fear, perhaps, but fear all the same. A fear intensified by the prospect of spies in their midst. "What you're suggesting is very dangerous, my lady," Lord Yohn said once the last of the noise had settled.

Sansa nodded, feeling a lump rise in her throat, her hands trembling. "I know."

"You could die."

I wanted to die, just a few days ago. "I know."

"I can't allow you to wander into danger," Lord Yohn said after a second's thought. "Yet I also won't keep you prisoner if you truly wish to leave."

Horton seemed horrified. "You can't be serious, my lord. To send a daughter of Lord Stark into Lannister custody?"

"I want to go," Sansa insisted.

Horton turned his old head to look at her. "Forgive me, my lady, but you've been through a quite the ordeal, and are young besides. Your judgement may not be the most sound as of now."

"I know I want to see my sister."

"All you have is a letter," Lord Belmore cut in. "Lies can be written by any hand. Think of the danger you're putting yourself under. You say you don't fear death. Well enough. But what of torment? Joffrey beheaded your lord father on a whim. And as I understand it your treatment at the hands of the court was most unkind."

"Joffrey's dead," Sansa insisted as she clenched her fists beneath the table and fought to keep her composure. "And I met Tommen when I was in the capital. He's nothing like his brother."

"What of his mother, then?" Lord Redfort said. "Or Lord Tywin? How are we to ensure your safety, my lady?" He turned to face the newly-made Lord Protector. "It's all well and good to try and improve relations with the crown - much as I might disapprove - but this is too much."

"Worry not, my lords. She won't go alone," Lord Yohn said, looking her in the eyes. "Nestor will accompany you down to the capital with a company of Valemen and keep watch over your stay. When you are done with your business, you will return."

Sansa nodded, but before she could offer her gratitude Nestor interjected himself.

"You're sending me down with her?" he asked, eyes burning with outrage. He shook his head, beard flowing. "No, I won't go."

Yohn's gaze settled slowly on Nestor. "You closed the Gates of the Moon on us on the orders of the last Lord Commander. I know you to be a dutiful man. You'll go to the capital on the orders of this one. You'll deliver Littlefinger's head. And you'll bring back the Lady Sansa. Alive."

Nestor's objections caught in his throat. He could scarcely admit to selling his loyalty to Petyr. Not before all his fellow Lords. Yet if he left there was every chance Lord Yohn would act to weaken his hold over the Gates of the Moon. That seat had only recently become his by right. All at Petyr's behest. His hold over it, in spite his years faithful stewardship under Jon Arryn, was tenuous at best and prone to challenge.

Nestor's outrage twisted into a bitter scowl as he slowly swallowed his pride, the reality of his new position settling in. She was his punishment.

"I'll take Ser Lothor as well, if it please my lords," she said. She didn't trust the look on Lord Nestor's face. And Lothor Brune was as good as trustworthy as she was likely to find. Loyal to Petyr - and thus to her. Strong, quiet, and in need of a new benefactor.

Lord Yohn cocked his head in thought a moment, then accepted Sansa's choice with a nod. Another former loyalist of Baelish's he'd not have to deal with, doubtless. And ridding himself of her would serve his purposes nice enough. Many of the Vale lords were eager for war, still smarting over Lady Lysa's refusal to join the war on the Stark side. Lords Redfort, Belmore, and more. Sending her south would quieten their voices. Yohn may once have joined their call to arms, but now he needed peace more than war if he was to tighten his hold over the Vale, over those last few areas whose loyalty remained questionable. Gulltown, the Fingers, Heart's Home.

Petyr had underestimated him, she knew. She would not make the same mistake.

"And if Lord Nestor and Ser Lothor fail?" Lady Anya asked.

Yohn pursed his lips and let silence linger for a moment. "Lord Tywin would not be so foolish as to start a war now," he finally declared. Beneath his beard and stern expression, she couldn't tell if he was eager or afraid at that prospect.

She kept that thought in her mind even as the lords meeting wound down to a close and she left the solar, wandering through the halls and passages of the Eyrie half in a daze. The thought of facing Cersei again terrified her. But Joffrey's dead, she told herself. And Tommen was kind. Tyrion didn't rape me. Fear and doubt wrestled in her mind, the ache from their struggle spreading across her skull. I'm doing this for Arya, she thought, struggling to marshal herself.

Even as her head fell to her bed, she was still struggling. The next few days passed achingly slowly, as preparations were made for their departure. One by one, the Lords Declarant slowly left. First went Lady Anya, then Lord Belmore, then Lord Redfort. The castle was abuzz with activity. Soon enough, it would be her turn.

Then one morning, she was woken by a knock on the door.

Sansa readied herself in a hurry, made herself decent, and opened the door to find Ser Lothor behind it. "Ser Lothor," she greeted him.

The knight bowed his head slightly. "M'lady," he said. "The little lord asks your presence. He won't leave his bed." Asks. It had only been a few days ago that he would have commanded her presence.

Sansa sighed, nodded, gesturing for Ser Lothor to lead. As he went, she found the courage to speak. "How have you been, Ser Lothor?"

The knight shrugged. "Well enough, m'lady. Busy. Have a lot of work ahead, preparing for the journey. But it's nothing I can't handle."

"That's good," she said. It wasn't long before they had arrived at Lord Robert's doors. She turned the iron ring and pushed open the door a crack. "Sweetrobin?" she called.

Someone sniffled in the darkness. "Are you alone?"

She looked back at Lothor, who shrugged and went off on his way. "I am, my lord."

"Come in, then. Just you." She crept through the door and shut it tight behind her. "Did the Maester send for you?"

"No," she shook her head. "Are you hungry, my lord? Should I send one of the girls for some food?"

"I don't want food," the little lord said in a petulant tone. As she advanced on him she saw his eyes were red, puffy. "I want to stay in bed today."

"You can't stay in bed," she said. "Today we have to leave."

"I don't want to leave," he said. "You can read me a story."

"We have to go," she chided the boy. "Here, take a bath and I'll read you two stories. I'll call some of the serving girls up."

The boy scowled. "I don't like the serving girls. They always scrub too hard. It hurts. My mommy never scrubbed me so hard it hurt."

"I'll tell them to be gentle."

"I want three stories," Sweetrobin said.

Sansa felt a flash of annoyance. Sweetrobin was a greedy, spoiled child. Whatever you gave him, he wanted more. But he'd at least been afraid enough of Petyr to not give her too much cheek. "Take a bath, eat your breakfast, and I'll read you three stories. The mules are waiting."

Sweetrobin scowled again. "No bath, it gives me a headache. And no mules, either. They stink. One tried to bite me once." He looked like he was about to cry. "Tell them I'm staying here. The Eyrie is safe. Nobody can bite me here."

He is afraid, she thought. And with good reason. "Who would want to hurt you, my lord? The lords all love you. Lord Royce will care for you well."

He shivered. "I'll have to go down... In that cage."

Sansa nodded. Ever since his mother's death, Sweetrobin had not even strayed near a ledge. She could see how the thought of descending from the Eyrie might scare him. "You eat your breakfast, get dressed, and I'll go down with you. It'll be perfectly safe, I promise."

Sweetrobin seemed to consider it. "I want a hundred lemon cakes!"

Sansa grit her teeth and forced herself calm. "All the lemon cakes you like," she promised him. "But nothing before you're washed and dressed and away."

It took a little more than that to cajole the little lord from his bed, but eventually he was up and in the hands of the serving girls and Sansa could retreat from his chambers and make her way down the steps. Ser Lothor had already packed for her, she'd found. She fished out a cloak from the collection kept in her chambers and wandered out. Up at the height of the Eyrie, the courtyard was draped in old snow, deep enough to sink someone to the ankle. The wind blustered about her knees from beneath her skirts, her legs trembling only partly from the cold.

This place is as good as a prison, she thought. Yet the notion of leaving it terrified her. High up, the Eyrie was impregnable. Impregnable against armies, she reminded herself, not against assassins and spies. She wandered the Eyrie one last time, taking in the feel of keep. The seven slender towers above her, the rattling of the Moon Door, the beautiful views. Yet there was something utterly desolate about that beauty. The Eyrie had no sept, no heart tree. Nobody here answers prayers.

Eventually Sweetrobin had finished his bath, and midday had come. She returned to her rooms and donned a scarf, some heavy leather gloves, some heavy woollen hose beneath her skirts for her legs. Within the heated walls of the Eyrie she sweltered, but when she emerged again into the cold she was grateful for the extra clothes. Lothor was in the chain room when she arrived, sending down a load of saddlebags.

"The boy ready yet?"

"Washed and dressed and on his way. Has anyone gone down yet?"

"Lord Nestor," he said. "And some guards."

"Is the wind bad?"

Lothor shrugged. "Not too strong, but bloody cold. It'll be worse if we wait much longer though."

Thankfully, they were spared by the arrival of the little lord, and without delay they were bundled up into wicker baskets. Remembering her promise, Sansa joined Robert in his wicker basket as the chains were hooked on and they were slowly lowered. They were lucky. The baskets themselves had walls that stretched up above Lord Robert's head, denying him a view of what lay below. Even still, as the bucket lurched down, slowly swaying with the wind, the boy clutched her tighter, shivering.

"My lord is brave," she said.

"Of course I'm brave," he shot back. "I'm an Arryn."

It took them an agonisingly large amount of time, but finally they were down, and Sansa helped Lord Robert from the basket to the mules. Lord Nestor stood waiting, holding the basket containing Petyr's head, twenty mules behind him, casting his gaze up as the chain was drawn up for the next load of people. "My lady," he said gruffly, gesturing behind him.

Sansa looked down. "Which one would my lord like to ride?"

Sweetrobin scrunched his nose. "They're all stinky."

"Choose anyway," she said.

"That one, then. But only if you come with me."

She nodded and helped him mount his mule, joining him side-saddle. It took another half-hour before their party had formed and the rest of the men were down. The lords and ladies had mostly already left. Now it was just them. But soon enough they were off, riding through the castle Sky and down the precariously narrow path that had once taken her to the Eyrie. The winds blew them from the side, her cloak flapping loudly. But there was no risk. Even as the path turned crooked and uneven, the mules sauntered down without a care in the world. They'd made this journey dozens of times.

And so they went, with surprisingly little fuss, strolling down in single file, Lord Robert's whimpers drowned by the wind.

She was lucky. Though at a few moments he seemed as though he might succumb to one of his shaking fits, he never did. And soon enough they were through Snow and Stone as well, leaving the waystations to the Eyrie behind and winding their way down the Giant's Lance, where the path widened and flattened and the little lord's shivering began to diminish. Exhausted from the trip, Sweetrobin promptly fell asleep in the saddle, and Sansa offered a silent thanks to the gods for that.

Nightfall was upon them by the time they'd sighted the Gates of the Moon, their rest-stop for the night. This last part of the journey was the most peaceable, the mules growing sluggish below them, the breeze far gentler. But still by the time they'd arrived Sansa was grateful for the apartments she was given and the bed she slept in. They were greeted at the gates by the men of Runestone, Lord Yohn awaiting his ward.

The next morning they ate and readied themselves for the next leg of the journey. Lord Robert naturally threw a fuss when he discovered she would be leaving him, but she managed to calm him with the promise of more lemon cake, and they were away again, into the bracing cold.

At the crossroads they finally parted. Lords Robert and Royce to Runestone, and Sansa Stark to Old Anchor.

And then, to Kings Landing.
-------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future
P.P.S. Tommen chapter up next

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 45: Turning the Page (Retcon)

The horn was bigger than I had expected.

Onyx-black and made from the bone of what must have been a truly enormous dragon; it was banded with Valyrian steel and red gold, studded with strange Valyrian glyphs that I had to remember to get the Grandmaester to take a look at, its surface host to an unsettlingly reflective sheen. The whole thing was some odd six feet long from mouthpiece to spout, and doubtless capable of creating a bone-meltingly intense wail; though whether that wail could tame dragons was more doubtful.

If nothing else, it certainly looked the part.

"What is that?" Tyrion asked as he settled his papers onto the desk. He'd been hard at work, dismantling Baelish's web.

I shrugged, feeling cryptic. "A trinket or a tool, depending on who you ask."

"I'm asking you," he replied, eyes narrowing as he observed the thing. It must have seemed a strange addition to my chambers.

"Consider it a bit of both, then," I answered. "Onto business."

Tyrion nodded as he hopped into his chair, his feet dangling off the edge. "Our expenses - discounting one-off or unique items - have fallen below our incomes. Our total spending still far exceeds collected taxes, but we have a healthy enough reserve to manage it."

"The main items?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"The biggest by far has to be the grain. The Reachlords may have cut their prices at Lord Mace's behest, but not enough to avoid making a dent in our coffers. Mercifully, most the grain in the current shipment's already been bought, so we don't have to do much more business with them for a little while. Next comes the Iron Bank. The costs of servicing our debt and the added charge." Tyrion shot me a look.

"The Faceless Men, you mean," I supplied.

"Yes," he nodded, shooting me a side-eyed look. "We've done well in dealing with our other debts. Our debts to the Faith have almost been completely paid off, thanks in no small part to the High Septon's generosity." I smiled. "Repayments to House Lannister have been reduced. Then there's the city itself. Rebuilding the gates, removing and disposing of the wildfire, building granaries, purging the gold cloaks, building scorpions for the city walls - all costly measures in their own right. And your wider ambitions as well. Expanding the ports, rebuilding the royal fleet, repairing the major trade roads into and out of the capital, expanding the newly-reformed gold cloaks to patrol the Kingsroad against bandits, and all the other myriad things you seem to want to do."

"Where are we with our reserves?" I asked.

"Of the two million House Tyrell so generously gifted us, I would say we have a little less than one-and-a-half million left in our coffers."

I let a low whistle slip through my lips. "At that rate I'll beggar the realm faster than my father. I'm spending almost as much coin per day as he did."

"And having far less fun, too," Tyrion japed.

I couldn't help but snort. "That too," I agreed. "Though for you I reckon that might soon change. Once Baelish is dealt with his brothels will be yours for the taking."

"Mine?" Tyrion asked, a lone brow quirked. "Not the crown's?"

"Gods, no," I said, putting on an air of offence. "I'll take everything else worth half a groat to fill the crown's coffers, just not the brothels. All those whores, in need of instruction and management..." I shook my head. "The crown could never be seen to be indulging in such shameful flesh-peddling."

"Ah," Tyrion said, as he caught my meaning. "But the crown's lecherous uncle could. All while paying some elevated tax, I presume."

I couldn't help the grin on my face. "In any case, what would be your assessment?"

Tyrion quirked a lone brow. "Of what, nephew?"

"Of my reign thus far."

Tyrion scratched his beard a moment in thought. He knew better than to flatter - I had little tolerance for such things in my inner circle. "Some measures are working better than others," he finally decided. "I don't know how much worth your grain shipments will be in staving off famine. Given the seasons there are risks some of the seeds won't take or will be stolen or the yields may not be as we hope - though I am more hopeful for the livestock we are sending to the war-stricken areas. Yet the measure has managed to draw people away from the cities. Kings Landing reeks less today than it did a few months ago. It's less decrepit, less overfilled. Safer, too. Less robberies, less rapes, less hunger. The grain has also worked to curry favour with the lords. The Stormlords and Riverlords and Reachlords all like you more for it. And I imagine the Northerners must be looking down on them with envy."

"All in all a good showing, then?"

Tyrion shrugged. "You need not worry, I think. You're better than your predecessors, in any case."

"You damn me with faint praise, I say. Who wouldn't be better than Joffrey?"

Tyrion snorted impudently.

I shook my head in mock exasperation. "You can go, then. Good work so far."

Tyrion nodded as he gathered up his things and made to leave, waddling out the door. I leaned back in my seat once he was gone, contemplative. The big issue remained. My wife and the princess. I could not help the smile on my face as I thought of them.

I called in the guards, and sent for my wife. Though I had been lucky, and the rumour-mill of court had been quiet on any mention of Arianne, there were whispers about the king and queen fighting. Murmurs of weakness. A chink in the regnal armour. Troubling to some. Unacceptable to others. Yet inevitable, as I refused to allow her to grace my bed. No matter. If all went well, I would have a way to fold the rumours into a satisfying truth, to cement my authority. Some new gossip to overwhelm all the rest.

Margaery entered, looking appropriately contrite, her head bowed. I gestured for her to sit, and she claimed a chair. She stayed that way till the sound of the door closing came and I had confirmed that the guard had left us alone - at which point she relaxed into her seat and her frown turned upside down.

"How did I do?" she asked.

"Very well, Margaery. Very well. You could have put the finest mummers of Braavos to shame!" I let my tone turn suggestive, teasing: "Had I not known better, I would have honestly thought you... drunk."

Margaery blushed prettily. "It was nothing, Your Grace. Had it not been for your show of outrage, I think the princess might well have developed suspicions."

I could only shrug at that. "In any case, it gives me what I need."

Margaery frowned. "Are you really going to expel the princess from court? I understand rebuking her father, but might it not be wiser to keep her close?"

"She's too much trouble," was my reply. "With Myrcella, my ties to Dorne are secure. But the longer the princess stays here, the more havoc she can wreak - and I cannot really stop her. Thus, I would rather she work her wiles elsewhere. Not that I intend to rid myself of her immediately, of course. That would set too many tongues wagging! Yet you know as well as I do how easy it was to bring her to cause offence to a king. A few weeks around a queen was all it took."

"In fairness," Margaery argued, "we did bait her."

"In fairness," I countered, "the little cock-tease has been flaunting herself the moment she arrived. Trying to sow chaos. A pleasant distraction, perhaps - but a distraction all the same. A lesser man might well have fallen for it."

"A lesser man might have," she agreed, the corners of her mouth twitching up into a knowing half-smile. "Yet you were not distracted, were you?"

Of course not. After the shock of revelation had passed, Margaery had redoubled her efforts to involve herself in my work. Checking for whatever paths my dreams had laid before me. In a sense it was a relief. My head was a swimming ball of secrets, lies, and half-finished plots. The lack of sleep and injury had not helped matters. Yet as it became clear I was spiralling, having something resembling a confidant - even if I could not completely trust her - was useful. Someone to share the burden with. It was at her suggestion that my regular circadian rhythm had been restored - with ample assistance from some of the Grandmaester's dreamwine, of course.

That first night's sleep had been dreamless, almost eerily so, but it had been restful, and my head felt clearer, calmer than it had in weeks. The subsequent nights had also been better, if not quite so restful. Doubtless, a lack of Bloodraven's voice in my head had only helped matters, as had the fact that my injuries were close to healing. In spite myself, I almost felt in a cheerful mood. Some of the stresses of power had retreated enough to allow me to relax - if only for the moment.

Yet still the knowledge of impending disaster remained - the truth of which I struggled to both discern and divulge, even as it dominated every conscious decision I made. And even as I worked to avert it, I also worked to divert my attentions to other things. Brooding accomplished little. I was doing what I could. And though everything was moving frustratingly slowly, things were moving. Or so I had convinced myself.

I just need to be more patient. More distracted.

"Well, perhaps a little," I acknowledged. "Even I will confess the princess is pretty. But a snake with a pretty pattern on its back is no less poisonous than one without. The gall! Prince Doran thought he could slip one by me, eh?"

"A mistake he'll pay dearly for, I'm sure."

"Oh, certainly. But something tells me the concessions we planned to extract simply won't suffice. Arianne has her part of the blame to bear. She's too outrageous, too unsubtle. Hells, she's been all but shoving her teats into my face since the moment she arrived! I get the feeling Doran ought to have disciplined her more as a child."

Margaery quirked a lone brow, bemused. "And you mean to make up for this?" she guessed.

"I have always wondered what it would be like to have two women," I confessed. "I am my father's son, after all. And I saw how eager you were with her, when I arrived. That offer you made... I haven't been able to put it out of my mind."

Margaery cocked her head in thought, her voice taking on a playful lilt. "How do I know she won't steal you away?"

I snorted. "What was it you said, after Joffrey was buried? When we become married I become yours..."

"Forever," she finished for me.

I allowed the playfulness to drop for a moment in favour of a touch more earnest approach. "Our marriage is ours. So long as our final loyalties are to one another, then what does it matter if we choose to invite the odd outsider?" I shrugged. "Consider it even, if you must. You got to play with the princess - at my request, I'll grant. But you enjoyed it all the same. So why shouldn't I? I tire of being tempted. We've both been good. We deserve a little fun now and then, no?"

"The princess is rather fun," Margaery conceded. "When I was little, I stumbled across Loras with one his lovers. The sight stuck with me, the thought of another woman... It has always intrigued me, I'll admit. Yet there are still risks."

"Of course," I agreed. "But I don't plan on siring a bastard - you can be certain I'll take precautions. And, in any case, this affair will not last long. Just a few weeks, maybe a month or two - enough time to bend her a little more to my will - and then she's gone. And if you're uncomfortable, you only need to say the word and it'll stop. I intend to invite another to our bed, not to stray from it."

Now it was Margaery's turn to snort. "Most kings have kept mistresses. Most lords visit brothels and whores without a second thought. Even Jaehaerys the Conciliator strayed from the Good Queen Alyssane's bed from time to time. I knew - and expected - as much when I wed you. And though you have held up valiantly till now, it was inevitable that some girl or another would catch your eye. But how many wives can say it took a princess - that no lesser woman would suffice?"

"Not many, I'd wager. Truly, my wife is no ordinary woman."

Margaery nodded proudly. "Nor is my husband any ordinary man."

I gazed at her, observing the way she held herself. Till now, she had been mostly sweet, pliant. Playing very much into her innocent look. Yet this was not the first time that I was getting hints of Olenna lurking beneath it all. The same shrewdness lingered in her eyes. In her mouth, I suspected, was hidden a similarly witty tongue. And though she had not yet adopted the blatant cynicism that was her grandmother's mark, it seemed she had long ago shed her naivety.

I had always known Margaery was a clever girl, but this was new. I could already see her, hunched and wrinkled in fifty years time, sat knitting on some terrace in the keep as she watched the world below do her bidding. I couldn't help but laugh at the image. Margaery shot me a confused look.

"Ever full of surprises, aren't you?"

"Only a few, Your Grace. And only good ones, I hope."

I smiled. "Oh, the best. Now you sit there and look chastened. After so much effort I don't want the princess to see through our ploy."

And with that, I again called in the guards. Arianne would be awaiting my summons, I knew. She was, after all, privy to what she believed the true cause of my weeklong estrangement from Margaery. But I was still curious. She had kept her distance, hadn't used the time to spread any rumours. Had she realised her mistake, or was she soon to saunter into this room with the same overconfident expression plastered onto her face?

The answer arrived before me in short order, with a brief introduction from Ser Loras and a shallow curtsy. With a single finger I granted her a seat. Arianne lowered herself down into a confident posture, clad in even more confident attire, but there was an undeniable air of caution about her. Sensible for anyone, but unusual for one as typically careless as her. My refusal to so much as acknowledge her existence in the past week must have helped make room for the seeds of doubt in her mind.

"What you did was unacceptable," I began, allowing my previous mirth to morph into cold iron.

Arianne did not respond, merely meeting my gaze and waiting. Trying to appear confident.

I leaned back in my seat and sized her up, irritated by her apparent impertinence. "You will no longer attend small council meetings," I declared. "Assuming I don't dispose of your seat entirely, I'll have one of your cousins take your place. And soon enough, you'll be gone too. Back to Sunspear you'll slink with your tail tucked between your legs, like the bitter disappointment Doran always knew you to be."

Arianne's confidence began melting away, aghast.

"With Quentyn overseas, rallying the Golden Company to his side..." I clicked my tongue, playing up the false fears I knew still lingered in her mind. "Whatever concerns you may have had about your inheritance, princess..." I allowed myself to trail off.

"Your Grace," she croaked, bewildered, seemingly unable to believe what she was witnessing. Beside her Margaery sat quiet, the briefest flash of confusion crossing her features before the corners of her lips quirked up into a shade of a smile as she nodded along to my words.

"It was a bold plan, princess," I continued. "You knew I would never accept the subtle approach. You knew you needed to surprise me, to do something to lower my resistance and render me vulnerable to your charms. And what better than the sight of two willing women wrapped in passionate embrace, beckoning for a third to join? Not even Ned Stark could resist that, surely. Yet you overplayed your hand. With my sister in your father's hands, you know I can't arrest you. But that doesn't mean I can't ruin you." I stroked my chin as though in thought. "Let's see, I can't tell the truth about your dismissal - that would hardly reflect well on me, now would it? But all the best lies have a grain of truth, don't they?" I let a slow grin split my lips. "You tried to seduce Tywin Lannister, tried to win him over into supporting your claim to Sunspear, and failed. And thus, you were banished."

A look of horror crossed her face.

"I wonder how the lords of Dorne would react to the news of you trying to fuck the man who they deem guilty for killing your aunt? Or perhaps you succeeded in taking him to bed, but failed to win his affections? Who knows? I can only guess."

"I'll deny it," she immediately replied. "I'll tell the truth."

I shrugged. "And you are free to do so. Not that it'll help your case, of course. Your reputation is well-known throughout Dorne. Your refusal to be wed in spite your age certainly hasn't helped. When did you lose your maidenhead - thirteen, fourteen? To the Bastard of Godsgrace, of all people. And you haven't stopped since."

"They're more likely to believe me than you, the son of the Usurper," she spat, her eyes angry.

"I am a Baratheon, yes. I am that Baratheon who, out of his own sense of honour, helped your uncle slay the Mountain. Helped your uncle get justice for the senseless killing of his sister. In light of that, I think you'll find my word holds a good deal of water with your people. Even still, princess, some may choose to take your side. But not enough. And others would be all too eager to see the back of you. The Yronwoods, for one. And a great many others besides. All they need is an excuse. All of whom would doubtless find a great deal of support in the Iron Throne, should they require it."

"You would plunge a whole kingdom into civil war over this?" Arianne asked, anger giving way to incredulity.

"I could," I said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "Not that it would be necessary. Given sufficient pressure, your father could be convinced to set you aside in favour of your brother for fear of bloodshed. You and I both know he already has his doubts about you. But I am as capable of being kind as I am of being cruel. That you will leave my counsel, and my city, is not in question. But whether your retreat will be graceless or graceful is your choice." I withdrew from my desk a scrap of parchment I had prepared for this moment. "This is a letter, addressed to Prince Doran. With this one letter, I guarantee your succession."

"...How?" she asked, her gaze locked on the letter, eyes gleaming with interest.

I tutted and shook my head. "That is the wrong question to ask, Princess."

Arianne's stance stiffened. "What do you want?"

"I am a man of my word, princess. I don't make promises I don't intend to keep," I said. "Do you remember what you said, girl?"

Arianne swallowed, repeating her own words in a flat tone, speaking as though her tongue were coated with ash. "You can punish me another way, if you'd like."

I smiled. "You should congratulate yourself, Arianne. Your ploy worked."

"And if I refuse?" she asked. "You'll rape me?"

"Perish the thought, princess," I said, feigning offence. "I am not one for such things. No, I'll just send you home."

Arianne's look turned bitter as she slowly deflated in her seat. "What a wilful foolish girl I must seem to you, playing at the game of thrones like a drunkard rolling dice."

"Take this for a learning opportunity, then." I stood from my seat and rounded my desk, settling myself on it's edge and cupping her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw down to her chin, tilting her eyes up to meet mine. In spite myself, I felt a pang of pity for her. "And don't worry overmuch. Now that you know better than to displease me, better than to take such foolish risks, you won't go far wrong. In enough time, I'm certain you'll make a fine Princess of Dorne."

"So long as I play the whore for you," she sulked.

"As you were all too eager to do just a few days ago, I might remind you. The most noble whore in the world. A princess. A fitting paramour for a king."

Arianne licked her lips. "What about your honour? Your duty?"

I smiled, reached down, and kissed her. She offered no resistance. It was a fleeting kiss, but a promising one. "As far as I'm concerned, princess, you are my duty for the next few weeks. Dispensing justice is one of my burdens, after all." I cocked my head as I let my hand fall away. "Besides, I'm not merely securing the affections of a simple Dornish girl, but rather a princess. One who will doubtless serve me as a sensible, loyal vassal once she claims her rights. For she knows that what I can give away today I can most certainly take back tomorrow."

Arianne snorted and sighed, quietly conceding the point.

"You can go now," I said, returning to my original place and settling down in my seat with aplomb. "I'll see you tonight, in my chambers. Make sure you've taken some Moon Tea. Ask the Grandmaester if you have none. You'll need it."

She nodded as she lifted herself from her seat. And then she was gone. Margaery looked at me. "Why didn't you tell me...?"

"You didn't truly believe that I'd have her deposed?"

"Well... no. But why promise to guarantee her succession? Wouldn't holding her in suspense would grant you even more sway?"

"Mere punishment without the promise of redemption breeds resentment. And though I probably could, I don't really want to plunge Dorne into civil war. It would make far too much work for me. No. Better to display my power with a false show of kindness than a true show of cruelty. It'll help to win her compliance, to impress upon her that she is beneath me. Smallfolk don't show mercy or generosity to their lords, now do they? They can't. Only the powerful can afford such graces. Besides, this way it's more fun for the both of us."

"And the letter?"

"What about it?"

"How is it going to guarantee her succession?"

I smirked. "A clever trick, that. Arianne's inheritance was never in any serious doubt. But the princess doesn't know that. All the letter was supposed to do was to get Doran to tell his daughter as much. To tell her the truth."

"I see."

Silence hung awkwardly in the air for a long moment. Margaery slowly lifted herself from her seat, awaiting my permission to leave. I looked at the sheaf of parchments piled high on my desk, then back at her. "You know," I said, "it strikes me now that our estrangement has ended that I've yet to give my thanks for your help."

"It's nothing, Your Grace."

"It's everything. You've shown yourself to be reliable - to be trustworthy. And coming from me, that is high praise indeed. Our marriage may have been one of political convenience - a union more between houses than people - but that doesn't mean there is no place for passion between us. For lust. For love."

Her brows slowly crept up her forehead at my words, features shifting ever-so-slightly in emotion.

I arose from my seat, rounded my desk to face her. Without words I pulled her into a kiss. "I know I shouldn't," I told her as I spun her around, pressing her back against my desk. Margaery yelped at the abruptness of my movements. "But there's just something about you I can't resist." I pushed some papers aside, hauled my wife up onto the freshly-exposed wooden surface, lifted her skirts and spread her legs; tracing little patterns as I inched up her thigh, fingers sinking into her heat.

Margaery gasped, grinned, pulled me closer.

"Is that so?" she asked, urging me on between kisses.

"It is," I asserted. "You think I find the princess enticing? She's nothing compared to you."

My lips drifted from hers down her chin and to her neck, my spare hand tugging at her bodice to free her breasts. Her hands mussed my hair, fingers working. "Oh?" she breathed, voice catching in her throat, shivering slightly.

"Don't just take my word for it. Here, let me prove it to you..."

---

This rewrite is perhaps not the most elegant - and definitely not my best work. But though I will probably come back later to touch up the more clunky prose, the major story changes made are here to stay. The original, in retrospect, was a chapter rushed out with improper thought. The draft plan for that chapter was intended to kick-start a Kings Landing arc that, in hindsight, feels like pointless padding, and should have been cut on revision, but wasn't. And though I can't promise to never make such an error again (I am very much still an amateur, prone to stupid mistakes) I can try and be more prudent with my character-work in future. Thanks.

---

Chapter 45: Turning the Page (Original)

The horn was bigger than I had expected.

Onyx-black and made from the bone of what much have been a truly enormous dragon; it was banded with Valyrian steel and red gold, studded with strange Valyrian glyphs that I had to remember to get the Grandmaester to take a look at, its surface host to an unsettlingly reflective sheen. The whole thing was some odd six feet long from mouthpiece to spout, and doubtless capable of creating a bone-meltingly intense wail; though whether that wail could tame dragons was more doubtful.

If nothing else, it certainly looked the part.

"What is that?" Tyrion asked as he settled his papers onto the desk. He'd been hard at work, dismantling Baelish's web.

I shrugged, feeling cryptic. "A trinket or a tool, depending on who you ask."

"I'm asking you," he replied, eyes narrowing as he observed the thing. It must have seemed a strange addition to my chambers.

"Consider it a bit of both, then," I answered. "Onto business."

Tyrion nodded as he hopped into his chair, his feet dangling off the edge. "Our expenses - discounting one-off or unique items - have fallen below our incomes. Our total spending still far exceeds collected taxes, but we have a healthy enough reserve to manage it."

"The main items?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"The biggest by far has to be the grain. The Reachlords may have cut their prices at Lord Mace's behest, but not enough to avoid making a dent in our coffers. Mercifully, most the grain in the current shipment's already been bought, so we don't have to do much more business with them for a little while. Next comes the Iron Bank. The costs of servicing our debt and the added charge." Tyrion shot me a look.

"The Faceless Men, you mean," I supplied.

"Yes," he nodded, shooting me a side-eyed look. "We've done well in dealing with our other debts. Our debts to the Faith have almost been completely paid off, thanks in no small part to the High Septon's generosity." I smiled. "Repayments to House Lannister have been reduced. Then there's the city itself. Rebuilding the gates, removing and disposing of the wildfire, building granaries, purging the gold cloaks, building scorpions for the city walls - all costly measures in their own right. And your wider ambitions as well. Expanding the ports, rebuilding the royal fleet, repairing the major trade roads into and out of the capital, expanding the newly-reformed gold cloaks to patrol the Kingsroad against bandits, and all the other myriad things you seem to want to do."

"Where are we with our reserves?" I asked.

"Of the two million House Tyrell so generously gifted us, I would say we have a a little less than one-and-a-half million left in our coffers."

I let a low whistle slip through my lips. "At that rate I'll beggar the realm faster than my father. I'm spending almost as much coin per day as he did."

"And having far less fun, too," Tyrion japed.

I couldn't help but snort. "That too," I agreed. "Though for you I reckon that might soon change. Once Baelish is dealt with his brothels will be yours for the taking."

"Mine?" Tyrion asked, a lone brow quirked. "Not the crown's?"

"Gods, no," I said, putting on an air of offence. "I'll take everything else worth half a groat to fill the crown's coffers, just not the brothels. All those whores, in need of instruction and management..." I shook my head. "The crown could never be seen to be indulging in such shameful flesh-peddling."

"Ah," Tyrion said, as he caught my meaning. "But the crown's lecherous uncle could. All while paying some elevated tax, I presume."

I couldn't help the grin on my face. "In any case, what would be your assessment?"

Tyrion quirked a lone brow. "Of what, nephew?"

"Of my reign thus far."

Tyrion scratched his beard a moment in thought. He knew better than to flatter - I had little tolerance for such things in my inner circle. "Some measures are working better than others," he finally decided. "I don't know how much worth your grain shipments will be in staving off famine. Given the seasons there are risks some of the seeds won't take or will be stolen or the yields may not be as we hope - though I am more hopeful for the livestock we are sending to the war-stricken areas. Yet the measure has managed to draw people away from the cities. Kings Landing reeks less today than it did a few months ago. It's less decrepit, less overfilled. Safer, too. Less robberies, less rapes, less hunger. The grain has also worked to curry favour with the lords. The Stormlords and Riverlords and Reachlords all like you more for it. And I imagine the Northerners must be looking down on them with envy."

"All in all a good showing, then?"

Tyrion shrugged. "You need not worry, I think. You're better than your predecessors, in any case."

"You damn me with faint praise, I say. Who wouldn't be better than Joffrey?"

Tyrion snorted impudently.

I shook my head in mock exasperation. "You can go, then. Good work so far."

Tyrion nodded as he gathered up his things and made to leave, waddling out the door. I leaned back in my seat once he was gone, contemplative. The big issue remained. My wife and the princess. Even as I remembered the incident, I could scarcely believe my passivity. Yet it was for the best. I had been sleep-deprived, emotional, angry. Prone to making rash decisions bound to backfire spectacularly. As royalty, this was more a political than personal issue. The loyalty of the Reach, and the availability of its bounty, depended on my marriage. And if that bond broke, then there was every chance the web of alliances I had worked so hard to build could be cut apart. And that might well cost me my life. I needed in this case to put my own feelings aside.

Not that my feelings were all negative.

Still, the incident did bear a little fruit. Lacking for sleep, wallowing in my own exhaustion, I finally set my pride aside and opted to go to the Grandmaester asking after some dreamwine. That night's sleep had been dreamless, almost eerily so, but it had been restful, and my head felt clearer, calmer than it had in weeks. The subsequent nights had also been better, if not quite so restful. Doubtless, a lack of Bloodraven's voice in my head had only helped matters, as had the fact that my injuries were close to healing. In spite myself, I almost felt in a cheerful mood.

Almost.

I called in the guards, and sent for my wife. Enough waiting. I had to confront this head-on. Though I had been lucky, and the rumour-mill of court had been quiet on any mention of Arianne, there were whispers about the king and queen fighting. Murmurs of weakness. A chink in the regnal armour. Troubling. Unacceptable. Yet inevitable, as I refused to allow her to grace my bed. The excuse of allowing my injuries from the yard to fully heal hadn't quite worked. Or rather, it had gone awry. I needed a way to fold the rumours into a satisfying truth, something to cement my authority. Some new gossip to overwhelm all the rest.

Hell, how was it that Cersei wasn't the biggest of my troubles?

Margaery entered, looking appropriately contrite, her head bowed. I gestured for her to sit, and she claimed a chair. I eyed her up and down, still puzzled by it. "Care to explain yourself?"

"Your Grace," she began, "I... The only way I could explain it was to say I'd had a moment of weakness. The sight of you bleeding from the eyes is still seared into my brain. It shook me. And the wine had not helped matters. And so when Arianne appeared, offering comfort that quickly turned into something else, I found myself less resistant than usual."

I felt my look turn sour. "That's... disappointing." Somehow, I had expected more method to her madness. Yet if her dalliance with Arianne had been part of a larger plot, why should she confess to it now? Better to keep her secrets and play the helpless maiden.

"I know, Your Grace. Yet I must remind you that whatever temptations you may have felt around the princess... were far more fleeting. You found yourself away from her, away from me most of the time, busy with the work of the realm. She focused her attentions on me. And the princess can be... insistent."

"And eventually, you succumbed."

Margaery nodded. "When I was little, I stumbled across Loras with one his lovers. The sight stuck with me, the thought of another woman..." She shook her head. "I can only apologise. I lack your strength of will. I failed you."

"Why'd you let her get that close in the first place?" I asked. "If you felt the temptations too?"

"Arianne extended an arm of friendship," Margaery said. "I'd hardly wish to offend the Dornish sensibilities. To make an enemy of an ally. To endanger Myrcella. And... I trust you know your mother's attitudes towards me?" I nodded. "The princess's seat on the small council gave me cause enough to keep her close."

"You wanted to build an alliance against the Lannisters," I finished for her. At Olenna's behest, perhaps? Or was I just being paranoid?

"Against your mother, Your Grace. Not the Lannisters at large. Just the one not too fond of me. And just to show her I could hold my own, that I was a worthy woman to be your wife. I hold no ill will to her, I swear it."

I sighed. "You don't need to swear anything. My mother can be a tetchy sort. I reckon I'll never have a wife she won't hate to some extent. That much I can understand. But what about the offer? To share?"

Margaery blushed slightly. "When you arrived, Your Grace, I suddenly came to my senses. It was like you'd said, I'd broken my vows."

I nodded in understanding. "You never thought you'd be caught. But you were. And knowing my father, you hoped to blunt my anger."

"I panicked. I know you're not him."

"Yes," I agreed.

"I pray you can forgive me," she said, her eyes meeting mine. I didn't know quite what to think, how to square the image of a politically savvy woman with that of an emotional teenager thrust into an unfamiliar and dangerous world. How to decide which one she was? She could be telling me the truth, making an honest appeal to her husband, or else a half-truth, attempting to extract some secret concession. If nothing else, it was a testament to her skill that I couldn't tell.

"What was it you said, after Joffrey was buried? When we become married I become yours..."

"Forever," she finished for me.

"You're in luck," I finally said after an intentionally long moment. "I'm in a forgiving mood. But I'm not in the habit of offering something for nothing."

"Anything, Your Grace."

I studied her face, her wide, bright eyes; the curve of her brow and the crease in her forehead when she frowned; the minute twitches of her nose; the way she set her hands in her lap and the stiff formality of her posture. Apprehension intermingled with a certain self-assuredness. "That offer... I haven't been able to put it out of my mind."

Margaery seemed troubled by my words, perhaps a tad disappointed. "Your Grace?"

"I've always wondered what it would be like to have two women," I pressed. "I am my father's son, after all."

Margaery chewed her lip, either genuinely uncertain or else feigning it expertly. "The princess?"

I nodded. "The princess."

Margaery cocked her head in thought, seemingly warming to the notion. "What of our vows?" she asked. "As you said when you caught us?"

I dismissed her objection with a careless wave of my hand. "I don't much mind if you want to bring beautiful women - and only women, mind you - to our bed. So long as you bring them to me first. Of course, it's true enough that some vows are not so easily broken. But where an old bridge has been burned a new bridge might be built, I say. Our marriage is ours. So long as our final loyalties are to one another, then what does it matter if we choose to invite the odd outsider? Consider it recompense, if you must. You got to play with the princess. So why shouldn't I?"

"That seems just," she agreed, though I could tell some reluctance remained. Her voice took on an almost playful lilt. "Yet how do I know she won't steal you away?"

I snorted and rolled my eyes. "She's been all but shoving her teats in my face from the moment she set foot in the keep. If I'd intended on running away with her, I'd have done it already." I shrugged. "She's too much trouble for me. Too outrageous. Altogether too Dornish. Her father ought to have disciplined her more as a child."

Margaery's expression was almost devious. "I'm sure you'll make up for it."

And with that, I called in the guards and sent for the princess. Arianne would be awaiting the call. She was, after all, privy to the true cause of my weeklong estrangement with Margaery. But I was still curious. She had kept her distance, hadn't used the time to spread any rumours. Had she realised her mistake, or was she soon to saunter into this room with the same overconfident expression plastered onto her face?

The answer arrived before me in short order, with a brief introduction from Ser Loras and a shallow curtsy. With a single finger I granted her a seat. Arianne lowered herself down into a confident posture, clad in even more confident attire, but there was an undeniable air of caution about her. Sensible for anyone, but unusual for one as typically careless as her. My refusal to so much as acknowledge her existence in the past week must have helped make room for the seeds of doubt in her mind.

"What you did was unacceptable," I began, allowing my previous mirth to morph into cold iron.

Arianne did not respond, merely meeting my gaze and waiting. Trying to appear confident.

I leaned back in my seat and sized her up, irritated by her apparent impertinence. "You will no longer attend small council meetings," I declared. "Assuming I don't dispose of your seat entirely, I'll have one of your cousins take your place. And soon enough, you'll be gone too. Back to Sunspear you'll slink with your tail tucked between your legs, like the bitter disappointment Doran always knew you to be."

Arianne's confidence began melting away, aghast.

"With Quentyn overseas, rallying the Golden Company to his side..." I clicked my tongue, playing up the false fears I knew still lingered in her mind. "Whatever concerns you may have had about your inheritance, princess..." I allowed myself to trail off.

"Your Grace," she croaked, bewildered, seemingly unable to believe what she was witnessing. Beside her Margaery sat quiet, the briefest flash of confusion crossing her features before the corners of her lips quirked up into the slightest hint of a smile as she nodded along to my words. She may well have played along with my request in an effort to win back my favour, but in all likelihood she was happy to hear of the princess's departure.

"It was a bold plan, princess," I continued. "You knew I would never accept the subtle approach. You knew you needed to surprise me, to do something to lower my resistance and render me vulnerable to your charms. And what better than the sight of two willing women wrapped in passionate embrace, beckoning for a third to join? Not even Ned Stark could resist that, surely. Yet you overplayed your hand. With my sister in your father's hands, you know I can't arrest you. But that doesn't mean I can't ruin you." I stroked my chin as though in thought. "Let's see, I can't tell the truth about your dismissal - that would hardly reflect well on me, now would it? But all the best lies have a grain of truth, don't they?" I let a slow grin split my lips. "You tried to seduce Tywin Lannister, tried to win him over into supporting your claim to Sunspear, and failed. And thus, you were banished."

A look of horror crossed her face.

"I wonder how the lords of Dorne would react to the news of you trying to fuck the man who they deem guilty for killing your aunt? Or perhaps you succeeded in taking him to bed, but failed to win his affections? Who knows? I can only guess."

"I'll deny it," she immediately replied. "I'll tell the truth."

I shrugged. "And you are free to do so. Not that it'll help your case, of course. Your reputation is well-known throughout Dorne. Your refusal to be wed in spite your age certainly hasn't helped. When did you lose your maidenhead - thirteen, fourteen? To the Bastard of Godsgrace, of all people. And you haven't stopped since."

"They're more likely to believe me than you, the son of the Usurper," she spat, her eyes angry.

"I am a Baratheon, yes. I am that Baratheon who, out of his own sense of honour, helped your uncle slay the Mountain. Helped your uncle get justice for the senseless killing of his sister. In light of that, I think you'll find my word holds a good deal of water with your people. Even still, princess, some may choose to take your side. But not enough. And others would be all too eager to see the back of you. The Yronwoods, for one. And a great many others besides. All they need is an excuse. All of whom would doubtless find a great deal of support in the Iron Throne, should they require it."

"You would plunge a whole kingdom into civil war over this?" Arianne asked, anger giving way to incredulity.

"I could," I said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "Not that it would be necessary. Given sufficient pressure, your father could be convinced to set you aside in favour of your brother for fear of bloodshed. You and I both know he already has his doubts about you. But I am as capable of being kind as I am of being cruel. That you will leave my counsel, and my city, is not in question. But whether your retreat will be graceless or graceful is your choice." I withdrew from my desk a scrap of parchment I had prepared for this moment. "This is a letter, addressed to Prince Doran. With this one letter, I guarantee your succession."

"...How?" she asked, her gaze locked on the letter, eyes gleaming with interest.

I tutted and shook my head. "That is the wrong question to ask, Princess."

Arianne's stance stiffened. "What do you want?"

"I am a man of my word, princess. I don't make promises I don't intend to keep," I said. "Do you remember what you said, girl?"

Arianne swallowed, repeating her own words in a flat tone, speaking as though her tongue were coated with ash. "You can punish me another way, if you'd like."

I smiled. "You should congratulate yourself, Arianne. Your ploy worked."

"And if I refuse?" she asked. "You'll rape me?"

"Perish the thought, princess," I said, feigning offence. "I am not one for such things. No, I'll just send you home."

Arianne's look turned bitter as she slowly deflated in her seat. "What a wilful foolish girl I must seem to you, playing at the game of thrones like a drunkard rolling dice."

"Take this for a learning opportunity, then." I stood from my seat and rounded my desk, settling myself on it's edge and cupping her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw down to her chin, tilting her eyes up to meet mine. In spite myself, I felt a pang of pity for her. "And don't worry overmuch. Now that you know better than to displease me, better than to take such foolish risks, you won't go far wrong. In enough time, I'm certain you'll make a fine Princess of Dorne."

"So long as I play the whore for you," she sulked.

"As you were all too eager to do just a few days ago, I might remind you. The most noble whore in the world. A princess. A fitting paramour for a king."

Arianne licked her lips. "What about your honour? Your duty?"

I smiled, reached down, and kissed her. She offered no resistance. It was a fleeting kiss, but a promising one. "As far as I'm concerned, princess, you are my duty for the next few weeks. Dispensing justice is one of my burdens, after all." I cocked my head as I let my hand fall away. "Besides, I'm not merely securing the affections of a simple Dornish girl, but rather a princess. One who will doubtless serve me as a sensible, loyal vassal once she claims her rights. For she knows that what I can give away today I can most certainly take back tomorrow."

Arianne snorted and sighed, quietly conceding the point.

"You can go now," I said, returning to my original place and settling down in my seat with aplomb. "I'll see you tonight, in my chambers. Make sure you've taken some Moon Tea. Ask the Grandmaester if you have none. You'll need it."

She nodded as she lifted herself from her seat. And then she was gone. Margaery looked at me. "Why didn't you tell me...?"

"Did you really think after all she did that I'd allow her to stay?" I asked. "Given the risk she represents?"

"Well... no. But why promise to guarantee her succession?"

"Mere punishment without the promise of redemption breeds resentment. And though I probably could, I don't really want to plunge Dorne into civil war. It would make far too much work for me. No. Better to display my power with a false show of kindness than a true show of cruelty. It'll help to win her compliance, to impress upon her that she is beneath me. Smallfolk don't show mercy or generosity to their lords, now do they? They can't. Only the powerful can afford such graces. Besides, this way it's more fun for the both of us."

"And the letter?"

"What about it?"

"How is it going to guarantee her succession?"

I smirked. "A clever trick, that. Arianne's inheritance was never in any serious doubt. But the princess doesn't know that. All the letter was supposed to do was to get Doran to tell his daughter as much. To tell her the truth."

"I see."

Silence hung awkwardly in the air for a long moment. Margaery slowly lifted herself from her seat, awaiting my permission to leave. I looked at the sheaf of parchments piled high on my desk, then back at her. "You know," I said, "it strikes me now that we don't know each other very well. Ever since I wed you I've always been distracted by something. Some urgent matter in need of attending to. Some new nightmare to mull over. And most of what time I do spend with you that isn't in our bed is in public. Where you are my queen more than my wife, and our true feelings and thoughts are rarely free to be heard."

"You are only doing your duty," she assured me, rather tepidly.

"Consider our lives a book, Margaery. This is an opportunity to turn the page. To leave this ugliness behind. So, sit. You already know a great deal of me, though I would wager not as much as you think. Yet it is clear to me that I know even less of you. Tell me something of yourself I don't know. Anything."

Margaery shot me a strange look, her eyes drifting down to the clutter of my desk. "Truly?"

"Truly. My work can wait a few moments."
-----------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. Will probably be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 46: Jaime V

The Lord of Riverrun looked better than when Jaime had last seen him, in spite the paleness of his complexion and the thinness of his frame. His hair had been properly cropped and washed clear of all the filth that had gathered during his time as a captive, his beard shorn, and he once again wore clean clothes emblazoned with the sigil of House Tully. Sat calmly in his chair like that, he looked more lordly than Jaime felt.

Down besides Jaime was the Blackfish, caught trying to slip the siege lines under the cover of darkness, on his knees, still damp with his hands bound about his back. Tommen's predictions had, yet again, been vindicated. The men had caught him in the dead of night, trying to slip beneath one of the booms blocking the rivers.

"I thought we had a deal, Edmure," Jaime said.

"We did," he replied. "I promised you my castle, not my uncle."

"I suppose you did," Jaime said with a tired sigh. In the confusion and chaos spawned by the surrender of Riverrun, he had not yet been spared a moment to sleep. "Not that it matters now. Turns out trout are not as slippery as they seem."

"So what now, Kingslayer?" Brynden spat. "You caught me. Will you kill me?"

My name is not Kingslayer. Jaime scowled, letting his irritation seep through. "I'd like to. But regrettably I gave my word of honour to your niece that I would never again take up arms against House Tully."

"Your word of honour?" Ser Brynden lifted an unimpressed eyebrow at that. "Spare me, Kingslayer. Your word is meaningless to me. Hells, do you even know what honour is?"

"You should consider yourself lucky that I am allowing you to take the black, ser. Ned Stark's bastard is Lord Commander."

"Lannister work?" Brynden questioned. "Catelyn never trusted the boy, as I recall."

"This pettiness of yours serves no purpose, ser. This war is done."

"Ended in breach of all the sacred laws of hospitality," Ser Brynden pressed.

"Frey treachery, not mine."

"Undoubtedly," Brynden agreed. "Yet it reeks of Tywin."

Jaime felt his jaw clench. The Blackfish had once been a hero of his youth. Part of him still felt the urge to impress, to win the older man's approval. He felt the words bubbling on his tongue - the truth of what was soon to become of House Frey, an offer to allow Brynden to join in the coming slaughter - but Jaime swallowed that truth deep down in exchange for another: "I would have slain Robb Stark in the Whispering Wood, had I reached him. But some fools got in the way. I will agree with you, ser, that the Young Wolf's end was ignoble. But it was not in any doubt. His kingdom never would have survived long, and nor would he. So what does it matter how he perished?"

"You would have slain him, eh?" Ser Brynden's gaze drifted down to Jaime's golden hook. "But you never had that fight, did you? So I suppose we'll never know." The old man tutted and shook his head. "Such a shame. That would have been a battle worthy of song. Though, if you'd slay me in open combat here and now, it would put any questions to rest. You were once held up as the next Barristan, Kingslayer. But now that you've lost your hand..."

On a younger, bolder Jaime, such goading might well have worked. "You know of my oath, ser. You know I can't accept such an offer."

"How convenient," Ser Brynden said. "Yet what's one more broken oath to you, Kingslayer? Take up arms and prove your mettle. You can keep one of my hands bound, if you'd like. If you think it'd even the odds."

The scorn in Ser Brynden's voice made Jaime scowl. "You'll take the black, ser. And you'll consider yourself lucky I don't have you drowned in one of your precious rivers instead. And though the minstrels may not know of my martial strength, hence they will certainly know my mercy."

With that, Jaime turned and left the Tullys, sending in Lannister guards after to have the Blackfish taken to one of the dungeons for the rest of the day. He wasn't about to take any chances with one such as Ser Brynden. Jaime stalked through the halls of Riverrun, heading in no particular direction as he let the scowl fade from his face. From the windows, the light of a bright autumn day flooded in. Noon had already come and gone. The morning frost had since faded from the surrounding fields.

And now Jaime's little army was slowly falling apart. The Frey host had begun their departure almost as soon as dawn had broken the day after Riverrun had fallen. Lord Walder's banners had gone first, heading fast for the Twins. Evidently, there were some outriders lurking around the roads to the north, picking off stray members of Lord Walder's brood. And the newly-made Lord of Harrenhall was naturally eager to get to his seat. He left with Genna and as many of the Freys as would follow him soon after. And so only a few Freys were left, almost none of which would be accompanying Jaime onwards.

Mooton, Vance, Goodbrook, and Piper went next. Each was eager to get back home, to make what few preparations they could before the winter snows began. "All relations of yours that Lord Walder holds captive at the Twins will be returned to you, my lords," Jaime promised as he granted them permission to go. "I'll go and make sure myself." He got a few words of gratitude for that, and then his warcamp shrunk again.

Next went Lord Westerling with his wife and daughter. The poor girl was thin, willowy, withdrawn. She sported red rings around her eyes from crying. But though she might have carried her love for the Young Wolf in her heart, Jaime knew that she didn't carry him in her womb. She hadn't been with child to begin with - not so far as he could tell - but he'd had her drink a good dose of Moon Tea to make sure. Even still, he felt a pang of pity for her as he watched the freshly-pardoned Westerlings mount their horses and set off, the poor young thing trailing her parents, riding forlorn with her head bowed in mourning.

He stood and watched them ride west over the horizon, trailed by a guard numbering almost two-hundred. If Jeyne ever escaped Lannister custody, she could prove dangerous indeed. The Young Wolf's widow might serve as a powerful symbol for rebellion if she wound up in the wrong hands.

In two or three years time, the girl would be wed again. And in spite her mother's best efforts, Jeyne Westerling was not likely to land someone better than a second son. No matter. Once she was away, the girl was no longer Jaime's concern.

And so, by the following morning, the size of Jaime's retinue had almost halved. In the wake of a departing host's worth of men, a small fortune's worth of siege equipment had been left behind.

"We should take it with us," Daven recommended. "Use it to break Lord Tytos's defences."

"No," Jaime said, shaking his head. "I won't need such things to deal with one like him. Siege towers and trebuchets will just slow us down. Burn it."

Daven nodded and set about making the preparations. With all Riverrun's garrison accounted for, Jaime started the tedious process of releasing the men he'd captured during the surrender back into Edmure's service, swearing them one-by-one on a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star to never again take up arms against the crown or House Lannister. He did not expect these men would all hold to their oaths - most of them likely did not even mean to keep their word - but even a few would help to curtail any rebellious notions brewing in the young Lord Tully's mind.

By the end of the day, the only people left in the dungeons were those obstinate fools who'd refused to swear outright, and would soon share Ser Brynden's fate.

That night, Jaime took a moment to relax and watch the siege equipment the Freys had built go up in flames. He watched the gallows burn, watched the trebuchets and towers and ramps crack and collapse in on themselves with some of the finest vintage red from Riverrun's stores in his hand, his cousin sat beside him. The tongues of the flames leaped up high into the sky as the darkness descended.

"So what now?" Daven asked.

"Now that Riverrun's fallen, only Raventree Hall stands. Lord Blackwood will surrender quick enough."

"And onto the Twins," Daven drank. "That'll be one tough siege, with our numbers diminished like this."

"We'll rally some more men at Raventree Hall. And even if we don't, the way I see it, it won't be much of a siege at all," Jaime said.

"How come?"

Jaime shook his head and sipped his wine. "The time for that is later."

Daven frowned, but accepted Jaime's words with a quiet nod.

Jaime sat in silence, following a stray ember from the fire with his eyes as it caught the wind and floated away. "These bandits roaming the Riverlands need to be dealt with. I hear they've grown bold enough to launch attacks within a day's ride of the Twins."

"Ah," Daven nodded. "Ser Beric's sorry lot."

"Ser Beric and Lady Stoneheart," Jaime corrected him.

"Who's she?" Daven asked.

Lady Catelyn's corpse. "The woman behind the wolves," he said. Jaime misliked the name, but he could hardly deny it fit. He'd heard it around camp after another band of foragers left and failed to return. Only a few had been found, their bodies hanged from the branches of a tree. A singer had come up with it, as far as Jaime could tell. A bard. Formerly a Frey man, now in Jaime's employ. Tom of Sevenstreams. The same name as in Tommen's letters.

The man had tried to sell himself with a rendition of the 'Rains of Castamere'. Jaime'd stopped him right quick, in spite his obvious talent. The thought of his father's crowning achievement sat heavy in his mind, threatened to turn his stomach. Will the Twins be my Castamere? he wondered.

Daven winced. "Nasty bastards, those wolves. Dozens in each pack, stalking men in leathers and mail and even plate. Somehow fearless." Daven shook his head. "Unnatural, that. This Lady Stoneheart, she a witch?"

Jaime shrugged. "She may as well be."

Daven sighed. "So the seemingly unkillable bandit's found himself a witch bride. How many blades do you think we'll need to kill Beric Dondarrion? A dozen? Two?"

"Just the one," Jaime said. "And a thousand witnesses. Though Beric would be better sent to freeze at the Wall than burn in the Seven Hells."

"Hmm."

That night Jaime dreamt he was back with Cersei, with her lying spreadeagled before him, flat on her back. They were fifteen again, Cersei's kisses tender in a way they had not been in years. Her moans filled his ears, urging him on, begging for him. His hands wandered her flesh as she held him close, legs wrapped tight around his back, her hips bucking, pulling him deeper and deeper within her. He felt his right go to her neck, watched her yelp in delight as he applied a little pressure to her throat. Her fingers groped his shoulders, his neck, pulling him close for a kiss.

Then his hand became a hook, and her milky flesh grew stale beneath his fingers, marked by splotchy brown tendrils of rot. The green of her eyes and the gold of her hair had both turned white, the blush of her cheeks gone, her face shredded. Around her neck a deep gash appeared, seemingly raw yet somehow not bleeding. Jaime attempted a retreat but her legs refused to move, keeping him prisoner inside her, Catelyn's haunted face now staring up at him.

"Let me go," he groaned as he struggled to escape, his head pounding as her fingers tightened around his neck.

"I already did," she said, though only the slightest rasp emerged from her mouth, lips twisting into an ugly smile that revealed rotted teeth beneath.

Jaime awoke in the dark, shivering, sweating. Dawn had not yet come. His chambers seemed as cold as ice. The fire outside had long since died, as had the flames in his hearth. Yet there were still a good few hours left till first light. Jaime picked up his sword, donned his mail, and headed for the yard. There Ser Ilyn dutifully answered Jaime's call, and the two crossed swords till the sun arose. Almost three hours, all told. By the end Jaime was breathless and his arms felt leaden, but his shivers were gone.

Normally in their bouts Ser Ilyn beat him soundly enough at least a half-dozen times. But today had been different. Jaime had only faltered twice, and had even managed to sneak in a victory, ending a bout by holding the sharp edge of his hook to the tongueless man's throat.

Jaime went and bathed soon after, feeling strangely content, and let Pia scrub him for the first time since Darry. He thought again of pulling her into the bath with him, but the memory of his dream served well enough to smother his lusts. Once he was dressed again, this time in proper mail and plate, Jaime emerged out into the rain to the sight of his men preparing to depart. Daven hurried the men on, leading them to pack away any last pieces they had not done the day before.

From his retinue, Jaime chose a small band of Gregor's men to take the prisoners to the nearest port in Maidenpool, to send them off to the Wall. "See to it the men all make it unharmed," he warned Rafford. "Or else I'll do to you a dozen times worse than Gregor ever could."

Across the yard, Ser Brynden shot him a poisonous look as he was led into a wagon with his hands bound behind his back. Jaime ignored it as he turned to see Edmure approaching.

"You will never know how much I despise you, Kingslayer," Edmure said.

Jaime could only shrug. "I have been despised by better men than you, Edmure."

"In any case, I'll be glad to see you gone."

"And I'll be glad to be gone," Jaime agreed. "But before I leave, I'll offer a few parting words. The king has offered you clemency. A golden chance to rebuild your house, your name. Don't spoil it with some petty rebellion. Don't let your resentments and regrets spoil your future, the future of your children. You might hate me, and you might well hate my father. And I do not doubt you have good reason to. But soon you will have to venture south to swear fealty to the king. Take my advice: bend the knee gracefully. Tommen is a kind-hearted lad. Too clever to nurse petty grievances. Too clever to turn to swords when words will suffice. He is neither me nor my father. So long as he thinks you are sincere in your vows, he won't think twice of welcoming your house back into the fold."

Edmure scowled briefly in suspicion. Then a more sober look crossed the young lord's face; his lips pursed, his brow furrowed, features heavy with thought.

Jaime rounded his mount and climbed into the saddle. "Think on it, Tully."

After a second the young lord reluctantly acceded. "I will, Kingslayer."

Jaime shot Edmure a dirty look. "My name is not Kingslayer."

"I'm not calling you 'ser'," Edmure said.

"Then don't," he replied as he gathered his mare's reins in his good hand. "Just Jaime will suffice."

"Well enough, Lannister," Edmure said, insolent.

Jaime could not help but roll his eyes at Edmure as he turned his gaze towards the rest of the yard. The men were mostly ready to depart; the wagons loaded, the horses saddled, the armour donned, the packs filled to bursting with provisions. Before long Daven would declare their preparations done, and they would depart.

But of all the places Jaime could have looked, it was Ser Brynden who caught Jaime's gaze, sat calmly waiting as he absorbed the sight of his ancestral home. His last, in all likelihood. Once Brynden was away, the chances were low that he would ever return.

It's against Tommen's instructions, Jaime knew. Ser Brynden was a determined foe. Were he to manage an escape, the consequences would likely be dire. Yet Jaime could not help but feel tempted. He'd been raised hearing tales of the Blackfish, of his bravery against the Band of the Nine in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. How could he send such a warrior to go waste away without satisfaction? I would want revenge if it were Tommen or Myrcella, Jaime reasoned. And the Blackfish will not try for an escape for fear of endangering Edmure. So what does it matter if he gets to spill a little Frey blood before he spends the rest of his life freezing his balls off?

Jaime dismounted from his horse, and rounded the yard to approach Ser Brynden's wagon. The older man shot him a dirty look, sat calmly besides other members of the Tully household in plain garb, bereft of blade and plate, grey hairs thinning on the venerable knight's head.

"Get up, ser," Jaime said.

Brynden obeyed without complaint, stepping out of the wagon and squaring his shoulders as he stood to face Jaime. "You still want that duel, Kingslayer?"

Jaime did not quail from Ser Brynden's gaze. He let the silence linger a moment in indecision as he observed the Blackfish, searching in vain for some semblance of certainty that he was about to make the right decision.

Ser Brynden's eyes drifted down to Oathkeeper's hilt. "Or do you mean to cut me down where I stand, here and now?"

"Do you pray for justice? For Catelyn and Robb?" Jaime asked in a low voice, careful to not let anyone overhear.

Brynden blinked in confusion. "I would love nothing more than to see their deaths avenged. Yet what would you know of justice, Kingslayer?"

Your beloved niece isn't dead, Jaime wanted to say. "I know enough."

Brynden stood stone-faced, almost hesitant, sceptical eyes flicking intently over Jaime's face, studying it for signs of deception.

"The rest of your days await you at the Wall, ser," Jaime declared. "But they can wait. For these next few weeks, you ride with me."
-------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a partial rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 47: Victarion III

The night of Euron's demise, Victarion had done two things.

The first was to pull the Reader aside.

"What is it, Victarion?" the Reader had asked as he was led out of earshot of the other captains, sinking deeper and deeper into their revelry. Some captains had already slumped over from the drink, whilst others seemed determined to turn the hall into a brothel. It seemed every girl in the entire keep, perhaps the entire island, was presently stripped bare, being raped bloody right before him.

"I intend to oppose Euron in his madness," Victarion said in a low voice. "Sailing to Essos! Making slavers of us!"

The Reader's eyes narrowed, too shrewd to be so easily fooled. "Certainly, that is welcome news. But I might also suggest that the claim that you advanced that the Arbor might be taken next is not all that much better."

"The Arbor might have its fleet, but what of the Mander?"

The Reader's brow climbed up his forehead in concern. "You want to launch a raid? Into the Reach? Without first disposing of the Redwyne fleet?"

"We are raiders, one and all," Victarion argued. "I see no reason we could not ravage the coasts and terrorise the cities and, having made off with the loot, return to the Iron Islands as rich men. Richer than Balon ever managed to make us."

"And when the Redwyne fleet returns for revenge?" the Reader asked. "When the Boy King's Tyrell bride asks for our blood? What then?"

"She likely already has. The Shields are as much a part of the Reach as any other."

"Then you would be better off pushing for peace terms now, whilst you can," the Reader said.

Victarion snorted. "You think the captains would wear it? Euron promised them gold, glory. I need to offer them both, else they will brand me craven."

"And when you lead them to their deaths?" the Reader asked. "We sail down the mouth of the Mander or the Honeywine without guarding our flank, we are doomed to be trapped in by whatever remains of the Redwyne Fleet at the Arbor. And even if we do manage it successfully, who's to say the Boy King won't take after his father and launch a war against us? That was Balon's mistake, thinking he could further divide the kingdoms by attacking them. Instead, he united the lords behind their new king."

"The Boy King is not his father," Victarion said with a wave of his hand. "The whelp is still wet behind the ears."

"It is not the king himself that concerns me," Harlaw said, "but rather his council. You think the Old Lion will show us any mercy?"

"Stannis has the Royal Fleet," Victarion said. "And the Tyrells are his old enemies. I think the Old Lion can be convinced of the usefulness of bringing the Iron Fleet under his banner."

"Perhaps. Though it is worth noting the Lannisters and Tyrells are more allies than enemies now. And even if such a peace could be struck, it would mean becoming a vassal again," the Reader warned. "The captains won't like that either."

Victarion felt his jaw clench. Have all those books cost the Reader his balls? Lord Harlaw was a clever man, certainly. But entirely too cautious for Victarion's tastes.

The Reader sighed in resignation. "Yet you're right. But now that Asha's gone, I expect it will be harder for us. In his letters, it seemed the Boy King had a certain fondness for her. I don't think he will be as generous with us. And no matter what, I doubt we'd be able to find a position of strength to negotiate from."

"Do you know where she is?"

The Reader shrugged. "I only advised her to run. I didn't tell her where to run to." Something in Harlaw's stance hinted at deceit, but that was the least of Victarion's concerns for the moment, so he let it rest.

"So we are agreed?" Victarion asked. "Your men will stand beside mine?"

The Reader nodded, grim-faced. "To oppose Euron, aye. I'll support you."

Once that was done, the second thing he did was to make it known that he was leaving, to make it clear that he could not be guilty. He left with his men in a huff, making a show of his dissatisfaction with his brother, making it seem as though Euron had still been alive at the time of their last meeting. And so it was with a grin that Victarion descended eagerly into the bowels of the Iron Victory and then the flesh of the dusky woman. He told her of the glories yet to await him as she laboured over him and, feeling generous, spared her the sharper edge to his affections.

He stayed into the night, allowing the dusky woman to share his bed as he slept for the first time, then lingered with her long into the next day, watching the rays of the sun drift lazily through the windows into his cabin as his hands wandered her supple flesh.

When Victarion finally returned to the keep, what greeted him was chaos.

Captain had already turned on captain, accusations were hurled, and Victarion found himself in the unenviable situation of having to settle the passions of his fellow ironmen. Naturally, he was one of the targets of their suspicions, being the heir to the Seastone Chair. But he had excuse enough to allay their suspicions. He had made a big show of storming away from his meeting with Euron. And besides, everyone could understand the desire to break in a salt-wife.

Yet still the unease persisted.

"The dragon horn is gone," the Reader noted. Victarion blinked in surprise. Upon sighting Euron's corpse, thought of the horn had not even crossed his mind. But its theft did not make for good tidings.

"Fuck the horn!" one man replied. "I - we - were promised the Mander! Gold! Girls! We don't need any horn for that."

A roar of agreement rang out. And though Victarion was sat in the centre of Lord Hewett's hall, it seemed few had noted his presence. For the moment, that was fine. Victarion was content to let Harlaw work his magic; the old man had a way with words far beyond Victarion.

"No," the Reader agreed, "we don't. But we do need a leader. Divided, even the flower knights of the Reach could defeat us. United, we stand far stronger. And thus, since Euron is dead, it seems we'll need to hold another Kingsmoot."

"A waste of time!" another captain complained. "Oldtown and Highgarden and the Arbor will be marshalling their defences as you prattle! Our king was killed in his bed, in the dark. His killer may well still be among us. I would wager it was a Reachlord - too craven to face us in battle. Every moment we waste is one we give to our enemy."

"Well," the Reader asked, "how else would you propose we resolve this?"

Eyes turned to Victarion. "We follow the line of succession, Lord Harlaw. Theon, I would guess, is well and truly dead. Asha is a woman, and too far gone to be of any use to us in any case. Of all Balon's heirs, only one is here."

Harlaw's eyes narrowed as he gazed at Victarion. Was this you? was the question in the old man's eyes.

Victarion did not deign to answer the Reader's look. Instead he lifted himself to his feet, clad in full plate, looking every bit an ironborn warrior. "I will lead you all to gold and glory. I will deliver to your feet the wealth of the Reach. I will secure our strength. I don't have any horn, nor any letter. I have naught but the strength of my arms, and the blessings of the Drowned God. And if you feel yourself stronger, then stand and test your might against the kraken!"

There was a long silence. None dared speak. Victarion wondered if someone might muster the courage, but nobody did. Eventually, he drew his axe and raised it defiantly in the air, "I offer you victory, ironmen! Are you with me?"

"Victory! Victory!" the discordant cries rang out, one after the other, deafening in the hall. The captains banged their fists in the tables, stamped their feet on the flagstones. The cries soon gained a life of their own, and before long all his fellow ironmen were chanting in unison, "Victarion! Victarion! King Victarion!"

It was a glorious moment; the realisation of all his hopes and dreams. Victarion could not help the grin that threatened to split his face. After all his struggles and stumbles, after watching his hopes sink like an iron lump with Euron's ascension, it was as though the Drowned God had rewarded him; had dropped the Driftwood Crown into his lap. Yet though he was now king, that did not mean his position was secure. Beyond the risk of assassination, he had yet to reign in Euron's wizards and mongrels, to form a true plan of attack for the Reach, to plan for a future beyond his own ascension to the throne.

That night, Victarion retreated again to his ship, fearing for his own life within the bowels of Lord Hewett's keep - not that he would ever admit to such fears. He was tempted to turn to the dusky woman for comfort, and though he allowed himself a moment's indulgence, he did not allow pleasure to become distraction. After he was done, he pushed the girl aside and set to work. Across a table in his cabin he laid a map of the western shores of Westeros, eyeing the approaches. The Arbor seemed the most tempting target for attack, separated from the mainland. Yet it was a good deal south, and required the fleet to sail past both Highgarden and Oldtown.

On the open oceans we hold the advantage, Victarion knew. But then our raids become battles, and our losses mount. The Redwyne fleet - even just half of it - was a formidable foe to make battle against, and it would almost certainly have the core of its strength hosted at the Arbor. In his experience, naval battles were rarely anything other than decisive. They might sweep the Redwyne fleet aside, and leave the entire western shore open. Or else they might themselves be swept aside.

On land we can cut and burn, reaving and raping as we please, but we cannot stay still in any place. If they opted to sail up the Mander, to make their presence known through the Old Way, to pay the iron price for their victories, then gold was almost certainly guaranteed. But that did not mean the Old Way was without risks. Even flower knights will fight fiercely for their homes.

It was a difficult decision to take, but a necessary one. Victarion knew his captains would not accept waiting much longer. The relatively bloodless taking of the Shields had emboldened them, made them eager for more. Yet without Euron's promised dragons, conquest was out of the question. One ironman may have been worth ten greenlanders, but the greenlanders outnumbered them by more than that.

And then there was the question of trickery. Euron had not died in battle, or by happenstance. He had been murdered. And though suspicion had been directed upon the greenlanders, Victarion knew it was just as likely that the Crow's Eye had died at the hands of one of his captains.

In any event, he decided, Euron's mongrels go first. Let their blood wash the greenlander blades.

The whole night, Victarion pondered his choices, nursing a cup of wine in his hands as he did so. Hidden dangers and plots seemed to obscure every path. Land or sea, peace or war. No room for error now.

By the time morning came, Victarion knew only one certainty. We cannot win. The Iron Throne has ships, soldiers, lands to spare. We don't. Victarion might try to undermine the Boy King's reign, but Harlaw was likely right. It wasn't going to work. The greenlander hatred for them was too strong. And though showing the Boy King to be a weakling might shame him, might sow doubt in the minds of vassals, any further conquest was still likely to provoke a strong reaction.

The Old Lion could not afford to allow his grandson's regime to look weak.

We need to make peace from a position of strength, he knew. To play on the Boy King's softness. To play on the worst fears of his Tyrell wife. And to do it all quickly, before the Boy King defeats his other foes and develops an appetite for conquest.

With that thought in his mind, he left the Iron Victory bright and early, trekking up the road to the keep with his plate gleaming with the light of dawn, marching like a king with his men at his flanks. Yet though he kept his back straight, and held his head up high, Victarion could not help but feel tired and small. Who knew the Seastone Chair was so much work? The Victarion of old had lived for conquest, for the thrills of blood and battle. But a new life seemed to threaten him, a life of fretting and worrying like a woman. A life bereft of thrills. Even as he pondered its inevitability, he knew he didn't like it.

And so it was in a sour mood that Victarion stalked up to Lord Hewett's castle, found and cornered the Reader in his rooms. Harlaw had abandoned the Sea Song the night he'd made landfall, opting to spend his time perusing Lord Hewett's meagre library. It was difficult to tell if the Reader's love of books had overcome his brains - forced him to stay in a place where a cutthroat might be lurking - or whether his balls weren't as shrunken as Victarion had first imagined.

Then again, Rodrick Harlaw was not exactly a young man. Who knew how much care he placed on his own life?

"Your Grace?" the old man asked as he looked up at Victarion. He seemed surprised - half dressed in a tunic that fell about his knees, thin grey hair rumpled from bed. Books were strewn across his chosen chambers, papers stacked high on a table in the corner. There was a wariness in his look, a deep suspicion. In all likelihood, Lord Rodrick was one of the few captains awake. Most of the others would still be nursing headaches from a night's heavy drinking, entertaining stolen women in stolen beds. In truth, Victarion had expected to find him with them, still asleep. "What brings you to my chamber at such an early hour?"

"We need to talk," Victarion declared.

"I see," Harlaw said. "Would you like a seat?"

"No," Victarion said. "I won't be long. I just have a few questions."

The Reader seemed almost impressed, brows climbing up his forehead. Both Balon and Euron had spurned the old man's council. "By all means."

"Asha."

Harlaw sighed. "I already told you, Your Grace, I don't know where she is."

"Perhaps, but I think you know well enough where she went, even if you don't know where she wound up. I can guess myself, but it'd help to get some assurances."

"I... I didn't ask too many questions of her. But from what I could surmise, Kings Landing was her aim. After that, I know nothing."

Victarion nodded. "Do you think, if you spoke to her, you could convince her to work with me? To try for peace?"

"If I could find her, perhaps."

"And if you couldn't find her, or convince her?" Victarion questioned. "Do you think you could speak to the Iron Throne on my behalf?"

"Aye," the Reader said, "I could speak to them. Whether they will listen..." He shrugged.

"Yet you say that I would do better to sue for peace than pursue this campaign."

"You would," the Reader insisted. "Though it might wound all our pride to admit it."

"I was not chosen by a Kingsmoot," Victarion pressed. "I cannot afford to look weak, not even for a moment. My power rests on my promises. Should I fail the captains will cast me aside."

The Reader gazed intently at Victarion a moment, then shook his head in agreement. "No, of course not."

"I promised the men gold and glory, Harlaw. Gold and glory. But I also need to ensure enough of us live to enjoy it. I was thinking... A raid on the Reach proper. Up the Mander, into the territories of Highgarden. Strip their fields bare. Scare the Boy King's little wife. Push them to make peace by threatening to do the same to Oldtown. I reckon the Old Lion's dislike of his old rivals to the south and the Tyrell weakness in the Reach should give us some room. All those Reachlords, eager for position, each waiting for their chance to rise and replace their overlords."

Harlaw frowned at that, brow furrowed deeply. "I can see why you might think that, but I don't agree."

Victarion snorted. "What would you say, then?"

"You're making the same mistake Balon made, all those years ago, when he attacked Lannisport. A raid on the Tyrell lands that does not touch Highgarden itself is more likely to enrage the Reachlords than scare them, to make them forget their squabbles. And Highgarden is almost as impenetrable as Casterly Rock, with its high walls and hedges. Sailing up the Mander leaves our fleet vulnerable to being cut off - never mind the ships the Tyrells are massing in the river itself. Trapped, outnumbered, surrounded by angry peasants and lords, we would be swiftly slaughtered. The Reach is not the North. House Tyrell can muster the numbers to protect itself - and quickly."

"So we do nothing? Sit on our hands and wait?"

The Reader shook his head. "I didn't say that. If our goal is to make peace from a place of strength, we need to keep the pressure up as we negotiate. A raid - if successful - might get us gold and girls, but it does little for our strength. What we need is not loot, but leverage. Something we might use to secure good terms from the Iron Throne. A conquest of some sort. On land, the Reachlords have an advantage, but on the open ocean we are the masters."

Victarion cocked his head in consideration, quietly incredulous. "You mean the Arbor? The place that hosts the Redwyne fleet?"

"Better the Redwyne fleet than the armies of the Reach," Harlaw said. "Besides, I have good reason to believe that much of the Redwyne fleet is away at Dragonstone, and that Lord Paxter is with it, serving as the Boy King's Master of Ships. A sizeable force might remain, and I don't doubt it will be a hard-fought battle, but whatever fleet remains at the Arbor is almost certainly far smaller than the strength which we might be able to bring to bear. A captain of your skill should be able to win that battle. Once that fleet is dealt with, and the smaller islands around the Arbor are secure in our possession, we will have an opening to ravage the coasts of the Reach with impunity, as King Qhored Hoare once did, thousands of years ago. And that will scare the Tyrells more than a few burning fields ever could. A mighty threat for us to wield in any negotiation."

It was that notion that was swimming around in Victarion's head the rest of morning as he wound his way through the keep to the quarters that Euron had so briefly laid claim. His body had already been taken away, though the bloodstained sheets were left on the bed. Euron's mongrels had wanted to spirit his corpse away somewhere secret to see to his last rites the day before, but Victarion had them stopped.

Euron had always spurned the Drowned God, always spat on the traditions of the Ironborn. Victarion would ensure his funeral would see him sent down to the Drowned God's watery halls. It was a grace Victarion was loathe to give, but he knew it would be necessary to win the favour of some of the more reluctant captains, and that Euron's welcome into the Drowned God's realm was likely to be a painful one, as he was forced to pay the price for his many heresies.

Victarion watched as the women worked, sewing Euron's body into sailcloth, ready for his watery grave.

The hours passed quickly, and before long the time for the funeral had come.

Victarion did not spare his brother many words, and part of him was tempted to go and piss on Euron's corpse. Nevertheless, he restrained himself, and watched as the little boat was pushed off the beach by a few ironmen, watched it bob in the water as it drifted away. He sounded the order, and watched as the flaming arrows arced overhead and struck their target, watched the barrow slowly catching fire. Watched as it slowly took on water, and the flames sank below the horizon.

He returned to Lord Hewett's hall in a circumspect mood, where the feasting had already begun. Any opportunity to drink, it seemed. But Victarion was of no mind to celebrate, eyeing his captains with a surly gaze as they made merry, celebrating the life and demise of the man he had hated with all his heart.

I won't simply be Euron's successor, he decided, midway through the feasting. I will be king in my own right, a king so great that no ironborn will remember the Crow's Eye in a generation's time. Men will sing my name as they sing of Qhored the Cruel and Ravos the Raper. Victarion took a bracing gulp of wine and rose to his feet. Few eyes saw him at first, but before long the tumult died and all the captains arrayed were gazing up at him, stood tall at the head of the hall.

"Ironborn! It was once said that ironmen could claim dominion wherever you could smell the salt of the water, hear the roar of the waves. But over the years the greenlanders have grown scornful of us, complacent in their safety. They have forgotten what it means to fear! Are we going to allow this?"

He paused for a moment, his gaze imperious, eyes burning like only a true reaver's could. A thunderous cacophony ensued, each captain declaring with all their heart that the greenlanders would soon learn the meaning of fear, banging their cups on the tables. Only Harlaw did not partake, watching with a curious eye.

Victarion went with the tumult of the crowd, roaring over the noise. "We are reavers! The descendants of men whose names still strike fear across all Westeros! The descendants of men who laid claim to all the shores - and then took them! We are reavers of the Iron Islands! We do not sow - we reap! We will remind the greenlanders the meaning of fear! The Drowned God demands it! So I ask you all to ready your ships, and sharpen your blades. For our next conquest is the Arbor!"
----------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future
P.P.S. After much thought, I've decided to retcon part of chapter 45. Probably be out within the next week.

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 48: Reek II

"Who is this?" Lady Barbery Dustin demanded. "And where is the boy? Did your bastard refuse to surrender him?" She leaned forwards to inspect him closer. "And this old man-" Barbery recoiled. "Oh, gods be good! What in all the hells is that smell? Has the old wretch soiled himself?"

"He has been with Ramsey," was Lord Roose's clipped reply. "Lady Barbery, allow me to present you the rightful lord of the Iron Isles, Theon Greyjoy."

Reek swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, dizzy, his throat seemingly tightening of its own volition, his heart beginning to race. No no no no. Don't say that name. He'll hear it. Ramsay'll hear it, and he'll know, and he'll hurt me for it.

Lady Barbery gave him a second look over, expression plainly stunned before her features soured, lips pursed in disgust. "He..." she said after a long moment, "is not what I expected. What did your bastard do to him?"

"Removed some skin, some bones - or so I surmised. Small pieces. Fingers and toes. Nothing too essential."

She looked at him like he was a hunk of rotted meat. "Is he mad? Why is he like that?"

Roose could only shrug. "So what if he is? What does it change?"

Without his control, Reek began to shake his head, tears brimming in his eyes. "I'm not him, I'm not the Turncloak. Please, m'lord, m'lady, there's been some mistake. I'm not him. I'm not the Turncloak. He died here, at Winterfell. My name is Reek. Reek, m'lord, m'lady."

Reek watched as disgust fused with pity on Lady Barbery's face. "Aye," she agreed with a sigh. "You reek." Her head turned to Lord Roose. "And what have use have you found for... Reek, my lord?"

Cold eyes flicked over Reek, gleaming with possibility. "I haven't yet decided, though I have some ideas."

"Well, whatever your ideas are, do they require the lad to smell like he's just loosed his bowels in his breeches?"

"No, most don't."

"Then for the sake of all the gods can you have him washed? I mislike having to hold my nose."

And with a wave of Lord Roose's pale hand, Reek was shunned. Cold-handed serving girls led him away from the hall, through the bowels of a ruined Winterfell. Not for the first time, Reek was grateful for the springs beneath the keep. For beyond the castle itself, winter had long since come and entrenched itself. It seemed every outdoor path was lousy with black ice - liable to crack one's head if you weren't careful. Drifts of dirty snow had piled high on every wall, tall enough at times to hide entire doors and passages, meeting with icicles the length of longswords hanging precariously from battlements and ledges, scattering with every cutting gust of wind into every nook and cranny. It tasted funny on the tongue - a mix of bitter soot and ash thrown up from the sacking of the keep as well as the snows.

Blackened beams still littered place. Every now and then one might stumble onto a pack of bones, scraps of skin or hair or a smear of dried blood, or if one was lucky a rotting corpse - though Ramsey's hounds had long since seen to most of them. Mercifully the mists were so thick that one struggled to see very far beyond arm's length when outdoors - or else Reek feared the true extent of the damage might be known.

In a sense, it was a small mercy that the lords of the North had been so slow to answer Lord Roose's summons. It gave him time to do his best to make repairs, to beat back the sense of death and despair that now infested a place that a younger Reek had only known to be full of life. To rebuild the kitchens and barracks, to clean away the shattered glass of Winterfell's once-famous gardens, to erect new gates, and re-roof the collapsed hall. And though much work had already been done using what remained of Winterfell's existing men, much still remained. Tents swarmed the yard, half covered in grey snow - most the castle still unsuitable for living. Yet memories of that life swarmed around Reek as he walked through the passages and halls. A shadow in the flickering torchlight, a distant laugh, the subtle growl of a wolf.

"Turncloak," one of the men hissed at him as he was led away to his bath. Reek ignored it. He was the traitor who'd slain his own foster brothers, delivered his men from Moat Cailin only to see them flayed. Roose Bolton might make use of him, Ramsey might indulge in his twisted pleasures with him, but any true northman was like as to loathe what he'd become, to desire nothing more than to hack Reek's head off.

And how loathsome I must look! Reek thought. The missing toes on his left foot had forced him into a sort of limping crab-walk, back forever hunched. His visage was no better to look upon - flesh hollowed out from his cheeks, hair white and coarse and thin and patchy, teeth mostly smashed into uneven lumps of enamel that made it painful to eat any real foods.

He could tell he was a horror by the way the women treated him as he climbed in the bath. Washerwoman was the polite way of saying camp follower, which was the polite way of saying whore. Of the ones who bathed Reek, some seemed veteran, hardened enough to suffer twenty brutal rapes in quick succession and still be able to laugh and jape with their rapists right after, demanding coin for their cunts. Others seemed softer, younger, like prissy little maidens. None were, of course. It was all an act, a way to earn coin and a little kindness along the way.

But for him, none of the softness was on display. They scrubbed his flayed skin roughly, scraping off the dirt and grime in a quick, quiet way that suggested they wanted nothing more than to be away, to be done with him. Once he was clean he was clad in new breeches and boots and a tunic and even a mantle of sorts - nothing quite yet lordly, but far better than the rags he'd become used to.

And off he went, limping through the halls of Winterfell. The stone was grey - grey everywhere he looked. The ground was white with snow. All around, all Reek could see were Stark colours, and his dazed rambling carried him through the passages and out into the open. Even through his new boots he could feel the coldness of the earth underfoot, the harshness of a bladed breeze on his face. But it was warmer in the godswood, strange to say. Here there were no snows, and the turf beneath his feet was soft and warm, almost inviting. The frost and ice of the surrounding lands were left behind as one entered this most precious sanctum of the old gods, cloaked in gentle steam wafting off the surface of the pools.

Reek was no stranger to this wood. He'd played here as a boy, skipping stones and giving chase to the boys he would one day betray. He'd stalked squirrels between these vast trunks, shared his first kisses here, come here for refuge after suffering bruises at the hands of Jory and Robb.

Reek gazed up at the bleeding eyes of the heart tree and, unbidden, began to weep.

The tears came quietly at first, cloudy droplets rolling down his cheeks, but before long his eyes were red and desperate, gut-wrenching sobs were spilling out. Here he stood; broken, bloodied, betrayed and betrayer both. Here he stood, in the last untarnished place of his youth, the last place the cold lump of meat he called his heart could still find warmth. And though Reek had prayed to the Drowned God his whole life, he fell to his knees before the heart tree, before the old gods.

He'd never known the godswood like this, grey and ghostly all the same; yet draped in mists thick enough to be blankets, dancing with lights, echoing with voices from a half-forgotten past. Above his head were beady, black, judging eyes. Maester Luwin's ravens, Reek knew. Luwin might be dead, but this was still their home.

It felt like some strange purgatory; neither the heavens nor the nether but merely some timeless place beyond the worlds themselves. A place for the damned and devoted alike to find some strange absolution. The weirwood's red eyes stared down at him, its great mouth open as though to laugh or shout. But no sound came, and as Reek sobbed he felt the face in the heart tree gaze at him, felt the heavy carved features soften with pity - even though nothing moved.

Reek found himself wondering if he should say a prayer. Here he was, ready. On his knees, even though he was a son of Pyke. But the Drowned God was now far away, leagues to the west and east. The only god he might find was the one right before him.

"Theon," the wind seemed to whisper to him.

Reek bolted up from his knees, stumbling as his tear-streaked face whipped around in search of the voice. "Who said that?" he called, his voice too meek, too weak from crying to make a demand of his words. Reek felt his hackles rise. Was this another of Ramsey's japes? Another way to torment him? To ruin the last unspoiled thing in his life?

Then, again, in the opposite direction: "Theon."

Reek's head snapped around. Again, there was nobody to be found. The voice was faint, deep as a god's, hateful as a ghost's. How many died here? Reek wondered. How many the day I took Winterfell? How many the day I lost it?

A deep despair came over him; a sensation not unlike drowning. He considered begging for death, but decided against it. So far from the seas, my end will be in one of the hells, for certain. Where my torment will continue with a new torturer. Where I will pay the price for my sins. The price for all those innocents, slain at my hand.

"Theon," the wind whispered to him again, seemingly in a gentler tone. It felt almost like a reassuring voice. Comforting. Familiar.

Reek felt his tears slow, felt his sobs stop, trembling with exhaustion as he stared at the face carved in the heart tree. Every inch of his flesh ached. Yet he felt the tiniest spark of hope alight in his chest, the tiniest flame of life still flickering away inside a corpse. Theon gathered his resolve, turned away from the heart tree, and beat a hasty retreat from the warmth of the godswood back into the bitter chill, Reek no more.

Above him, the thick carpet of clouds had darkened as night encroached. Though his visit to the godswood had felt fleeting, like mere minutes, in truth he'd spent hours bowed beneath the bony limbs of the heart tree. The time had almost come for dinner. Theon readied himself to face Lord Roose again, to face all the scant few the lords who'd come so far to stand by the Leech Lord's side.

The doors of the Great Hall loomed ahead of him; newly made and crudely fitted in a rush by resentful craftsmen. A pair of spearmen guarded the entranceway, eyeing Theon as he slipped past them and into the warmth of the hall. Men lined the benches sparsely, able to spread their legs far without knocking knees with another. It was a dismal sight, to see Lord Roose had attracted such little support. Of note aside from Bolton men there was Lady Dustin, Roger Ryswell, Lord Harwood Stout, and a few Freys to fill the ranks, most accompanying Lord Roose's fat new wife.

No more than a half-dozen vassals had sworn to Lord Bolton's name. In a kingdom with easily four-dozen houses. A bad showing by any standard.

But Theon did not concern himself with this, and simply found and sank into a seat in the corner of the hall, eager to let the evening slip by. Eager to put as much distance between himself and Ramsey as possible. Under Lord Roose's watchful gaze he might have been safe, but Theon was not about to take any chances.

He nursed a lone cup of wine as he watched everyone eat. It was humble fare - most of Winterfell's stores had already been burned and looted. Not that he could manage anything else anyhow. A nibble at a scrap of dry bread had sent bolts of pain shooting through his jaw. And he was not in the mood in any case.

"You do not eat," Lady Dustin noted, having shifted to sit nearer to Theon.

Theon shook his head glumly.

"No taste for pork pie, eh?" she asked him with a smirk. "And I thought Ironborn enjoyed a feast before battle?"

"They do," Theon said. "But we are not before a battle, my lady."

"Are we not?" Lady Dustin questioned. "Stannis has already taken Deepwood Motte. He could be upon us in a week if he so desired. No. Stannis will come. He must. And when he does, he'll find himself facing Lord Roose."

"A hard-fought battle," Theon acquiesced, though in truth he knew it would be over the moment Lord Roose sent the signal to Lord Arnolf to turn his cloak.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Lady Dustin said. "Stannis Baratheon may well be a fine warrior, and a fearsome commander, but he is no Roose Bolton. Roose has no feelings, you see. The leeches sucked the passions out of him. He does not love, nor does he hate. To him, this is just a game. Some mild diversion between flayings and leechings." Lady Barbery took a sip of her wine. Why was she telling him all this? Was she drunk? "Truth be told," she continued, "Roose has higher ambitions than most know. Robb Stark may have declared himself king of the north, but I reckon that if anyone dies it, it'll be Lord Roose who actually becomes king. And why not? The Lannisters are a spent force, held aloft only by the fertility of Tyrell soil and the abundance of soldiers that soil feeds. The Freys are not likely to object to one of their own becoming a queen. And once Stannis is gone, Lord Roose's authority will be cemented, and all those absent lords insolent enough to refuse a summons will flock here to bow and scrape - none of which have any lost love for the Iron Throne. And then who'll be left to oppose him?"

Theon opened his mouth, then closed it again. He struggled for words, careful not to make any utterances which might earn him a punishment. In the end, he opted only for silence as an answer to Lady Barbery's question.

Not that she seemed to care. Her attention was turned to the head of the hall, where a guard had shuffled out from one of the entranceways and was bent over Lord Roose, his furs caked white with snow, and was whispering something in the Leech Lord's ear.

Lord Roose's head turned slowly to face the guard, eyes searching. Then, he nodded curtly once.

The guardsman scurried from the hall, snow shaking off his shoulders as he went, and was gone only a few minutes before he returned, followed by a stream of men, led at the front by someone enormously fat.

"Manderly, Umber, Cerwyn, Slate..." Lady Barbery was muttering, eyes flicking intently over the new arrivals. It seemed that enough lords had arrived just now to more than double the number of men at Lord Roose's command.

The man at the front stopped before the head of the hall, and offered a shallow bow. Lord Roose eyed him up and down, expressionless. "Lord Wyman," he finally replied. "I was not expecting you."

The fat man at the front of the line of lords frowned. "Truly?" he asked. "I sent a raven ahead of me, with apologies for my late arrival. I was delayed, you see. But I suppose that the snows which held me back must have confused the raven too."

"I see," Lord Roose said, lips pursed with suspicion. Doubtless, he was not happy to see such a vast group of lords - and presumably all their retainers and a substantial number of their men-at-arms too - arrive at Winterfell without notice. And all without his defences granting him even a slight warning. But he had positioned his men westwards, so it stood to reason that some of the approaches might be more lightly guarded. "Nevertheless, your arrival is welcome. Take your seats and sup. I'll have the servants bring in more food. Take rest from the strains of travel."

The fat man nodded and claimed his seat, sending some of his own men to bring in more food. The rest of the lords that had followed him into the hall all offered their courtesies to Lord Roose and then joined him. Wine and pie and cake and meat flowed amply to them, and Lord Wyman gorged himself. From somewhere a bard was summoned, and song filled the austere quiet of a hall that was suddenly full.

Lady Barbery snorted at the sight. "He is craven to the bone, that one."

"He's here, in spite the threat Stannis poses."

"Aye," Lady Barbery agreed. "I said he was craven, not that he wasn't clever. If Lord Wyman ever had to face Stannis in battle, you can be sure he'll piss himself. His son died at the Red Wedding, and yet here he is, making merry with Roose Bolton, sharing his home with all those Freys you see there. He's even promised his daughter to one of them! Oh, I don't deny he'd like to kill us all. Of course he would! But he doesn't have the gall for it. Blood runs deep. And the Manderlys fled their way here from the south, allowed themselves to be hounded from their lands instead of standing their ground like warriors might. The fat man is only here because he knows better than to earn the ire of Lord Roose. But even I thought he might have the courage to stay home, to not go straight into the arms of the man who killed his children." She shook her head. "Like I said, craven to the bone."

Theon observed the merry lord, red-faced with his jowls swinging below his cheeks as he japed and laughed. Lord Wyman certainly fit the look. But something in his gut didn't agree with the notion. Lord Manderly's sons had acquitted themselves well in battle, hadn't they? They'd died as warriors should, with pride.

And though his face seemed merry, split by a grin, Theon saw the scheming gleam in those fat-enfolded eyes. Lord Roose seemed to see it too, judging by the way he watched Lord Wyman's every move.

Our fat lord is not quite as craven as he seems, Theon guessed, though he kept his thoughts to himself, lowering his gaze back to the wine in his cup. He watched his reflection in the liquid; observed the sunken eyes, the patchy head of stringy white hair, the hollow cheeks, the broken teeth - the perennial look of despair etched onto his face the polar opposite of Lord Wyman's laughs and smiles.

And neither am I, Theon decided, then and there.
---------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 49: Jon VI

Lady Melisandre did not miss much, it seemed.

"The Onion Knight has returned," she told him, just as the letter arrived on his desk, sealed with the black wax of the Watch.

Jon unfurled the parchment, perused it once, twice. He swallowed. Rickon...

The thought that another member of his old family was alive was one he desperately desired to be true, he could not deny. But it was also a dangerous one. Ser Davos is loyal to Stannis alone. And so what happens should my loyalties be torn? Rickon or Arya? Stannis wouldn't kill a child, surely? Nor would Tommen, Jon was certain, though there was no speaking for Tywin.

The Red Woman eyed him up and down. "What does it say?"

"Ser Davos was delayed, sent down south to the capital on demand of the king. He claims that King Tommen is amenable to a truce. He says the chances of turning Lord Wyman are slim. Yet he insists the best chance lies in the far north, in Skagos."

"With your brother," she added, almost reading his mind.

Jon took a deep breath. "Is he alive? Rickon?"

Melisandre shrugged. "I could not be sure. I would need to look in the flames, search specifically for your littlest brother. Yet if half of what I hear about the isles are true, then flames are likely to be scarce in Skagos."

Jon closed leaden eyes, deep in thought. "And the Iron Throne?" he asked. "What do your flames say of the Boy King's offer? Is it genuine?"

When Jon opened his eyes again, Melisandre's lips were pursed. "The flames... they do not show me the Red Keep. Something dark lurks over the throne, shielding the Boy King from my vision. Only glimpses come through the shadows."

Fire is a fickle thing, Jon remembered Val had said. "And the glimpses?"

"Incomprehensible, for the most part. Too susceptible to misinterpretation to be much of any use."

Jon hummed in understanding, struggling to settle himself comfortably. Something about the Red Woman always seemed to make him uneasy. Her eyes seemed to see too much, to linger in places they shouldn't. Her attention was enough to make his skin crawl. Yet he brushed away the sensation and leaned back in his seat, pretending to relax. On the floor besides him the Old Bear's raven was busy pecking dried corn. Ghost sat in the corner, curled up, gaze lazily following the raven's flappings. The window was open, a cold blast of air rushing in. And not even the Red Woman's flames could withstand that.

In an age of change, only the chill remains.

Jon sighed, suddenly exhausted. "Why are you here, my lady? Why come to speak to me? And why now?"

"You have been avoiding me," she said. Jon did not bother to deny it. They both knew it was true. "You feel you cannot trust me."

Again Jon kept his peace.

"Tell me. What can I do? How might I earn your trust? You know I am on your side. The Lord of Bones has served you well, has he not? Stannis may be the lord's chosen, destined to lead the fight against the dark, but that does not mean you don't have a role to play. We need not be at odds."

"Who said we were at odds?" Jon asked. "I am merely a busy man, my lady. You would have done better to depart with your master, to tend to his fires and tell of his future. Most the work here at the Wall is menial enough, far beneath you. Rattleshirt has been a boon, I'll grant, helping to smooth relations between the Watch and the wildlings. But unless you have other boons to grant, I am afraid there is little for you to do."

She looked him up and down, confident features contemplative a moment. "What boon would suit you best, Lord Commander?"

"You could stop trying to convert my men."

Melisandre smiled. "And what else?"

Jon scratched his beard in thought. "You say that your flames do not let you see into Skagos or the capital. But what of Hardhome? I sent Cotter Pyke north with the Eastwatch fleet to rescue some wildlings gathering there. What will be the fate of that mission, I wonder? And what of the south? What of Stannis? What can you tell me of what has become of my homeland?"

"I would need to look to your man specifically to be sure of anything. Yet I cast my gaze north regularly, and see much every time I look. What may concern your man was a tempest. Frothing seas blown into cresting waves by roaring winds and heavy rains and thunder. And at Hardhome, a thousand red eyes lurking, painted onto faces as white as your weirwoods."

Jon's lips pursed with displeasure. Not good tidings, exactly, but not unexpected either. "And Stannis?"

"When I search for my lord's chosen, the flames only show me snow," Melisandre admitted after a moment's reticence.

Jon scowled. "Is there any place you can look?" The moment the words tumbled out of his mouth he regretted them. "I am sorry, my lady. I-"

"The flames show me a girl," the Red Woman cut in. "A girl in grey atop a dying horse. I have seen it as plain as day. She's coming here. Soon."

Val, was Jon's first thought. A girl atop a dying horse? Who else could it be? With any luck she would have the Giantsbane with her.

Melisandre's eyes drifted from Jon to Ghost. "May I touch your wolf?"

The question startled Jon. He looked at Melisandre, at Ghost, then back at her. "... Best not."

"The wolf will not harm me," she assured him. She leaned down from her seat, met and held Ghost's gaze, and then uttered the wolf's name as though it was a chant.

Ghost uncurled from his seat in the corner, padded warily towards the Red Woman, sniffing the fingers she offered. Jon was certain for a moment that the Red Woman was liable to lose a hand, but Ghost only reached out to lick her fingers.

"He..." Jon frowned in disbelief. "That's strange. Ghost is not usually so..."

"There is more to this beast than you know, Jon Snow. And the Wall is a strange place besides. There is a power here, something ancient. Something you can use, if you so desired. Yet you resist it."

"Dalla - Val's sister - once told me that sorcery was a sword without a hilt. That there was no safe way to use it."

"A wise woman," the Red Woman noted, fingers wandering Ghost's fur. "Yet all life is risk. Danger. And a sword without a hilt is still a sword. A skilled warrior could still make use of such an implement."

"Or a desperate one," Jon added.

"Better to learn whilst you still have the chance, then. I could show you."

"How?"

"The Lord of Light made our species as we are for a reason. Male and female. Two parts of a greater whole. In the joining of these two parts there is power. Power to make life. To make death. This is the fastest way, though there are gentler methods."

All of a sudden, Jon could feel the Red Woman's warmth radiating off her. He could be in no doubt about her power. But something deep in his gut told him that this was not a woman to be indebted to. It may well be safer to owe the Iron Bank, Jon mused.

Melisandre shook her head, rose from her seat, a gust of wind from the open window rippling the folds of her robes as though they were the tongues of a flame. "And yet still you harbour doubts. Very well. But hear me now, Jon Snow. The day will soon come when you are forced to behold the blind and ravaged faces of the dead. Mayhaps even the faces of men you once knew. Men you may have once respected. And when this day comes, I will again offer you my hand." Jon could swear he saw a subtle flame dancing in her fingertips, making her flesh glow. "And if you wish to save your Wall, then you will take my hand, Jon Snow."

And with that the Red Woman was gone.

A week passed without incident as Jon pondered her words. Even as he inspected the progress of the southern recruits in the yard, visited the building sites, watched with an obsessive eye the flow of food from Eastwatch, and ploughed through the pile of letters that seemed to relentlessly grow on his desk, the vision of Melisandre's glowing fingers reaching out to him never seemed to fade from the back of his mind. Even as the Red Woman herself had become scarce, her presence seemed to weigh even heavier on his shoulders.

Still, Jon had plenty of distraction to take up his time. He noticed the man in the yard - one of the new arrivals - swinging his sword with surprising confidence. He had broader shoulders than most, a highborn bearing, and a pair of wandering eyes that always seemed to land on Jon. Davos had mentioned him, in his letter. Always another complication, eh?

Still, the men in the yard were progressing at a fast pace, and the time had come for them to take their vows.

Septon Cellador made most the preparations, of course, as most the new recruits were southerners. From within the bowels of Castle Black he emerged, red-faced from the cold, his copy of the Seven Pointed Star held securely against his breast. Today he would have to take their oaths in the yard - there were simply too many of them to fit into his little sept. Jon rallied the men - about two dozen all told. They gathered slowly, their manner thick with trepidation. They were brigands and urchins and vagrants and thieves, the lot of them. All except one.

The highborn man seemed comfortable enough, if a tad disgusted at the company he was keeping.

"Why are you here?" Jon asked, pulling the man aside, his hand hovering warningly over Longclaw's hilt.

"My lord?" the man asked.

"Are you a spy? Why did His Grace send you here with Davos?"

The man looked away. "I am to be your guard, my lord."

"I don't need a guard."

"His Grace cares to disagree."

Jon grit his teeth. "And your name?"

"Osney, my lord," the man said. "Kettleblack."

Jon nodded. "And your crime?"

The man looked away, silent.

"Your crime," Jon insisted.

"I tried to lie with the king's wife."

Jon blinked once, twice. Then a bark of laughter slipped his lips. Jon shook his head, a genuine smile splitting his face for the first time in what felt like months. The man's face seemed to flush red with embarrassment, and then he looked away, sulking, and begged his pardon. Jon watched him go with a smile on his face. The day would come for the knight to swear his vows, but today was not that day.

"Now repeat after me," he told them once they were all ready, kneeling before him, clad in black hoods and cloaks like wraiths. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins."

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins," they repeated after Jon.

"It shall not end till my death."

"It shall not end till my death," they intoned. "I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post." The severity of their words seemed to be settling in now, the oaths echoing back to aeons past. "I am the sword in the darkness, the watcher on the walls. I am the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men, the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Jon saw Melisandre watching as he led the recruits through their vows.

"I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

And with that, the southern brigands became sworn brothers.

"Rise now as men of the Watch," Jon said, offering a hand to one. They arose, new men. Some - fast friends - offered each other hugs and congratulations. Others seemed despondent, the oaths doubtless already feeling like nooses wrapped tight around their necks.

And then, all went quiet. "Did you hear that?" Septon Cellador asked.

Jon held up a finger to silence him. Watchers on the Wall. One blast means rangers returning.

A hundred heartbeats seemed to pass. Yet the horn sounded again in the distance, clear as day. Two blasts means wildlings. Val. Jon was tempted to set off for the stables. But it was dark, and a long ride through the snows at this hour was just asking for trouble. So instead he gave his commands to Bowen and retired to his quarters for the night, remembering Tommen's letters as he drifted into darkness, then waking at first light and departing ahorse.

There was no time to wait, after all.

For Tormund Giantsbane had finally arrived, with four thousand wildlings in tow.

Jon saw them arrayed at the foot of the Wall, crowding around tents and tiny flames struggling to burn in the cold. His stomach gathered into knots as he approached the camp, only a small band of black brothers in tow to guard him. But he needn't have worried overmuch. The women and children outnumbered the men almost three to one, and the men themselves looked hollow and gaunt, too starved to pose much threat. Tormund greeted him first, the Giantsbane unwelcoming till they were safely ensconced into his tent, Ghost guarding the flap. And then Jon found his face full of beard, his body wrapped in Tormund's arms.

"You've changed, lad. Gotten ever-so-slightly taller, did you notice?"

Jon allowed himself a slight smile. "You haven't changed at all."

"Glad you think so. But I have. I'm not the same man I was. Seen too much death. My son..."

"... I'm sorry."

Tormund snorted. "What for? Weren't you that killed him. And I got two more left. Strong sons."

"I'm glad."

With the niceties traded, the time had come for the negotiations to begin. Jon spoke softly, having prepared the night before for what was to come. Tormund roared, though, when he heard Jon's terms. All sorts of insults and threats came hurtling Jon's way. Jon never replied, though, and answered only in the same soft tone. The Giantsbane downed his mead, threw his drinking horn more than once at Jon's head. But only lightly. Never fast or hard enough to hurt him.

The shadows grew long on the tent wall before long, the light of the sun diminishing as evening approached.

"All this way for a chance," Tormund spat.

"I have to convince the rest of the Watch of this. They'll not easily consent to letting thousands of wildlings past the Wall. A few hundred more than I have already allowed, mayhaps. But already we have fights and scuffles. I can't force this on them, you know that. The black brothers may be no free folk, but even we kneelers have limits of what we'll accept from our lords. This'll have to be put to a vote."

"But you want me to concede all this? Without so much as a single guarantee? What happens if the crows say no?"

"I need to give my sworn brothers surety that you aren't a threat. With that provided, I can turn a chance into something more like a certainty."

"A hundred hostages, lad! My own son!"

"No harm will befall your boys, I swear it."

Tormund Giantsbane pursed his lips, sighed, cursed, then thrust out his hand to shake. "Fine, and may the gods forgive me. Mance should have killed you when he had the chance." Jon shook the Giantsbane's hand, refusing to wince even in Tormund's bone-crushing grasp. "It's a cruel price you ask of me, lad. The mothers of those hostages will want me dead."

"And a good deal of my own brothers will too, just for talking with you. Yet my ranks are filling out with new blood. And with new blood comes new ideas. Many of my brothers hate the wildlings, I do not doubt. But their numbers are dwindling as more recruits arrive from the south."

"I have a hard time thinking crows of any sort will take a liking to us, recruits or not. I've killed more of you black buggers than I can count. Enough to make anyone wary."

"I wouldn't mention that if I were you."

Tormund laughed. "I won't, lad, don't worry." He slapped Jon on the back. "Time you were headed back, then. A certain someone wants to see you."

"Three days after I have your boys," Jon promised. "I'll send word once it's done."

"I heard you the first time," Tormund grumbled. "You make sure your watchers expect them. I'll make sure it's all nice and orderly like. No fighting."

Jon nodded.

"Now out you go."

Jon ducked through the tent flap to find Ghost missing. But it did not take much to find the wolf. He was following Val through the camp, the pair perfectly matched. Val was pale as a sheet, wrapped in white furs. White, not grey. If Melisandre was fire, Val seemed in that moment like ice.

Or like snow, a traitorous part of Jon's mind chimed in.

"Ghost!" Jon called, and the wolf turned it's head and bounded over to him. Jon leant down to scratch beneath his chin, and Val approached. "How was your journey?"

"Good enough. Quicker than I thought it'd be." Val crouched down beside him. "What now? Am I to be returned to my cell?"

"Regrettably, aye," Jon answered. "You'll have the run of the keep, as before, but I can't quite let you go yet."

"Even after I brought you the Giantsbane and all his men?"

Jon paused. "I mean you no harm, my lady."

Val sighed. "I know that well enough. But I still prefer freedom over safety."

"Of course."

"How did you fare with Tormund?"

Jon shrugged, and rose from petting Ghost. "Well enough. We struck a bargain, but the hard part's yet to come. My sworn brothers will not easily accept it."

"Let me help. What can I do?"

Jon lingered a moment in thought. "Some of the men hear the words 'wildling princess' and think that gives you the power to make promises on behalf of all free folk. Like a southern princess. Your word might hold some sway with them. You'll have to be careful, though. Subtle. Not making any explicit promises. The veterans among the Nights Watch will know better than to believe you."

Val's look soured a moment, but then she nodded. "If this is what you require, then so be it. I'll be your perfect wildling princess."

A warrior princess, Jon thought, observing at her features. Not some fainting, prissy creature who sits up in a tower spending her days pining for a knight. "Come, then," he tore his gaze away, gestured with his hand and began to walk to the edges of the wildling camp.

A small band of black brothers were waiting for them when they emerged from the maze of tents. "If it please m'lord, we were wondering."

"Peace," another black-cloaked figure asked, "or war?"

"Peace," Jon answered after a long moment. "If you want it."
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Sorry for the delay. Undergoing some IRL difficulties.
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future