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

[Nisiris]

While not conclusion I wished for, it is for best for realm and mc, probably...

Though, a concubine? Well, people will say the apple didn't fall too far from the tree, if Tommen wish to take more women into it.

Funny, maybe that will make people think he is TRUE born son of Usurper xD

 

[Yohnos]

Arianne is a whore, I don't know why she's pretending to be something else, she is literally selling her body for something.
Why would she be surprised to be treated as such?

 

[TheToFu]

so he at least has a the snake in hand, he just has to be careful not to get bitten because i doubt that neither are the type to bite. I can see babys being born and a new fight over the throne

 

[OverseerEX]

Melisandre laughed a final time. "Then you know nothing, Jon Snow."

Click to shrink...

+1 "You Know Nothing, Jon Snow", adding it to the pile.

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

Click to shrink...

I can hear the Dark Lord Dumbledore saying: "For the Greater Good!"

The big issue remained. My wife and the princess.

Click to shrink...

This left a bit of a bad taste in my mouth. Basically this:

as someone who had two serious relationships in a row destroyed by my long-term girlfriend cheating on me with a girl, that shit dies NOT fly. Betrayal is betrayal.

Click to shrink...

this should honesty turn into a divorce and huge scandal

Click to shrink...

I was expecting their relationship to basically end right then and there, send Margery to 'the Cold Palace', never visit her again, she can be the Queen of nothing.

I certainly didn't expect this to seemingly blow over and be accepted. I mean, HOLY. Tommen is written so responsible and dutiful that when this shit happened it was like a bit out of nowhere.

He refused her advances for so long, and one thing just cracks him wide open? What?

And about Margery, I mean, man should know that she's a cunning bitch, and I'm not entirely convinced that this was a 'slip up' because of wine.

Anyway, TL;DR Margery betrayed him, he forgave her too easily, and even accepted that whole arrangement, which is absurd.

 

[Qwerty1234]

Cheers for the chapter, really enjoyed it.

 

[ApiLol123123]

Thanks for the chapter!!

 

[SkinnyP]

Just finished chapter 42 and I this fic is so good I dont even want the lewds. I want Arianne to punished in a real way for being an idiot schemer and manipulator. I want our boy Tommen to succeed in his endevours. I want the seven kingdoms to be one.

This fic is SO good. For me personally, I can only enjoy ASOIAF/Game of Thrones stories when they have an MC that radically shifts the setting for one reason or another. Whether they are supernaturall gifted, martially unstoppable, brilliant schemer, and/or seemingly omnipresent, dramatic breaks in the status quo are what get me really excited. You have captured that perfectly with Tommen. His successful schemes and his ability to seemingly know everything are incredibly satisfying to read, and your usage of various perspectives really illustrates a satisfying picture. I can't help but root for Tommen in everything he does.

EDIT: I just finished chapter 45 and am now severely dissappointed. You teased us with an incredibly satisfying revenge fantasy that would also weaken Dorne (a place that mostly hates him), and then immediately backtracked to boring lusty smut fic. Tommen's character and drive was a huge part of why I like him, but now you have irreperably sullied that by making him weak to seduction. There isnt even smut in this fic. Why would you mar the MC's personality all of the sudden, when he has shown no signs of a lusftfull nature for 45 chapters?

This fic had me in its grip all the way to the most recent chapter, and then this blunder (in my opinion) snapped me out if it. I still eagerly await the next chapter and the future the MC is creating, but the fic has lost a lot of its luster for me.

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 46: Jaime V

The Lord of Riverrun looked better than when Jaime had last seen him, in spite the paleness of his complexion and the thinness of his frame. His hair had been properly cropped and washed clear of all the filth that had gathered during his time as a captive, his beard shorn, and he once again wore clean clothes emblazoned with the sigil of House Tully. Sat calmly in his chair like that, he looked more lordly than Jaime felt.

Down besides Jaime was the Blackfish, caught trying to slip the siege lines under the cover of darkness, on his knees, still damp with his hands bound about his back. Tommen's predictions had, yet again, been vindicated. The men had caught him in the dead of night, trying to slip beneath one of the booms blocking the rivers.

"I thought we had a deal, Edmure," Jaime said.

"We did," he replied. "I promised you my castle, not my uncle."

"I suppose you did," Jaime said with a tired sigh. In the confusion and chaos spawned by the surrender of Riverrun, he had not yet been spared a moment to sleep. "Not that it matters now. Turns out trout are not as slippery as they seem."

"So what now, Kingslayer?" Brynden spat. "You caught me. Will you kill me?"

My name is not Kingslayer. Jaime scowled, letting his irritation seep through. "I'd like to. But regrettably I gave my word of honour to your niece that I would never again take up arms against House Tully."

"Your word of honour?" Ser Brynden lifted an unimpressed eyebrow at that. "Spare me, Kingslayer. Your word is meaningless to me. Hells, do you even know what honour is?"

"You should consider yourself lucky that I am allowing you to take the black, ser. Ned Stark's bastard is Lord Commander."

"Lannister work?" Brynden questioned. "Catelyn never trusted the boy, as I recall."

"This pettiness of yours serves no purpose, ser. This war is done."

"Ended in breach of all the sacred laws of hospitality," Ser Brynden pressed.

"Frey treachery, not mine."

"Undoubtedly," Brynden agreed. "Yet it reeks of Tywin."

Jaime felt his jaw clench. The Blackfish had once been a hero of his youth. Part of him still felt the urge to impress, to win the older man's approval. He felt the words bubbling on his tongue - the truth of what was soon to become of House Frey, an offer to allow Brynden to join in the coming slaughter - but Jaime swallowed that truth deep down in exchange for another: "I would have slain Robb Stark in the Whispering Wood, had I reached him. But some fools got in the way. I will agree with you, ser, that the Young Wolf's end was ignoble. But it was not in any doubt. His kingdom never would have survived long, and nor would he. So what does it matter how he perished?"

"You would have slain him, eh?" Ser Brynden's gaze drifted down to Jaime's golden hook. "But you never had that fight, did you? So I suppose we'll never know." The old man tutted and shook his head. "Such a shame. That would have been a battle worthy of song. Though, if you'd slay me in open combat here and now, it would put any questions to rest. You were once held up as the next Barristan, Kingslayer. But now that you've lost your hand..."

On a younger, bolder Jaime, such goading might well have worked. "You know of my oath, ser. You know I can't accept such an offer."

"How convenient," Ser Brynden said. "Yet what's one more broken oath to you, Kingslayer? Take up arms and prove your mettle. You can keep one of my hands bound, if you'd like. If you think it'd even the odds."

The scorn in Ser Brynden's voice made Jaime scowl. "You'll take the black, ser. And you'll consider yourself lucky I don't have you drowned in one of your precious rivers instead. And though the minstrels may not know of my martial strength, hence they will certainly know my mercy."

With that, Jaime turned and left the Tullys, sending in Lannister guards after to have the Blackfish taken to one of the dungeons for the rest of the day. He wasn't about to take any chances with one such as Ser Brynden. Jaime stalked through the halls of Riverrun, heading in no particular direction as he let the scowl fade from his face. From the windows, the light of a bright autumn day flooded in. Noon had already come and gone. The morning frost had since faded from the surrounding fields.

And now Jaime's little army was slowly falling apart. The Frey host had begun their departure almost as soon as dawn had broken the day after Riverrun had fallen. Lord Walder's banners had gone first, heading fast for the Twins. Evidently, there were some outriders lurking around the roads to the north, picking off stray members of Lord Walder's brood. And the newly-made Lord of Harrenhall was naturally eager to get to his seat. He left with Genna and as many of the Freys as would follow him soon after. And so only a few Freys were left, almost none of which would be accompanying Jaime onwards.

Mooton, Vance, Goodbrook, and Piper went next. Each was eager to get back home, to make what few preparations they could before the winter snows began. "All relations of yours that Lord Walder holds captive at the Twins will be returned to you, my lords," Jaime promised as he granted them permission to go. "I'll go and make sure myself." He got a few words of gratitude for that, and then his warcamp shrunk again.

Next went Lord Westerling with his wife and daughter. The poor girl was thin, willowy, withdrawn. She sported red rings around her eyes from crying. But though she might have carried her love for the Young Wolf in her heart, Jaime knew that she didn't carry him in her womb. She hadn't been with child to begin with - not so far as he could tell - but he'd had her drink a good dose of Moon Tea to make sure. Even still, he felt a pang of pity for her as he watched the freshly-pardoned Westerlings mount their horses and set off, the poor young thing trailing her parents, riding forlorn with her head bowed in mourning.

He stood and watched them ride west over the horizon, trailed by a guard numbering almost two-hundred. If Jeyne ever escaped Lannister custody, she could prove dangerous indeed. The Young Wolf's widow might serve as a powerful symbol for rebellion if she wound up in the wrong hands.

In two or three years time, the girl would be wed again. And in spite her mother's best efforts, Jeyne Westerling was not likely to land someone better than a second son. No matter. Once she was away, the girl was no longer Jaime's concern.

And so, by the following morning, the size of Jaime's retinue had almost halved. In the wake of a departing host's worth of men, a small fortune's worth of siege equipment had been left behind.

"We should take it with us," Daven recommended. "Use it to break Lord Tytos's defences."

"No," Jaime said, shaking his head. "I won't need such things to deal with one like him. Siege towers and trebuchets will just slow us down. Burn it."

Daven nodded and set about making the preparations. With all Riverrun's garrison accounted for, Jaime started the tedious process of releasing the men he'd captured during the surrender back into Edmure's service, swearing them one-by-one on a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star to never again take up arms against the crown or House Lannister. He did not expect these men would all hold to their oaths - most of them likely did not even mean to keep their word - but even a few would help to curtail any rebellious notions brewing in the young Lord Tully's mind.

By the end of the day, the only people left in the dungeons were those obstinate fools who'd refused to swear outright, and would soon share Ser Brynden's fate.

That night, Jaime took a moment to relax and watch the siege equipment the Freys had built go up in flames. He watched the gallows burn, watched the trebuchets and towers and ramps crack and collapse in on themselves with some of the finest vintage red from Riverrun's stores in his hand, his cousin sat beside him. The tongues of the flames leaped up high into the sky as the darkness descended.

"So what now?" Daven asked.

"Now that Riverrun's fallen, only Raventree Hall stands. Lord Blackwood will surrender quick enough."

"And onto the Twins," Daven drank. "That'll be one tough siege, with our numbers diminished like this."

"We'll rally some more men at Raventree Hall. And even if we don't, the way I see it, it won't be much of a siege at all," Jaime said.

"How come?"

Jaime shook his head and sipped his wine. "The time for that is later."

Daven frowned, but accepted Jaime's words with a quiet nod.

Jaime sat in silence, following a stray ember from the fire with his eyes as it caught the wind and floated away. "These bandits roaming the Riverlands need to be dealt with. I hear they've grown bold enough to launch attacks within a day's ride of the Twins."

"Ah," Daven nodded. "Ser Beric's sorry lot."

"Ser Beric and Lady Stoneheart," Jaime corrected him.

"Who's she?" Daven asked.

Lady Catelyn's corpse. "The woman behind the wolves," he said. Jaime misliked the name, but he could hardly deny it fit. He'd heard it around camp after another band of foragers left and failed to return. Only a few had been found, their bodies hanged from the branches of a tree. A singer had come up with it, as far as Jaime could tell. A bard. Formerly a Frey man, now in Jaime's employ. Tom of Sevenstreams. The same name as in Tommen's letters.

The man had tried to sell himself with a rendition of the 'Rains of Castamere'. Jaime'd stopped him right quick, in spite his obvious talent. The thought of his father's crowning achievement sat heavy in his mind, threatened to turn his stomach. Will the Twins be my Castamere? he wondered.

Daven winced. "Nasty bastards, those wolves. Dozens in each pack, stalking men in leathers and mail and even plate. Somehow fearless." Daven shook his head. "Unnatural, that. This Lady Stoneheart, she a witch?"

Jaime shrugged. "She may as well be."

Daven sighed. "So the seemingly unkillable bandit's found himself a witch bride. How many blades do you think we'll need to kill Beric Dondarrion? A dozen? Two?"

"Just the one," Jaime said. "And a thousand witnesses. Though Beric would be better sent to freeze at the Wall than burn in the Seven Hells."

"Hmm."

That night Jaime dreamt he was back with Cersei, with her lying spreadeagled before him, flat on her back. They were fifteen again, Cersei's kisses tender in a way they had not been in years. Her moans filled his ears, urging him on, begging for him. His hands wandered her flesh as she held him close, legs wrapped tight around his back, her hips bucking, pulling him deeper and deeper within her. He felt his right go to her neck, watched her yelp in delight as he applied a little pressure to her throat. Her fingers groped his shoulders, his neck, pulling him close for a kiss.

Then his hand became a hook, and her milky flesh grew stale beneath his fingers, marked by splotchy brown tendrils of rot. The green of her eyes and the gold of her hair had both turned white, the blush of her cheeks gone, her face shredded. Around her neck a deep gash appeared, seemingly raw yet somehow not bleeding. Jaime attempted a retreat but her legs refused to move, keeping him prisoner inside her, Catelyn's haunted face now staring up at him.

"Let me go," he groaned as he struggled to escape, his head pounding as her fingers tightened around his neck.

"I already did," she said, though only the slightest rasp emerged from her mouth, lips twisting into an ugly smile that revealed rotted teeth beneath.

Jaime awoke in the dark, shivering, sweating. Dawn had not yet come. His chambers seemed as cold as ice. The fire outside had long since died, as had the flames in his hearth. Yet there were still a good few hours left till first light. Jaime picked up his sword, donned his mail, and headed for the yard. There Ser Ilyn dutifully answered Jaime's call, and the two crossed swords till the sun arose. Almost three hours, all told. By the end Jaime was breathless and his arms felt leaden, but his shivers were gone.

Normally in their bouts Ser Ilyn beat him soundly enough at least a half-dozen times. But today had been different. Jaime had only faltered twice, and had even managed to sneak in a victory, ending a bout by holding the sharp edge of his hook to the tongueless man's throat.

Jaime went and bathed soon after, feeling strangely content, and let Pia scrub him for the first time since Darry. He thought again of pulling her into the bath with him, but the memory of his dream served well enough to smother his lusts. Once he was dressed again, this time in proper mail and plate, Jaime emerged out into the rain to the sight of his men preparing to depart. Daven hurried the men on, leading them to pack away any last pieces they had not done the day before.

From his retinue, Jaime chose a small band of Gregor's men to take the prisoners to the nearest port in Maidenpool, to send them off to the Wall. "See to it the men all make it unharmed," he warned Rafford. "Or else I'll do to you a dozen times worse than Gregor ever could."

Across the yard, Ser Brynden shot him a poisonous look as he was led into a wagon with his hands bound behind his back. Jaime ignored it as he turned to see Edmure approaching.

"You will never know how much I despise you, Kingslayer," Edmure said.

Jaime could only shrug. "I have been despised by better men than you, Edmure."

"In any case, I'll be glad to see you gone."

"And I'll be glad to be gone," Jaime agreed. "But before I leave, I'll offer a few parting words. The king has offered you clemency. A golden chance to rebuild your house, your name. Don't spoil it with some petty rebellion. Don't let your resentments and regrets spoil your future, the future of your children. You might hate me, and you might well hate my father. And I do not doubt you have good reason to. But soon you will have to venture south to swear fealty to the king. Take my advice: bend the knee gracefully. Tommen is a kind-hearted lad. Too clever to nurse petty grievances. Too clever to turn to swords when words will suffice. He is neither me nor my father. So long as he thinks you are sincere in your vows, he won't think twice of welcoming your house back into the fold."

Edmure scowled briefly in suspicion. Then a more sober look crossed the young lord's face; his lips pursed, his brow furrowed, features heavy with thought.

Jaime rounded his mount and climbed into the saddle. "Think on it, Tully."

After a second the young lord reluctantly acceded. "I will, Kingslayer."

Jaime shot Edmure a dirty look. "My name is not Kingslayer."

"I'm not calling you 'ser'," Edmure said.

"Then don't," he replied as he gathered his mare's reins in his good hand. "Just Jaime will suffice."

"Well enough, Lannister," Edmure said, insolent.

Jaime could not help but roll his eyes at Edmure as he turned his gaze towards the rest of the yard. The men were mostly ready to depart; the wagons loaded, the horses saddled, the armour donned, the packs filled to bursting with provisions. Before long Daven would declare their preparations done, and they would depart.

But of all the places Jaime could have looked, it was Ser Brynden who caught Jaime's gaze, sat calmly waiting as he absorbed the sight of his ancestral home. His last, in all likelihood. Once Brynden was away, the chances were low that he would ever return.

It's against Tommen's instructions, Jaime knew. Ser Brynden was a determined foe. Were he to manage an escape, the consequences would likely be dire. Yet Jaime could not help but feel tempted. He'd been raised hearing tales of the Blackfish, of his bravery against the Band of the Nine in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. How could he send such a warrior to go waste away without satisfaction? I would want revenge if it were Tommen or Myrcella, Jaime reasoned. And the Blackfish will not try for an escape for fear of endangering Edmure. So what does it matter if he gets to spill a little Frey blood before he spends the rest of his life freezing his balls off?

Jaime dismounted from his horse, and rounded the yard to approach Ser Brynden's wagon. The older man shot him a dirty look, sat calmly besides other members of the Tully household in plain garb, bereft of blade and plate, grey hairs thinning on the venerable knight's head.

"Get up, ser," Jaime said.

Brynden obeyed without complaint, stepping out of the wagon and squaring his shoulders as he stood to face Jaime. "You still want that duel, Kingslayer?"

Jaime did not quail from Ser Brynden's gaze. He let the silence linger a moment in indecision as he observed the Blackfish, searching in vain for some semblance of certainty that he was about to make the right decision.

Ser Brynden's eyes drifted down to Oathkeeper's hilt. "Or do you mean to cut me down where I stand, here and now?"

"Do you pray for justice? For Catelyn and Robb?" Jaime asked in a low voice, careful to not let anyone overhear.

Brynden blinked in confusion. "I would love nothing more than to see their deaths avenged. Yet what would you know of justice, Kingslayer?"

Your beloved niece isn't dead, Jaime wanted to say. "I know enough."

Brynden stood stone-faced, almost hesitant, sceptical eyes flicking intently over Jaime's face, studying it for signs of deception.

"The rest of your days await you at the Wall, ser," Jaime declared. "But they can wait. For these next few weeks, you ride with me."
-------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

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

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thank you for the chapter

 

[ApiLol123123]

Thanks for the chapter!!!

 

[Prognostic Hannya]

Tommen's going to fucking kill Jaime lol

 

[KenNM]

I don't comment much, but it's always a treat when this updates.

Hope Edmure takes the deal, one of the only really decent lord left alive in Westeros

Let's hope Jaime's rashness doesn't cause a clusterfuck again

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 47: Victarion III

The night of Euron's demise, Victarion had done two things.

The first was to pull the Reader aside.

"What is it, Victarion?" the Reader had asked as he was led out of earshot of the other captains, sinking deeper and deeper into their revelry. Some captains had already slumped over from the drink, whilst others seemed determined to turn the hall into a brothel. It seemed every girl in the entire keep, perhaps the entire island, was presently stripped bare, being raped bloody right before him.

"I intend to oppose Euron in his madness," Victarion said in a low voice. "Sailing to Essos! Making slavers of us!"

The Reader's eyes narrowed, too shrewd to be so easily fooled. "Certainly, that is welcome news. But I might also suggest that the claim that you advanced that the Arbor might be taken next is not all that much better."

"The Arbor might have its fleet, but what of the Mander?"

The Reader's brow climbed up his forehead in concern. "You want to launch a raid? Into the Reach? Without first disposing of the Redwyne fleet?"

"We are raiders, one and all," Victarion argued. "I see no reason we could not ravage the coasts and terrorise the cities and, having made off with the loot, return to the Iron Islands as rich men. Richer than Balon ever managed to make us."

"And when the Redwyne fleet returns for revenge?" the Reader asked. "When the Boy King's Tyrell bride asks for our blood? What then?"

"She likely already has. The Shields are as much a part of the Reach as any other."

"Then you would be better off pushing for peace terms now, whilst you can," the Reader said.

Victarion snorted. "You think the captains would wear it? Euron promised them gold, glory. I need to offer them both, else they will brand me craven."

"And when you lead them to their deaths?" the Reader asked. "We sail down the mouth of the Mander or the Honeywine without guarding our flank, we are doomed to be trapped in by whatever remains of the Redwyne Fleet at the Arbor. And even if we do manage it successfully, who's to say the Boy King won't take after his father and launch a war against us? That was Balon's mistake, thinking he could further divide the kingdoms by attacking them. Instead, he united the lords behind their new king."

"The Boy King is not his father," Victarion said with a wave of his hand. "The whelp is still wet behind the ears."

"It is not the king himself that concerns me," Harlaw said, "but rather his council. You think the Old Lion will show us any mercy?"

"Stannis has the Royal Fleet," Victarion said. "And the Tyrells are his old enemies. I think the Old Lion can be convinced of the usefulness of bringing the Iron Fleet under his banner."

"Perhaps. Though it is worth noting the Lannisters and Tyrells are more allies than enemies now. And even if such a peace could be struck, it would mean becoming a vassal again," the Reader warned. "The captains won't like that either."

Victarion felt his jaw clench. Have all those books cost the Reader his balls? Lord Harlaw was a clever man, certainly. But entirely too cautious for Victarion's tastes.

The Reader sighed in resignation. "Yet you're right. But now that Asha's gone, I expect it will be harder for us. In his letters, it seemed the Boy King had a certain fondness for her. I don't think he will be as generous with us. And no matter what, I doubt we'd be able to find a position of strength to negotiate from."

"Do you know where she is?"

The Reader shrugged. "I only advised her to run. I didn't tell her where to run to." Something in Harlaw's stance hinted at deceit, but that was the least of Victarion's concerns for the moment, so he let it rest.

"So we are agreed?" Victarion asked. "Your men will stand beside mine?"

The Reader nodded, grim-faced. "To oppose Euron, aye. I'll support you."

Once that was done, the second thing he did was to make it known that he was leaving, to make it clear that he could not be guilty. He left with his men in a huff, making a show of his dissatisfaction with his brother, making it seem as though Euron had still been alive at the time of their last meeting. And so it was with a grin that Victarion descended eagerly into the bowels of the Iron Victory and then the flesh of the dusky woman. He told her of the glories yet to await him as she laboured over him and, feeling generous, spared her the sharper edge to his affections.

He stayed into the night, allowing the dusky woman to share his bed as he slept for the first time, then lingered with her long into the next day, watching the rays of the sun drift lazily through the windows into his cabin as his hands wandered her supple flesh.

When Victarion finally returned to the keep, what greeted him was chaos.

Captain had already turned on captain, accusations were hurled, and Victarion found himself in the unenviable situation of having to settle the passions of his fellow ironmen. Naturally, he was one of the targets of their suspicions, being the heir to the Seastone Chair. But he had excuse enough to allay their suspicions. He had made a big show of storming away from his meeting with Euron. And besides, everyone could understand the desire to break in a salt-wife.

Yet still the unease persisted.

"The dragon horn is gone," the Reader noted. Victarion blinked in surprise. Upon sighting Euron's corpse, thought of the horn had not even crossed his mind. But its theft did not make for good tidings.

"Fuck the horn!" one man replied. "I - we - were promised the Mander! Gold! Girls! We don't need any horn for that."

A roar of agreement rang out. And though Victarion was sat in the centre of Lord Hewett's hall, it seemed few had noted his presence. For the moment, that was fine. Victarion was content to let Harlaw work his magic; the old man had a way with words far beyond Victarion.

"No," the Reader agreed, "we don't. But we do need a leader. Divided, even the flower knights of the Reach could defeat us. United, we stand far stronger. And thus, since Euron is dead, it seems we'll need to hold another Kingsmoot."

"A waste of time!" another captain complained. "Oldtown and Highgarden and the Arbor will be marshalling their defences as you prattle! Our king was killed in his bed, in the dark. His killer may well still be among us. I would wager it was a Reachlord - too craven to face us in battle. Every moment we waste is one we give to our enemy."

"Well," the Reader asked, "how else would you propose we resolve this?"

Eyes turned to Victarion. "We follow the line of succession, Lord Harlaw. Theon, I would guess, is well and truly dead. Asha is a woman, and too far gone to be of any use to us in any case. Of all Balon's heirs, only one is here."

Harlaw's eyes narrowed as he gazed at Victarion. Was this you? was the question in the old man's eyes.

Victarion did not deign to answer the Reader's look. Instead he lifted himself to his feet, clad in full plate, looking every bit an ironborn warrior. "I will lead you all to gold and glory. I will deliver to your feet the wealth of the Reach. I will secure our strength. I don't have any horn, nor any letter. I have naught but the strength of my arms, and the blessings of the Drowned God. And if you feel yourself stronger, then stand and test your might against the kraken!"

There was a long silence. None dared speak. Victarion wondered if someone might muster the courage, but nobody did. Eventually, he drew his axe and raised it defiantly in the air, "I offer you victory, ironmen! Are you with me?"

"Victory! Victory!" the discordant cries rang out, one after the other, deafening in the hall. The captains banged their fists in the tables, stamped their feet on the flagstones. The cries soon gained a life of their own, and before long all his fellow ironmen were chanting in unison, "Victarion! Victarion! King Victarion!"

It was a glorious moment; the realisation of all his hopes and dreams. Victarion could not help the grin that threatened to split his face. After all his struggles and stumbles, after watching his hopes sink like an iron lump with Euron's ascension, it was as though the Drowned God had rewarded him; had dropped the Driftwood Crown into his lap. Yet though he was now king, that did not mean his position was secure. Beyond the risk of assassination, he had yet to reign in Euron's wizards and mongrels, to form a true plan of attack for the Reach, to plan for a future beyond his own ascension to the throne.

That night, Victarion retreated again to his ship, fearing for his own life within the bowels of Lord Hewett's keep - not that he would ever admit to such fears. He was tempted to turn to the dusky woman for comfort, and though he allowed himself a moment's indulgence, he did not allow pleasure to become distraction. After he was done, he pushed the girl aside and set to work. Across a table in his cabin he laid a map of the western shores of Westeros, eyeing the approaches. The Arbor seemed the most tempting target for attack, separated from the mainland. Yet it was a good deal south, and required the fleet to sail past both Highgarden and Oldtown.

On the open oceans we hold the advantage, Victarion knew. But then our raids become battles, and our losses mount. The Redwyne fleet - even just half of it - was a formidable foe to make battle against, and it would almost certainly have the core of its strength hosted at the Arbor. In his experience, naval battles were rarely anything other than decisive. They might sweep the Redwyne fleet aside, and leave the entire western shore open. Or else they might themselves be swept aside.

On land we can cut and burn, reaving and raping as we please, but we cannot stay still in any place. If they opted to sail up the Mander, to make their presence known through the Old Way, to pay the iron price for their victories, then gold was almost certainly guaranteed. But that did not mean the Old Way was without risks. Even flower knights will fight fiercely for their homes.

It was a difficult decision to take, but a necessary one. Victarion knew his captains would not accept waiting much longer. The relatively bloodless taking of the Shields had emboldened them, made them eager for more. Yet without Euron's promised dragons, conquest was out of the question. One ironman may have been worth ten greenlanders, but the greenlanders outnumbered them by more than that.

And then there was the question of trickery. Euron had not died in battle, or by happenstance. He had been murdered. And though suspicion had been directed upon the greenlanders, Victarion knew it was just as likely that the Crow's Eye had died at the hands of one of his captains.

In any event, he decided, Euron's mongrels go first. Let their blood wash the greenlander blades.

The whole night, Victarion pondered his choices, nursing a cup of wine in his hands as he did so. Hidden dangers and plots seemed to obscure every path. Land or sea, peace or war. No room for error now.

By the time morning came, Victarion knew only one certainty. We cannot win. The Iron Throne has ships, soldiers, lands to spare. We don't. Victarion might try to undermine the Boy King's reign, but Harlaw was likely right. It wasn't going to work. The greenlander hatred for them was too strong. And though showing the Boy King to be a weakling might shame him, might sow doubt in the minds of vassals, any further conquest was still likely to provoke a strong reaction.

The Old Lion could not afford to allow his grandson's regime to look weak.

We need to make peace from a position of strength, he knew. To play on the Boy King's softness. To play on the worst fears of his Tyrell wife. And to do it all quickly, before the Boy King defeats his other foes and develops an appetite for conquest.

With that thought in his mind, he left the Iron Victory bright and early, trekking up the road to the keep with his plate gleaming with the light of dawn, marching like a king with his men at his flanks. Yet though he kept his back straight, and held his head up high, Victarion could not help but feel tired and small. Who knew the Seastone Chair was so much work? The Victarion of old had lived for conquest, for the thrills of blood and battle. But a new life seemed to threaten him, a life of fretting and worrying like a woman. A life bereft of thrills. Even as he pondered its inevitability, he knew he didn't like it.

And so it was in a sour mood that Victarion stalked up to Lord Hewett's castle, found and cornered the Reader in his rooms. Harlaw had abandoned the Sea Song the night he'd made landfall, opting to spend his time perusing Lord Hewett's meagre library. It was difficult to tell if the Reader's love of books had overcome his brains - forced him to stay in a place where a cutthroat might be lurking - or whether his balls weren't as shrunken as Victarion had first imagined.

Then again, Rodrick Harlaw was not exactly a young man. Who knew how much care he placed on his own life?

"Your Grace?" the old man asked as he looked up at Victarion. He seemed surprised - half dressed in a tunic that fell about his knees, thin grey hair rumpled from bed. Books were strewn across his chosen chambers, papers stacked high on a table in the corner. There was a wariness in his look, a deep suspicion. In all likelihood, Lord Rodrick was one of the few captains awake. Most of the others would still be nursing headaches from a night's heavy drinking, entertaining stolen women in stolen beds. In truth, Victarion had expected to find him with them, still asleep. "What brings you to my chamber at such an early hour?"

"We need to talk," Victarion declared.

"I see," Harlaw said. "Would you like a seat?"

"No," Victarion said. "I won't be long. I just have a few questions."

The Reader seemed almost impressed, brows climbing up his forehead. Both Balon and Euron had spurned the old man's council. "By all means."

"Asha."

Harlaw sighed. "I already told you, Your Grace, I don't know where she is."

"Perhaps, but I think you know well enough where she went, even if you don't know where she wound up. I can guess myself, but it'd help to get some assurances."

"I... I didn't ask too many questions of her. But from what I could surmise, Kings Landing was her aim. After that, I know nothing."

Victarion nodded. "Do you think, if you spoke to her, you could convince her to work with me? To try for peace?"

"If I could find her, perhaps."

"And if you couldn't find her, or convince her?" Victarion questioned. "Do you think you could speak to the Iron Throne on my behalf?"

"Aye," the Reader said, "I could speak to them. Whether they will listen..." He shrugged.

"Yet you say that I would do better to sue for peace than pursue this campaign."

"You would," the Reader insisted. "Though it might wound all our pride to admit it."

"I was not chosen by a Kingsmoot," Victarion pressed. "I cannot afford to look weak, not even for a moment. My power rests on my promises. Should I fail the captains will cast me aside."

The Reader gazed intently at Victarion a moment, then shook his head in agreement. "No, of course not."

"I promised the men gold and glory, Harlaw. Gold and glory. But I also need to ensure enough of us live to enjoy it. I was thinking... A raid on the Reach proper. Up the Mander, into the territories of Highgarden. Strip their fields bare. Scare the Boy King's little wife. Push them to make peace by threatening to do the same to Oldtown. I reckon the Old Lion's dislike of his old rivals to the south and the Tyrell weakness in the Reach should give us some room. All those Reachlords, eager for position, each waiting for their chance to rise and replace their overlords."

Harlaw frowned at that, brow furrowed deeply. "I can see why you might think that, but I don't agree."

Victarion snorted. "What would you say, then?"

"You're making the same mistake Balon made, all those years ago, when he attacked Lannisport. A raid on the Tyrell lands that does not touch Highgarden itself is more likely to enrage the Reachlords than scare them, to make them forget their squabbles. And Highgarden is almost as impenetrable as Casterly Rock, with its high walls and hedges. Sailing up the Mander leaves our fleet vulnerable to being cut off - never mind the ships the Tyrells are massing in the river itself. Trapped, outnumbered, surrounded by angry peasants and lords, we would be swiftly slaughtered. The Reach is not the North. House Tyrell can muster the numbers to protect itself - and quickly."

"So we do nothing? Sit on our hands and wait?"

The Reader shook his head. "I didn't say that. If our goal is to make peace from a place of strength, we need to keep the pressure up as we negotiate. A raid - if successful - might get us gold and girls, but it does little for our strength. What we need is not loot, but leverage. Something we might use to secure good terms from the Iron Throne. A conquest of some sort. On land, the Reachlords have an advantage, but on the open ocean we are the masters."

Victarion cocked his head in consideration, quietly incredulous. "You mean the Arbor? The place that hosts the Redwyne fleet?"

"Better the Redwyne fleet than the armies of the Reach," Harlaw said. "Besides, I have good reason to believe that much of the Redwyne fleet is away at Dragonstone, and that Lord Paxter is with it, serving as the Boy King's Master of Ships. A sizeable force might remain, and I don't doubt it will be a hard-fought battle, but whatever fleet remains at the Arbor is almost certainly far smaller than the strength which we might be able to bring to bear. A captain of your skill should be able to win that battle. Once that fleet is dealt with, and the smaller islands around the Arbor are secure in our possession, we will have an opening to ravage the coasts of the Reach with impunity, as King Qhored Hoare once did, thousands of years ago. And that will scare the Tyrells more than a few burning fields ever could. A mighty threat for us to wield in any negotiation."

It was that notion that was swimming around in Victarion's head the rest of morning as he wound his way through the keep to the quarters that Euron had so briefly laid claim. His body had already been taken away, though the bloodstained sheets were left on the bed. Euron's mongrels had wanted to spirit his corpse away somewhere secret to see to his last rites the day before, but Victarion had them stopped.

Euron had always spurned the Drowned God, always spat on the traditions of the Ironborn. Victarion would ensure his funeral would see him sent down to the Drowned God's watery halls. It was a grace Victarion was loathe to give, but he knew it would be necessary to win the favour of some of the more reluctant captains, and that Euron's welcome into the Drowned God's realm was likely to be a painful one, as he was forced to pay the price for his many heresies.

Victarion watched as the women worked, sewing Euron's body into sailcloth, ready for his watery grave.

The hours passed quickly, and before long the time for the funeral had come.

Victarion did not spare his brother many words, and part of him was tempted to go and piss on Euron's corpse. Nevertheless, he restrained himself, and watched as the little boat was pushed off the beach by a few ironmen, watched it bob in the water as it drifted away. He sounded the order, and watched as the flaming arrows arced overhead and struck their target, watched the barrow slowly catching fire. Watched as it slowly took on water, and the flames sank below the horizon.

He returned to Lord Hewett's hall in a circumspect mood, where the feasting had already begun. Any opportunity to drink, it seemed. But Victarion was of no mind to celebrate, eyeing his captains with a surly gaze as they made merry, celebrating the life and demise of the man he had hated with all his heart.

I won't simply be Euron's successor, he decided, midway through the feasting. I will be king in my own right, a king so great that no ironborn will remember the Crow's Eye in a generation's time. Men will sing my name as they sing of Qhored the Cruel and Ravos the Raper. Victarion took a bracing gulp of wine and rose to his feet. Few eyes saw him at first, but before long the tumult died and all the captains arrayed were gazing up at him, stood tall at the head of the hall.

"Ironborn! It was once said that ironmen could claim dominion wherever you could smell the salt of the water, hear the roar of the waves. But over the years the greenlanders have grown scornful of us, complacent in their safety. They have forgotten what it means to fear! Are we going to allow this?"

He paused for a moment, his gaze imperious, eyes burning like only a true reaver's could. A thunderous cacophony ensued, each captain declaring with all their heart that the greenlanders would soon learn the meaning of fear, banging their cups on the tables. Only Harlaw did not partake, watching with a curious eye.

Victarion went with the tumult of the crowd, roaring over the noise. "We are reavers! The descendants of men whose names still strike fear across all Westeros! The descendants of men who laid claim to all the shores - and then took them! We are reavers of the Iron Islands! We do not sow - we reap! We will remind the greenlanders the meaning of fear! The Drowned God demands it! So I ask you all to ready your ships, and sharpen your blades. For our next conquest is the Arbor!"
----------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future
P.P.S. After much thought, I've decided to retcon part of chapter 45. Probably be out within the next week.

 

[Red~]

Pretty smart. Suppress the strengths of their enemy that can counter their domain. Naval power in such a way is immense. A pity that there are so few countries and states and not as many nested shipping pathways as medieval europe, or a navy could make them a superpower like it did Britain and France.

 

[KenNM]

This is gonna go wrong somehow, for someone I just know it lol

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thank for the chapter. Great story.

 

[Bijes Tratincica]

...could not help the grin that threatened to split his face.

Click to shrink...

That might be the most abused description in all of fanfiction. And to have it used on Victarion, who'd probably win a frown off with Stannis is extra dizzying.

 

[Hedincool]

What part of chapter 45 are you planning to retcon? I get that you're doing it, have seen some comments not liking it that much. I'd love to see him go straight to Olenna, make her school Margaery on being an idiot and an oaf like her father

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 48: Reek II

"Who is this?" Lady Barbery Dustin demanded. "And where is the boy? Did your bastard refuse to surrender him?" She leaned forwards to inspect him closer. "And this old man-" Barbery recoiled. "Oh, gods be good! What in all the hells is that smell? Has the old wretch soiled himself?"

"He has been with Ramsey," was Lord Roose's clipped reply. "Lady Barbery, allow me to present you the rightful lord of the Iron Isles, Theon Greyjoy."

Reek swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, dizzy, his throat seemingly tightening of its own volition, his heart beginning to race. No no no no. Don't say that name. He'll hear it. Ramsay'll hear it, and he'll know, and he'll hurt me for it.

Lady Barbery gave him a second look over, expression plainly stunned before her features soured, lips pursed in disgust. "He..." she said after a long moment, "is not what I expected. What did your bastard do to him?"

"Removed some skin, some bones - or so I surmised. Small pieces. Fingers and toes. Nothing too essential."

She looked at him like he was a hunk of rotted meat. "Is he mad? Why is he like that?"

Roose could only shrug. "So what if he is? What does it change?"

Without his control, Reek began to shake his head, tears brimming in his eyes. "I'm not him, I'm not the Turncloak. Please, m'lord, m'lady, there's been some mistake. I'm not him. I'm not the Turncloak. He died here, at Winterfell. My name is Reek. Reek, m'lord, m'lady."

Reek watched as disgust fused with pity on Lady Barbery's face. "Aye," she agreed with a sigh. "You reek." Her head turned to Lord Roose. "And what have use have you found for... Reek, my lord?"

Cold eyes flicked over Reek, gleaming with possibility. "I haven't yet decided, though I have some ideas."

"Well, whatever your ideas are, do they require the lad to smell like he's just loosed his bowels in his breeches?"

"No, most don't."

"Then for the sake of all the gods can you have him washed? I mislike having to hold my nose."

And with a wave of Lord Roose's pale hand, Reek was shunned. Cold-handed serving girls led him away from the hall, through the bowels of a ruined Winterfell. Not for the first time, Reek was grateful for the springs beneath the keep. For beyond the castle itself, winter had long since come and entrenched itself. It seemed every outdoor path was lousy with black ice - liable to crack one's head if you weren't careful. Drifts of dirty snow had piled high on every wall, tall enough at times to hide entire doors and passages, meeting with icicles the length of longswords hanging precariously from battlements and ledges, scattering with every cutting gust of wind into every nook and cranny. It tasted funny on the tongue - a mix of bitter soot and ash thrown up from the sacking of the keep as well as the snows.

Blackened beams still littered place. Every now and then one might stumble onto a pack of bones, scraps of skin or hair or a smear of dried blood, or if one was lucky a rotting corpse - though Ramsey's hounds had long since seen to most of them. Mercifully the mists were so thick that one struggled to see very far beyond arm's length when outdoors - or else Reek feared the true extent of the damage might be known.

In a sense, it was a small mercy that the lords of the North had been so slow to answer Lord Roose's summons. It gave him time to do his best to make repairs, to beat back the sense of death and despair that now infested a place that a younger Reek had only known to be full of life. To rebuild the kitchens and barracks, to clean away the shattered glass of Winterfell's once-famous gardens, to erect new gates, and re-roof the collapsed hall. And though much work had already been done using what remained of Winterfell's existing men, much still remained. Tents swarmed the yard, half covered in grey snow - most the castle still unsuitable for living. Yet memories of that life swarmed around Reek as he walked through the passages and halls. A shadow in the flickering torchlight, a distant laugh, the subtle growl of a wolf.

"Turncloak," one of the men hissed at him as he was led away to his bath. Reek ignored it. He was the traitor who'd slain his own foster brothers, delivered his men from Moat Cailin only to see them flayed. Roose Bolton might make use of him, Ramsey might indulge in his twisted pleasures with him, but any true northman was like as to loathe what he'd become, to desire nothing more than to hack Reek's head off.

And how loathsome I must look! Reek thought. The missing toes on his left foot had forced him into a sort of limping crab-walk, back forever hunched. His visage was no better to look upon - flesh hollowed out from his cheeks, hair white and coarse and thin and patchy, teeth mostly smashed into uneven lumps of enamel that made it painful to eat any real foods.

He could tell he was a horror by the way the women treated him as he climbed in the bath. Washerwoman was the polite way of saying camp follower, which was the polite way of saying whore. Of the ones who bathed Reek, some seemed veteran, hardened enough to suffer twenty brutal rapes in quick succession and still be able to laugh and jape with their rapists right after, demanding coin for their cunts. Others seemed softer, younger, like prissy little maidens. None were, of course. It was all an act, a way to earn coin and a little kindness along the way.

But for him, none of the softness was on display. They scrubbed his flayed skin roughly, scraping off the dirt and grime in a quick, quiet way that suggested they wanted nothing more than to be away, to be done with him. Once he was clean he was clad in new breeches and boots and a tunic and even a mantle of sorts - nothing quite yet lordly, but far better than the rags he'd become used to.

And off he went, limping through the halls of Winterfell. The stone was grey - grey everywhere he looked. The ground was white with snow. All around, all Reek could see were Stark colours, and his dazed rambling carried him through the passages and out into the open. Even through his new boots he could feel the coldness of the earth underfoot, the harshness of a bladed breeze on his face. But it was warmer in the godswood, strange to say. Here there were no snows, and the turf beneath his feet was soft and warm, almost inviting. The frost and ice of the surrounding lands were left behind as one entered this most precious sanctum of the old gods, cloaked in gentle steam wafting off the surface of the pools.

Reek was no stranger to this wood. He'd played here as a boy, skipping stones and giving chase to the boys he would one day betray. He'd stalked squirrels between these vast trunks, shared his first kisses here, come here for refuge after suffering bruises at the hands of Jory and Robb.

Reek gazed up at the bleeding eyes of the heart tree and, unbidden, began to weep.

The tears came quietly at first, cloudy droplets rolling down his cheeks, but before long his eyes were red and desperate, gut-wrenching sobs were spilling out. Here he stood; broken, bloodied, betrayed and betrayer both. Here he stood, in the last untarnished place of his youth, the last place the cold lump of meat he called his heart could still find warmth. And though Reek had prayed to the Drowned God his whole life, he fell to his knees before the heart tree, before the old gods.

He'd never known the godswood like this, grey and ghostly all the same; yet draped in mists thick enough to be blankets, dancing with lights, echoing with voices from a half-forgotten past. Above his head were beady, black, judging eyes. Maester Luwin's ravens, Reek knew. Luwin might be dead, but this was still their home.

It felt like some strange purgatory; neither the heavens nor the nether but merely some timeless place beyond the worlds themselves. A place for the damned and devoted alike to find some strange absolution. The weirwood's red eyes stared down at him, its great mouth open as though to laugh or shout. But no sound came, and as Reek sobbed he felt the face in the heart tree gaze at him, felt the heavy carved features soften with pity - even though nothing moved.

Reek found himself wondering if he should say a prayer. Here he was, ready. On his knees, even though he was a son of Pyke. But the Drowned God was now far away, leagues to the west and east. The only god he might find was the one right before him.

"Theon," the wind seemed to whisper to him.

Reek bolted up from his knees, stumbling as his tear-streaked face whipped around in search of the voice. "Who said that?" he called, his voice too meek, too weak from crying to make a demand of his words. Reek felt his hackles rise. Was this another of Ramsey's japes? Another way to torment him? To ruin the last unspoiled thing in his life?

Then, again, in the opposite direction: "Theon."

Reek's head snapped around. Again, there was nobody to be found. The voice was faint, deep as a god's, hateful as a ghost's. How many died here? Reek wondered. How many the day I took Winterfell? How many the day I lost it?

A deep despair came over him; a sensation not unlike drowning. He considered begging for death, but decided against it. So far from the seas, my end will be in one of the hells, for certain. Where my torment will continue with a new torturer. Where I will pay the price for my sins. The price for all those innocents, slain at my hand.

"Theon," the wind whispered to him again, seemingly in a gentler tone. It felt almost like a reassuring voice. Comforting. Familiar.

Reek felt his tears slow, felt his sobs stop, trembling with exhaustion as he stared at the face carved in the heart tree. Every inch of his flesh ached. Yet he felt the tiniest spark of hope alight in his chest, the tiniest flame of life still flickering away inside a corpse. Theon gathered his resolve, turned away from the heart tree, and beat a hasty retreat from the warmth of the godswood back into the bitter chill, Reek no more.

Above him, the thick carpet of clouds had darkened as night encroached. Though his visit to the godswood had felt fleeting, like mere minutes, in truth he'd spent hours bowed beneath the bony limbs of the heart tree. The time had almost come for dinner. Theon readied himself to face Lord Roose again, to face all the scant few the lords who'd come so far to stand by the Leech Lord's side.

The doors of the Great Hall loomed ahead of him; newly made and crudely fitted in a rush by resentful craftsmen. A pair of spearmen guarded the entranceway, eyeing Theon as he slipped past them and into the warmth of the hall. Men lined the benches sparsely, able to spread their legs far without knocking knees with another. It was a dismal sight, to see Lord Roose had attracted such little support. Of note aside from Bolton men there was Lady Dustin, Roger Ryswell, Lord Harwood Stout, and a few Freys to fill the ranks, most accompanying Lord Roose's fat new wife.

No more than a half-dozen vassals had sworn to Lord Bolton's name. In a kingdom with easily four-dozen houses. A bad showing by any standard.

But Theon did not concern himself with this, and simply found and sank into a seat in the corner of the hall, eager to let the evening slip by. Eager to put as much distance between himself and Ramsey as possible. Under Lord Roose's watchful gaze he might have been safe, but Theon was not about to take any chances.

He nursed a lone cup of wine as he watched everyone eat. It was humble fare - most of Winterfell's stores had already been burned and looted. Not that he could manage anything else anyhow. A nibble at a scrap of dry bread had sent bolts of pain shooting through his jaw. And he was not in the mood in any case.

"You do not eat," Lady Dustin noted, having shifted to sit nearer to Theon.

Theon shook his head glumly.

"No taste for pork pie, eh?" she asked him with a smirk. "And I thought Ironborn enjoyed a feast before battle?"

"They do," Theon said. "But we are not before a battle, my lady."

"Are we not?" Lady Dustin questioned. "Stannis has already taken Deepwood Motte. He could be upon us in a week if he so desired. No. Stannis will come. He must. And when he does, he'll find himself facing Lord Roose."

"A hard-fought battle," Theon acquiesced, though in truth he knew it would be over the moment Lord Roose sent the signal to Lord Arnolf to turn his cloak.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Lady Dustin said. "Stannis Baratheon may well be a fine warrior, and a fearsome commander, but he is no Roose Bolton. Roose has no feelings, you see. The leeches sucked the passions out of him. He does not love, nor does he hate. To him, this is just a game. Some mild diversion between flayings and leechings." Lady Barbery took a sip of her wine. Why was she telling him all this? Was she drunk? "Truth be told," she continued, "Roose has higher ambitions than most know. Robb Stark may have declared himself king of the north, but I reckon that if anyone dies it, it'll be Lord Roose who actually becomes king. And why not? The Lannisters are a spent force, held aloft only by the fertility of Tyrell soil and the abundance of soldiers that soil feeds. The Freys are not likely to object to one of their own becoming a queen. And once Stannis is gone, Lord Roose's authority will be cemented, and all those absent lords insolent enough to refuse a summons will flock here to bow and scrape - none of which have any lost love for the Iron Throne. And then who'll be left to oppose him?"

Theon opened his mouth, then closed it again. He struggled for words, careful not to make any utterances which might earn him a punishment. In the end, he opted only for silence as an answer to Lady Barbery's question.

Not that she seemed to care. Her attention was turned to the head of the hall, where a guard had shuffled out from one of the entranceways and was bent over Lord Roose, his furs caked white with snow, and was whispering something in the Leech Lord's ear.

Lord Roose's head turned slowly to face the guard, eyes searching. Then, he nodded curtly once.

The guardsman scurried from the hall, snow shaking off his shoulders as he went, and was gone only a few minutes before he returned, followed by a stream of men, led at the front by someone enormously fat.

"Manderly, Umber, Cerwyn, Slate..." Lady Barbery was muttering, eyes flicking intently over the new arrivals. It seemed that enough lords had arrived just now to more than double the number of men at Lord Roose's command.

The man at the front stopped before the head of the hall, and offered a shallow bow. Lord Roose eyed him up and down, expressionless. "Lord Wyman," he finally replied. "I was not expecting you."

The fat man at the front of the line of lords frowned. "Truly?" he asked. "I sent a raven ahead of me, with apologies for my late arrival. I was delayed, you see. But I suppose that the snows which held me back must have confused the raven too."

"I see," Lord Roose said, lips pursed with suspicion. Doubtless, he was not happy to see such a vast group of lords - and presumably all their retainers and a substantial number of their men-at-arms too - arrive at Winterfell without notice. And all without his defences granting him even a slight warning. But he had positioned his men westwards, so it stood to reason that some of the approaches might be more lightly guarded. "Nevertheless, your arrival is welcome. Take your seats and sup. I'll have the servants bring in more food. Take rest from the strains of travel."

The fat man nodded and claimed his seat, sending some of his own men to bring in more food. The rest of the lords that had followed him into the hall all offered their courtesies to Lord Roose and then joined him. Wine and pie and cake and meat flowed amply to them, and Lord Wyman gorged himself. From somewhere a bard was summoned, and song filled the austere quiet of a hall that was suddenly full.

Lady Barbery snorted at the sight. "He is craven to the bone, that one."

"He's here, in spite the threat Stannis poses."

"Aye," Lady Barbery agreed. "I said he was craven, not that he wasn't clever. If Lord Wyman ever had to face Stannis in battle, you can be sure he'll piss himself. His son died at the Red Wedding, and yet here he is, making merry with Roose Bolton, sharing his home with all those Freys you see there. He's even promised his daughter to one of them! Oh, I don't deny he'd like to kill us all. Of course he would! But he doesn't have the gall for it. Blood runs deep. And the Manderlys fled their way here from the south, allowed themselves to be hounded from their lands instead of standing their ground like warriors might. The fat man is only here because he knows better than to earn the ire of Lord Roose. But even I thought he might have the courage to stay home, to not go straight into the arms of the man who killed his children." She shook her head. "Like I said, craven to the bone."

Theon observed the merry lord, red-faced with his jowls swinging below his cheeks as he japed and laughed. Lord Wyman certainly fit the look. But something in his gut didn't agree with the notion. Lord Manderly's sons had acquitted themselves well in battle, hadn't they? They'd died as warriors should, with pride.

And though his face seemed merry, split by a grin, Theon saw the scheming gleam in those fat-enfolded eyes. Lord Roose seemed to see it too, judging by the way he watched Lord Wyman's every move.

Our fat lord is not quite as craven as he seems, Theon guessed, though he kept his thoughts to himself, lowering his gaze back to the wine in his cup. He watched his reflection in the liquid; observed the sunken eyes, the patchy head of stringy white hair, the hollow cheeks, the broken teeth - the perennial look of despair etched onto his face the polar opposite of Lord Wyman's laughs and smiles.

And neither am I, Theon decided, then and there.
---------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

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

 

[KenNM]

A bit more transitional than usual. Though it's not as though Reek II would be much affected by the butterflies yet.

And Lady Dustin being so off the mark in both cases is darkly amusing

 

[daoistnextchapter]

Only thing worthwhile was that short bit of Manderly showing up at the end. Would have been smarter for that to have been the start of the chapter and then swiftly move into whatever you actually have planned for Winterfell. What you actually wrote just feels like pointless stalling.