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

[xscraid]

Perhaps Cersei can prove her loyalty in other ways …

Click to shrink...

Ewwwww....I need to wash my eyes now.

 

[Cabrio9f]

I wonder did Cersei might have slight belief that because of Tommon dreams that how is that possible. One thing to creep back in her mind is that dragon targs had these such dreams and the thing giving her dread is Robert is a recent re-blood tie to the Targaryens so a worry a small doubt that she belives Tommon might be roberts.

of course w know that's not the case cause he's a SI with canon knowledge. But I like for her to deny deny that thought making her go crazy that she start to believe he's roberts. T

 

[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."
--------------
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

 

[Xodarap]

Tywin actually acting like a father?
Extremely OOC.

 

[SotF]

Tywin actually acting like a father?
Extremely OOC.

Click to shrink...

I think that Tywin is realizing that despite everything, what his grandkids need is someone willing and able to actually parent them unlike the hands off of Robert or Cersei's favoritism and smothering control.

 

[Brian the dor]

This story continues to be fantastic.

The only thing I think it could use is more chapters from other POVs. Like what's a day in the life of Randyll Tarly look like and what does this savvy little shit of a king look like to him.

Click to shrink...

Half this fucking fanfic is other peoples PoV, how about we get more mc pov and move the fucking story along

 

[IrrelevantlAlex]

The duality of man ^
Really enjoying this, Asha scene seems fine to me.

 

[Prognostic Hannya]

I feel like Tommen is taking Euron far too lightly. Unless this is show canon, that is.

 

[Brian the dor]

I feel like Tommen is taking Euron far too lightly. Unless this is show canon, that is.

Click to shrink...

Even book euron isn't much of a threat vs a king with tens of thousands, euron is more of a threat if he is ignored and allowed to sail wherever and obviously in a 1v1 he is a big threat

 

[PsylentFox]

Thoroughly enjoyed this thus far. tho could it hurt to get a little more lewd scenes?! lmao. This is GoT and i've barely see anything! Still, looking forward to seeing it all continue forward- great work.

 

[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.
-------------
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

 

[DKottar]

Extremely chivalrous!

 

[Spearow]

next Jaime chapter gonna be metal

 

[Archicane]

Fodder for the walls of Riverrun? I'm curious what plans Tommen has for the Lord's of the river lands. He plans to betray the Freys and also hasn't stripped the Blackfish or Edmure of their titles? I hope the next Jaime chapter will follow up on all these threads laid down. Can't wait! I'm curious who we get for the next chapter? Davos? Sansa? Would be cool to hear Baelish pov as he falls further into Tommen's traps. Also haven't heard anything from across the narrow sea. Has Tommen put any plans in motion to court or disrupt the dragon queens plans? When do we see the first of the faceless man murders?

 

[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

 

[Turncoat]

This continues to be a delight to read.

 

[Prognostic Hannya]

Excellent chapter! Love Arya and Sandor.

 

[Xodarap]

So is there a reason Arya calls herself Lyra in her mind twice?

 

[SkinnyP]

Thanks for the chapters!

This is already one of the best asoiaf fics out there. I love Tommen's ruthless competence and seemingly all knowing behavior. The alternative perspectives provides interesting insights into the world and how the MC has shifted it.

I would recommend moving the fic to the NSFW section, even without any smut. I might be wrong about this, but it seems that the NSFW side has a significantly larger reader population. You will surely get more readers and engagement over there.

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thanks for the chapter.

Cersei is such a net negative that he should have her killed with haste

 

[Silveraith]

Thanks for the chapter.

Cersei is such a net negative that he should have her killed with haste

Click to shrink...

Cersei, like Joffrey before her, is a plot device. All common sense and foresight says kill her but a writer can't without removing their ability to move the plot forward. To introduce tension and interest.

 

[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.
-----------
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

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thanks for the chapter

 

[iceknight90]

Here's hoping Jon doesn't get murdered in a mutiny due to this political situation at the Wall.

 

[SkinnyP]

Thanks for the chapter! Here's hoping Melisandre gets murdered horrifically at some point. She is the worst.

 

[Mage King]

Why is he so concerned about the long night? Just send Arya at the Night King.

 

[Vrenze]

Why is he so concerned about the long night? Just send Arya at the Night King.

Click to shrink...

Hold up now, has she even been taught the ol' drop your knife into your other hand trick? Without that she will surely die.

 

[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."
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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

 

[App E]

Delightful exchange here. I'm curious of how it will all inevitably fall apart, in typical westerosi fashion.

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thanks for the new chapter. Great work