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Chapter Text

274 AC

Tywin Lannister hated his newborn son. The midwife had placed the squalling infant in his arms, saying that at least they’d managed to save the boy. It took every ounce of his self-mastery not to strike the foolish woman to the ground. His wife, his precious Joanna, died a horrible bloody death only to bring this… monster into the world, a stunted, misshaped abomination of the Lannister form. Its overlarge head had brutally torn his wife open, then it dared to take its first breaths as Joanna was panting her last.

Still, the thing had been born alive; there was no denying it. To toss it into the sea now would be kinslaying, an unforgivable offense. Tywin would have to feed it and care for it, dress it in the proud colors of his house. It would wear the lion on its chest, and everywhere it went people would point and nod knowingly. They’d say the gods punished him for his ambition. Brought him low… they’d laugh. They’d laugh at him.

“L-Lord Lannister, would you like me to find a wet nurse for the babe?” The midwife had returned, stepping tentatively into the room as if ready to run off at the first harsh word. “It’s good for them to start nursing right away. I can take him if you’re ready.”

“Take him, yes. Take him away and bring me a better one.”

Peri, the midwife, wrapped the infant tightly in a soft blanket, keeping her gaze downcast to avoid drawing Lord Tywin’s wrath. His grief and rage were barely contained. Best to remove herself and the boy from his presence as quickly as possible.

“Please do not worry if he is gone for a bit, milord. Another lady has called for me, and ‘twill be her first. I may not be able to return until the morning, but I give my word that your son will be well tended in the meantime.”

Tywin closed the distance to the woman faster than she could have believed possible. His hand snaked out to grasp her by the arm. “Don’t. Don’t bring him back. Bring me the other one. Two hundred gold dragons if it’s a boy; one hundred if it’s a girl.”

“My lord, surely…”

Tywin’s mouth set in a hard line. His ice blue eyes drilled through her. A hundred dragons at least – more money than she could otherwise hope to see in a lifetime. And it was said Lannisters always paid their debts. Peri dipped her head and left the room.

Lord Selwyn Tarth had now skipped two meals, which was unheard of for the brawny Stormlord. He was so nervous that the thought of food repulsed him, however. He could hear his wife, his beloved Anne, groaning in the birthing room, and he could do nothing to assist her. The child in her belly had always felt large, and she was having great difficulty bringing it forth. So many women lost this battle. He had never allowed himself to imagine that it could happen to them. But the day had come, and their joy could to turn to ashes so easily.

He prayed they had not left off calling for the midwife too late. Her pains began while they were still aboard ship, but subsided once they docked in Lannisport. They would have left for her family’s estate in Oldtown this morning, but the child had other ideas. By breakfast time, the pains returned, too intense to sit comfortably. They’d strengthened all day, and finally the Lord and Lady of Tarth realized that their heir would not be born at her mother’s but rather at an inn in the Westerlands.

Selwyn was brought back to the present moment by a lengthy scream and sounds of renewed intensity. Then there was quiet for a long time; too long, Selwyn felt. At last, a figure emerged from the back room carrying a small bundle.

“It’s all done, milord. You have a… a son. Your wife is resting, but she will be well.” The midwife couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

A weight rolled off Selwyn’s chest, and the world seemed a bit brighter. His relief emerged as a flustered torrent of questions, asked too quickly for her to answer them all. He carefully took the newborn from her and cradled him in his meaty arms.

Selwyn unwrapped the boy from his swaddle. He was tiny; much smaller than expected, though his head seemed of normal size. His scalp featured a dusting of fine blonde hair, and he was mottled red all over, down to his little cock. He struggled to open his eyes, which seemed to be of two different colors. The more Selwyn looked, the more something seemed off about his proportions.

“Well you surprised us all, little man. You seemed a giant in the womb. Turns out it was mainly your head. Still, who could hope for more than a heir with lots of brains.” Selwyn turned to the midwife, calmer now. “He does seem small. Am I wrong?”

“No, milord. It may be a bit early to say, but looks to me like he’ll be a dwarf.”

Selwyn’s brow creased in confusion. “Dwarf? But there aren’t any in our family. Quite the opposite, I'd say.”

“No one knows why these things happen, milord. The gods can be fickle. He’s healthy otherwise, though.” An inspiration struck her. “And your wife is well. Count your blessings for that. Lord Lannister’s wife died this evening bringing forth her son. At least you will return home with your family intact.”

Selwyn nodded. The midwife may have spoken more boldly than was proper, but she was in the right. Anne would recover, and his son arrived healthy. The importance of the rest diminished in that light.

280 AC

Galladon Lannister grew up idolizing his big brother. By age six, he was quite sure (almost as sure as Jaime himself) that Jaime would eventually become the greatest knight to ever live. None of the other boys could touch him in the yard, and some of the grown men found excuses to be elsewhere when the lordling came out to train. Jaime was happy to bask in the attention of his little brother. He barely had to be asked to show Gal some new maneuver, and teaching what he learned helped him to perfect it.

Galladon was briefly heartbroken, therefore, when Jaime was sent off to squire for Lord Crakehall, one of their father’s bannermen. This would leave him with only Cersei as a playmate – Lord Tywin firmly maintained that his sons should not mingle with the children of the servants. His sister was less than generous with her time. She often criticized Galladon for being overlarge and called him names like ‘lummox’ and ‘giant’s bastard.’ Cersei had closed her heart to Galladon, but Jaime chose to try to see his mother’s grace and goodness in all he did. Jaime always soothed him and said he couldn’t be blamed for his size, but Jaime was no longer at Casterly Rock.

Even Lord Tywin noticed the chill between the siblings. He knew that Cersei blamed Galladon for their mother’s death. Of course, that particular boy had nothing to do with it, but Tywin resolved to take that secret to his grave. It would have company. Another issue troubling him was the unnatural closeness between the twins. He’d been too lenient with them after Joanna's passing, allowing them to comfort each other. Now they had to be separated. He tapped his fingers on his desk. Perhaps Galladon could help with that as well.

Thus, an overjoyed Galladon was sent to join Jaime at Crakehall as a page. Lord Crakehall did not know what to think about being asked to foster both of his liege lord's sons. He could only assume that Lord Tywin sought to replace the roles held by the Reynes and Castameres with a more trustworthy house. He soon cultivated wild fantasies about the lion and the boar joining by marriage and all his sons having holdfasts of their own. Jaime and Galladon were given the run of the castle, and their many indulgences written off as high spirits. The Lannister brothers became an inseparable team.

Tyrion of Tarth became a big brother at the age of six. By then he knew that some of his father’s bannermen would go to great lengths to pun about his size, but he also knew it didn’t matter. He would be the Evenstar one day, and they would all kneel to him, dwarf or not. And his father beheld him with nothing but affection.

His new sister certainly didn’t seem to be a dwarf. Mother birthed her at home with little difficulty, which was surprising considering her size. She arrived in the middle of a snowstorm serious enough to actually dust the beaches of Tarth. She latched and nursed almost immediately. Tyrion felt a stab of envy, knowing that she would outgrow him, probably before she could read.

“My son, isn’t she precious?” Selwyn asked.

“Yes, Father. She will bring joy and grace to the house.” Tyrion knew something of what to say from the septa’s etiquette lessons, but it wasn’t his favorite subject. He hoped the maester would soon begin to instruct him in maps and history, studies much more suited to his interests.

“You have a big job now and no mistake. A girl always trusts her elder brother with her most important secrets. You must take care of her, be there for her as both a confidant and a guardian. I know you’ll be up to the job, even though it is thankless and lifelong.” Selwyn smiled fondly, thinking of the letters he still received from his sisters and all the guidance he’d sent back over the years.

“Yes, Father. But hardly thankless, I think. May I hold her?”

“Of course, son.”

Selwyn had Tyrion sit down and placed the baby in his arms. She weighed nearly ten pounds and took up most of his lap. He supported her neck, tilting her head towards him. She opened her eyes, revealing the same extraordinary blue of their mother.

“She’s beautiful, Father.”

Selwyn smiled down on his children. “Brienne, meet your brother, Tyrion. He will always love you, and someday he will care for you in my place.”

Brienne's pink lips yawned open and she tried to cram a tiny fist into her toothless mouth. Tyrion giggled and kissed her brow. “Brienne the beauty,” he proclaimed.

Chapter Text

281-283 AC

The Kingswood Brotherhood were an unusual group of bandits. They preyed on the rich, ransoming nobles and robbing tax collectors while leaving the smallfolk alone. Their habit of spending their ill-gotten gains liberally in small villages made them difficult to root out. The smallfolk sheltered them, knowing that the coin they paid for the kindness could make the difference between life and death during wintertime.

Tywin Lannister, serving as Hand of the King, counseled Aerys to allow him to call in some of his bannermen to deal with the problem rather than employing the king's preferred solution of burning down the Kingswood. Lord Sumner Crakehall was among the Westermen summoned, so Jaime Lannister saw his first real skirmishes as a 15-year-old squire. His seven-year-old brother, Galladon, came along as well, but he was confined to Lord Crakehall’s tent far from the fighting, much to his chagrin.

Jaime acquitted himself with high distinction in the campaign. After Lord Crakehall took a disabling wound, Jaime defended him from all the brigands. One of the Brotherhood's leaders known as the Smiling Knight thought the young squire would be easily dispatched. He approached with sly confidence and peppered his every thrust with mocking japes about his younger opponent.

“Ha! To be a lad again. Your skills will never develop as quickly because at your age you always have a sword of one sort or another in your hand. Hope this one doesn't get as slippery. Too bad for you, some of us are born with greater endowments by the gods.”

Jaime set his mouth into a stern line, quite resembling his father. He did not make the novice’s mistake of trying too hard to remember his lessons. Rather, he allowed himself to get lost in the moment, trusting to his training and allowing his instincts to guide him. Soon, the Smiling Knight was forced to shut his mouth and concentrate on the battle.

Jaime displayed an ability well beyond his years. He kept the outlaw at bay with a dizzying variety of parries and counterattacks. Though he was careful to position himself between the Smiling Knight and Lord Crakehall, his style was far more aggressive than defensive. He took the battle to his foe, never allowing him to find a rhythm. Ser Arthur Dayne took a beat to appreciate the skill on display before coming to the squire’s assistance. Ever chivalrous, Ser Dayne insisted on dueling the bandit one-on-one, and even allowed him to recover his sword once disarmed. In the end, the legendary Kingsguard slew the Smiling Knight as Jaime watched awestruck.

In honor of his valor, Ser Dayne offered Jaime knighthood on the spot. When he learned that the squire was the son of the Hand of the King, they agreed that a more formal investiture ceremony was in order. Lord Crakehall was able to ride with them back to the Red Keep and personally informed Lord Tywin of Jaime’s impressive showing in his first real battle. He thought he was being subtle in the seven times he implied it was due to the training he'd given the young Lannisters at Crakehall.

The entire castle was abuzz of tales of the brash new knight. Handsome, young, and gifted in combat, he inspired admiration or envy in all who heard. King Aerys was no exception. His mind had taken a paranoid turn of late, and he saw conspiracy around every corner. It seemed beyond coincidental to him that his heir Rhaegar was a schemer who couldn’t be trusted while his Hand’s son was garnering such high esteem. He felt a wicked temptation to appoint the boy to the Kingsguard just so Tywin could no longer claim him as heir. Tywin had another fine son, however, who could easily step into his place. It might have been another matter entirely if the appointment left him with only the girl to inherit Casterly Rock, but as it was, the interference would be unfulfilling.

Winter carried on strong for years after Brienne’s birth, but briefly seemed to lift in 281 AC. It proved to be an illusion, afterwards known as the Year of the False Spring. Rumors of coming war started to be heard around then, but Tarth was removed from the intrigue thanks to the island’s isolation. It was just as well; Evenfall Hall had more grave matters to which to attend.

Tyrion’s mother bore another girl the year after Brienne, but Arienne came early and did not thrive. Alysanne arrived the following year, almost as big and hearty as Brienne at birth. This too proved to be a cruel illusion. She soon sickened with fever, then Lady Anne came down with the same. They remained on the border between life and death for months, each day bringing new hopes and fears. Selwyn cursed the snow and difficult tides that made Citadel healing maesters reluctant to embark on a journey to his island. They kept delaying his urgent requests until it was too late. Both Anne and Adrienne passed away before the winter ended.

Three-year-old Brienne couldn’t understand what happened to her mother and constantly begged everyone around to bring her back home. Septa Roelle finally snapped and told the girl that her mother was with the gods and it was the best place for her. She should have stopped there, but unwisely continued, unleashing her frustrations on the young child. “You would know this if you were a proper girl, silent and meek. But no, you’re always getting in the way and bothering those who are trying to work. Maybe if you’d been a better daughter, your mother wouldn’t have exhausted herself to death.”

Tyrion came roaring out of the sitting room where he’d been studying his history books in front of the fireplace. The nine-year-old stood barely four feet tall and still had the piping voice of a child. He spoke with authority and righteous anger, however. “You are dismissed! You can crawl back to the sept and tell them whatever tales you like. Just gather your stupid book and ugly robes and go.”

Septa Roelle opened her mouth to protest. She’d never been fond of the little lordling with his mocking smile and sarcastic questions about the holy mysteries of the faith.

“I’d advise you not to argue,” Tyrion interrupted. “You’re better off just leaving than taking this up with my father. If I tell him how you spoke to Brienne, he won’t stop at horsewhipping you.”

The boy’s hideous, mismatched eyes glared at her with a terrible sincerity. Now that he mentioned it, Lord Tarth had not been his usual mellow self since Lady Anne’s death. Septa Roelle found that she couldn’t meet the boy’s gaze for long. “Perhaps I will see if the island’s sept needs any assistance in this winter of hardship. Your father can look for me there when he realizes he needs our guidance.”

“He won’t,” Tyrion nearly spit, turning his back on the septa to comfort his sobbing sister. He wrapped his arms around her in an embrace. Already he had to hold her tight so his short arms would close around her shoulders.

“There, there, Brienne. She’s a bad woman and full of lies, but she’ll never hurt you again.” He drew his sister's little chin up so she would meet his eyes. “It wasn’t your fault, I promise. You can always trust your big brother, can’t you?”

Brienne nodded, her solemn expression already well established.

“Let’s go see if the cook has lunch ready yet. After all, you’re a growing girl. You need to eat some meat to put hair on your chest.”

Brienne broke into giggles. “I don’t want that.”

“Well, to get as strong as me and Father, then.”

“Okay. Piggyback me, Tyty?”

Tyrion tried not to groan as he settled her onto his shoulders. His knees told him that this wasn’t going to be possible very much longer.

As a young knight, Jaime was sent to the Westerlands to assist his uncle Ser Kevan Lannister with his command of the Lannister army. Naturally, Galladon came along, now as his squire. He was on the young side, but people tended to overestimate his age due to his size, and Jaime had taught him so much over the years that he stood up well against the older boys.

The Lannister army kept out of Robert’s Rebellion for a long time. Lord Tywin convinced King Aerys that holding them in reserve would allow them to sweep in from the west and flank Robert’s forces if they made it to King's Landing. Jaime had reason to suspect differently, however. Several times, he’d been sent as envoy to Lord Tully, a known Northern sympathizer. While he was not privy to the content of his father’s missives, the fact that they had to be hand delivered spoke volumes.

Jaime was therefore not shocked when his uncle told him that they would be marching on King’s Landing not to defend it from Robert Baratheon, but to take it in his name. The only bit Jaime found surprising was that his father didn’t intend to assume the throne himself. Apparently he had brokered some other deal he found just as satisfactory without the need to hazard his army.

Kevan said that when they arrived at King’s Landing, Lord Tywin would ensure the gates were open to them. The bulk of the army would subdue the city. Ser Gregor Clegane was to take the royal family prisoner, and Jaime was to proceed to the throne room to protect his father. In practice, the army became overzealous and sacked the city, and something went terribly wrong with Ser Gregor’s mission – the prince’s wife and children were slain – but Jaime performed perfectly. He broke through the door to the throne room to find King Aerys threatening his father with execution by wildfire for treason.

Jaime called out to the king, challenging him to draw a blade and die with steel in his hand. The Kingsguard on duty tried to interfere, but his attack was rushed and not well planned. Jaime skewered him almost in passing and continued to advance on the king.

“I will burn you all!” Aerys bellowed. “Baratheon will find nothing but ashes when he arrives. Ashes and me. And I will breathe, and he will burn. They will all burn!”

Jaime looked to his father, seeming to transform in a moment from a mighty avatar of the Warrior to an uncertain teenage boy, not yet a man grown.

“He’s mad, Jaime. Kill him or we’ll never have peace,” Tywin said with preternatural calm.

Jaime drew back his sword and the deed was done. He could never remember the actual act, only the fear clawing at him beforehand and the relief afterward as Aerys’ blood ran down the fullers of his sword. In the end, he was only a man after all.

Lord Robert arrived in the following days, and Tywin yielded the city and throne to him. He brought news that he’d defeated Prince Rhaegar, so the presumptive heir would not be a threat to retake the throne. Only the young prince Viserys and his newborn sister had slipped his grasp. He celebrated Jaime’s accomplishment, dubbing him ‘Kingslayer’ though warning him not to make a habit of it.

The entire Lannister family dined with the soon-to-be crowned King Robert at a celebratory feast that evening. Galladon served as cupbearer for the table, a high honor for the young squire. He kept everyone’s cups well filled with wine, which was fortunate considering the effect of some of the night’s pronouncements.

Robert announced his engagement to Cersei, the wedding to take place soon after his coronation. Tywin beamed, but Cersei’s enthusiasm was plainly fake. She would make an excellent queen, balancing out Robert's rough nature with her sophistication. They had no interests in common, though. Jaime knew she would never find love or even loyalty in his arms. Tywin would continue as Hand, smoothing out the transition between regimes.

Tywin’s pleasure was only diminished when Robert proclaimed a toast for his foster father Jon Arryn's marriage to Lysa Tully. This arrangement had been the required condition to bring the Riverlands under Robert’s command. Still, Tywin had wanted Lysa (and the Riverlands) for Jaime. There weren't many other girls of proper age from high enough houses for his heir. As an insult to injury, Lord Stark had even claimed the other Tully maiden for himself.

Tywin consoled himself that Robert should be a better king than mad Aerys. Assuming Cersei did her duty and provided the kingdoms with an heir, the prestige of House Lannister was secure. And if Robert didn’t work out, well, he'd broken one king; he could break another.

Chapter Text

284 AC

Lord Tarth slowly emerged from the depression he’d fallen into after the deaths of his wife and young daughters. Time helped somewhat in healing the wounds, but much of it was down to Tyrion. He started with small tasks like reviewing the correspondence and only bringing important matters to his father’s attention. Gradually, he started to manage so much of the household that Selwyn felt ashamed. A young boy should not have to act as Lord of the manor while his father still lived.

Selwyn reassumed his duties but made sure Tyrion knew that he was immensely proud of how maturely he’d behaved. Even at a young age, Tyrion’s intelligence was obvious. Selwyn felt almost greedy not sending him to the Citadel to become a maester, but he needed his heir and suspected he’d make a great Evenstar someday.

Shortly after Brienne’s fourth nameday, she grew taller than her brother. It’d happened even earlier than Tyrion had feared. For her part, Brienne seemed quite confused about the turn of events.

“You’ll grow soon too, right Tyty?” she asked.

“Some, but not so much as you. I’m a very generous big brother, you see, and I asked the gods to give you my height.” He reached over to ruffle her hair, for the moment still easily within reach.

Her little face twisted in concern. “I give it back, Ty! I don’t want it. It’s not fair to you!”

“I was only kidding, sweetling. This is just how I am. I will be short,” he broke off to adopt a stern look, “but I will always be your big brother, understand?”

“Of course! Always,” she said, punctuating her statement with a hug. She was getting very strong.

The wedding day for King Robert, first of his name, and Cersei Lannister had finally arrived. Affections between the two had not grown any fonder. Robert still grieved for his lost love, Lyanna Stark, and plainly considered Cersei a poor substitute. Cersei acknowledged that Robert was handsome, but he was a man of large appetites. He would soon run to fat, and she rarely saw him without some wench or another on his lap.

The only part of the arrangement Cersei liked was that she would be queen. She wished there was a way to do so without the king, or with a different king. She’d wanted to marry Prince Rhaegar once upon a time. He’d been graceful and elegant, more like Jaime than the broad shouldered, heavy handed Robert. She wondered how that would be.

After the ladies' breakfast, where she’d received a tedious array of overly embellished wedding gifts from noble families trying to ingratiate themselves, Cersei retired to her chambers to rest before the long service in the sept. Jaime was waiting there for her, as she’d requested.

“What can your handsome, knightly brother do for you?” he asked.

Better and better, Cersei could tell that he was well loosened with wine. She’d hoped Robert’s celebration would feature lots of drink. Within the year, she’d know she never should have considered otherwise.

Cersei stepped close to Jaime, a little closer than comfortable. She gave him a quick peck on the lips.

“Well, my knight, this fair maiden is troubled. She is due to wed a king who has a reputation for debauchery. It is said he’s bedded a maid in every one of the kingdoms and always with rough passion. She would like to know gentleness and love on her wedding day. Whatever should she do?”

Jaime took a step back, confused. His sister’s cheeks were flushed an appealing pink and her eyes were black with arousal. But, she was his sister, his twin. He dimly remembered being punished for playing together wrong as children. He’d rarely seen his father so angry; it made an impression.

Cersei followed him. “Please, Jaime. We shared a womb. We can share a bed. It would only be once, just for our first time. Doesn’t that feel right to you?”

Jaime wanted to say it didn’t, but his body clearly had other ideas. His member strained so hard against his lacings that it was achingly painful. His heart throbbed like he’d never felt before. He opened his mouth, possibly to protest, but Cersei covered it with a kiss. He lost all control then, and was fully thrusting inside her before his mind recovered for coherent thought.

Cersei hoped all her future plans went this perfectly. Jaime had been a wonderful lover. She’d even had a climax, though admittedly she’d been thinking more about her new power than him. She let him sleep in the bed beside her afterwards. She had lied before about intending it to be only one time, and he probably knew it, but she doubted he’d ever be able to stay again. The treason made it much more exciting, she had to admit.

King Robert and his brothers shared the high table at the wedding feast with the Lannisters. Everyone, with the usual exception of Stannis, seemed to be in high spirits. Lord Tywin even nodded approval at Jaime, for once holding his tongue and not treating a formal occasion as a time for japes.

Robert regaled them with endless tales about the battles that led to his new dynasty. He was already so drunk that even his long-time friend Ned Stark kept shooting him disapproving glances.

“So,” Robert said, settling a strong arm around Jaime’s shoulder, “did Cersei tell you about the idea I had? I could appoint you to the Kingsguard the first time there’s a vacancy. That way I’d know my queen was protected and have the slayer of the last Targaryen on the lookout for any white-haired pretenders who come my way.”

A dozen reactions jumbled together in Jaime’s head. The Kingsguard were the ultimate knights of the realm. To be among their number was every little boy’s dream. He’d have to give up his title and hopes for a family, but that was counterbalanced by having a place in the White Book. But… Robert wasn’t much of a thinker. He’d probably convinced himself that Cersei’s idea was his own. And if she wanted him stationed here after what they’d done earlier today, she meant for it to happen again. The conflict threatened to rip him in two. It'd been magical. But wrong.

Tywin’s fist slamming on the table brought Jaime out of his soul searching. “No! It is out of the question. I will not allow it.”

All eyes turned to Tywin. His reaction to what should have been an honor startled everyone. Not only was he being rude to his king, but he’d allowed his temper to slip its bounds in front of the highest nobles in the land.

“It’s not like he’s your only heir,” Robert said, more confused than angry thanks to the excess of drink.

Jaime did wonder what reservations Father had about Galladon but was still too tongue-tied to voice a question.

Tywin’s cold blue eyes shone against his reddening face. “Jaime is not for the Kingsguard. I’ll resign first. You can find plenty of sworn swords, but you’ll not find another mind like mine.”

The nobles collectively gasped, surely thinking that the king couldn’t allow this impertinence to stand.

Robert stood to tower over Tywin. “What about the other one, then? I know he’s just a squire, but I could knight him and set him next in line.” His demeanor showed this was more about power than honor.

Tywin seemed to melt in the force of his king’s wrath. “Galladon? Well, I’m sure Your Grace knows best.” He kept his eyes pinned to the table. Only Cersei could tell he was trying not to snicker. Whether Robert realized it or not, he'd admitted by backing down from Jaime that he had no intention of doing anything more than ceremonial ruling. The realm was Tywin's. Cersei wrinkled her nose. Galladon was not the plan at all.

“Your Grace? Gal is only ten years old,” Jaime said uncertainly. He’d never heard of a knight so young outside of the more fanciful children’s tales.

“Can’t be!” Robert exclaimed. All laughs again, he strode over to pull the lad to his feet. He’d liked the boy ever since he saw him, all big and brawny. Despite the blonde hair, there was something of the Stormlands in him. Robert had even let him swing the warhammer he'd wielded on the Trident. He’d looked damned comfortable with it, too.

“Perhaps not a knight quite yet then, but I’d have him as my personal squire. Unless his current master objects, Ser Jaime?”

“Of course not, Your Grace. You do my brother a great honor,” Jaime said. He couldn’t quite keep from thinking that he’d traded Galladon for Cersei’s maidenhead.

The wedding feast continued with everyone seemingly friends again and Robert blithely unaware of the power shifts and secrets right under his nose. Nine months later, blonde-haired green eyed Prince Joffrey was born.

288 AC

Cersei had a new reason to be less than fond of Galladon – that Robert treated him more like a son than a squire. He showed little interest in Joffrey, his actual trueborn heir, instead spending his days on the training grounds or hunting in the Kingswood with Galladon. Of course, Joffrey didn’t favor Robert in any respect, though all the courtiers rushed to proclaim many similarities.

She didn’t suppose she'd be as lucky with the new baby swelling her belly. This one would be his, and so would any others unless she found a way out. Unfortunately, the queen could hardly be seen asking for a cleansing from some woodswitch. She felt trapped and desperately wished the right brother was in the city.

Jaime was scarcely enjoying his role as acting lord of Casterly Rock any more that his sister enjoyed being Robert’s queen. He found the administrative work boring and not suited to his skills. There was far too much reading for his tastes – his brain always had trouble taming letters to the page – and far too little time for sword practice. He imagined he could see the strength dropping out of his arms day by day.

He also missed his brother and was highly conflicted about what he and Cersei had done. Though his mind said it was wrong, his body countered that it had felt very right. Then there was the matter of Prince Joffrey who looked so very Lannister. At least Lord Tywin was kept busy enough running the kingdoms that he only wrote to demand Jaime marry every fortnight or so. All in all then, even though he found his life unsatisfying, Jaime felt it was prudent to remain a continent’s breadth away from King’s Landing.

Lord Selwyn encouraged Tyrion to continue to play a role in managing the estate, but he took pride in keeping one job to himself – arranging marriages for his children. He leveraged a lifetime of connections (and perhaps an occasional turn of phase lifted from Tyrion) in gaining betrothal agreements to the family’s advantage.

Tyrion was to marry Corrie Penrose, daughter of Cortney Penrose, the lord of Parchment. Lord Penrose presently served as castellan for Storm’s End while Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Renly Baratheon, resided in King’s Landing as Master of Laws. The Penrose family obviously had the favor of the Crown, and presently Lady Corrie was Lord Cortney’s heir. Also, though Selwyn tried not to factor it in, he thought Tyrion would be pleased that his betrothed’s coat of arms featured two crossed quills.

For Brienne, he had an understanding with the Lord of the Marches Bryen Caron that she would wed his younger son within a year of her flowering. Tyrion agreed it was a promising match. The children had been a bit shy with each other on meeting, but nothing discouraging. Selwyn thought that Brienne would enjoy the marchlands. They had an active martial tradition due to constant border skirmishes with the Dornish. Even the women were trained at archery. Brienne showed a great deal of promise at bow and sword. Not so much at domestic skills, true, but they would have cooks and seamstresses aplenty at Nightsong, the seat of House Caron.

Tyrion and Corrie wed when both were fourteen. His nerves got the better of him on the eve of his wedding.

“What if she rejects me in front of all those people? I’ll never be able to earn their respect back. I'll be a laughingstock before my time as Evenstar even begins.”

Brienne scoffed before she realized he was serious. “What? Where’d you get such a strange idea? You’ve met her twice so she’s seen you in person, and you’ve exchanged so many letters that our birds are run ragged. She’d have to be a truly evil person to spurn you after all of that, and I think someone as bright as you would have noticed.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, sister. I’m busy panicking. Perhaps I should call it off. Tell Father that I’d like to wait until I’m officially a man grown. Maybe two years from now I’ll feel more confident. Didn't you see how beautiful she is with those bouncy brown curls and delicate hands?” He held up his own stubby fingers.

“Maybe you’ll also have grown as tall as me too, but it’s unlikely. I think my duty is clear. I’ll be Sergeant of Arms at the wedding. If either of the participants try to back out and thus shame the other, they’ll have to answer to me.” She was only eight years old, but already as tall as many grown women and unusually solid of form. When she squared her shoulders and balled her fists, she looked a credible threat.

“So it’s to be that way, is it? Well, if she shames me, I’ll… think of many mean things to say. I may even speak some aloud.”

“She’s nice, Tyrion. She thinks you’re charming and not full of yourself like the other lordlings her father had her meet. She chose you, after you made her laugh at Lady Estermont’s ball.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” Tyrion said softly. His world started to shift around the idea that a woman – or anyone outside of his family – could see past his body and value him for his mind. “But will you-”

“I’ll still be there, ready to grab anyone who tries to run for the exit before the septon’s final blessing.”

“Thank you, sister.”

“Seven blessings, brother.”

(The wedding and subsequent celebrations turned out highly satisfying for all concerned. Tyrion took to heart the lesson that Brienne was a great judge of character).

Chapter Text

289 AC

“Help!”

Tyrion’s head snapped involuntarily toward the sea. He, his wife Corrie, and Brienne had been enjoying a pleasant day at the beach. Summer was now well established, and he found the heat and salt water did wonders for his aching joints. The ladies went into the waves while he lounged on the hot sand. First his father, then Brienne had diligently tried to teach him to swim, but his limbs were simply too short and his frame too dense. At best he could tread water well enough to keep his nose above the waves, but any forward movement he achieved was easily countered by the tidal forces.

His wife’s scream cut the air again, but he couldn’t even see her. He jumped up, took a step toward the water, then reconsidered. Bravely charging in with no account for the odds was the traditional Stormlord way. His pride was not the only matter at hand here, however. A better swimmer would be far more likely to reach Corrie in time.

Then he saw them. A trough of the waves revealed Brienne’s bright blonde head. She was swimming one-handed while clutching Corrie to her chest. Though not yet having passed ten name days, her strokes were as practiced and strong as any veteran sailor. Soon, she reached close enough to the shore to stand. Tyrion noted with great relief that Corrie was able to walk under her own power as well. She coughed a bit as she ran onto the dry sand to Tyrion.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized to her husband and goodsister. “I didn’t intend to go out so far. I don’t know what happened.”

Tyrion put aside a diatribe on the dangers of rip currents for another day, choosing to embrace his wife instead. He pulled away to bow to his sister.

“Thank the gods you were here, Brienne! We are in your debt.”

“Yes, my heroic goodsister! Name your reward. I can bake a special treat with dinner this evening. What’s your favorite dessert?”

Brienne blushed under all the adulation. “I suppose honey cakes? But you don’t have to-”

“You’ve got it. Honey cakes with fresh blueberries, and you don’t lift a finger to help.”

“If I did, it would only be the worse for it,” Brienne replied.

Tyrion grimaced. Brienne had been happy for a moment there before she started criticizing herself again. She’d barely cracked a smile since her intended, and in fact nearly his entire family, were carried off in the spring sickness. The Caron lad had seemed like a sweet boy, but Tyrion regretted the loss more for Brienne’s sake. She’d withdrawn to her tower room to grieve, emerging for desultory lessons and meals. Only recently had she agreed to accompany Tyrion and Corrie on their beach trips, and reluctantly at that.

“You wouldn’t shame me in front of Lord Selwyn, would you; putting the guest of honor to work? I’m going to tell him all about how courageous and steady minded you were. You can go on ahead and get changed if you want. I’m going to take it slow.” Corrie leaned on Tyrion, still getting her wind back.

Brienne dashed off toward Evenfall Hall, all long limbs and youthful energy.

“I’m glad you were clever enough not to go into the water,” Corrie said.

Feeling stung, Tyrion began, “I would have, my love,” before he noticed the twinkle in her eyes. “Wait.”

“You are aware that Parchment Hall is on the sea as well, a rougher beach than this one, in fact?”

“You-”

“For some ladies, I would praise their salty biscuits and uneven stitchwork to please them. Brienne wants to be a hero.”

Tyrion felt an hitherto unsuspected wing of his heart open to his wife. “You see her,” he said in wonder.

“I do,” Corrie said, “and you. You’ve been so worried about her lately that it’s hard to watch.”

Tyrion’s brow creased. “You know, it’s quite possible you’re insane.”

“Well, I did choose you.”

“Case closed, then.”

Ser Jaime, acting Lord of Casterly Rock, was rudely awakened in the middle of the night with news of the burning of the Lannister fleet at Lannisport by Balon Greyjoy’s 100-ship-strong Iron Fleet. The Lord of Pyke had declared himself king of the Iron Islands and proclaimed that they would henceforth be independent and return to the old ways of raiding and reaving along the Northern and Western shores.

Jaime knew of the small folk’s instinctive fear and loathing of the Ironborn. Their strength waxed and waned, but had been a looming threat for millennia. Before the coming of the Targaryens, they had conquered the Riverlands up to Harrenhal. Unfortunately for them, they chose the wrong side against Aegon the Conquerer, and saw their holdings reduced to their original islands. Some of their former victims encouraged Aegon to reduce them further, but their king had bent the knee and promised to cease raiding the Kingdoms.

How had Robert allowed them to build up such strength at sea? Jaime wondered. Their tough, fast ships (and the fearless men on them) could now raid and withdraw before the Crown war galleys could respond. The Targaryens had needed dragons to subdue them. Now what?

Jaime called for the Lannister bannermen to gather at the major castles along the seashore. Thus garrisoned, the West could defend against further raids even without a fleet of ships. Jaime impressed his men by taking on all challengers in the training yard, remaining undefeated, then teaching his opponents the skills he’d used to beat them. They could not understand that he felt like a fish returned to the river after spending a year trapped in a puddle.

Subsequent Ironborn attacks shifted north to Seagard in the Riverlands and the farming villages near the Twins. The Crown’s response was belated but strong. Jaime could just imagine his father recommending harsh justice to the king. Lord Tywin had no love lost for the Ironborn either. The royal fleet, led by Master of Ships Stannis Baratheon, proved equal to the overconfident Balon Greyjoy. The strength of the Iron Fleet was smashed, and its remnants limped back to Pyke.

Even then, King Balon would not surrender. His heir Rodrik had been lost at Seagard, and next-born Maron during the retreat. He could not yet accept that his arrogance had cost his family so much for no lasting gain. He fortified his wife and two remaining children into his castle at Pyke and prepared for a blockade.

Two moons later, the stubborn King Balon showed no signs of curtailing his rebellion. Merchant ships still refused to travel north of Lannisport, and the lords of the North and Westerlands did not feel safe to disband their armies. The disruption in trade and farming threatened to destabilize the economy of areas still replenishing their stores after the multi year winter.

Unbeknownst to Balon, King Robert was nearly champing at the bit for an excuse to leave King’s Landing. Cersei’s ceaseless complaining had taken its toll. She was unhappy with the smell of the city in summer, the dull maneuvering of the nobles, and the behavior of the children. In Robert's opinion, Little Steffon was too young to be blamed, but Joffrey could be downright cruel, truth be told. Cersei always stood in the way of him delivering proper discipline, and if he lost his temper at her, he would see reproach in the eyes of his squire. He’d stayed his hand so far for Galladon’s sake, and he felt a battle would be just the thing to work out his frustrations. He assembled the royal army and prepared to sail for the Iron Islands.

Galladon was often told he had the luck of the Lannisters. Usually he scoffed, thinking that people wanted to disregard his family’s hard work as mere good fortune. This time, he had to admit that the gods seemed to be smiling on him. He would fight by the sides of the two greatest warriors he knew: his king and commander Robert and his brother Jaime. Most squires were nervous on the cusp of their first battle, but he knew they’d keep him safe. Either man would die for him, not that he intended to let that happen. His only fear was somehow shaming himself in combat before the ones he admired most.

Once the royal siege engines made landfall on Pyke, the Greyjoy Rebellion was effectively doomed. Knights poured through breaches in the castle walls – Thoros of Myr with his flaming sword first, then Jorah Mormont, but King Robert and the Lannister brothers were not far behind. The Ironborn defenders were quickly overwhelmed and slaughtered. Galladon did not mete out any death that day, but neither did he shame himself. Robert had him by his side when Ned Stark brought the chained King Balon before him to finally bend the knee.

Balon objected to being called a rebel. “My ancestors bowed to the Targaryens, not you. I never swore any oaths to you, so you can’t rightly say I broke my word.”

Robert boomed laughter; he’d always admired spirit in defeated foes. Much of his army came from the banners of enemies he’d turned into friends.

“Very well. Allow me to welcome you for the first time into the peace of the Baratheon dynasty. I trust you and your sons will give me and mine no worries?”

“Aye,” Balon said. His eldest sons' deaths left only his daughter Yara and youngest son, Theon, who’d always been the weakest. No, he couldn’t imagine Theon troubling Robert in the slightest.

“To seal the deal, we’ll take your youngest son to foster at Winterfell. Lord Stark will treat him well.”

“I will,” Stark said. “But know that I will hold you to your oath at the hazard of your son’s life. The North gives no second chances to those who forsake their word.”

“Aye,” said Balon again. His last son would surely break in the teeth of the North. A wiser man might have repented of his rebellion and pled for mercy, but Balon was proud as well as stubborn. He would do as he was told while they were watching. But knees that bent could unbend, and driftwood crowns could be remade.

292 AC

The match had seemed a strange one six moons ago, and seemed even stranger now. In the time since Brienne flowered into a maiden, she had added more than a foot of height. She was now taller than most men, never mind other girls. Freshly scrubbed and in her nicest dress, she stood straight and proud. She looked slightly down to meet her betrothed’s eyes.

“I welcome you, Ser Connington, to Evenfall Hall.”

The knight cast confused glances to the dwarf and his average-sized wife before returning to the giantess before him. The girl was supposedly only twelve-years-old, but that was ridiculous. The whole situation felt like the set up to a joke.

“Is this meant to be Lady Brienne?” he asked the dwarf.

“Yes. You may also note that my sister has her own set of ears. You could have asked her instead.”

Connington ignored the remark, turning on the dwarf. “And you’re Lord Tyrion? The one who wrote to me of your sister’s strength of character and her exemplary physical attributes…” he trailed off. Now that he thought about it, he had only assumed Tyrion referred to beauty. How was he to know the man meant she could beat him in a wrestling match?

“I am Lord Tyrion. Our father, the Evenstar, is awaiting us at the feast hall. If you will give Brienne your arm, I will be happy to lead the way.”

He didn’t sound happy, Corrie could tell. With all the young men who died in the spring sickness and the Greyjoy Rebellion, Lord Tarth had some difficulty finding Brienne another match. To Tyrion’s dissatisfaction, he’d chosen Ser Ronnet Connington. Though ranked high under Targaryen rule, House Connington had been penalized after their downfall and attainted of their lordship and most of their holdings. Ser Ronnet acted pompous, but in fact held little wealth. His knighthood was valid, however, and Brienne was in an unfavorable situation not even having a heritable title to offer her husband.

“No,” Connington said. He glanced once more at the maiden they proposed he yoke himself to. Yoke indeed; she was as big as an ox. Plain as one, too. She would obviously never take any care with her appearance or to flatter his sensibilities. And… she wasn’t even fully grown. In a few years, would she look down on him? Would she be able to resist if he decided she needed discipline? “No,” he repeated. He looked at the rose he held as if he’d never seen it before then cast it at her feet. “This is all you’ll have of me, my Lady.” His contemptuous tone rang in their ears long after he left the hall.

“Why?” Brienne asked Tyrion, tears streaming from her eyes. Her young face was pale with shock. She’d known some men could be uncharitable but never expected a knight to be so cruel.

“You’re too good for him, and he could tell,” Tyrion blurted, overly eager to comfort his sister and dry her tears.

Corrie kissed Brienne’s cheek. “I’ll tell Lord Selwyn it didn’t work out. You did nothing wrong. The man was an ass.”

Brienne started to suspect that Tyrion and Corrie weren’t giving her an unvarnished version of the truth. She knew her father had struggled to find a second betrothal for her. Now she’d somehow ruined it. She said her greeting right, so it must be… how she looked. And she’d tried so hard.

Later that evening, Tyrion and Corrie would establish their long term conspiracy to ruin House Connington. If they had their way, Ser Ronnet would suffer through a string of humiliating defeats before finally begging for the glory of a clean death on the front lines of battle.

This is much better, Ser Jaime thought.

After the Greyjoy Rebellion, King Robert reshuffled his small council. He appointed his closest friend, Ned Stark, as the new Hand of the King. He sent Lord Tywin back to Casterly Rock to assist in the recovery of the Westerlands. He claimed this to be no rebuke but that a more experienced Protector of the West was necessary. Jaime put up little defense, considering that the initial Greyjoy attacks that were so successful had happened under his watch.

Also, he was having the time of his life.

Once the Iron Islands were subdued, he hosted Robert for a fortnight at Casterly Rock, then graciously offered to escort him back to King’s Landing. They took a winding route, almost like a royal progress. Everywhere they went, the lords met them with the prides of their larders and wine cellars.

Jaime spent as much time as possible with his brother. The lad was growing into a fine young man, however Jaime was a bit concerned about Robert's influence. He seemed to know far more about brothels than a fifteen-year-old should.

His uncle Kevan's letter found them at Harrenhal. He invited Jaime to take charge of the Lannister military command and travel the Western holdings to assess their condition and establish some peace-time training protocols. Jaime smelled his father in that. While visiting all the castles, he would surely be greeted by every eligible noble maiden in the land.

Having no desire (or perhaps the wrong kind of desire) to approach King's Landing, Jaime begged Robert's leave to return and begin his new commission.

Traveling constantly, eating campfire food, training every day until his body threatened collapse; most people wouldn't understand, but Ser Jaime considered these his golden years.

Chapter Text

284 AC (Brienne is 14; Tyrion and Galladon are 20; Jaime and Cersei are 28).

The tourney at Oldtown was held by Lord Leyton Hightower in honor of his heir Baelor’s firstborn son coming of age. In truth, Lord Baelor was the host of the festivities, greeting all the nobles and making the opening day welcoming address. His father hadn’t left the castle in years, and rumors were flying about his sanity. Lord Baelor, with his heir now of age, no longer felt the need to pretend deference to his father. The Hightower family would end their isolation and show their glory once more.

Jaime took great pride in his accomplishments since being relieved of his duties at Casterly Rock. He had masterminded a retraining of the Westerland armies and peasant reserves. They could now fend off any army up to the size of the Reach’s, in his estimation, a vast improvement from five years ago when the Ironborn had thrown them into disarray.

Jaime had also become the preeminent tourney knight of his generation. He rarely lost in the lists and won several melees before his reputation put too much of a target on his back. The entire fighting pool would band against him if he entered a melee now. He took it as flattery, and the prizes were better for jousting anyway.

The main complication in his life was what his father called his advancing age. At 28, that seemed unfair to Jaime. He didn’t want to tie himself down to a wife and the resultant children. Everything would change and before he knew it, he’d be back as Casterly Rock squinting over correspondence again and daydreaming about starting a war just to feel alive. His present strategy was to dodge the issue until his younger brother wed. After that it would admittedly look strange for him to still remain unattached. Fortunately, King Robert enjoyed Galladon’s company too much to encourage any potentially intrusive relationships. Jaime wished the king a long life, for while he was on the throne, Jaime could live as he pleased.

Galladon – Ser Galladon now, Jaime reminded himself – would accompany Robert to the tournament. He looked forward to seeing his brother fight in the melee. He’d entered the joust as well, but Jaime didn’t expect him to last long there. Tall knights tended to have a fairly unsteady seat, and Galladon was as tall as they came. Well, nearly. Ser Gregor overtopped him by a nose, but he was Kingsguard and would remain on duty protecting Cersei and the children.

Jaime felt a familiar flutter in his stomach on thinking about Cersei. It would be easier if he believed in witchcraft, if he could convince himself that she’d cast a spell to strip away his will and make herself irresistible to him. He could blame no one but himself, however. Even Cersei… the septons said women were weak and wicked; men must be the masters of them. Every time they met, Jaime repeated this lesson in his head, and every time he would end up slipping down a back staircase with his pants still half unlaced.

Brienne buzzed from stall to stall, sampling tasty treats and searching for a worthy memento of the occasion. She’d only been to a few local events, so small they didn’t deserve the title of tourney. This was different. The best jousters, fighters, and archers in the realms would make the trip to Oldtown in hopes of winning prize money and glory. Dressed in men’s mail and standing head and shoulders above nearly everyone, most people assumed she was a man without a second look.

Tyrion knew that made his secret mission of scouting for potential husbands even more difficult, but it was for the best. Their father had attempted to insist she dress as a proper lady, but Tyrion convinced him otherwise. ‘We can’t change her into something she’s not or she’ll never be happy. Let them see who they’d really be marrying. It will weed out those who would hurt her.’ Lord Selwyn agreed then. He would sooner drink seawater than see Brienne as stricken as she’d been after the Connington (he didn’t deserve the title 'Ser') debacle.

Brienne ran her fingers through her freshly cut hair. Even most men didn’t wear it so short, but their master at arms, Ser Goodwin, had taken to her training with a vicious enthusiasm. He seemed determined not only to teach her proper sword techniques, but also real-life combat tactics including dirty tricks. When he grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanked her head back, and put a blade to her throat, she concluded the hair had to go. The mirror told her it was no great loss. It’d been stringy and brittle at the best of times. Still, it had been something to braid or weave ribbons in when she wanted to look like a proper lady. Now she had no way to hide what she saw more and more obviously as an unfortunate and mannish appearance.

She wondered if it would be possible to slip away in the crowd. She had coin enough to buy a new tabard and perhaps a passable horse. She could ride off, and her family would no longer have to worry about her future. It would be kinder really; she was such a trial to them.

“No, I am not a mummer.”

Brienne heard Tyrion’s irritated voice and turned in search of him. Their house colors of rose and azure patterned with yellow sunbursts and moons were quite attention-getting. Tyrion had been worried about this exact possibility – a dwarf dressed so brightly was too close to being in motley by half. She trotted back to take her position by his side.

Two golden-haired knights were looking down at him, barely concealing their chortles. “Apologies,” the taller one said. “Are you for the joust instead?”

“Gal,” his companion muttered.

Brienne spoke up. “My lord brother is here as my escort. I’m sure you meant no offense.”

Both men looked frankly startled and switched their gazes back and forth from Tyrion’s small frame up to Brienne’s over-sized one. The one called Gal let out a laugh of surprise.

Jaime tried to smooth over the awkwardness. “I see. Well met. Are you for the squire’s events? Or…” he trailed off. The closer he looked at the lad… is that a woman?

“Oh! So not mummers but a freak show instead?” Galladon asked while Jaime was puzzling out the situation.

The recent arrival’s face turned an angry hue, and she took a threatening step toward Galladon. He met her nose to nose. He only had to hunch slightly to do so, Jaime noticed, quite unusual for his mammoth brother.

“Hey! Let’s not come to blows here!” the dwarf yelled. “If you must fight, save it for the melee.”

The woman turned her back on Galladon so suddenly it was almost insulting. A charming and undeniably feminine smile broke across her broad lips. “Really? Can I?”

His bluff called, the man stammered, “I- I suppose… if you must.”

She whirled back, looking bizarrely happy. “You’ll eat every one of those rude words!”

“Want to bet?” Galladon knew he was letting his temper run away. He mastered an effort to pull back to a more civilized approach. “If you go out first, then you entertain my table that evening. Mummery, singing, provocative dancing; whatever you like. If I’m out first, my brother will crown you Queen of Love and Beauty when he wins the joust.”

Jaime protested that he was no shoo-in, but no one really listened to him.

“Deal?”

“Deal.”

They shook on it then stalked back to their respective brothers.

The melee was a wild affair with a range of participants stretching from overconfident young knights to great lords. Most considered it only a spot of fun before the main event of jousting, but some made it their specialty. Galladon certainly counted himself better off being able to use his strength than having to aim with a delicate lance. He donned his finely forged plate armor gilded with the Lannister lions and readied his spikeless warhammer. The woman was impossible to miss. Her helm hid her face, but her height and the Tarth sigil on her shield were clear enough. She wore a cheaper bronzed steel, but it shone brightly all the same.

Unsurprisingly, Galladon and Brienne plowed through the lesser combatants between them, each locked onto the other. Galladon had been called thick more than once, but even he knew that she would be no quick victory. She was geared to fight defensively, and he’d likely exhaust himself before finding the right opportunity if he rushed. Instead, he tried to force her to come to him nearer the heart of the melee. With more fighters to consider, she would have to be the aggressor or risk others joining in against her.

Only about half the fighters had any real skill in Brienne’s estimation. Unfortunately her primary opponent was one of them. His two-handed hammer gave him superior reach over her longsword, and he’d obviously had expert yard training. He danced backward to pull her out of her defensive crouch. Seeing no other option, she sprang forth in attack. Their weapons rang together at every mighty blow. They soon had the center grounds to themselves since no one else wanted to risk entering their tornado of whirring steel.

“You’re good,” Galladon panted. “I had training from the best warriors in the realms. Who trained you?”

“Our master of arms on Tarth. He taught me all he knew, including a few special tricks.” She charged again, swinging with all her might and dealing a ringing blow to his helm that broke his concentration. (A morningstar would have stunned him though. Next melee she’d bring that instead). As he was regaining his stance, she slipped sideways to bring the pommel of her sword down hard on the sparsely protected joint at the back of his knee. When he toppled over, she fell with him, twisting them so that she landed knee-first on his belly. Even through armor, the force was enough to knock all the wind from him. He gasped, struggling to draw in air. After moments that felt like an eternity, he managed to breathe again and was able to yield. He walked off the field nearly doubled over.

Brienne lasted until the final dozen combatants when a laughing Stormlord rang her bell. She was knocked unconscious and didn’t fully wake again until after the fight concluded. The Stormlord visited her in the medical tent, laughing again when he saw her without her helm.

“I admit, my first thought was that Lord Tarth had sired a bastard. It did not occur to me that he would send his maiden daughter to fight. Still, well done, my lady. You outlasted over a hundred men.” He kissed her hand and Brienne recognized Renly Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and youngest of the royal Baratheons.

“You’re too kind, Your Grace.” Brienne blushed; she’d not known he was kind as well as handsome.

“Is Lord Tyrion or Lady Corrie nearby?” Renly asked, demonstrating his political talent for remembering the names and spouses of his bannermen.

“I believe my brother won a small sum of money betting on me. He is probably collecting his winnings.”

“A good man, and loyal. Congratulations on an impressive fight. I’m pleased to see I did you no lasting harm.”

“No, Your Grace. I’m right as rain.” Somewhere underneath her elation, her head still throbbed. But Renly Baratheon had complimented her fighting and appreciated her brother. She would feel no pain for days.

The jousting concluded the next day. Galladon fell early to a knight of the Vale. The loss was expected, and Jaime told him to consider it a learning opportunity this early in his career. After his disappointment at the melee, however, the second defeat tasted quite bitter and left him in a sullen mood.

Jaime feared he may have to lose the final tilt on purpose. If he crowned another woman the Queen of Love and Beauty in front of Cersei, she’d make it her new purpose in life to destroy the poor girl. The unfair match-up of the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms versus a mid-range noble would not stay her hand in the slightest. The girl had been proud and stubborn (and a shockingly good fighter), but she didn’t deserve that.

Brienne ran up to him as he was checking his horse’s saddle strap. She still wore men’s mail. Perhaps it’s all she ever wore. Gods; Cersei would barely have to put any effort into it. If she was here to ask him to wear her favor, he would refuse. He’d do her that kindness at least.

“Ser Jaime, I’ve had an idea,” she said.

“Bet the poor thing is lonely,” he muttered back.

She shot him a scowl twisted up with a smile, quite a cute expression really. “You’re funny, but not nearly as witty as my brother. No, here’s my plan.”

Jaime listened and agreed. Turns out she had a sense of humor after all.

Jaime’s final tilt was against Lord Randall Tarly, a great solider and better battle commander. Jousting left little room for tactical brilliance, however. Practiced execution was the most important factor, and lords of major houses did not spend much time perfecting their techniques. Nonetheless, Jaime would prefer to only have to make one run. A tough old strip of leather like Tarly might take him lightly on the first pass, but would grow more stubborn after seeing he could take a direct hit.

Tarly’s warhorse pawed at the ground before charging. The stallion was an excellent mount, trained to carry his master into the heart of a raging battle. Jousting had slightly different requirements, with the mounts aiming to pass beside one another and not risk crashing together. Lances had to be brought over their heads and angled to the side. This all worked slightly against Tarly’s seasoned battle instincts and toward Jaime’s advantage.

The riders struck their opponent’s shield simultaneously, and both lances shattered. Tarly had aimed mid-center, causing Jaime a respectable wobble. Jaime’s lance hit lower, his best bet to unseat the solid Tarly. The older man grunted as his shield was stripped away. He swayed to correct his balance, but Jaime had transferred too much momentum to his left side. He tipped, hung for a suspended moment, then fell in a crash of steel and flesh.

Cheers rose from the crowd for the heroic display, despite Jaime being the odds-on favorite. His form was like the seeing Warrior in action, always a delight to behold. Squires brought forth his victor’s garland woven from Tyrell roses. He generally crowned Cersei when she attended or the lord’s youngest daughter when she did not. Today she watched imperiously from the royal box wearing a small smile of satisfaction.

Jaime called for a new lance and rode over to pay his respects to King Robert. He hung the garland on his lance and extended it to the figure at Robert’s right. Cersei seemed prepared to make a cutting remark.

“I declare Galladon Lannister the Prince of Love and Beauty in honor of his recent knighthood. Congratulations, my brother. If you can’t win at joust or melee, at least you’re handsome.”

Galladon flushed a deep red as everyone laughed. Robert grabbed his ex-squire’s shoulders and pounded his back with hearty good cheer. “You’ll show ‘em at the next melee, Gal. That big fella got a lucky blow this time was all.”

Jaime received a resentful look from his brother as he climbed into the royal box. He bent to kiss Cersei’s hand murmuring, “I trust you don’t mind.”

Cersei, now thoroughly enjoying Galladon’s embarrassment, laughed merrily. “Of course not. I’m pleased that both of my knightly brothers won honors this evening.”

Jaime settled himself next to Galladon. “Come now, don’t be mad. It was the wench’s idea.”

Galladon’s brow clouded further. He didn’t have a glib tongue like his brother, but his expression showed he intended to hold a grudge.

“It was a good jape,” Jaime told him sincerely. “Laugh it off to show you’re not full of yourself like Father. Nobody knows it was a girl who sent you out. Besides, she’s from some desolate rock in the middle of Shipbreaker's Bay. It’s not like you’ll ever see her again.”

Chapter Text

296 AC (Brienne is 16; Tyrion and Galladon are 22; Jaime and Cersei are 30)

Cersei folded a flap of blanket over her new daughter’s hair, but it changed nothing. Little Rhaelle still had the pitch black hair of the Baratheons. If the babe had been blonde, she would have named it Tommen or Myrcella after noble Lannister ancestors. Instead, she would be called Rhaelle after Robert’s Targaryen grandmother (helping to reconcile with those who still referred to him as Usurper). Since she was his, Cersei really didn’t care.

She simply had to find a way out of her predicament. She’d thought of a hundred possibilities for Robert to meet his demise, but the problem kept coming back to his giant blonde shadow. Her least favorite brother was too friendly with Robert to be turned to her side and too dutiful to let down his guard. Worse, he showed no ambition to establish his own household. Robert would appoint him to the Kingsguard as soon as a slot opened, probably before the previous occupant was decently buried. Then her chances of escape would be even lower than before.

It shouldn’t be so hard to find allies against Robert, but Father had taught her to be suspicious of anyone who was not family. The Dornish hated being subject to Crown rule, but they seemed to hate the Lannisters more. The Tyrells were superficially friendly, but their eagerness to grasp at power couldn’t be more obvious. The North, the Vale, the Stormlands, and the Riverlands were all tied to either the king or his loyal Stark Hand by marriage. There was nowhere to turn except the Westerlands, and Jaime had seemed distant lately, always having an ready excuse that kept him away from King’s Landing.

Cersei's brow quirked as a new idea occurred to her. Not being the world’s best at sharing, she’d never given the possibility serious consideration. She and Jaime had just passed their 30^th nameday, however. Father would be receptive to the proposition that his heir should finally wed. Of the eligible high-born ladies at court, not one would spurn the chance to be the next Lady Lannister. And once Jaime resided in the city, she knew just how to control him. Surely Kingslaying would come easier the second time around.

Tyrion rehearsed his speech to the mirror, then to Corrie, before he approached his father. Usually he could trust to his wits and speak off the cuff, but this was about his beloved sister’s future as well as that of his house. Despite years of a loving marriage, he and Corrie had produced no children. They'd secretly visited with a maester devoted to healing such maladies and received a discouraging diagnosis. He’d gone so far as to say that the problem was most likely with Tyrion. This meant that the duty of carrying on the Tarth name would fall to Brienne.

Selwyn welcomed his son into his study with a beckoning wave. “Come in, Tyrion. I’ve terrible news.” His broad smile belied that statement. “King Robert has regrettably canceled his planned visit due to the birth of Princess Rhaelle. So our larders and wine cellars may stand a chance of lasting when this long summer inevitably turns to winter.”

“You’d have thought he could work out when the baby would come before he made plans. Still, I share your regret that the king and his large band of followers will not spend the next moon enjoying our hospitality. I feel most sorry for the local whores. They’ll have to redo their entire budgets.”

Selwyn shot his son a look of reproof through his grin. “Did you have something to discuss, Tyrion?”

“Yes, Father. I know that with Brienne coming of age, you’ve redoubled your efforts to find her a new betrothal. I just – with respect – fear that you’re considering matches that are beneath the dignity of our house. Connington was bad enough, but at least he had a castle. I’ve heard you’re speaking with the castellan of Grandview. He’s far too old for her, and a castellan is really no more than a hedge knight temporarily managing an estate.”

Selwyn brushed his hands across the correspondence on this desk looking regretful. “I know, son. But the truth is that she has little to bring to the marriage other than her name and good health. Her husband will inherit no title, and we can’t afford a significant dowry. The men of an age with her are already wed, so I’ve had to look to the very young or those who have lost a wife.”

“I do have a suggestion for you. It’s a bit unconventional, but so is Brienne. The man is only a year her senior, heir to his house, and I believe he would appreciate some of her unique qualities.”

“Why do I suspect a catch?”

“Well, he is still hostage for his father’s good behavior. On the bright side, that means you can negotiate with the highly reasonable Ned Stark rather than Lord Greyjoy himself.” Tyrion stopped talking to allow Selwyn to think on the matter.

All he said for quite some time was ‘Hmm.’ Then he grabbed for a quill and parchment.

“My lord.”

Jaime lifted his gaze from his dinner and into the moss-green eyes of a somewhat familiar looking young woman. He ate at so many noble tables during his tour of the Westerlands and his traveling for tourneys that he couldn’t possibly keep them all straight.

“My lady. Would you care to sit? I can have the innkeeper bring you something to eat and drink.”

“No thank you, Ser Lannister. I would prefer that my father not notice I am missing. We’re only stopping for the night in Lannisport on our way back to Oldtown.”

“I see. How can I be of service?” Oldtown, so she’s a Hightower. Oh yes, the heir's eldest daughter... Allora.

“I wish to lay a proposition before you. I dreamed of you, you see.”

Jaime nodded and waited for her to continue. He didn’t have much of a reputation for debauchery (Tywin railed against whores at every opportunity) or as a despoiler of maidens (Tywin’s position on honor marriage into lesser houses was equally strident) so he was fairly sure it wasn't that type of proposition.

“I have the greensight. I receive dreams about the future, and in some way, they always come to pass. Often I am powerless to do aught but watch. This time, however, I see a way to disrupt the planning of those who do not have your best interests at heart. Your father is preparing to summon you to King’s Landing and insist you choose a bride from the highborn ladies at court. It so happens that my father has decided to exercise his authority as acting lord of Hightower. He means to use me as a bargaining chip to ensure the loyalties of another Reach House.”

“That’s hardly surprising. It's his duty to find you a husband, and my father has been after me to wed for years.”

“Yes, but this time he intends to cut you off if you refuse. You can hardly command the West’s armies while estranged from your house. You wouldn’t even have funds to travel from tourney to tourney with your usual train of followers.”

“Are you suggesting that we marry?” Jaime had to give her credit – the young woman looked quite slight and frail, but she was bold as brass underneath.

“Yes! Or at least announce a betrothal. Hightower and Lannister are similar enough in dignity that neither of our fathers will object. If you doubt me, we can wait to move forward until you receive your father's demands. You’ll see I speak the truth.”

He evaluated her more closely. “I'm not sure how it would look. Are you of age?”

“I'm seventeen. I flowered late, only two years ago. And there is another concern. People like me – greenseers – tend to be physically weak. We generally die young, and any serious exertion hurries that along. So you see, I can’t have children. We can lie together as often as you like, but know that I’ll be taking measures to ensure that no child results. Most men would not be open to this idea, but I can see that you are not like most men. You do not want more children.”

Jaime’s spine became rigid in shock. He met her strange eyes, beginning to believe. More children. Somehow she knew. He’d never spoken his suspicions about Joffrey aloud. Surely Cersei would never have voiced such treason. He stayed away from the royal family as much as possible to distance himself from comparisons (among other reasons). He’d heard no rumors, not one, but somehow she knew.

“Why not join a septry if you’re so desperate to remain maiden?” he asked, attempting to shift the subject away from uncomfortable truths.

She chuckled. “Besides not really believing in the gods? Septas do not have the freedom that noble wives possess. I only see the outlines of it now, but there is a massive war coming, and I’d like to be available to help us through it in whatever way I can.”

“By ‘us’ do you mean you and me, or House Hightower?”

“Everyone. Absolutely everyone.”

Brienne was relieved that Tyrion and Corrie were escorting her to Winterfell rather than her father. Lord Selwyn couldn’t be away from Tarth for such a long trip and he trusted Tyrion with any final details. If it all went wrong again, at least Brienne would have the unconditional love of her brother rather than the tender but disappointed sympathies of her father.

Lord Stark served in King’s Landing, so Lady Stark was well used to being in charge of Winterfell. She had all the Stark children lined up for introductions in the courtyard when the Tarth delegation arrived. Brienne went down the line greeting them all. Lady Stark had clearly threatened doom upon them if they misbehaved, but Brienne was heartened by the sparkle of mischief in the eyes of the youngest girl and her little brothers. Discipline wasn't as strict as they pretended.

Lastly, Lady Stark brought forth Theon. “I have the pleasure of introducing Lord Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon and heir to Pyke.” Theon goggled at Brienne for a moment before falling into a clumsy bow.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Brienne,” he said, kissing her hand lightly before standing.

Brienne dipped into an equally awkward curtsy. “Likewise, my Lord.”

She supposed she wasn’t what he had expected, but then again, his appearance was a surprise as well. She overtopped him by at least a foot, and he wore no beard or ornamentation. (Ironborn don’t wear ornaments unless they’ve killed someone and taken it, Brienne remembered from her studies of the books Tyrion provided). His soft brown eyes showed no hint of Ironborn cruelty though, only a sympathetic understanding.

“Wonderful.” Tyrion stretched out his arms. “Let’s allow them some time to get to know each other in the courtyard. Perhaps we are not too late to impose on breakfast? I could do with some real cooked food.”

Lady Catelyn laughed, putting aside her strict demeanor. “Would ham, eggs, crispy bacon, and griddle cakes serve, my lord?”

“After the food from our travels, you may have to chase me from the dining hall with hounds.”

Corrie agreed. “Prepared to be impressed by how much it takes to fill his stomach. And I do hope you have a hearty supply of ale.”

Catelyn led them inside. “Never let it be said that the Stark house fails to provide hospitality to its guests.” She angled her chin toward the courtyard. “I believe that went well, don’t you?”

“Yes, my sister can be on the shy side, but I got the feeling there was a connection. How did Theon take the news of the engagement?”

“He was rather excited, I think. He’s of age and may have feared we wouldn’t trouble ourselves to find him a match.” In truth, it had slipped Catelyn’s mind between her duties as a mother and the mistress of Winterfell. She received one too many reports about Theon fooling around with servant girls, however, and made it a priority. Word had trickled down to Tarth at just the right time.

Theon and Brienne sat together on a uncomfortable bench in the courtyard well aware that several chaperones were probably observing them. That didn’t fully explain the tense silence, though. Able to stand it no longer, Theon asked, “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Oh. You look younger.” Theon shuffled his feet and wouldn’t quite meet her eyes.

“No I don’t,” Brienne snapped, irritated by the charged atmosphere that developed since they’d been left alone. “Listen, if you don’t find me acceptable, I wish you’d just say so. I’m not about to endure a lifetime of you looking down on me. I know you’re not in an ideal situation here either, but if you don’t intend to give it a chance then let’s call an end to it now.”

Theon’s eyes filled with tears that he struggled not to shed. “Nah, that’s off by a league. I do like you; that’s the problem. This was a lot easier in my head before I met you as an actual person. Now I know it wasn’t right to let them drag you into the middle of this.”

“What do you mean by ‘this?”’ Brienne was near tears as well. No matter what he said, it had to somehow be her fault if Tyrion’s hard work was all falling apart as soon as he laid eyes on her. What was wrong with her?

Theon scanned her up and down, then sighed and hid his head in his hands. Brienne prepared herself for the worst.

“I’m not Theon Greyjoy.”

Brienne’s self-blaming thoughts froze in their tracks. No other thoughts were ready to take their place, so she sat nonplussed, barely able to blink.

Theon – “Theon” – began speaking quickly. “I’m his older sister, Yara. Our mother lost two of her three sons to Da’s ill-considered rebellion. She clung to Theon like he was a plank of wood after a shipwreck. She’d have lost her whole damn mind if they took him away. So we switched places. It’s been going okay; I wasn’t very ladylike to begin with and already had some yard training. I kept up with Robb and Jon pretty good ‘n whenever I was stumped I could say that the Drowned God forbade it. Honestly, what they must think about my religion by now.

“I was hoping they’d release ‘Theon’ when he was 16 – I’m actually four years older – but they didn’t. So I jumped at the idea of marriage thinking they’d consider putting an end to the hostage bit when he had a family. Once we get back to the Iron Islands, the real Theon will be thrilled to marry you, I’m sure. Just… it turns out that even this isn’t good enough. They’re going to keep me here another three years, unless Da dies sooner.

“I can’t really ask you to wait three years. Just tell them that you met me and changed your mind. Ironborn culture is too foreign to your delicate sensibilities, and you want to go home. They can’t make you marry someone. Your da might make you wish you had, but no one can actually make you say the words. All I beg is, please, don’t reveal the switch. They will execute me. That’s kind of whole point of a hostage arrangement. They’d probably invade again and drag out my ma and da for execution too. Honestly, they got the better deal. I was Da’s favorite.”

Brienne contemplated taking the ship back to Tarth with another failed betrothal under her belt. Enduring the awkward silence afterward and then an even more desperate marital search.

“Or… we could go through with it,” she proposed.

Yara’s eyebrows shot up.

“Let’s just say, three years here doesn’t sound as long as three years in Tarth trying to find a match anywhere near as nice. And, your Drowned God excuse gives us a lot of leeway. I mean, surely he insists that women with a talent for arms work to improve themselves.”

“You’re goddamn right he does! That’s actually even true.”

“And they can dress how they like.”

“‘A’course. You’ve always got to be prepared, and who ever heard of fighting while bound up in a corset?”

“Having children can wait a few years.”

“Until we have our own ship. That’s just common sense.”

Brienne laughed, feeling almost drunk with daring. “Well then, see you at the… weirwood tree?”

“Hot springs. We’ve got to be married standing in natural water. With seaweed around our wrists.”

“Don’t make up anything too absurd or they’ll figure it out.”

“Oh my dear wife-to-be, you have no idea how much fun we’re going to have taking the piss out of the Starks. They’re too serious by half.”

“I suppose we will have to share a room though.”

“Yeah, but it’s surprisingly warm inside. I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”

“Don’t be silly. I know I’m big, but they’ll be plenty of room in the bed.”

“You’re not aiming to make this easy on me, are you?” Yara muttered.

“What?” Brienne asked. Yara felt a bit lost in her big, innocent eyes.

“Nothing. Sure. That’ll work,” Yara said. Brother’s wife, brother’s wife, brother’s wife, she repeated in her head.

Chapter Text

The North was unquestionably different than the rest of the kingdoms, but the culture shock did not prove difficult for Brienne to bear. Northerners were a good deal less formal, raised to value duty and discipline. She felt at home with those attitudes. Also, the young men were expected to be all-purpose fighters rather than courtly knights. They might be called upon to defend their lands from raiders, go to war for their lord, or just supplement the hunting parties in lean times. Women with any interest could train at arms between their other lessons. Considering the sparse population of the North, having as many competent defenders as possible was traditionally deemed a sensible precaution.

Even the lower temperatures posed little difficulty. During the day, Brienne worked hard enough not the feel the cold, and at night she rather enjoyed sleeping beneath thick blankets and furs. As often as not, she awoke to Yara cuddled into her back with an arm wrapped around her waist. It was quite comforting; sometimes she procrastinated getting dressed just to soak in it. It wasn’t at all like the marital passion Tyrion had haltingly tried to explain (eventually giving up and leaving an anatomy book on her pillow) or Corrie had more successfully and graphically described, but she would take it for now.

Brienne did her very best to think of Yara as Theon. It wouldn’t do to accidentally use the wrong name and unravel her friend’s amazingly successful ruse. She found she enjoyed her new status as a wife. Even after coming of age, she’d not been truly treated as an adult until after the wedding. Now, no one questioned her decisions. If she wanted to go to bed early, she went. If she wanted a book from the library, she had but to ask. A few of her more unusual requests, like fully substituting yard training in place of sewing circles, had to be cleared with 'Theon.' But Yara denied her nothing and, in fact, usually added on. Which was why she now trained an hour a day at axe in addition to her work with sword and morning star.

All the Stark boys, including Jon Snow as well as 'Theon', trained with her in the yard. Brienne believed she could defeat any of them, with the older boys Robb and Jon being the closest calls. It would have been impolitic to challenge them right away though. 'Theon' and, shockingly, little Arya could best her at bow. She felt a kindred spirit with Arya. The girl was too young to resist her mother’s instructions that she stick to her womanly lessons, yet she still snuck away at every opportunity to learn how to fight. Whenever she saw her, Brienne would make an effort to draw her over and teach her a technique that she might not be able to pick up by merely watching and practicing on her own. Getting the girl to trust her was a slow process, but Brienne was convinced it could be done.

The sprawling extent of Winterfell had taken some getting used to, as well as the number of people necessary to keep it running. Brienne found herself always tripping over an unfamiliar child tending the horses or a new dearest friend for Lady Sansa. Not to mention the full grown direwolves (that she’d always been told were a myth) the Stark children kept as pets. Feeding the extended family required a long dining table and multiple main dishes so everyone could eat at once. Brienne had always been a hearty eater, but tended to be methodical and slow. She’d grown up dawdling over her food as she listened to her father and Tyrion talk about current events. At Winterfell, eating quickly was necessary if she wanted to try for second helpings.

Yara never worried about it, trusting in her connections with the kitchen staff if she got hungry later. She was generally too busy cracking jokes and spinning outrageous tales. Lady Catelyn seemed to have a long-standing disapproval of this, but proper etiquette prevented her from disciplining 'Theon' at the table now that he was a man grown, wedded and bedded. She managed to get her licks in sometimes, though. Once the family was treated to a crate of oysters freshly arrived from White Harbor. The cooks served them in mounds heaped onto the table, and everyone but Brienne and Theon had their places set with a study dagger to crack open the shells. The two of them were served venison steaks instead.

“Right, yeah, the Drowned God forbids eating clams and oysters ‘cuz they feed on the filth of the seas,” Yara informed Brienne for the benefit of the table. She leaned over after everyone else began eating and whispered, “Sorry, I just think they’re disgustin’, and Lady Stark always demands a good excuse not to clear your plate.”

Brienne did her best to cover her mouth and not snort wine out of her nose. “It’s fine. I’ve avoided them ever since Father said he ate them so that his libido would keep up with his paramour’s. Not an image I needed in my head at dinner time.”

Yara hid her scowl behind a forkful of meat. She'd never heard that bit of folk wisdom before. Lady Stark couldn’t possibly know how well she’d hoisted her by her own petard. Try as she might, Yara couldn’t think of a reason that the Drowned God would make an exception on consumption of oysters for new brides.

Jaime had visited Oldtown dozens of times in his travels. He’d eaten dinner with every notable Hightower lord or knight. He’d even slept in the Hightower castle before. He figured he knew all he needed to know about the family and their traditions. They were near the Western coast, after all. How different could they be?

Jaime found out once he married Allora. Both Tywin Lannister and Baelor Hightower were thrilled with the match. Lord Lannister began making immediate preparations to connect Lannisport and Oldtown more closely in trade. Once Joffrey was king, he could petition that some part of the rich bounty of Oldtown taxes be paid to Casterly Rock, increasing their wealth while nipping the ambitious Tyrells in the bud. He’d even congratulated Jaime on his astute choice as if the thought had even crossed his mind. Not to be outdone, Lord Baelor made revealing remarks about how the center of power for the Reach should reside at Oldtown rather than Highgarden. Surely the Hightower family would be better governors of the region than the upstart Tyrells. Perhaps when his day came, King Joffrey could look into that.

As Jaime and Allora spent time together as newlyweds, he started to see that he had vastly overestimated their family’s similarities. Both their fathers were ruthless and power hungry, and both families nominally followed the Faith of the Seven without really giving it more than lip service. Beyond that, he might as well have dwelt with the Rhoynar in Dorne or the wildlings in the far North for all they had in common.

Most shockingly, the Hightowers considered the Lannisters as little more than wealthy upjumped con artists. They’d done well for themselves, but they hadn’t even named their own castle (legend saying that Lann the Clever tricked the original Casterlys into deserting it), so they couldn’t really be a great house. This attitude was bizarre for Jaime. He’d always thought having a house name established in the age of heroes would be enough, but not here. The Hightower family gave new meaning to the word 'old.'

The very age of the castle was its most overriding and oppressive feature. Only some parts of the Hightower had been constructed within the ages of men as presently understood. Others predated history itself. A little of every past culture was woven into their traditions to the point that familiar holidays often took on a sinister cast, and unexpected frankly jarring verses were sung in hymns without comment from the septon. Also – not for nothing – the Hightowers had intermarried extensively with the Targaryens, thus producing more than their share of eccentric relatives.

Nonetheless, Jaime grew quite fond of his strange little wife. Allora was clever and unconventional, at least compared with the women he’d known before. She had the confidence of someone who knew her family was rich and already seen as odd, so she felt little need to pander to anyone. Jaime resisted putting a label on who she didn’t remind him of. He did note with some relief that, though it disappointed Tywin, Robert and Cersei had not attended the wedding.

The new couple spent their first fortnight together talking, making love, and teasing each other. Jaime hadn't know many others who were good at bandying words, and counted this an unexpected benefit. He worried that sex would be too strenuous for her, but she said it actually served to renew her life force – she just couldn’t allow a child to leech it away. Jaime needed little convincing to provide lots of renewal after a long dry spell.

Oftentimes, Allora would tremble in her sleep as if in the grips of a nightmare. Jaime woke her out of them at first, but she asked him to stop saying that she needed to see what was to come even if it was disturbing. Sometimes when very disoriented, she would drop tidbits about what she’d seen, but usually she would refuse.

One night, he'd had enough of not being able to properly soothe her fears. “Listen, it's not my fault you married a knight. It's my sworn duty to protect you. What good am I if you don’t say anything until it's too late for me to prepare?”

“I don’t have the full picture. It could do more harm than good if I warn you of one danger only to have you avoid it by dodging into the clutches of another.”

Jaime’s frustrations boiled over. “You're trying to protect me? From what – visions? You mutter of dragons and krakens upon waking. Do you mean the house sigils or mythical beasts come to life? Do you even know?”

“Sometimes the visions are as clear as the face before me, other times they're obviously metaphorical. I see a great war coming sooner than anyone realizes. Ice but also fire. Smoke and salt. Dragons waking from stone.”

“You sound like any hedge witch, with prophesies that can be interpreted a dozen different ways. Will I turn misfortune into a lucky break? Meet a long lost relative? Marry a tall, strong knight?”

Allora turned his scorn aside, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “Not bad. I did wonder if your green eyes meant anything. Now I know.”

Tyrion luxuriated in the glorious warmth of a Tarth summer once he and Corrie returned from the North following Brienne’s wedding. He felt so light of heart that he occasionally grabbed Corrie for an impromptu dance around the room. His sister whom he loved so much was finally wed in a union that seemed beneficial to everyone. He had demonstrated to his father that he could find creative solutions to thorny problems. He’d even convinced the Starks to loan him five rare books from their library to feed his ever-hungry mind.

His euphoria lasted until he received Brienne’s first letter about her marriage and life at Winterfell.

Theon has exceeded our naive ideas superbly. Years ago, right after surrender, Winterfell insisted teaching chivalry. His education delivered forth opportune reinvention – mind over matter, shown! Starks are kind, even despite our need to train early. Loving life and my husband! Absolutely perfect pick! Your well intended largess leaves me ever n debt. Love and tickles eternally remembered, Brienne.

Tyrion’s eyes narrowed when he noticed the solo letter ‘n’ used for the word ‘in.’ It wasn’t like Brienne to make such a simple mistake. The style of the letter wasn’t hers either. It was much too flowery for his pragmatic sister. He recalled when Brienne was young, he had taught her about the way the black faction of the Targaryens used to send messages between King’s Landing and Dragonstone during the Dance of the Dragons. He and Brienne hadn’t sent each other secret notes in years, but … T H E O N…

‘Theon is Yara. Switched for mom’s sake. Don’t tell. Am happy. Will mend later.’ Tyrion sat back in his chair in shock, his short legs swinging aimlessly. Theon was a woman? And Brienne was fine with that? Was this because he dismissed their septa when she was a child?

Galladon acted the role of a Kingsguard knight even if he wasn’t officially appointed as of yet. All knew that he was first in line for any vacancy in the brotherhood. He considered it his duty, and a joyful one at that. He loved spending time with King Robert, though he had learned that the king was bolder than he was wise. He needed someone of sober mind to look out for him and damp down his worst impulses.

After a long day spent in a council meeting that obviously had not gone well, Robert insisted Galladon accompany him to his favorite leisure establishment for drinks and entertainment. Galladon knew it was sheer folly to attempt to match the king drink for drink. Besides, though two members of the Kingsguard waited outside, he was the only one personally guarding the king. So, he sat beside him and used his well practiced skill at pretending to drink while really spilling his wine into the rushes.

Robert muttered disconnected dark phrases like “who needs him?” and “that entire bloodline can burn in the Seven Hells” before his lips became loose enough to confide the full story to Gal. Ned Stark, his oldest and most trusted friend, had chosen to resign his appointment as Hand rather than condone the assassination of the reportedly pregnant Daenerys Targaryen. Robert wanted to rant and call it treason, but some part of him knew that Ned was only doing the same as Galladon, trying to steer him away from rash decisions.

In the end, he agreed to hew to the sensible middle path. The council’s decision in favor of the assassination would go forward, and Ned’s resignation accepted with no adverse consequences. He could go back to the North and get some more ice back in his veins before he returned to the political abattoir of King’s Landing.

Robert coughed several times during his telling, and to his everlasting regret, Galladon poured him more wine, thinking it would help him wet his throat. Robert drank deeply and tried to propose a bitter toast, but more coughs overcame him. He looked at Galladon with confusion then fear in his eyes. He tried to croak out something, but his rapidly swelling throat prevented any more than a squeak from emerging. Galladon watched helplessly as his friend and king rapidly turned a dusky purple.

Galladon soon realized that he was alone with a murdered king in front of him, two Kingsguard outside, and no one else nearby to blame.

Chapter Text

Galladon imagined he could hear his father’s voice, calm and cool as always. ‘Come home, boy. Many affairs like this turn on who has custody of the accused. I can protect you at Casterly Rock, but not if you’re carried off to disappear into the black cells beneath the Red Keep.’ The young knight stood to look down on his murdered king. If he intended to run, he couldn’t delay. Someone would come by soon to see if the king needed more food, wine, or company for the evening. His purple face would tell them all they needed to know.

There was a back exit by which he could probably escape. He’d have to somehow acquire new clothes and a horse and… Galladon’s huge hands clenched helplessly. How could he hide? His face was almost as well known as the king’s and his height and build were unmistakable. Ser Galladon Lannister, King Robert’s favorite knight-at-arms and boon companion accompanied the king most waking hours, and everyone knew that.

Galladon felt his throat unexpectedly hitch and realized he was about to cry. He took the only action his honor would allow. By the time he reached the Kingsguard knights flanking the front door, his throat was almost too tight with grief to speak.

“The king... poisoned... dead. See to him.”

The next minutes or hours – Gal could not keep track – passed in a blur as maesters were dragged into the building, crowds stampeded out, and lots of swearing and wails erupted. At some point he was escorted back to the Red Keep and confined to a tower as a witness, though no one thought to speak to him or even bring him dinner that night.

The bells of King’s Landing woke the city early the next morning as criers spread the news that King Robert was dead. His son Joffrey, first of his name, was to be coronated that evening, with his mother Queen Cersei to serve as regent until he reached his sixteenth nameday, in five years.

Shortly past midday, Galladon finally had a visitor. Lord Baelish, the master of coin, entered the room carrying a tray of lunch. He set it on the table and waited to speak until Galladon had taken his first few bites.

“You eat pretty readily for someone who has just seen a friend die of poison. You seem to have no fear you weren’t the target.”

Galladon choked and sputtered for a moment before swallowing down his mouthful. “Me? Of course they weren’t after me. I’m just a knight; he’s the king.”

“He was the king. And I only point out that someone this confident about his food could also be someone who knew not to drink last night. Someone who made the floor around his seat sticky with wine from pouring out so much.”

Galladon’s appetite fled. His shoulders slumped as he was helpless to defend himself. “I know it looks bad.”

“Who poured the wine?”

“‘‘Twas me.”

“Was there anyone else at the table around that time?”

“No. He was talking politics and looking angry, so the girls stayed away.”

Baelish tented his hands. “Young Ser Lannister, are you confessing?”

“No! But I don’t have any explanation. Someone poisoned the wine we were sharing, and I was lucky not to drink enough of it.”

“Are you aware the poison was quite rare and expensive? Hardly something an assassin would use haphazardly.”

“If I wanted Robert dead, I’d have half a hundred chances a day. I loved the man like a father!”

“Now calm yourself,” Baelish said, suddenly conciliatory. “I only wanted you to see what this will look like at trial. You’ll meet the king’s justice before the week is out unless you have a better story.”

“I don’t. We were talking and drinking, except I wasn’t really drinking because I wanted to stay alert. And then out of nowhere, he started choking.”

Baelish hmm’d and cast Galladon a look of pity.

“I suppose I’ll have to demand trial by combat. I am a knight, so I have that right. The gods know I’d never hurt Robert.” Galladon sounded resigned at first but turned hopeful by the end. Many of the Kingsguard knights were indeed formidable fighters – not the least of whom was the Mountain that Rides – but he thought he had a chance against any of them. Far more than he’d have by giving arguments, certainly.

Baelish’s head jerked in surprise. “That… seems a bit reckless.”

“Why? You basically just said I have no hope convincing the judges. I’ll show my honor by strength of arms.”

“Yes, but you realize they’ll probably sent the Mountain against you. Best, I’d say, to withdraw and see what other evidence is uncovered. If they don’t have you to use as a handy scapegoat, they’ll have to search for the real killers.”

“You believe me then?” Galladon asked eagerly. “How would I withdraw though? I’m under guard.”

Baelish scoffed. “Under guard in a keep so riddled with secret passages it’s a wonder that it doesn’t fall down. In this very room, inside the fireplace, for example. This evening, after the guards bring you dinner, go down the stairs all the way to the bottom, and follow the boy you meet there.”

“Lord Baelish, I don’t know what to say. Thank you. But why are you taking such a chance for me?”

Baelish’s face became the utter model of sincerity (due to careful practice before a mirror), “I want nothing more than to achieve justice for our good king. Allowing an innocent man to be punished because it’s the easier course is not something my soul can bear.”

“Were you seen?” Cersei’s voice was harsh and accusatory. At this moment, she felt like a mummer keeping a dozen plates spinning, and trusting an important task to a minor lord from the Fingers grated on her nerves.

“Of course not. He took the bait. The ship will spirit him off for the Saltpans in the Vale. I can keep him bottled up there while King’s Landing stabilizes.” Baelish dusted imaginary dirt from his tunic. In fact, he'd been quite careful to keep his hands clean in all this.

“I still don’t understand why I couldn’t have him sent to the Wall,” Cersei said. Or executed, Cersei didn’t say. Her younger brother had rarely been anything but an annoyance. Even when he was trying to be nice, like convincing Robert to pay her more attention, he actually worked against her preferences.

“Because he’s not your main problem, or have you forgotten Ned Stark and his nasty little insinuations? I don’t think Stannis saw his letter, but the man plays everything so close to his chest that I can’t be sure. Ned Stark is the one who needs to take the fall for this.”

“Yes, it’d be a shame if they came after the brothel owner where Robert was served the poison wine.”

“Or the wife from a family who could afford the poison.”

They glared at each other, détente achieved.

Cersei calmly laid out the story. “They fought viciously in the small council that very day. Stark resigned because their relationship had soured. He must have thought he could kill Robert on his way out of the city and get away clean.”

Baelish knew it stank to the Seven Heavens. A Northerner using poison on his best friend; it was without honor and craven. Effective, though. When a king is surrounded by the best knights in the land, one had to seize any opportunity. “I can sell that story. Varys will sense which way the wind is blowing and support it. Pycelle is your father’s man and can say the poison was stolen from his stores. No one else will have anything relevant to offer.”

“Good.” Cersei hesitated. She didn’t like Baelish having custody of her brother. It felt too much like an insurance policy. “I’d feel more at ease if I knew why you were willing to take on so much risk. Joffrey will award you Harrenhal, have no doubt, but that’s not worth it, and you know it.”

“Harrenhal is a ruinous castle to be sure. Some even say cursed. But it’s a higher seat than my own, and great ladies can only be courted by great lords.”

Cersei barely masked an expression of revulsion before she realized he wasn’t referring to her. “For – for love, then?” she asked. Men are so stupid.

“Indeed. At my next opportunity, I will call on Lady Lysa of the Vale. It seems Lord Arryn’s health is failing.”

“My best wishes for a quick resolution,” Cersei said. To kill a king for mad Lysa Tully, she marveled.

Baelish smiled his most unctuous grin. Cersei didn’t need to know beyond step one of his plan, or that he had reasons of his own for wanting Ned Stark removed from the game.

Tyrion brooded on Brienne’s letter for two days. Finally, he showed it to Corrie whose reaction was unsatisfying.

“Well, it seems alright then.”

“Are you joking?”

“She said she’s happy. And not to tell. She’s probably worried about her… wife.” Corrie’s mouth bowed into a grin she couldn’t hide.

“It’s not funny! We’ve got to get this sorted out.”

“Are you going to ask Lord Tarth to sail to the Iron Islands and demand satisfaction?”

“Gods no. Let’s leave my Father out of this. Wait a moment. Lord Greyjoy. He must be aware of what’s happened. I can write to him directly.”

Tyrion turned to dash for his writing desk, thus missing Corrie's look of pity. Her poor husband seemed to expect an Ironborn to act reasonably and hew to custom.

Dear Lord Greyjoy,

As you’re aware, my sister Brienne recently wed your son Theon, the ward of Winterfell. She wrote me of her marriage, and I did find the ceremony lacking in one detail. Perhaps you and your family would care to visit with us, and we can rectify the situation as it should have been.

Yours faithfully, Tyrion of Tarth

Dear Goodson,

I’m sure I have no idea what you mean. Lady Stark tells me that the marriage has been a grand success. I’m sure the youngsters are too full of wedded bliss to travel all that way. Besides which, my wife and I are getting on in years, and our fleets and harbors still battered from the fighting. Perhaps when my son is released from his captivity I would feel more in the mood for a celebration.

Balon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke

Dear Lord Greyjoy,

I hope that the union of our houses will be a joyful one and foster a cooperative relationship. In that spirit, House Tarth would be delighted to send our personal ship to ferry you and all your family to Tarth. The accommodations will be more than comfortable, I assure you. Of course, we have no influence over the Starks in terms of the hostage arrangement, but with everyone acting in good faith, it should come to its end in due course.

Sincerely, Tyrion of Tarth

Tarth,

If you wanted our houses to be united, you should have talked with me rather than the Starks. As it is, I see House Tarth as strangers. I will keep myself, my wife, and my remaining child close to home until I am convinced of the safety of my dear son, lost these many years to Winterfell. I do not believe this constitutes bad faith and do not appreciate the implied threat. In short, since you negotiated with Stark to arrange the first wedding, you must talk to him again and gain Theon’s freedom if you want a second one.

Balon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke

Allora woke Jaime in the late watches of the night. “The king is dead,” she said.

Jaime’s sleepy state kept the dim questions – Robert? How do you know? – at bay. “What happened?”

“Poison. A bird – a raven? I’m not sure – put it in his drink. Cersei and the children are unharmed. Your brother is gone. Not dead,” she hastened to add at Jaime’s stricken look, “he’s disappeared and men in gold cloaks are looking for him.”

“Joffrey will be king, then?”

“Yes. And Cersei will ask all the major families to come and show supplication. You shouldn’t go.”

“My father is Lord Lannister. He would be the proper choice to pay fealty.”

“True, but she would want you anyway.”

Jaime met his wife’s eyes without words. He wouldn’t protest his innocence or make any promises he might not be able to keep.

“She’s not the reason you shouldn’t go. There’s something,” Allora shook her head as the misty vision faded away. “You’ll be needed here. Give it a fortnight and go then if nothing happens.” Jaime agreed to her bargain. She looked so weak and disoriented; he knew the more powerful visions always left her spirit drained.

Jaime needed less than a week to see she’d been correct. Ned Stark was arrested while trying to leave King’s Landing. Robb Stark protested his father’s innocence in the strongest possible terms and demanded his release. The Crown naturally refused and began interrogating Lord Stark as a traitor.

Jaime’s own ravens were ready to fly as soon as he received word of the Northern banners being called. The Starks might march south, but the Lannisters would not let them pass on to the capital without a fight.

Tensions were running high at Winterfell. Ravens flew back and forth at an unprecedented rate. Most duties were abandoned, except for weapons practice which suddenly became very popular. Lady Stark alternated between rages and crying jags, and Robb seemed to age ten years in a week. Finally, he announced to the assembled Winterfell staff that he had called for his banners and intended to do whatever it took to free his father, their liegelord. He planned to march south, gathering his nearby men to him as he went, while his bastard brother Jon traveled east and assembled a second force to sail from White Harbor.

Raucous cheers broke out among the Northmen, along with vile oaths against the treachery of southern kings. Always up for a rebellion, ‘Theon’ enthusiastically supported Robb, and offered Brienne’s swordarm as well. That got some laughter from those who’d never matched up against Brienne and solid battlecrys from those who had.

Brienne was excited to be riding off to war among trusted friends. Ser Goodwin always warned her about the dangers of an armed camp and spared few details about what could happen if she found herself surrounded by the wrong sorts of men.

‘Theon’ seemed quite determined to make sure everyone knew they would answer to him, and thus to the Starks, if Brienne was harmed. Yara kept close watch on her during the march. She would sling an arm protectively around Brienne’s waist whenever a new group of followers joined. She’d press her lips against Brienne’s in the crowd of every group meeting. At night, they shared their own private tent.

Brienne appreciated the thoughtfulness. After a lingering post-dinner kiss, she ran a hand down Yara’s arm. “I'm grateful for all your kindness.”

“Yeah, it's no problem.” Yara moved closer and languidly returned the touch.

“Nobody is watching us.”

“Nah, nobody’s watchin'.” Yara sounded nearly hypnotized. She reached for Brienne’s hands.

“So, you can let go.”

Yara sat back as if slapped. She looked a little like she’d been slapped, with her cheeks flushing red and sudden moisture in her eyes.

“What’s the matter?” Brienne asked.

“Nothing!”

“Y-Theon, tell me. I’m your wife.”

“You’ll never be my wife,” Yara said, too loud.

“Theon,” Brienne warned.

“You’re never going to feel the way about me that I feel about you.” Her voice sounded squeaky and nowhere near its usual low, sonorous pitch.

“Theon, please tell me what’s got you so upset.”

“I don’t want you to marry my brother anymore.”

“You don’t want me in your family?” Brienne's heart threatened to break. What on earth had she done?

“I want you for myself!”

“But-”

“I’m going for a walk. Don’t follow me,” Yara nearly growled. She sounded angry, but also like she wanted to cry. She stalked off, wiping at her nose and leaving Brienne confused and alone.

Chapter Text

Jaime’s prowess as a battle commander had been established beyond question for years. Adding Allora to his arsenal felt almost like cheating. She’d warned him weeks in advance of an impending conflict, so his armies were ready to march as soon as Robb Stark began his journey south. He wished he could have her with him at camp, but her delicate constitution would not abide days of hard riding and the close quarters that bred disease. She took residence at Casterly Rock while he led his men north.

They marched along the coast, past Oldstones and Seagard, before veering abruptly east to arrive at the Twins. The Lannister army surrounded the keep overseeing the western part of the bridge and spread their tents along the banks. Jaime rode out to parley with Lord Frey.

The men guarding the bridge led Jaime into the lord’s audience chamber. He sat on a massive throne of black oak so large that rather than emphasizing his power, it made his seem shrunken and childish. A sword lay unsheathed across his lap to show no hospitality was offered. The man was far too decrepit to put it to use, but Jaime had no doubt that enough Freys lurked nearby to effect a murder if necessary.

“Lord Frey,” Jaime dipped his head.

“Ser Lannister. And you’ve brought along quite a bit of company, I see. To what do I owe such attention from the west?”

“We seek to become closer friends with your noble house. I bring reinforcements against an army marching from the north that bears hostile intentions against the Crown. They will want to cross your bridge, and I would prefer that they do not.”

“I see.” Lord Frey did see. The Starks were up in arms about their lord’s detention. Lady Stark was formerly Lady Tully, daughter of his liegelord, Hoster Tully. Thus, he would be expected to allow the crossing, though he could probably exact a price. Might the Lannisters pay more, however?

Lord Frey weighed the odds. The Twins were not prepared for a siege, and he had a huge household to maintain. Even though a fair portion of them were worthless, they were still Freys. Hoster Tully had never shown him any appreciation, and all knew that the Lannisters were good friends to have, second in power only to the Baratheons.

“Reinforcements are well and good, but I must discuss the matter with my liegelord. You understand.”

“I do.” Jaime did. “As this is quite urgent, however, we are willing to offer compensation to smooth matters along. We bring tribute of gold and will keep the castles well supplied, of course.”

“Good, yes that is very proper. Only, it seems like such an arrangement requires a more official seal. This far north, we keep to the old ways, you know. That means blood. A marriage.”

“I am already wed, my lord.”

“I’m well aware, though you didn’t see fit to invite me to the ceremony,” Frey told the golden fool. “I seem to recollect a younger Lannister brother, well into marriageable age. I’ve many a ripe daughter; he can take his pick. I’d name Roslin the fairest, but there’s no accounting for taste.”

Jaime opened his mouth to protest that Galladon was Kingsguard before realizing that it wasn’t true, and in fact now would likely never be true. “Ah yes. Father had meant Galladon for the Kingsguard, but circumstances have changed.”

“I’ve heard. So we’ve a bargain?”

“Yes,” Jaime said, cringing inside. “Yield the castle over to me bloodlessly. You remain its lord, and when the peace is secured, my brother will take your daughter to wife.” He looked around at the Freys attending their sire. I hope this Roslin doesn’t have their chin.

The Saltpans were rustic, Galladon would say. After hailing from Casterly Rock, then being adopted into the king’s court, he had rarely spent time in such a small castle. It was more of a holdfast, really, and Lord Cox an aged man with austere tastes. The kitchens never prepared enough food to satisfy Galladon’s ravenous appetite, and the straw mattresses kept him from a sound sleep.

His gratitude towards Lord Baelish for spiriting him away from King’s Landing began to thin as the weeks wore on. Gal found something ominous in the way that events unfolded, almost like he was being kept isolated. He never received replies to messages sent to his family and did not truly feel satisfied they’d been sent at all. Someone had stolen his coin purse soon after he arrived, and other items of value seemed to disappear one by one, most recently a well-hidden brooch that had belonged to his mother.

He tested his boundaries, wandering into town and exploring the markets. He was encouraged to put food and drink on Lord Cox’s tab, but such generosity did not extend to larger items. He was met with outright hostility on approaching a stablemaster about a horse, and he suspected Lord Cox heard about the encounter. Gal seemed to be a prisoner in all but name.

Robert’s gregarious nature had rubbed off to some extent on him, so he turned to the sailors who traded along the busy Trident River. He was welcome to join their conversations and buy rounds of drinks, but no one ever had need of another deckhand, even one who required no wages. While no expert sailor, Galladon found this implausible considering the number of times he’d been imposed upon for his strength while traveling with Robert. Still, he found their gossip much more informative than the news bandied about Castle Cox.

He learned that Ned Stark was in custody for the king’s murder. This made very little sense to him. Yes, according to Robert they had argued in council that day, but a political matter wouldn’t have outweighed decades of friendship. Also, Robert’s death would serve no purpose, not even in preventing the assassination of the Targaryen girl that had lead to their disagreement. Galladon could only hope that justice would be done.

Strange news began to arrive with bundles of furs from the North. Sailors spoke of Northern troops massing not only at Winterfell, but also at White Harbor. Galladon could predict the tactics. If negotiation could not free Lord Stark, the North would sail from White Harbor to cut off the capitol from its western supply lines. Without grain from the west and crops from the Reach, King’s Landing would begin to starve in no time.

No one out west knows, he realized, and he was not going to be able to contact anyone under his present circumstances. His distrust for Baelish finally came to a head. All of this was surely no coincidence, and here he waited like a rabbit caught in a snare. Galladon’s resolve stiffened. He was no rabbit; he was a lion. Baelish had forgotten that at his peril.

Galladon’s sword remained in his possession along with his armor. Stealing those from him would have been a step too obvious, he supposed. He waited until the the late watches of the night, then strapped them on and headed for a ship he knew to be departing at first light. Already familiar to the lad guarding the plank, he was able to burst into the captain’s quarters and have a sword to his throat before anyone thought to doubt the intentions of the knight they all considered pleasant but thick.

“The ship leaves at dawn traveling west as planned. You’ll take me with you and tell no one, and at the end of it my father will pay you thrice whatever you’ve been paid to close your doors to me.”

“Lad, you’ve had too much drink. Begone and I’ll not tell your master.”

“I’m no lad but an anointed knight, and I do not owe fealty to Lord Cox. I assure you, I’ve not been this sober in a while. Now do as you’re told or I’ll see how your first mate likes the promise of Lannister gold.”

“You reckon you can stay awake for a week down the Trident? Else the boys will throw you overboard, armor and all.”

“I can if I have to. I still owe my king a vigil,” Galladon said with heavy sincerity. “Also remember I must arrive home for you to earn your pay.” He lowered his sword but didn’t sheathe it in case the captain called for his guards.

“About that… Little- - the lord - didn’t actually pay, only said that the port would be closed to them what picked up certain strays. So, to put a value on that, let’s say 1000 gold dragons,” the captain proposed. The small matter of the violent assault waking him from a nice wine stupor was forgiven with the scent of that sort of money in the wind.

It was an exorbitant price even for a smuggler. By Galladon’s estimation, however, the intelligence he knew about the Northern troop movements was beyond price to his father. When accounting for the value of his own hide, the ransom was a bargain. “You’ll have it,” he promised. “Now get me as far west as you can.”

Brienne considered herself a patient person. She could damp down her temper most of the time and never fell asleep during her sentry shifts. The tension of waiting for Yara to return felt unbearable, however. She'd thought about it all night and still had no idea what she’d done wrong. While knowing she didn’t have her brother’s glib tongue, somehow managing to give offense when she’d been trying to show gratitude was a rare feat even for her.

Her concern for Yara warred with her obedience to her vows. Yara had ordered her not to follow, and Brienne had sworn before… actually no gods at all… to obey her… lawful… husband. The ridiculousness of the fiction collapsed under its own weight. She sought out Robb to inform him of her intentions. Everyone wanted the young commander’s ear, so she kept her telling brief. All he needed to know was that ‘Theon’ had disappeared, and that she would search the area until she found him.

“Well, all couples fight sometimes and Theon was ever a hot-head, but if you feel like you need to go after him, you have my leave. We won’t march until the men from Flint's Fingers join us. Do you need an escort?” Robb kept his hands still as his father had taught him. No one had told him that lordship could include giving marital advice to a woman a few years his senior while he himself was unwed.

“No, my lord. Thank you, but I believe I will do better alone.” Brienne strongly suspected that their discussion was going to stray into grounds best not overheard.

...

“It’s too risky! If he gets away he could bring the whole army down on us.”

“It’s 300 dragons, easy. I don’t know about you, but I don’t get these kind of chances every day.”

“It’s treason, too. Unless you plan on cutting in the lord. Besides, I don’t think the Ironborn even pay ransoms.”

Brienne’s ears perked up at the word ‘Ironborn.’ She’d been trying to avoid the men having the whispered argument, assuming they were bandits. Surely none of the Lannister scouts could have made it so far north. She edged closer.

“That so? Boy, what’s the truth of it? What will you father pay to get you back?”

“Iron. He’ll pay you with iron,” Yara growled. A sharp slap followed.

“Insolent whelp. Fine, cut his throat. Try not to get too much blood on his cloak; I’ll have that. You can have his boots, and you his axe.” The leader’s disinterested allotment of the spoils came to an abrupt end. He squawked and toppled backward, a throwing axe lodged in his forehead.

Brienne would realize later that he was the first man she’d ever killed. At present, she was too busy dashing up to the startled soldiers and slashing wildly. She wanted to give them no time to find their bearings and coordinate their attacks. If that meant she had to fight recklessly and take out her frustrations with brutish blows, she was up to the task.

Her opponents were veteran fighters who had survived ambushes before. They tried to flank their lone opponent from both the right and left sides. Brienne would have none of it. This was not a duel of honor, and these men had the disadvantage of being armored only in light scouting leathers. She allowed one to attack first her side, then her back while she charged and impaled the other. She’d gotten lucky; his blows would leave bruises under her steel, nothing more. The remaining man tried to flee, but she cut his legs from under him then stabbed through his chest.

“God damn!” Yara’s voice came from the tree where she was tied. “I never seen moves like that in all my life.” Her face was bruised and lip blooded, but she sounded strong and not much the worse for wear.

Brienne freed her with one sweep of her sword through the ropes. She averted her eyes to begin cleaning her weapon. “Lannister men have no business being so far north. We have to inform Robb.”

“Yeah, I heard them talking. They’ve taken the Twins. Listen-”

“They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“Nah, I’m fine. Softened them up a bit for you, even. You know, I-”

“We can make it back before dark if we hurry.”

“Sod the dark. We’re going to talk.”

Brienne cast a glance to the side, meeting Yara’s eyes for a second. “Thanks for the axe throwing lessons. They came in handy.”

“Yeah, thanks for the live-saving. That came in handy, too. Not what I wanted to talk about, though.”

“Oh. Look, I’m really sorry for whatever I did.”

“Don’t apologize when you don’t even know what you’re sorry about,” Yara snapped. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re normal. I’m not. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

The obvious pain in Yara’s voice caused Brienne to finally look her full in the face. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do either. Maybe I pretended to be a man so long I ended up with a man’s desires. All I know is I like to be with women. And I mean that exactly how you think I mean it. And I think you’re so beautiful.”

Brienne watched Yara struggle against tears and then give in to them. She didn’t know what to say, so she gathered her into a bear hug and let her cry.

“Okay, I’ve got hold of myself. It won’t happen again,” Yara muttered after a while, making no real effort to disentangle herself. “I’m surprised you’re not too disgusted to touch me now.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, and you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. Now that I understand better, I can try to make it easier without us having to pretend so much. Maybe we say I’m pregnant.”

Yara snorted. “That would be quite a trick. Thanks though. Really.”

Brienne gave her a last squeeze then let go to begin stripping the scouts of their Lannister badges and valuables. “We should head back now.” A shy smile crept across her face. “One question… have you actually ever… you know, been with…?”

“Are you certain you want the details?”

Brienne shrugged, relieved to hear the laughter return to Yara’s voice. “It’s a long walk.”

‘Father, I was thinking of surprising Brienne-’

‘Father, perhaps I should pay a visit to Lord Greyjoy-’

‘Father, Ironborn customs about marriage-’

No, no, and no. Tyrion paced. He’d let the situation with Brienne continue for far too long, every day of secrecy making it more awkward to bring up with their father. He needed an excuse to travel to Pyke to discuss matters with Lord Greyjoy, and such a long voyage couldn’t be taken on a whim.

I should just tell him what happened. Admit I made a mistake and promise to fix things. He’ll understand, or at least he’ll forgive me. Surely.

Tyrion entered his father’s study, his back straight and chin up, striding with far more confidence than he felt. “Father-”

“Ah, Tyrion. What wonderful timing! I was about to call for you. I’ve exciting news. King Joffrey has appointed Lord Stannis as his Hand. For his previous office of Master of Ships, he looked to another Stormlord fill the position.” Selwyn indicated himself with a modest flourish.

Tyrion swallowed back his speech. His mind raced as he tried to predict what it meant for the family. “Congratulations! He chose the best man indeed.”

“I’ve never really been one to chase titles, you know. Tarth is a tricky enough place to govern. It takes care to plan for supplies, balancing between avoiding spoilage and having sufficient stockpiles in case problems at sea cut us off… well, you know all of this. Your mind is a steel trap, and I have every confidence you could take over for me if I became Master of Ships.”

“If? Father, such an offer from the king and his Hand should not be lightly rebuffed. If either man should take offense – Lord Stannis is notoriously prickly and Joffrey is a brash youth – then we will suffer for it.”

“Fear not. I wrote to say I would accept if that was the will of the Crown. However, I suggested there was someone more suited for the job. Tyrion, I know logistics. I know sailing and the ways of the sea. Harbor maintenance and tradecraft. However, I do not know strategy and tactics. War is in the air. The realm needs an admiral more than a port master.” Selwyn put his broad, calloused hands onto Tyrion’s shoulders. “It’s a hard thing for a man to admit that his son has surpassed him, but that’s the way of it. Your mind is needed, and I dare say it will flourish in King’s Landing.”

Tyrion was simultaneously buoyed by his father’s pride and crushed by his expectations. “Surely Lord Stannis refused such insanity,” he joked while more than halfway hoping he was correct.

“Nothing of the sort! The Hand awaits word of your safe arrival. He’s not a patient man though, so don’t take too long in packing.”

“No, I won’t. I… thank you, Father. To give me such an opportunity…”

Tyrion felt his father’s hands squeeze his shoulders. “I know it won’t be easy, Tyrion. The most powerful and ambitious men in the realm are gathered at King’s Landing and will not easily embrace an outsider. They will mock your appearance and seek to tempt you into vices they can exploit. Just remember, you’re more clever than any of them. Keep your wits about you, and you’ll run rings around them.” Selwyn turned away and coughed, overcome with emotion for a second. “Corrie should go with you, of course. She will be a wonderful helper and probably the only one you should trust.”

For a moment, Tyrion felt like the biggest fraud in the world, a trickster who’d conned himself into a position of power and now realized he could not longer pretend. Then, ideas started to pop up inside his mind like flowers after a spring rain: fleet positions, ship designs, perhaps even something to offer the Greyjoys to rectify matters with his sister. “I can do this,” he said, sounding almost surprised.

“I know!” Selwyn laughed. He loved the signs of confidence and determination in Tyrion’s face. “I haven’t beaten you at draughts since you were a boy, and I can’t even understand that new Dornish game, but in this I knew I was right.”

Chapter Text

Brienne and Yara returned to camp joking and teasing each other much as they’d ever done. Robb was relieved to see that ‘Theon’ seemed to be over his little snit. He was much less pleased to hear their report that Lannister forces now occupied the Twins.

He mulled over the development that evening, then summoned ‘Theon’ to his command tent. Greatjon Umber and Garland Flint, two of Robb’s key lieutenants stood with Robb studying a rough map of Westeros.

“Theon, I have a mission for you,” Robb said.

“I’m at your command, my Lord,” Yara replied in her most formal tone. If it’d just been the two of them, she would have said ‘A’right Robb, wha?’ but his bannermen were giving her suspicious looks, particularly Lord Flint whose holdings on the western shore had seen much past trouble with the Ironborn.

“I’m going to turn this foray south down the King’s Road into a feint and move the main bulk of the army though White Harbor. That means I need more ships. I was thinking you would be just the man to negotiate with your father.”

He could scarcely have surprised her more if he’d revealed he’d known her game all along. “You’re sending me as envoy to my father? I mean, you realize he might not send me back.”

“We have to start trusting each other again sometime. Theon, I hereby release you from your wardship under House Stark. Perhaps Lord Greyjoy will appreciate the gesture of good faith. You can tell him we’ll send lumber to build as many ships as he will crew for my cause, and we can negotiate other matters of trade once my father is returned to Winterfell.”

Yara had heard enough camp rumblings to know that as soon as Lord Stark safely resumed his seat, his bannermen would press for northern independence. They felt disrespected by the Crown, and rightly so in her view. How Balon Greyjoy would respond was anyone’s guess. An alliance with the North would be the most reasonable course, but somewhere in the blood of the Ironborn was the reminder that they used to be mighty kings, feared by greenlanders and seafarers alike. Even she felt it sometimes.

“Aye, my Lord. I will do my best.”

“I know you will, Theon. Thank you.” Robb clasped Yara’s hand as he walked her out of the tent. They’d been as close as brothers growing up, and he had to trust that still meant something. “Brienne seems well. Practically glowing, I’d say.” He lifted an eyebrow in question.

Yara chuckled and shook her head. Clearing the air between them had raised both of their spirits, that was all. She looked out at Brienne walking slowly to the edge of the woods. She steadied herself on a tree, leaned over, and vomited.

“Har!” The Greatjon shook Yara’s shoulder, which caused her entire body to sway. “Freedom and a baby coming in once day! Congratulations, lad!”

Yara was at Brienne’s side within seconds. “Are you all right?” she asked frantically.

“I’m fine,” Brienne said, more out of reflex than an intentional lie.

Clearly, she was not fine. Brienne generally had the stomach of a goat. Shit. Islanders grew up isolated from most of the diseases that made their way around the Seven Kingdoms. Yara had been sick for a year on arriving at Winterfell as various strains of coughs and fevers worked through her system. With so many men at camp from different regions, no wonder something had caught up with Brienne.

“Okay, you sit tight. I’ll get you some water.”

Yara considered their options. She couldn’t leave Brienne here with no one to tend her, but Robb needed her to meet with her father as soon as possible. When Brienne seemed quite refreshed and much stronger on keeping her water down, Yara decided that they should travel north together. If she was well when they reached the tiny port near Deepwood Motte, Yara would take her to Pyke to meet the rest of the Greyjoys. If not, she’d take her to Winterfell where Maester Luwin could see to her.

They departed the following morning to tidings of ‘good fortune’ and ‘congratulations’ as word as spread throughout camp. Brienne’s pink glow of fever was easily disguised as embarrassment at the attention. Yara waved to them and prayed for the best, but she worried the Drowned God couldn’t help this far from the sea.

Two days’ travel up the Neck had Yara cursing herself for a fool. Brienne’s illness was no simple fever of the sort that broke on its own after a few days. Her eyes were glassy now, and Yara could feel heat radiating from her without even needing to touch her. She could keep nothing down, not even broth. She moaned in pain sometimes and seemed uncomfortable in her own skin, rubbing it raw in places.

“Hold on just a bit longer love,” Yara begged, but Brienne was semi-conscious at best. Yara tied her onto her horse and grimly pushed them forward, all the while knowing they were far too far from Winterfell.

Galladon hiked the last few miles through the scrub hills of the Westerlands with his piratical escorts in tow. He set a punishing pace which they groused about constantly, but if they did not keep up, they risked not getting paid. (Yes, everyone said the Lannisters always paid their debts, but that was just a saying whereas the captain’s cat-o-nine-tails was painfully real).

The first snag occurred when Galladon asked to see his father, only to be told he was en route to the capital to pledge fealty to King Joffrey and serve as a judge at Lord Stark’s trial. Ser Jaime was off campaigning near the Twins, leaving his wife Allora as the only Lannister in residence. Ser Vylarr had been left in charge of accounts and did not feel comfortable releasing 1000 gold dragons without some higher authorization.

The escorts did not want stay the night in the giant natural stone castle that could easily become a prison, nor were they open to accepting jewelry or goods as part of the fee. Coin of the realm only, they insisted. Finally, Galladon convinced Ser Vylarr to release the money by threatening Lord Lannister’s wrath if word got out that the Lannisters couldn’t lay their hands on such coin within a day. It was a high ransom, to be sure, but shouldn’t be out of reach for a house of their prestige. Reputations were surprisingly fragile, especially in times of turmoil.

In spite of it all, Galladon was glad to be home. He could dearly use his family’s guidance about what his role should be in the coming conflict. Once his “guests” had departed, he met with Maester Creylan about sending ravens to his father and brother and how much information to include in them. They decided that King’s Landing, where the birds were under the care of Grandmaester Pycelle, was safe enough, but at the Twins there was too much risk that the letter would fall into the wrong hands. They would have to send a messenger.

Maester Creylan nominated a young boy who’d been standing at a writing desk squinting over a lesson all along. “Ser Galladon, allow me to introduce Podrick Payne. Your uncle Kevan sent him here to learn his letters and sums, but he seeks to be a squire. What do you say, Podrick about serving your liegelord?”

“Th-thank you for the opp-pp-ortunity, S-Ser.”

“Good lad. Clean up and have your supper. You’ll want an early start tomorrow.”

Once Podrick had scurried away, Maester Creylen said, “He does have a stammer, but that won’t keep him from carrying a letter. He’s also canny enough to know to put it only into Ser Jaime’s hands and to tear it up if captured. I don’t think that will be a problem, however, because you saw his primary talent in action. He’s very over-lookable. You’d be surprised how handy that is in a squire.”

After dinner, Galladon settled in front of the largest fireplace to reminisce about old times. He would often play near the hearth while Jaime and Cersei had their lessons. Cersei always grew impatient with Jaime when he would hold them back by becoming distracted, his mind forever on the practice yard. Gal’s lessons had mostly come at Crakehall where he suspected the maester went easy on him because he was the son of their liegelord. It never occurred to him that he genuinely might be a quicker study than his siblings, especially in matters of the written word.

Lady Allora found him there, long legs stretched out and nearly dozing. It seemed very appropriate for him, she reflected, though she couldn’t imagine Jaime in such a pose. Her husband was always in motion, seemingly desperate to prove himself. She only wished he could cultivate this stillness, to take a moment to appreciate what they had together. Then again, perhaps she was only feeling maudlin because she knew things must change.

“Ser Galladon, I was hoping for a word with you,” she said.

Galladon got to his feet and gave her a courteous bow. They hadn’t spent much time together, so he still felt awkward around Jaime’s wife. Her tiny frame made him look half a giant, and her strange gaze seemed to go past (or through) his eyes.

“It seems I must travel north, and you would be the ideal escort.”

“Oh, to the Twins? For Jaime?” Galladon cheered instantly at the thought of seeing his brother again.

Allora shook her head sadly. “I wish that was the best path. But you need to avoid the Twins – trust me on this. As for me, if I go there I will probably not have the strength to leave. I love your brother. I hadn’t really expected how much. This is hard, and seeing him may well make it impossible.”

“You can’t go north any way but through the Twins unless you take a ship. Does Jaime know about this?”

“A ship is exactly what I mean. We can depart from Lannisport; there’s a harbor near the lumberyard at Deepwood Motte that should serve us well. And yes, Jaime knows the broad outlines at least. I mean to write him a letter that will explain as much as I’m able.”

“What’s at Deepwood Motte that could concern you? It’s practically the middle of nowhere.”

“I think I’ll be going much further than that. But yes, first we must stop at Deepwood Motte. Your goodsister will need help.”

“Whatever you need,” Galladon began, a little concerned about her slip into the future tense. Jaime had mentioned this quirk, but he’d never seen it in person before.

She seemed puzzled as she shook her head. “I don’t think I meant me. I hope you’ve a bastard brother, else Jaime has another wife he’s not told me about.”

Galladon laughed it off as both options seemed wildly unlikely. Jaime’s arm had to be twisted to take the one wife, and his father would never sire a bastard, certainly not on a Northerner.

Tyrion’s brand new doublet was causing him to sweat. It was made of dark grey wool rather than his usual linen, with the suns and moons of House Tarth stitched over his heart. He’d wanted to look as dignified as possible for his introduction to the king and the small council. Perhaps the occasion as much as the garb was causing the perspiration, he reflected.

He arrived early to keep no one waiting, but Lord Stannis was already seated at the council table. Without the badge that identified him as Hand of the King, a bystander might have thought he was a serving man. His tunic was light grey wool, clean but worn, with no stag ornaments or trace of Baratheon black and gold.

He acknowledged Tyrion with a brusque nod. “Lord Tyrion. Your father praised you highly. He claims you’re all but the Crone reborn.”

With anyone else, Tyrion would have turned the compliment into self-deprecation by demurring that Selwyn referred to his appearance. Lord Stannis was famous for disapproving of japes, however, so Tyrion bowed and replied with as much grace as he could that he hoped to do his family proud.

Lord Renly arrived next, clad in green velvet with a mantle of black trimmed in cloth of gold and pinned with a golden stag with emerald eyes. “Stannis, so glad I caught you before-” he began, but stopped abruptly when he noticed Tyrion.

“Ah, Lord Tyrion, our new Master of Ships, a pleasure. You’ll not be early again once you see how these meetings drag on.”

Tyrion bowed again. “Lord Renly, the pleasure is all mine.”

Something occurred to Renly, and he grinned. “Tyrion of Tarth. Do you know, I encountered your sister once. I’m sorry to say I laid her low.”

“My lord?” Tyrion asked in alarm. Surely he’d not have to duel about his sister’s honor as practically his first act in King’s Landing.

“The melee at Oldtown!” Renly laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “My, that was something to see. She married recently, is that right?”

“Yes, um, to Theon Greyjoy.”

“Ironborn. An inspired choice. Yours?”

“Yes, my lord,” Tyrion said, not really appreciating the reminder.

Renly locked eyes with Stannis for a moment, then remarked casually, “Once the meeting is done – whenever that may be – come away with Stannis and myself for a drink.” Tyrion nodded as Grandmaester Pycelle took his time shuffling into the chamber.

Others followed in a trickle. Stannis called the meeting to order before the arrival of the king or his regent, Queen Cersei. This plainly displeased the queen, and she called the meeting to a halt to introduce Tyrion to each member of the small council with overly honeyed courtesy. King Joffrey proved mean-spirited and ignorant, but also disinterested in the business of the council. By Tyrion’s assessment, the queen was the one who’d required the deftest handling.

The meeting lasted for three bottles of wine. (Deep inside the Red Keep, time was difficult to judge in the council chamber, but thirst could be trusted). Tyrion found it disconcerting that they could discuss a general matter for an hour to no result, yet resolve another that stripped a house of all their holdings within seconds.

“I have the bills of lading in my rooms, if you’ll follow me,” Stannis said. “Might as well get you right to work.”

“How fascinating,” Renly yawned, but trailed after them all the same as the meeting broke up.

Once Tyrion and Renly were inside, Stannis shut his door tight and moved to the far side of the study for good measure. It was furnished as spartanly as his dress, with a simple desk and uncushioned chairs. He withdrew a folded parchment from a pocket inside his tunic.

“I’ve carried this on my person since I received it,” he said.

“And it smells delightful,” Renly japed, though Tyrion could see his heart wasn’t in it.

Stannis passed the note to Tyrion. “It’s from Ned Stark. He details his reasoning for concluding that the queen may have committed treason. If he’s right, then Joffrey is a bastard; perhaps Steffon and Rhaelle as well. He wanted my advice about whether to go to Robert about it, but before we could speak, Robert is poisoned and Ned arrested as his assassin. That seems overly convenient to me. I wanted some men I could trust around me. Your father always struck me as an honest and honorable man. I hope you have taken much after him.”

“If – if this is true, then it’s conspiracy,” Tyrion said. The Baratheon brothers gazed at him steadily, both serious of purpose. “And… Ned Stark remains a direct threat to the queen. His execution is as fixed as sunrise.” The brothers nodded together, finally showing a resemblance. “The North won’t stand for it. It will mean war!”

“He grasps the situation quickly,” Renly said.

“My sister will be right in the middle of it!” Tyrion continued as the horrors kept mounting in his mind.

“Your sister,” Stannis scoffed. “Try the entire realm torn apart. Deaths by the thousands. Crops burned or rotting in the fields. Brigands roaming the land with impunity.”

“Our priority is clear,” Renly said. “We must keep Ned Stark alive at all costs.”

If he had to spend one more evening with House Frey Jaime thought he might just take up his sword and ride his charger off to the north to see what surprises Robb Stark had in store. Surely the dungeons of Winterfell – or a valorous death – couldn’t be worse than sharing another meal with these terrible people.

Lord Frey was vainglorious and mean, constantly undercutting everyone around him and bragging about his many sons and upsettingly young new wife. His sons were no better, arranging themselves into clans based on which woman bore them (not all were from wives; Lord Frey provided for his bastards as well). The daughters were timid, frightened things huddling at the margins of the rooms. All of the Freys had a certain weasel-faced and hungry look to them, though Jaime would allow that Roslin’s features were the most pleasingly shaped. She was barely five feet tall, however. Galladon would make her look like a child’s doll.

He’d regretted the betrothal even in the moment. Frey had outmaneuvered him, and he soon found out why. It seemed that Frey had been stinging from an insult Tywin dealt him over 40 years ago, when he as a lad of 10 protested the engagement of his aunt Genna to Frey’s second son Emmon. The marriage had gone ahead and Genna still seemed to happily govern the household, but Walder Frey never forgot a slight. Now one of Tywin’s sons would be forced to wed a Frey or break his word.

Jaime couldn’t even take the matter up with his father, not that he was looking forward to his reaction. Lord Tywin had sent orders that Jaime should take a defensive position but not advance north until he had seen to the disposition of Ned Stark. He intended argue for sending Lord Stark to the Wall, which would defang him but not turn him into a martyr.

Jaime’s mood improved when he heard there was a messenger for him. His scouts were late in returning; perhaps it was one of them. No, however, it was a only a boy from Casterly Rock. He offered up some letters – still sealed, very good – and departed with a nervous, stammering farewell.

Seeing Galladon’s handwriting gave Jaime a start. What was his brother doing at Casterly Rock? Absorbing the details of King Robert’s death and Lord Baelish’s suspicious help, followed swiftly by the news of the Northern troop movements and Gal’s conjecture about what they meant had Jaime reeling. When Gal concluded by saying he hoped to see Jaime soon, but he first had to escort Allora to her duty, Jaime was too numb to understand what he meant.

Allora’s letter snapped him back to reality, then pulled him in several different directions.

My Dearest Jaime,

I find that it is time to answer my calling. I would that it hadn’t come due so soon, but destiny is not a commission one can refuse. It may be the case that we never meet again, at least in the way that we are now. This grieves me more that I can say. I must release you, however, so that you can chance to meet your destiny as well. I release you. I release you. There, said three times in the manner of the old laws, you are free of obligations to me.

If you still bear some love for me in your heart, I ask you to turn it inward. I know your secret. You became the Kingslayer not to save the city, but to please your father. He is not capable of love, nor is your sister. You are, and you are worthy of receiving love. Your sister can’t give it to you, she can only take. You may think me selfish to say so, but that is not the case. You are not a whole person when you are with her, and you will need to be the best of yourself for what is to come. You are already a good man. Be the true knight you still dream of.

Love, Allora Hightower Lannister

She said he was a good man, but what would a good man do? A good husband would go find his wife. A good son would obey his father. A good knight… a true knight… would protect the innocent and prevent the kind of bloodshed that could happen if thousands of Northmen landed in the Riverlands. Jaime began preparations to shift much of his forces to Harrenhal.

Chapter Text

“If you want me dead, there are easier ways!” Tyrion protested.

Renly speared an apple from Stannis’ platter and began to peel it. “Now you flatter yourself. Most likely no one will notice you’re gone. That’s why you’re the perfect choice. People are not yet used to seeing you at court, so you won’t be missed. The stables won’t wonder at you taking a wheelhouse since everyone knows dwarves can’t ride.”

“I can ride,” Tyrion argued. He did best with the rigging he’d designed himself, but he could ride.

“You’ll travel in comfort this time, and there will even be a great lord to keep you company,” Stannis said. For him, it was quite the explosion of humor.

“And what am I to say when someone asks why the Master of Ships is traveling inland?”

“Say you’re collecting cargo duties or checking up on ship designs. The castle does have a fairly clever maester. You may want to bring him back with you.”

Stannis interrupted his brother, “As you well know, if you are stopped and questioned, you’ll have to do some quick talking. If Crown soldiers search the wheelhouse, all is lost. We’re under the impression you would be singularly up for the task. Do not disappoint us.”

“Take along some fresh fruit. It will keep your bowels regular through all that sitting,” Renly advised. Perhaps he meant to lighten his brother’s stern command, but Tyrion scowled. Renly risked nothing; let him save his jokes for when he had some skin in the game.

Before sunrise the next morning, Tyrion entered the western stables. Unfamiliar servants loaded his trunks onto the wheelhouse, and he was ushered inside. Of the few advantages of being a dwarf, Tyrion could lay claim to not feeling cramped in the enclosed vehicle. It was richly appointed and well padded to make the journey as smooth as possible. He could even lie fully stretched out on one of the benches if he chose.

There was a suspicious bundle of tapestries pushed under the opposite bench. Tyrion waited until the bumps from the cobblestones of King’s Landing gave way to the smoother bricks of the Kingsroad. From the lack of outside noise, he felt satisfied that the padding of the carriage served well to muffle sound.

“I believe it’s safe to come out now, my lord,” he said softly.

Ned Stark emerged from under the bundle. He rubbed at his stiff shoulders and gazed at Tyrion with a dour expression. “Who might you be then? I thought I knew all Robert’s friends. I’m not like to have missed you.”

“I am Lord Tyrion Tarth, the new Master of Ships. I’m in the very process of saving your life at the risk of mine own, you realize. Some display of gratitude is customary.”

Ned grunted. He’d been waiting in the wheelhouse since the pitch black of night when Varys had freed him from his cell and led him through a warren of tunnels to the stables. It had not escaped his notice that Varys was scheduled to be one of the witnesses against him in his coming trial. To say he didn’t know who to trust was an understatement.

“I do thank you for your efforts, but I have been kept much in the dark. Can you explain why all this is happening and what is planned for the future?”

“Your investigations as Hand caused quite a stir. Stannis is passing your letter around to trusted allies and gathering support to depose Joffrey – and possibly Robert’s other children as well, he and Renly are divided on this point – and assume regency. It seems someone in the queen’s circle got wind of this and took action to install Joffrey on the throne and eliminate those who might protest. First Robert, then you…”

“I hope Stannis has trustworthy men around him.”

“He is taking great care. But I haven’t told you all. After your arrest, your son called his banners and began a march south to petition the Crown for your release. Of course, he will be refused and that will mean war.”

Ned accepted this with a grimace. Robb’s act was strident but hardly impulsive. Tensions had been building between the North and the Crown since the Mad King tortured his father and brother to death. Robert had meant to mend the breach with his appointment as Hand, but it had been too little too late.

“We hope that your safe return will break the war fever and allow cooler heads to prevail.”

“Don’t you think it more likely the south will invade the north to execute me as a Kingslayer?” Ned paused for a beat, emotion breaking through his countenance for the first time. “Robert was the dearest friend of my heart. By all the gods, I swear I would never have harmed him. On my sister’s grave I swear it.”

“I believe you, Lord Stark. Everyone who gives it a moment of thought does. Sadly, that is few enough. But no, if Stannis and Renly do their part, war may yet be averted.”

The spear appeared in front of Yara’s face so suddenly that she swore and nearly fell from her horse.

“State your business, trespasser,” a voice said from nowhere.

Yara looked around frantically, finally spotting the well-camouflaged arm emerging from a thicket encroaching on the path.

“I’m Theon Greyjoy, en route north under orders from Lord Robb Stark,” she said. “With me is my wife, Brienne, who is ill. Can you help us? I’ll throw down my weapons.”

A young women with curly black hair emerged from her hiding place. She was clad in light leathers and armed with a frog spear. Yara would have relaxed at the apparent lack of threat had she not heard many tales about Greywater Watch and the crannogmen. She could well be surrounded and not know it. The woman walked slowly around the pair of horses, evaluating their riders carefully.

“Get down. It’s best to lead the horses so they don’t founder in the mire. I’ll take your wife’s since it doesn’t look like she can walk. You follow me. Step only where I step.”

“Thank you. I am… are we your prisoners? I’ll give you my axe.” The fight had been ground out of Yara by watching Brienne suffer. She was grateful even for help that may end with her in a prison cell.

“Whatever for? You may need it to fend off the lizard-lions. Just know that if you try anything, no one will ever find your body.” She glanced back to see the Ironborn looking surprisingly abashed. “The Starks are our liegelords. House Reed is pleased to render aid.”

They arrived at Greywater Watch when the sun was probably still in the sky, though it was hard to tell through the thick canopy of leaves. The young woman, Meera, helped Yara support Brienne and tuck her into a guest room. While Yara received customary hospitality, a healer saw to Brienne. Greywater Watch kept no maester, but Meera confidently assured Yara that the wizened old woman knew more of healing than any three chained scholars put together.

Yara’s stomach plummeted when the healer returned to them serious of face and shaking her head.

“There’s not much to do,” she said, “it’s red spots.”

Yara thought she must have heard wrong. “Red spots? I had red spots when I was a kid. All the kids did. It was nothing; just itchy and a little fever.”

“For children that is true. It’s much more serious in adults.”

“Nah, but look at her! There’s no way some kids’ disease does her in.”

“She is strong. We can lower her fever with cool baths and keep her fed with fruit paste. The rest is up to her. It will probably take a few days to see any improvement.”

“Can Robb’s business wait that long?” Meera asked.

“Yes, definitely,” Yara seamlessly lied. “I have to get to the port past Deepwood Motte which is quite a trek. A few days won’t make any difference.”

“We have a harbor and can loan you a ship. If you’re going to the Iron Islands, it’s much closer.”

Yara was astonished. “You do? Why didn’t Robb mention that?”

“It’s not always available, but Greywater Watch is built on a floating island. By the time Brienne can travel, we can be near the sea.”

Jaime arrived at Harrenhal with about two-thirds of the Lannister army. He’d considered taking a higher percentage, but did not trust the Freys enough to leave his men outnumbered at the Twins. Harrenhal had changed ownership many times since Aegon the Conquerer burned out Harren the Black and his sons. It had recently been granted to Lord Petyr Baelish by royal decree, though as yet he had made no effort to assume his seat.

The huge castle still showed heavy signs of damage from the dragonlord’s assault 300 years ago. The black stone had melted, flowed, and recooled such that in many places the walls more resembled candle wax than stone. The original holding was so large, however, that enough buildings remained habitable to accommodate an army twice the size of his forces.

Jaime ordered his men to set about establishing themselves in the barracks while he searched for Ser Donnel, Baelish’s appointed castellan, to check on the status of the supplies. His army brought marching rations along, but naturally they were hoping for fresher fare here.

Much to Jaime’s surprise, he found the castellan already engaged in conversation with a very short gentleman. His garb told of noble birth and something about him tickled Jaime’s memory, though he didn’t remember seeing him at court before. Both seemed startled at Jaime’s intrusion.

“Ser Donnel, I apologize for the interruption. Greetings to you and Lord…?”

“Tarth, Tyrion Tarth. I’ve recently been appointed Master of Ships.”

“Well met and congratulations. If I may ask, what brings the Master of Ships to Harrenhal?”

“Oh, he is inventorying the sorts of rations we could contribute if a sea blockade becomes necessary,” Ser Donnel broke in nervously.

Tyrion shot the man a sour look. He’d had a much better lie prepared. Luckily, he saw a way to distract the knight.

“Greetings, Ser Lannister, though this is not the first time we have met. My sister once defeated your brother at melee. I won a tidy sum on the matter, I don’t mind telling you.”

Jaime laughed as the memory clicked into place. “By the gods, yes! Galladon was certainly headstrong in those days. Regularly strong as well. That was quite a feat your sister pulled off. I wouldn’t have been brave enough to bet on her.”

“I never bet against family. Ser, there seems to be quite a tumult outside.”

“Indeed. Ser Donnel, I have brought five thousand men with me. Some will stay to garrison the castle; others will spread north to protect the towns near the Trident from Northern invasion. How are you situated for supplies?”

The castellan and Lord Tyrion exchanged another glance Jaime couldn’t interpret.

“We should be well for a fortnight or so, assuming you have some provisions with you to supplement our staples. Please caution your men, however, that certain sections of the castle are quite unstable. The Ghost Tower in particular is on the verge of tumbling down. Have them keep themselves to the areas that show daily use.”

“To be sure, Ser. Thank you for your time.” Jaime gave a quick bow and departed.

Tyrion closed his eyes to keep them from rolling. Ser Donnel may as well have just drawn Ser Jaime a map to where they’d secreted Ned Stark.

Traveling with Lady Lannister out of Lannisport bore quite a bit of resemblance to traveling with King Robert, Galladon thought. The crew of the Golden Fleece bent over backward to attend to their comfort. They had separate cabins, of course, both as richly appointed as any inn. Galladon had assumed such luxury was for royalty only. Then again, perhaps it was. The fall of the Targaryens had loosened the ties of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Lannisters had been kings of the Westerlands for far longer than the dragons had ruled.

Sufficient coin motivated Captain Stafford to plot a course for Deepwood Motte though he was plainly unhappy about it. Oldtown or King’s Landing were his usual destinations, with their opportunities for lucrative contracts of trade goods and a variety of options for shore leave. Deepwood Motte had nothing but lumber and fur-wrapped whores well used by lumberjacks. Still, he gritted his teeth and did his upmost to keep his passengers satisfied.

Trouble came at about the half-way point. This particular shipping lane was little used, so the captain was surprised to see five large vessels along his course. He took it as no basis for alarm since they were too large to be Ironborn longships and the wrong coast for organized piracy. He assumed they would divert. The Golden Fleece had the right of way.

They did not change course, however, or rather they did, but to intercept more directly. Captain Stafford called his mates onto the bridge to inquire if they’d ever seen the red eye sigil that decorated the largest ship’s sails. They had not, but by this point they could tell that all the intervening ships were armed with harpoons.

“Get the men ready and roust Ser Galladon as well. I think we’re about to be boarded,” Stafford said. He had a cold feeling in his bones. There was no place to hide, and outrunning such ships was flatly impossible. These raiders would expect a fine cache of goods from capturing a trading ship, but he had managed to find little cargo to take North on short notice. His passengers represented almost all the value on board. “Hang back, Aerick,” he called to his son.

Aerick was his youngest son, not quite fourteen. He had the makings of a fine seaman, and had served his father well for several voyages. “Aye, Captain?”

“I want you to take Lady Lannister and get her to the dingy. Launch from the starboard side away from those raiders. Row for the shore like the Seven Hells are after you. Me and the rest of the lads and that knight of hers will give you cover for as long as we can.”

“Father! Please, no!”

“We’re too fine a ship to sink, lad. They’ll ransom us. But I’m not sure they won’t abuse Lady Lannister first. Now go!”

Aerick ran to do his duty. The rest of his men gathered on deck with their swords at the ready. They wore no armor, finding it impractical at sea. Galladon had managed to strap on his breastplate and greaves before joining them. They yelled at the invaders as the vessels drew closer but received only silence in return.

Harpoons pierced the deck of the Golden Fleece, dissolving any fantasies that this was not a raid. As the spiked boarding plank came down, Stafford could see that they were hopelessly outnumbered by just the men on the flagship, never mind the others. It hadn’t been long enough. Aerick would still be in plain sight on the water.

Stafford charged forward, and his men surged behind him. He could now see krakens on the armor of some of the invaders. Ironborn after all, though the ships were wrong and the red eye represented no house that he knew of. They swarmed onto his ship eager for battle.

Galladon slew left and right, making a good account of himself. Stafford’s men also fought well, giving the captain a moment of optimism. They couldn’t hope to win the fight, but they’d stalled for a good long time. He began to look around for the Ironborn leader, hoping for parlay.

A figure clad all in black with a patch over his left eye strode down the plank. “Throw down your arms and you may yet live,” he shouted.

The crew of the Golden Fleece halted their attacks quickly and complied. Galladon looked to Stafford for confirmation. Receiving a resigned nod, he too lowered his sword.

“Who is the captain of this fine vessel?” the Ironborn called.

“She’s mine,” Stafford replied.

Indicating the prisoners, the Ironborn said, “Chain them below decks. I’ll sort out what we have here.” His men silently carried out his orders, herding their opponents across the plank and into the crimson ship with the black sails.

He walked over to Stafford. “Euron Greyjoy, captain of the Silence, and I put it to you that you are a liar.”

“How so?” Stafford asked. He tried to remember if he’d heard that name before. A Greyjoy bearing a red eye… hadn’t there been some madman in Essos claiming to be a Greyjoy exile and planning to sail for Valyria?

“She’s not your ship; she’s mine.”

“As you say, my lord,” Stafford replied with as much dignity as possible.

“Very good. Let us seal the matter in the old way.” Euron’s hand flashed out so quickly Stafford didn’t comprehend that he’d moved until he felt the pain.

There was a confused rush of air, then the sea closed over him, the slash in his neck still gushing blood.

Chapter Text

Tyrion and the castellan of Harrenhal, Ser Donnel, took turns keeping Ser Jaime occupied while the other slipped Ned Stark his meals. Hidden away in the Ghost Tower, Ned was in the outermost part of the castle. Gaining access required a stealthy approach so as not to be spotted entering such a disused section.

Tyrion – not unusually for him – felt he was best at both tasks. He could easily sneak behind melted walls most of the way to the tower. Donnel tended to walk on far too straight a path for his tastes. He was also better at keeping up a conversation with the western knight. Most likely that was down to how varied their life experiences were. Tyrion had little skill at arms and the practical matters of warfare, but quite a bit at administration and tactical planning. Ser Jaime was probably the greatest swordsman in the land on both the battlefield and the tourney grounds, but (not that Tyrion would say so, but all knew) had failed rather miserably when he’d tried to act as Lord of Casterly Rock.

Much to his relief, Tyrion found Ser Jaime to be reticent about the use of force despite the clear preparations for war. He’d feared that the Lannister commander would be bloodthirsty and looking for any excuse to invade the North. The king had been killed, after all, and justice had not yet been done. Warily, Tyrion broached the subject.

“Ser, as you know I am new to court, and my home is an island rather separated from the intrigues of the mainland. I wonder if you can tell me why anyone would kill our good king?”

“And not claim the throne for himself afterwards, you mean?” Jaime asked.

Tyrion gave a nervous chuckle. Of course, this was the very man who had slain the last Targaryen king. Overthrowing a dynasty was a bit of a sore point, he supposed. “Certainly sweet King Joffrey is beyond suspicion.”

“Only because poison is a touch too clever for him,” Jaime said. He waved his hand at Tyrion’s shocked expression. “No need for false outage, my good man. I know you’ve met the boy. All see him for what he is. I agree to your basic point; he had nothing to do with it.” No, he wouldn’t have, Jaime reasoned internally. He’s too young and knows he’d be under regency. A regency controlled by Cersei. Jaime felt a cold certainty begin to crystallize in his mind. Cersei had often said she’d made a better king than Robert.

“I’ve corresponded with Lord Stark, you know. Before all this. Regarding my sister’s marriage to his ward. He always seemed such an honorable man.”

“Yes, the Starks love their honor, to be sure,” Jaime mused numbly.

“Poisoning his best friend would seem the very antithesis…”

The dwarf’s argument faded into the background. For an instant, everything seemed clear to Jaime, laid out like roads on a map. Along one path was protecting his sister, his father, his family name. Along that path was also war, the kingdoms torn asunder, thousands dead. The other showed peace, but threatened to exposure his family's nastiest secrets. His sister versus the realm; it seemed to be in a pretty fine balance. Then suddenly, Galladon came to his mind. His brother was somewhere in the North along with Allora, his former (he supposed now) wife.

“Obviously I know Ned Stark is innocent,” Jaime broke in to whatever Lord Tyrion was saying. His green eyes flashed in inspiration as quite a few oddities suddenly made sense. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

The first thing Brienne saw when she awoke was a closeup of Yara’s face. One of her teeth tilted at an angle to buckle in front of its neighbor, Brienne’s disoriented mind noticed. The face pulled back, revealing dark-circled eyes and a frazzled expression.

“You are awake! I thought so!” Yara yelled jubilantly. “You were breathing deeper, sorta like how you snore. Then you made that snort you always do,” she continued to babble.

Brienne tried to sit up, but an immediate pounding started in her head, and she settled back down.

“Did I get hit in the head? Or possibly trampled by something?”

“Nah, you’ve just been sick. You were runnin’ a fever and prolly are dehydrated. Lemme get the healer.”

“I’m starving,” Brienne called after her. She felt weak and achy all over, but merely thinking of food made her feel desperate with need.

“I’ll bet. You’re really wasting away. Your arms are barely as thick as my thighs anymore. Hang on and I’ll get you sorted.”

True to her word, Yara soon returned the the healer and a nutritious meal. Brienne’s red spots were fading away and her fever was pronounced broken. She felt almost herself again after finishing two bowls of “chicken” soup. (Yara wouldn’t tell her it was frog until she was sure she had control of her gorge).

“You really waited here for five days?” Brienne asked. She was touched by the caring gesture, but her sense of duty said Yara should have put her mission first.

“Well, it took three days for Greywater Watch to get into harbor, and leavin’ from here is going to cut days off the journey. Besides, was I really supposed to leave you unconscious among strangers? They’ve been good to us, mind, but… They remind me of the stories Old Nan used to tell us kids at Winterfell about the Children of the Forest. They weren’t always nice, those stories.”

The door was a flimsy thing made of reeds, and Meera nearly knocked it off its hinges in her urgency. “Yara, you need to come with me, right now,” she said. She spared a nod for Brienne. “Good to see you’re awake. Come along if you’re able.”

Brienne wrapped a cloak around her sleeping shift and made to follow. “You told them?” she asked Yara quietly.

“Her brother just knew. He took one look at me and called me Lady Greyjoy. Told ya; it’s weird here.”

Meera and her guests entered a room where a young noblewoman and a younger sailor were seated receiving hospitality along with Jojen Reed.

“Lady Greyjoy… er, Greyjoys?” Jojen looked confused for a moment about how to proceed with the introductions.

“I’m Yara Greyjoy. This is my companion, Brienne of Tarth. She’s betrothed to my brother. Sort of.”

“Allora Lannister,” the young woman said. She had no foreknowledge about the Greyjoy woman, but the large blonde had an aura about her that said she would feature prominently in coming events. “This bold young man is Aerick of the Golden Fleece. He led me to safety when the ship was taken by pirates.”

“Where was this?” Yara asked, keenly aware that she was due to set out imminently. Pirates could be a major complication, especially since she doubted the Greywater ship was armed.

“Just outside Blazewater Bay,” said Aerick. “And begging milady’s pardon, but t’wasn’t pirates. They was Ironborn.”

“What?!” Yara exclaimed.

“Aye. Their sails had a red eye on ‘em, but some had krakens, too.”

“Not true Ironborn, then. Exiles. My uncle Euron and his crew. My da sent them away after the rebellion. He knows it’s death to return. He must mean to invade the Islands!”

“Meera and I can’t accompany you to Pyke like we planned. We have to help Lady Lannister in her journey.” Jojen was usually a soft-spoken young man, but here his voice held the certainty of tempered steel.

“You can still have the ship and some crew,” Meera said. “Can you navigate your way there?” Jojen had never been to Pyke, but Meera knew he would have found the way. She was less certain about the Ironborn who hadn’t made the voyage since she was a child.

“Of course,” Yara said, all false confidence. “Brienne can sail too, so you’ll really just need to send enough men along to return the ship once we arrive.”

“I’m sorry we can’t spare any fighters,” Jojen said.

“Shouldn’t be necessary. Ironborn don’t kill other Ironborn,” Yara replied. Doubt began to creep in, though. Balon had banished Euron instead of killing him, but who’s to say Euron would return the courtesy.

There was absolutely no reason he should trust the dwarf, Jaime knew. The man was leading him out to the most isolated part of the castle. A few crossbow bolts in the right place, a quick burial in the cellar, and no one would ever find his body. He did trust him, though. Perhaps not enough of the filth of King’s Landing had yet rubbed off on the new Master of Ships to taint his soul. He came across so honest and well-meaning that Jaime almost wanted to knight him.

“I am not ignorant of your talent with the blade, Ser. I realize that Lord Stark and I will be under your power. Just know that we are both unarmed and thus trusting to your honor as a knight.”

Jaime locked eyes with Tyrion, surprised at how similar yet contrary their lines of thought ran. “We’re here to talk. You have my word I will instigate no violence.”

The small man led him down a corridor to a servant's staircase. Underneath the first landing was a partially collapsed opening, probably once a hidden entrance. Tyrion didn’t have to duck to go through it, but Jaime did. He supposed if there was to be an ambush, it would be here. Instead they proceeded along a short passage and exited inside an unused fireplace.

Lord Stark sat on a bed in a windowless chamber lit dimly by torches. His usual dour expression twisted into disdain on seeing Jaime. Not fear or even surprise, Jaime noted, disdain was still the dominant note. Stark blamed all the horrors of Robert’s Rebellion on the Lannisters, as if no women or children suffered in the fighting outside of the capital. The Lannister army’s sack of King’s Landing, and particularly the Mountain’s brutal treatment of the Princess Elia and her children, were all the casualties he cared to remember.

“Has the Crown come for my head then?” asked Stark.

“No. Ser Jaime understands you to be innocent and agrees that preventing war is a worthwhile goal.”

“So free me. Allow me to return to Winterfell, and I will recall the banners.”

“It’s not so simple,” Jaime said. “There are hundreds of miles of hostile territory between here and the North.”

“Also, we must present a plausible alternative or the rumors will never quell,” Tyrion said. “Perhaps Gregor Clegane?”

Jaime waved the suggestion away in annoyance. “He’s Kingsguard. No one would believe that.”

“The most vicious rumors circulating among the court concern-” Lord Stark’s eyes shifted to meet Jaime’s.

“Have a care, my Lord. I will not tolerate slander against my family. Do you know, my brother was initially suspected of the crime? He related to me how Petyr Baelish coerced him to flee and behaved very strangely. Baelish has always been a shady character.” A low-level lordling, known to be grasping of power... it was a song that could catch on.

“Baelish is a very careful man. His scent will be nowhere near it,” Stark replied. He’d been uncomfortable accusing Clegane of the crime, even though he was guilty of worse. Baelish, however, may well be the true culprit, or at least one of them. They just had to figure out how to frame a guilty man.

When Euron's ships arrived at the Iron Islands, his men swiftly conquered the majority of Castle Pyke that was situated on the main island. The outlying sections were connected by rope bridges to towers built on smaller islets. Euron would later brag about scaling the tower to Lord Balon's solar to slay his helpless older brother as he begged for mercy. Galladon had only met Lord Balon once during the Greyjoy rebellion, but that was enough to doubt this account. He was definitely the sort to choose death before dishonor, and Euron lied with every word he spoke. Certainly he’d lied about granting mercy to the crew of the Golden Fleece if they surrendered. Gal saw precious few of them left, and those still alive were pale and terrorized. And tongueless, every one.

Euron’s loyal men had chained his arms and dumped him in the corner of the largest room of the keep. They seemed to be assembling all the prisoners and any valuable looted goods in this central area. Galladon took it as a positive sign that they couldn’t spare any men for guard duty. Euron’s mercurial temper seemed to winnow down his crew quite regularly. Galladon pulled at his chains again. They were mottled with rust from long exposure to the sea air. Strength had always been his main asset. If he could break himself free, he’d have a chance against the pirates even unarmed. He was uninjured thus far, probably due to his potential for ransom.

Two new prisoners were thrown in his general direction. Both women, he thought, but both also garbed for battle – the smaller one in studded leather and the bigger one in men’s mail. He’d never seen the first before, but the second he recognized immediately. She was the woman who’d beaten him at the Oldtown tourney a few years back, then seen him crowned Prince of Love and Beauty. It’d humiliated him at the time, but in the aftermath, he found the ladies appreciated that title so much that he’d forgiven the insult. It was a pretty good jape, honestly, and she’d won fair and square.

She hadn’t won her most recent battle, that was for sure. Both she and her companion were chained at the hand and seemed only murkily aware of their surroundings. One of the men from the Silence hooted to draw Euron’s attention to the smaller woman. Galladon felt his gut shrink at the cruel smile that swept over Euron’s face.

“Niece!” he exclaimed. The woman’s eyes rolled in their sockets as she tried to focus on him. He grabbed her by the belt and hauled her to the center of the room. “I’ve eagerly awaited giving you and your brother my fondest greetings. I’ve already met with your father. Which tower is your mother hiding in? Perhaps if she surrenders quickly I’ll marry her, and you can be my daughter. Would you like that?”

She found her bearings enough to aim a gob of spittle onto Euron’s face. He snarled and punched her in the gut, allowing her to collapse at his feet. He drew back a heavy boot for a kick, but a commotion outside caught his attention. Soon, the door to the hall burst open and a tall, wiry man wearing the breastplate of House Greyjoy stormed inside leading a full crew of Ironborn.

“Little Theon, how good of you to come,” Euron growled, too enraged to pretend affection. He drew his axe while he sized up the runty boy he’d once known. Theon always lacked bulk, but had grown energetic and lean. He seemed to have full command of the men behind him who spread out to engage Euron's crew. It was shaping up to be more of a fight than Euron had anticipated, but he had a secret weapon. He pulled Yara to her feet and wrapped his left arm under her neck, holding her as a shield.

“Recognize your sister?” Euron sneered at his nephew. “Welcome her home by spilling her guts on my boots, why don’t you?”

Theon glanced at Yara’s face and, seeing no cringing there, pressed his attack. Euron tried to block with her, but Theon’s strikes were too high and well aimed. Yara might have slowed her brother’s attacks somewhat, but she was nowhere near as effective as a regular shield. Euron soon dropped her to draw a second axe.

“Grew some teeth after all, did you? I’m shocked; Balon despaired of you. Almost a shame to have to kill you, but most of these Iron sheep see you as his heir. Once I’m king, they’ll know what it’s like to be men again.”

Galladon could see that Euron’s full attention was on battling his nephew. The fierce grins on both mens’ faces revealed that this conflict had been a long time coming. Gal gathered himself, then pulled at the rusty chains with all his might. The snap came so suddenly that he couldn’t rein in the motion of his arms. They flew apart, knocking into the wall on one side and the Tarth woman on the other. She squawked in surprise, and then events happened very rapidly.

Yara turned to the sound of her distressed voice and noticed that Galladon’s hands were free.

Theon, thinking the cry came from Yara, attacked Euron with a desperate and brutal overhead blow. Euron dodged the killing force of the strike, but his left arm took enough of a hit that the axe dislodged from its grip.

The axe fell by Yara’s side. She scooped it up with her chained hands, yelled “Bri!” and tossed it to Brienne.

Brienne caught it, but her own chains kept her from wielding it effectively. “Take it,” she told Galladon.

Gal grabbed the weapon. It felt awkward in his grip, too small and light, but it would have to do. He rose from the floor, nearly seven feet of knightly determination. Euron had only the briefest warning as Theon’s eyes widened during their clash. He spun to look behind himself, and thus met Galladon’s cleaving strike with his forehead instead of his helm.

With one blow, it was all over but the clean up. The Greyjoy siblings embraced for the first time in more than ten years, their familial love shining so brightly it was almost visible. Brienne and Galladon stood awkwardly side by side, still strangers to one another but now, at least, more friendly ones.

Chapter Text

The Greyjoy siblings separated from their embrace, and Yara spared a sad glance at the remains of their uncle.

“He claimed he killed our da, Theon. Do you know if it’s true?”

“Aye. I was out on the Sea Bitch when my lookout spotted his sails. We got back as quick as we could, but it was too late. Ma’s safe though. I left my best men to guard her.”

Yara sniffed, then coughed to pretend she hadn’t. “What is dead may never die. Long live the new Lord Greyjoy.”

“What is dead may never die,” Theon echoed. “Who are your friends? And how’d you end up here, anyway?” he asked. The dream-like nature of the day was finally starting to wear off, leaving him in serious need of explanations.

“The tall, strapping, bl-” Yara looked back and forth between them in amusement – “I mean, the lovely lady is Brienne of Tarth. I kinda married her in your place. Shut up; it’s a long story, and I was just tryin' to get home. Not sure about the gent, but enemy of my enemy and all.”

Galladon bowed. “Ser Galladon Lannister of Casterly Rock. I was escorting my goodsister north when our ship was taken by that insane pirate. You’re well rid of him.”

“Your goodsister, is that Allora Lannister? Small woman, green eyes?” Yara asked.

“That’s right! Is she here? Was she harmed?”

“Nah, she’s at Greywater Watch, or she was when we left. She’s fine and remains as stubborn as a Brienne about heading north." (Brienne rolled her eyes at Yara's jab but couldn't contest it). "She set out with the young Reeds the same day we sailed.” Yara turned back to Theon to continue her tale, “Of course, the Pyke harbor is still junked, so we had to beach, and some of Euron’s men saw us. Me and Bri sent more’n a few of them to greet the Drowned God before we were captured.”

“I thank you all for helping defend my home,” Theon said. “I’ll welcome you with bread and salt as well as meat and mead as soon as we find out where the cooks are hiding.” He bowed towards Brienne and Galladon, then dropped his voice to tease Yara. “You really married a woman? How’d that not make it into a letter?”

“You really named your ship the Sea Bitch? I was kidding! And nah, the wedding wasn’t what you’d call official, and I used your name, so if anyone is married it’s you.”

“No one is married,” Brienne broke in firmly. She blushed as everyone looked at her. “I don’t mean to be rude, but remember this isn’t a social call. Lord Robb released Yara, in the guise of Theon, to plead with your father to send ships to support his cause. The Northern army is gathering at White Harbor and will need fast transportation if they want to execute a surprise strike near the Crownlands.”

Galladon cleared his throat, and everyone uncomfortably realized they had a loyalist in their presence. “The Crown’s already been warned,” he said. “They’re reinforcing the lands opposite White Harbor as we speak. Send over some scouts if you don’t believe me. The Northern invaders will be greeted by fortified castles and encamped armies.”

“Well, fuck,” Yara summarized.

“I don’t suppose you have any ravens?” Brienne suggested.

“For White Harbor? No.” The two Greyjoys and their not-wife exchanged significant looks representing a discussion about taking Galladon hostage and ransoming him to the Crown despite having already offered him hospitality.

Brienne spoke up. “Ser Lannister, perhaps if you traveled with us to White Harbor – not as a prisoner, but as a show of good faith – and we each met with the commander of our respective armies, we could negotiate a halt to what would surely be a senseless conflict.”

“I’m willing to make every effort,” Galladon said.

“Good. If you’ll excuse us, I’ll take my sister to greet our mother. They’ve been apart too long. Then we’ll roust the servants out of their hidey holes to man the kitchens and get this trash cleared out of the great hall.” Theon gave Euron’s body a final kick. Yara. It was good to have her back, but as he recalled, she always managed to get him into trouble.

Lord Tyrion, Ser Jaime, and Lord Stark convened their secret councils after full dark each evening when the castle was at its spookiest. Wind wailed through the gaps of the Ghost Tower, sounding so much like restless spirits that even a skeptic like Tyrion felt uneasy. It did tend to keep the meetings focused and moving at a brisk pace, at least.

“Maester Pycelle reported that the poison used to kill King Robert is known as the Strangler. It’s generally smuggled from Essos, so it’s rare, expensive, and difficult to obtain,” Tyrion said.

“If I know nobles, that means half the houses of note have a sample tucked away just for bragging rights,” Jaime replied.

“I’m afraid it’s worse than that. I grilled Pycelle on how he knew so much about it, and he revealed that any maester with a link for healing – which is most of them – is also trained in poison. Gods know how many maesters have some squirreled away.”

“Baelish’s family is not wealthy, but they do have ties to Essos,” Ned said.

“Baelish was Master of Coin for years while the Crown built up a staggering debt. I’m sure he managed to embezzle plenty,” Jaime remarked.

Tyrion chuckled, since he’d just been about to make the same point. The Northern lord would never quite get his mind around how deep the corruption in King’s Landing ran, it appeared.

“Robert died in one of his own brothels, don’t forget. Surely that’s enough,” Ned said.

“It’s still too circumstantial unless we can get a servant to say she put the poison in the king’s drink on Baelish’s orders. What we really need is a story to explain his motivations. Without a compelling reason, the rumor won’t take hold.”

“He… wanted a better position?”

“Than Master of Coin? No, I think it’s perfectly clear he is satisfied where he is.”

“His misdeeds concerning the treasury were about to be uncovered?”

“Interesting, but then he’d kill the Hand, not the king. Everyone knows Robert had little and less interest in the administrative side of governing.”

“Let’s examine what he received publicly after Robert’s death,” Tyrion said. “Harrenhal. I’m not sure why he’d want it other than its incomes, but shortly after King Joffrey was crowned, he declared Baelish the new lord of Harrenhal and protector of the Riverlands.”

“That is a lot of prestige for one so low born,” Jaime admitted.

“Exactly. He may not plan to stop there, but it’s an excellent way to transition to the ranks of the great lords.”

“It might be enough,” Ned said. He seemed doubtful.

“Remember Lord Stark, we don’t need to convict him at trial necessarily. We just need there to be fingers pointing in directions other than yours. The lords are not going to want to go to war in the North where they’ll be cold and hungry unless they’re sure of your guilt.”

Jaime wanted to add that Baelish would be a tempting alternate target for the nobles to gobble up. As someone close at hand and without powerful friends, he would serve as a way to put the affair behind them with little fuss. Jaime kept his mouth shut. Stark would be scandalized, and Tarth already saw it. Jaime decided he very much wanted to play cyvasse against this new Master of Ships; he seemed to know something of strategy.

Lady Alannys joined her children and their strange friends for dinner. Though Ironborn herself, she hailed from house Harlaw, one of the more wealthy and sophisticated families of the Iron Islands. She donned mourning dress in honor of her late husband, but her demeanor suggested that on balance she was more pleased to have Yara home than suffering from grief over Balon.

“You will make a fine lord, Theon. Your father would be proud to know you’ve already seen vengeance dealt to his faithless brother. And Yara, you’ve proven yourself to be possessed of unusual cunning. The cleverness you showed in keeping up the ruse all these years was breathtaking. I think you may have some Lannister blood in you.”

“You can take that right back,” Yara said, too startled by the shift in praise to remember that one of her dinner companions was a Lannister.

“A quick mind is nothing to be ashamed of, Yara. Many Ironborn, and indeed many Northerners, undervalue it to their chagrin. There’s a reason the Lannisters amassed so much power and wealth in so little time.”

Galladon chuckled politely. The castle of Pyke was so old that no records remained of what family, or indeed what race of people, initially built it. Much of it had already eroded into the sea. In another thousand years it would probably all be gone, but the Greyjoys tended to be more short-term thinkers than that.

“My father has the brains of the family, I’m afraid. My brother and I are but his instruments.” Galladon didn’t mind presenting himself as thick, considering that he was in a castle of uncertain allegiance. The Greyjoys would probably band with the Starks, but they were notorious for suddenly deciding to go their own way.

Alannys nodded to Brienne. “My lady of Tarth, what a strange journey you’ve had! I know your entanglement with our family has been unorthodox, but I heartily welcome you. I will certainly bless any official arrangements you would like to make.” Her eyes bounced quickly from Theon to Yara, then back to Brienne. Gaining the loyalty of the huge warrior woman (and her future children) would be worth it, whoever she wanted to marry.

Theon shifted awkwardly in his seat. He wasn’t against the idea in principle. He tended to like soft, pretty girls for his bedmates, but there was no denying that Brienne would give him strong sons. He was pretty sure it’d gut Yara like a trout though. They still had a lot of catching up to do, but the yearning looks she’d thrown the big woman’s way were unmistakable.

“Let’s worry about trying to keep the North and the Crown from ripping the realm apart first. Then we can get you some grandchildren, ” Yara joked to move along from that subject.

“Why?” Theon asked. He’d had some time to think it over, and in his opinion as the Lord of Pyke, both the Starks and the Lannisters had done more ill than good to the Ironborn. Them fighting each other was practically an answered prayer.

“Huh?”

“What’s it to us if they want to spend some blood and gold attacking each other? Maybe it even opens up some places for raiding. It’d be good to stock up for when summer ends.”

“I, uh, I tol’ Robb I would,” Yara said, suddenly on unsteady ground.

“But he didn’t make you swear. He sent you here with no guarantee. You said that you’d asked, and you asked. All done.”

“Yeah, but…” her brow furrowed as she contemplated that perhaps she’d been more affected by her time among the Starks than she’d thought.

“We did offer Ser Lannister safe passage to White Harbor,” Brienne said. “Without him, Euron would still be styling himself as the new Lord Greyjoy.”

Yara thanked the Drowned God for sending someone good at being honorable to guide her. “She’s right. Theon, at least give me enough crew for that fancy passenger ship Euron took – it’s barely armed; you won’t miss it – and let me do that bit.”

“Very well. Yes, so be it.” Theon struggled to keep his voice firm and certain. Had Yara not said his name, he probably would have sat there as dumb as one of Euron’s crew waiting for his father to rule. Balon had done his best (which often felt like his worst) to prepare Theon for the role he would inherit. He should have known it would come upon him suddenly and far sooner than either would have chosen.

Jaime saw the small party flanked by Lannister army escorts approaching Harrenhal under a flag of truce. Mixed in, he noticed Stark banners and… Greyjoy ones? This should be interesting.

He hurried to the gates to meet the group. Two uncommonly tall knights dismounted to approach. One was clad in a Greyjoy tabard and trailed by a shorter young man, probably a squire. The other… was his brother!

“Galladon!” Jaime rushed forward and, seeing no weapons pointed his brother’s way, did his best to crush him with a hug. “What are you doing back here?”

“You know me. Never able to say out of trouble. Me and the ladies have had some adventures on the high seas, but they were good enough to see me back safe to family.”

“Ladies?” Jaime asked, his gaze snapping past the nearer figures and scanning the rest of the group.

“May I present Lady Yara Greyjoy of Pyke and Lady Brienne of Tarth,” Galladon said, keeping a straight face at Jaime’s growing confusion.

The ‘of Tarth’ part got Jaime’s attention. After a second perusal of their faces, his mind finally accepted that the two were, in fact, women. “Well met, ladies. Lady Brienne, I have a pleasant surprise for you. Your brother happens to be visiting here. I’m sure he will be delighted to see you.”

Brienne’s smile transformed her serious face into that of a merry maiden. A homely one, to be sure, but it reminded Jaime that a lively sense of humor lurked within her oversized frame.

“Let us proceed inside and have a bite to eat,” Jaime said. “I believe we all have some tales to relate.”

Galladon told Jaime how he’d tried to help Allora travel to the North, and Yara picked up the story by affirming she’d arrived safely at Greywater Watch. They were getting into the details of the battle at Pyke when Tyrion entered the dining hall. Brienne rushed over to embrace him, and everyone pretended not to notice that she was twice his height.

They started the explanations over again, and Jaime couldn’t help but notice that Tyrion seemed off his game. He’d gotten used to the dwarf’s keen and penetrating questions, but this evening he seemed more interested in glaring Lady Yara to death.

It wasn’t Jaime’s imagination, either, because out of nowhere Yara turned on Tyrion. She met his gaze, seemed to consider the pros and cons of head butting him into submission, then finally said, “I’m sorry, okay? But there was no” – she gestured vaguely yet vigorously – “harm done.”

“Thank the gods!” Tyrion exclaimed in the voice of a man who hadn’t even considered that issue. “What were you thinking?” he hissed to his sister.

“I was trying not to upset you,” she whispered back.

“Good. Job.”

Jaime was completely lost, but Galladon had been brought up to speed during his stay on Pyke. Fortunately, he’d been in the role of peacemaker between Robert and an angry lord half a hundred times, keeping many a punch or charge of treason from being thrown around.

“Come now, you two don’t mean sour your reunion with a spat, do you? I’m pretty sure you’re going to be laughing about this together in a week. I think it’d make a great mummer’s show, myself. For now, why don’t we tell Ser Jaime about our meeting with Lord Robb.”

Brienne and Tyrion looked away from each other, then clasped hands. “Thank you, Ser Galladon,” Brienne said. “We all met with Robb Stark at White Harbor. He and his brother Jon are keeping their Northmen under control by the skins of their teeth. If Lord Stark isn’t returned to them soon, they’ll cross the river with or without Robb’s leave.”

Tyrion’s brain swiftly drilled into the problem at hand. On the bright side, they had Ned Stark on hand. However, he’d need a trustworthy escort to show the Crown’s good faith. Jaime would volunteer, of course, but Robb’s men might take him hostage and escalate matters further. He would need a co-escort who wouldn’t be missed at court and was trusted by Robb’s men.

“I have an idea,” said Tyrion.

Chapter Text

With the obvious exception of Lord Stark, the nobles at Harrenhal wished they could put aside their duties and spend more time in fellowship with one another. Both pairs of siblings felt they’d been apart for too long. Each had much to relate to the other, and also much to take in, not all of it good. They ate, drank, talked, and eavesdropped for a solid day before making the reluctant preparations to separate.

Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime were to escort Lord Stark to Maidenpool, then hire a ship for the voyage to White Harbor. If the gods were good, Stark would then take control of his bannermen and lead them back north. Ser Galladon was to assume command at Harrenhal in Jaime’s absence and keep the Crown forces on a tight leash. Lord Tyrion’s task was the most delicate, as he was charged with starting a covert whispering campaign to cast aspersions on Lord Baelish using the courtiers of King’s Landing.

For her part, Yara regarded her future as undetermined. She supposed that she should return to Pyke and help Theon in whatever way she could. However, if he was like their father, he would think that the primary aid she could render would be in marrying a lord with waning loyalty or a fat purse. It was not the sort of outcome to inspire a speedy return. When she was honest with herself, she admitted that her loyalties lay more with the Starks who were fighting for a just cause than with her brother who was merely grasping for resources. If she probed into depths of honesty that were painful to contemplate, she had an idea that leaving Brienne behind – probably never to see her again – was a big part of why she felt so reluctant to return home.

So, Yara drank wine, told tall tales and ribald jokes, and generally tried to fit into any conversation she could. After overindulging to the point that she needed to put her head down for a little snooze at the table, she felt strong but gentle arms pulling her to her feet. They supported her all the way up to her guest room. When she opened her eyes to thank Brienne, she saw Ser Galladon in her place. She squinted as her blurry vision aided her in approaching a significant insight about him, but then passed out instead.

The dawn beckoned, but no one was particularly keen to get an early start. Most were nursing hangovers with a side-order of reluctance. By mutual agreement, breakfast was deemed a necessity, then parting well-wishes went on and on.

“You watch out, yeah, and not just for protectin’ Ned Stark. I’m not sure I trust Jaime Lannister. I wish it was his brother what was going with you,” Yara told Brienne. “For that matter, I wish I hadn’t sent the ship back to Theon. Then I could take you to White Harbor myself.”

“It’d be a little awkward for Ned Stark to see you, don’t you think, when he’s been told that Theon has assumed control of the Iron Islands.”

“He’ll find out sooner or later. Might be fun to see his face when he does.”

Brienne laughed at Yara being Yara. “I’m surprised Ser Galladon has met your favor, being a Lannister and all.”

“Well, he don’t much act like one. Really he reminds me more of you. And I’d say that even if I was blindfolded. He’s surprisingly gentle and thoughtful for a big tower of muscle.”

Brienne appraised Yara with a look that could be described as gentle and thoughtful. “I never thought to ask… do you favor men as well?”

“I think so,” Yara said, then uncharacteristically giggled. “I never ‘xactly tried it out. Theon could hardly be asking around for moon tea, could he?”

“I suppose not.” Brienne’s face assumed a sincere expression that made Yara cringe inside, dreading what came next. “Listen, if you’re not here by the time I get back, just know that I truly enjoyed being your wife. If my father ever does manage to marry me off, you’ll be a tough act to follow.”

Yara playfully pushed her away (because that had kind of hurt), “Go on now and say farewell to your brother before he starts wantin' to kill me again.”

Brienne did as she was bid, kneeling to wrap Tyrion in a long embrace. “It’s not fair we had so little time. What I wouldn’t give to be back on the beaches of Tarth with you and Corrie.”

“I know. But duty calls, Sister. After you return from your mission, I would love to give you a tour of the capital. Perhaps before you-” he paused, suddenly realizing that his sister was no longer bound to a spouse and would not look forward to speaking with Father about it, “I mean, perhaps I can help you figure out what comes next.”

“Thank you, Tyrion. I would be grateful for your advice.” She punctuated her statement with a final rib-crackling hug. As she did quite often, she thanked the gods for her brother’s unconditional love. Without him, her craving for understanding might have led her into any number of rash decisions.

Tyrion grimaced as he stepped into the wheelhouse. Maester Qyburn’s vinegary scent promised an unpleasant trip. If only he could believe it was the honest smell of wine, he could ignore it. He’d seen the maester’s workspace, however. Lining every wall were jars of body parts and deformed animals floating in a preserving solution. He’d had to put his foot down very firmly to prohibit the man from bringing along two fresh corpses he’d been… what had he been doing to them? He was unsettling, laughed inappropriately, and – it turned out – no longer an actual maester. Renly had asked for him, though, so along he came. Tyrion was in no position to second-guess a member of the royal family.

“Have you visited King’s Landing before?” he asked.

“I’ve passed through,” Qyburn said with a knowing smile. “Lovely place. So many people come and go. If some disappear, no one cares. There’s little essence left in the city, though. Perhaps there may be some pockets remaining in the Red Keep where the dragonlords lived for so long. Harrenhal was the best I could find. Dark essence is still essence, after all.”

Tyrion had to suppress a shudder. The man looked like a harmless grandfather, slightly stooped and possessed of a kind smile. Something was off about him, however, to the point that Tyrion wished for his riding gear even though a storm threatened.

“Your experiments involve some form of magic? When I was a lad, our maester said there was no such thing.”

“A wise man I’m sure, but close-minded as so many of them are. Magic of the story-tale variety does not exist, no, but I believe there are certain energies we have not yet figured out how to harness. Certain remnants that may persist beyond what we understand. For example, imagine a knight in the prime of health. He can lift a stone table and cut through a boar’s carcass with one blow. He could easily live another forty years. Now, by surprise, someone puts an arrow through his heart. Where does all that energy go? All the potential he had stored inside him – forty years worth – where does it go? Can we salvage it, put it to work, perhaps in another form?”

Qyburn’s eyes shone, and Tyrion developed some uncomfortable suspicions about those two bodies he’d forced him to leave behind. He uncorked a flask of wine. This was going to be a long trip; best to doze through as much of it as possible.

Galladon paid careful heed to every word from Jaime’s lips about taking command at Harrenhal. Jaime had never been one for leaving written orders, and his mind tended to jump unpredictably from one topic to another. His second-by-second adjustments worked well as a fighting style, but required dutiful attention to translate into coherent plans. Fortunately, Galladon had long practice interpreting his brother.

This time, as much as Jaime tended to dress it up as an onerous responsibility, the situation called for little more than maintaining position and reading reports from their scouts at the coast. Still, it was his first major command, and Galladon was determined to make no mistakes.

“All the ravens should be in by lunchtime. After you sort through the messages and send supplies where they are needed, you can run drills in the yard. Just remember not to break too many of the soldiers’ limbs. We may yet need them,” Jaime teased.

“As I recall, you were the one Father always called careless.”

“With my toys perhaps, but never with mens’ lives.” Jaime grinned to take the sting out of the remark. Even discounting that he was family, Jaime couldn’t think of anyone more responsible than Galladon. “Of course, we can keep our hopes up that no fighting will be necessary. Father would certainly be happier if we sent everyone home to bring in another harvest.”

“From your lips to the gods’ ears,” Galladon said.

Galladon’s beaming smile drove all the doubts from Jaime’s mind. His little brother trusted him and believed in his ability to accomplish this risky mission with Lord Stark. Jaime departed to take his place riding alongside the armored woman (not that one could tell her sex while she wore a helm) and an innocuous-looking haywagon.

Jaime did leave one small matter unsaid. Perhaps it slipped his mind during the hectic plans for departure or he hadn’t wanted to distract his brother from his new duties. Perhaps he simply hadn’t wanted to admit to a mistake while basking in the glow of Galladon’s hero worship. In any event, he did not mention the deal he’d made with Walder Frey about betrothing his brother to a daughter of house Frey.

That evening, Galladon felt a loneliness that no amount of food, drink, or song seemed to cure. When the flirty Ironborn approached him at dinner, telling saucy jokes and reaching under the table to rub his thigh, he thought ‘why not?’ He carried her off, squirming and laughing all the while, to his massive set of rooms. Finally, he’d found a bed where his feet didn’t hang off the end. He put it too good use.

Yara spent the night cuddled next to him after their mutually beneficial encounter. Galladon awoke the next morning feeling refreshed and at ease. He’d never been the little spoon before; there was something to be said for it. As he observed her sleeping form, he thought she seemed almost sweet with her cheeky tongue at rest and mischievous eyes hidden away. He rose from the bed to dress and noticed something that filled him with shame. Her maiden’s blood showed plainly on the sheets. He hadn’t known, but nonetheless his duty was clear.

Jaime and Brienne were barely out of sight of Harrenhal when they abandoned the haywagon, unhooked the cart horse, and freed Ned from his haystack shelter. Jaime bit his tongue over and over to keep the japes at bay. With all the straw in his hair and stuck to his clothes, Lord Stark looked more like a scarecrow than the head of a high house and proud Warden of the North.

Jaime desperately wanted to discuss – and by that he meant tease without mercy – the big woman about her marriage to Lady Greyjoy. However, she’d said she wouldn’t discuss anything about that in front of Lord Stark. He was left merely mocking her appearance, which wasn’t nearly as satisfying. Ned kept shooting him barbed looks as well because, of course, he disapproved of anything the slightest bit rude or funny.

The dour woman and lord made quite a pair. They seemed perfectly content to ride to Maidenpool in silence. Jaime did his best to give air to only his most pity observations and comments. They were eventually met with “Are you incapable of shutting up?” from the (married to a woman and he was so curious about that) Maid of Tarth.

“Fine, I shan’t say another word until we see the port of Maidenpool,” Jaime replied in a snit.

“Praise the Mother’s mercy,” Brienne said.

Stark laughed at that, damn him.

---

Finally, they arrived and booked passage across the bay. The sailors were happy to swap tales with Jaime, so he left his reticent companions to themselves. Brienne guarded Lord Stark by day, and he shared a cabin with Jaime by night. His silence felt marginally less judgmental while he slept.

White Harbor bristled with various Northern banners: Manderly, Glover, Bolton, and of course, Stark, Stark, and more Stark. Jaime swallowed his nervousness and led the group down the plank. He kept his hand carefully far from his sword and had Brienne walk closer to Lord Stark with her helm removed so his bannermen could see he was under no threat.

Robb Stark met them, his mouth dropping open in astonishment as his eyes filled with tears of joy. “Father! Is it really you?”

“Indeed.” Ned gripped Robb’s arm in greeting, then noticed his nearby bannermen kneeling. A chant of ‘King in the North’ began to build. Lord Stark shot a startled glance to his companions before bringing his arms down in a shushing maneuver.

“Let us show my guests some Northern hospitality,” Stark said. “We’ve had a long journey and there are matters of grave concern to discuss.”

The Northerners trailed the Stark lords and their guests back to the keep. It resembled a harvest feast parade, with cheering commoners and flasks of wine being broken out all around. There was an atmosphere of dissipating tension and disaster narrowly averted.

The hospitality Jaime and Brienne were offered was no stingy affair, but a fully fledged feast with fish, fowl, beast, and even a pudding. They relaxed, drank, and made merry, confident that the Stark code of honor would keep them safe.

Jaime did overhear one odd tidbit. Towards the end of the feast, Ned Stark drew his bastard son away from the table. Lord Stark told the nearby nobles, “I hope you’ll excuse us. I have a matter to discuss with Jon that I have put off for too long.” He led a puzzled-looking Jon Snow away. Another round of toasts began afterwards, and the matter was soon forgotten by most in attendance.

---

Unlike his departure from Harrenhal, here Jaime woke before sunrise, eager to take his leave from the North. He was dressed, packed, and breakfasted by dawn, well ready to say fare-thee-well to Lord Stark and rejoin his brother. He met Lady Brienne on the way to Stark’s chambers. Apparently underneath her stoic demeanor, she also had had her fill of the North.

“Shall we get this over with, my Lady?”

“Let’s,” she responded crisply. Great, the journey back was shaping up to be no better than the journey here.

Jaime knocked on Lord Stark’s chamber door. It gave slightly, which was odd. He stepped inside, calling, “My lord?” The smell caused him to draw his sword without conscious thought. Later, he would identify it as the coppery scent of spilled blood, but at the moment all his senses signaled primal DANGER.

Brienne pushed in beside him and gasped. Ned Stark lay on the ground, in a huge pool of blood. The wound at his throat gaped so widely his head looked nearly severed. “What have you done?” she cried.

“I didn’t do this, you fool! Even if you think me so stupid, I’m not suicidal. Where were you last night?”

“Sleeping.”

“Alone, I have to presume.”

Brienne fixed him with a scowl.

Jaime sheathed his sword and stepped back into the corridor, closing the door. “We leave quietly before anyone knows what’s happened.”

“Are you insane? They’ll say we were assassins. It will spark a war!”

“Would you rather be taken by the Northmen and executed in the most imaginative ways they can devise? I did see Bolton banners out there, you know.”

She seemed to need to think about it, which made Jaime want to slap some sense into her. He heard footsteps approaching and turned to see Jon Snow. Jon Snow… the last person to be seen with Lord Stark.

“You!” Jaime growled.

Chapter Text

Brienne put a restraining hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “No blood,” she said, indicating Jon with a jerk of her head. Lord Stark’s room had been awash with blood. Slashing his throat and escaping without so much as a speck on his boots would have been impossible.

Reluctantly, Jaime came around to her line of reasoning. “Don’t go in there, Snow. Your father’s been murdered.”

“What?” Jon said in disbelief and immediately opened the door. The events of the prior evening still had his head swimming. His father – uncle – had always been his rock. To find out so much of his life had been a lie left him unmoored, and now they were trying to tell him he was utterly at sea. That he took in the tragic scene without breaking apart completely showed an admirable strength of character.

Brienne deemed Jon’s innocence confirmed by his parchment-white face and plain shock. Grief and rage soon took their turns playing across his features. Brienne had not been close with Jon during her time at Winterfell. The Stark family, with one matronly exception, loved Jon but held him apart due to his bastardy. In the guise of Theon, Yara had tried to befriend him as a fellow outcast but had been rebuffed. A bastard was still a step above a hostage in the family hierarchy. Brienne thought of him as a poor scholar, a good fighter, and by a significant margin, the best leader of the young Starks. More people listened to Robb because he was the heir, but Jon often had more creative ideas and was better at inspiring others to reach their goals.

“You must know we didn’t do this,” she said gently. “We escorted your father through miles of hostile territory to bring him safely among his own men. If we meant him harm, we wouldn’t have waited until the worst possible place.”

“Go then,” Jon said hoarsely. “Leave before this is discovered. It’s not going to be safe for southerners here.”

“You should come with us. Everyone at the feast saw you and Lord Stark leave together. They’ll say he decided to send you away and you killed him in a rage. Nobles often say that bastards are full of strange passions. You know it’s true.”

“I know if I run, they’ll take that as a confession. I may be first accused, but I trust my br- Lord Robb to see justice done. Wouldn’t you trust your brother?”

“I would,” Jaime and Brienne chorused.

“It’s not so different for bastards. Not with Robb.” Jon appeared briefly troubled as he realized he might have to share his secret with Robb to explain the meeting.

Brienne took his expression as a wobble of uncertainty. (Jaime missed it, as he was still considering the question but concerning his sister instead).

“I could stay,” she offered. “Ser Jaime, yes, the northern lords will suspect him, but Robb knows me. He knows I would never harm anyone in your family.”

“You’re still southern, and the lords are spoiling for a fight. I’m becoming sure that some have been stirring the pot intentionally. Even though you’ve done nothing to deserve it, you will be suspected. Perhaps if you’d brought the Greyjoy fleet…”

“I’m sorry. We just couldn’t convince him.” Brienne grimaced. Having talked herself into a bit of a corner, she allowed Jon to believe the ‘he’ in question was Balon.

“I don’t really know why Robb thought he’d feel a speck of gratitude,” Jon said with disgust.

“We should go,” Jaime broke in. The sounds of the castle had picked up as the guard shifts changed and more men woke for their breakfast.

“Good fortune, Jon. You know… the lords listen to Robb, but the men listen to you. Please remember that your father’s last wishes were against war. Don’t let his bannermen use his death to pervert them.”

Jon nodded at her. Brienne expected to see his big brown eyes full of tears, but instead he seemed to age fully into a man in that moment. He strode away, head held high.

Galladon considered the tactics of the situation deeply. This would be a battle won by strategy and no small amount of guile. That was usually the way of it when Westermen and Ironborn came together.

His choice of initial weapon was easily decided. He rejected the typical bouquet of flowers in favor of a tray of eggs, bacon, toast, and (to add a touch of Lannister extravagance) orange slices. “Care for a spot of breakfast, my lady?”

It took Yara a moment to remember why she was so pleasantly tired at this time of morning. “Sure, thanks.” She sat up in bed, exposing her bare breasts to the cool air. Her nipples hardened, causing Galladon to hurriedly hand over the tray and turn away.

“You blush just like Brienne,” she laughed. “Surely a knight of the realm is harder to embarrass than a maid who’d barely been off her father’s island.”

“You needn’t concern yourself. I’m sure I can get used to a woman who is not ashamed of her body. Do you have any regrets?”

“About fucking you? Nah, I enjoyed it.”

Galladon startled. He’d expected a couple more levels of euphemism there. He pulled a chair over to the bed, not wanting to upset her tray with his bulk. “I’m glad. Sometimes a woman’s first time isn’t pleasant.”

“It wasn’t my first time,” Yara scoffed.

Galladon raised his eyebrows, pinning her to the lie.

“Well, alright. You’re my first man. I usually go with girls.”

“So do I, as it happens,” he grinned. If she was trying to shock him, she failed. Galladon had spent enough time at court to grow close with Lord Renly. They might have gotten a good deal closer had the young and incredibly handsome Loras Tyrell not arrived to turn Renly’s head.

“Yeah, I could tell I wasn’t your first.”

“You were my first noble lady.”

“Noble,” she snorted. It was almost ridiculous. The armor scattered on the floor was no silk ball gown, and she was more used to answering to ‘Lord Theon’ than ‘my lady.’

“You are,” he said gently. “And when a noble lady has been deflowered, there’s only one honorable course for the gentleman. We must wed.”

Yara blinked. “Have you lost your mind?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“No… well, perhaps a bit, but only because of you. I admire a woman who goes after what she wants. I think I’ve loved you ever since you spit in your uncle’s face and dared him to kill you rather than accept his rule. That kind of spirit is rare, and you have to admit, the passion showed itself well last night.”

Yara looked away, refusing to yield so easily. The big knight’s earnest eyes were starting to do a number on her. She needed him to understand before it was too late. “Listen, I feel it too, that there’s something between us. I’ve felt it for a while. But, like I said, I mostly go with girls.”

Galladon shifted back into her eyeline. He laughed with honest good humor. “I can’t imagine why you think that would be a problem.”

Upon his return to King’s Landing, Tyrion barely had time to change his clothes and read through his messages before a page summoned him to a small council meeting. A second page arrived a moment too late with a cup of wine that would go sadly unquaffed.

Tyrion took his place at the council table. Petulant shouting from the direction of the royal residence indicated that he’d narrowly beaten King Joffrey to the chamber. The Baratheon brothers were already there, Renly smiling knowingly as always and Stannis whose facial terrain was notably less expressive. Pycelle helped himself to refreshments and prattled meaninglessly to the air. Most of the others sat quietly, their attention drawn to the council’s guest, Lord Tywin Lannister.

The lord’s cold blue eyes swept over the group, pausing significantly at Tyrion. His jaw tightened in disgust, perhaps, or rage. Tyrion lifted his chin up higher. If Lord Lannister had a problem with his place on the council, he could talk to him about it man to man. He would do well to have more of a reason than that Tyrion was a dwarf. Perhaps a few moons ago that would have sufficed, but Tyrion had done much to earn the loyalty of the Baratheons in the meantime.

King Joffrey strode into the room, angrily shaking off the kingsguard who flanked him. Lord Lannister stood and bowed formally low to his grandson. Everyone else followed, but Tywin had scored the first points for fealty.

Joffrey’s mouth was a pinched scowl. “I suppose you’ve heard by now, Grandfather, that you’ve come all this way for nothing. There will be no trial because some traitors helped Ned Stark escape! My father’s murderer has fled! Justice demands the North bleed for this. I demand it! I command it! Call all the banners, every one.”

The Baratheons seemed remarkably unconcerned. Stannis replied, “As you say, Your Grace, but first we must finish rooting out the traitors who facilitated his escape. Otherwise our plans will be comprised from the start.”

“Do you hear that? All this time he’s advised nothing but delay, while Stark’s trail grows ever colder. No more. Grandfather, will you be my new Hand, a useful Hand who actually follows my orders?”

Lord Lannister inclined his head. “If that is the king’s will.”

“And you, Uncle, are dismissed,” Joffrey sneered.

Color stood out high on Stannis’ cheeks, but he said nothing. He pushed the stack of parchments before him to the center of the table and took his leave. Tyrion pitied the first dozen or so servants he would encounter. A proud man humiliated before his peers would surely seek an outlet.

“How can you not want to sing?” Jaime asked his dour riding partner. He’d maintained his silence as they stole (“borrowed”) horses and bluffed their way out of White Harbor. There’d been no pursuit, and now the dead Lord Stark lay miles behind them. As soon as they hit the Kingsroad, they’d have a straight shot to Harrenhal. He wanted to whoop and crow about their narrow escape, but Lady Tarth hadn’t so much as returned a grin.

“You think that went well?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes! We’re still alive. We’re not even maimed. Honestly, woman, you are quite the stickler for perfection.”

“The man we escorted is dead. The war we were trying to avert is more likely now than ever. We failed utterly.”

“We delivered Stark safe and sound. He was slain by some of his own Northern barbarians. They’ll have to sort it our amongst themselves. Surely you remember, we did nothing wrong.”

“Doesn’t mean we won’t be blamed.”

Gods, when would he be rid of the glum wench? “Take your victories where you can find them. Their misjudgments aren’t our fault. Don’t say that they’ll be our problem!” Wonderful, now she was in his head.

“They’re good people,” she whispered, “they didn’t deserve any of this.”

Jaime was startled to notice tears gathering in her pale lashes. Of course – she’d lived at Winterfell not so long ago. He’d been chiding her for a lack of celebration while she was grieving.

“Hey… you’re right. You’re right.” He awkwardly patted her armored shoulder. Women’s tears, especially Cersei’s, usually seemed strategic. He wasn’t entirely sure how to handle ones that weren’t. “The world would be a very different place if everyone got what they deserved. Personally, I think that’s why the gods are so popular. They satisfy the notion that somehow it all balances out in the end.”

“And what?” she asked, her grief suddenly turning to anger. “Nothing matters so you just flit from battle to battle and let someone else worry about the details?”

“No! No. Why do you think I took on the vows of knighthood? We try to make the world a better place, it just doesn’t always work out. There’s only so much we can take responsibility for.” He didn’t know who he was trying to convince: her or himself. Ever since Princess Elia and her children had been slain by the knight – his father’s knight – Gregor Clegane, the title had seemed more and more hollow to Jaime.

“We tried so hard. All for nothing,” she murmured.

“There’s honor in doing what’s right, even if you lose. At the very least, we kept a miscarriage of justice from being done in the Crown’s name. That does make the realm a little stronger. It will make some of the Northerners wonder why we’d return him if we meant to kill him. Don’t despair; the arrows haven’t flown yet.”

“That’s… true.” Her brow wrinkled in a puzzled half-smile.

“Right. Good. So you feel better?”

“I do. Thank you.”

“Do you feel maybe you owe me one?”

“Yes,” she replied warily. Ser Jaime was clearly uncomfortable with sincerity and veering away from it at a breakneck pace.

“Then will you please, please, tell me about your marriage? I cannot bear my little brother knowing the details while I don’t.”

Renly was close to drunk and still stewing in anger. Not even Loras had been able to take the edge off tonight. They’d argued – or Renly had picked a fight, really – and his squire left in a huff saying he could keep his bad humors to himself. Which, frankly, was fair. They’d make up tomorrow. Finally, something worth anticipating.

His brother Robert had solved problems by force of arms or charisma. Stannis had a deep belief that the world should make sense and that anything that didn’t fall in line should be trimmed away. Renly had neither Robert’s commanding presence nor Stannis’ faith. He was more of a planner. The stage had been well set, but his schemes hadn’t borne fruit quickly enough to satisfy his impetuous nephew. So despite it all, they were headed for war.

His chamber door banged open. He turned to scold Loras for his indiscretion but saw a wild-eyed Queen Cersei instead. She was disheveled and covered in blood from the neck down. It dripped from her sleeves and had matted in her long hair. She staggered towards him for help.

“Gods, Cersei, what happened? Where are you wounded? Where are your kingsguard?” He ran to her and took her into his arms to keep her from collapsing. The sight of the queen shocked the suspicions from his mind. He’d previously felt sure that she had to be involved in Robert’s poisoning, but now there appeared to be deeper plots afoot.

“Dead, all dead,” she croaked. She pulled at the neck of her dress, but it was stuck to her skin by the weight of blood. “Not mine.” Her eyes rolled back to the whites, and Renly thought she was fainting. She gathered herself by sheer force of will and grabbed Renly’s collar. “A shadow. A shadow killed Joff.” Green wildfire blazed in her eyes. Renly had never seen anything more insane.