Chapter Text

Rickard realized, hoisted up on the rafters by the pyromancers above the pyre they were trying to set alight, that he was not just surrounded by madness but also by incompetence.

His son, his heir, who was too stupid to stop and think for a second before charging into the domain of a mad tyrant with a penchant for burning people with wildfire while questioning said king's power and threaten the crown prince.

His king, Aerys II Targaryen, the aforementioned tyrant with a predilection for everything green and flaming, probably needed no further explanation. Still, for the sake of due process, his incompetence needed to be explained as well. The fool had managed to antagonize one of the most brutal field commanders and able peace-time administrator of their time, his Hand Tywin Lannister, because of how well Tywin had steered the realm in Aerys' name.

The Kingsguard around him, in their full glory, who for their vaunted post apparently traded in their pride and honor as anointed knights for the wonderful job of acting as hired muscle. Even their coats, while nice, were horribly impractical. Pure white? Forget stealth and prepare for a whole lot of cleaning if the Kingsguard did their work decently.

And lastly, the pyromancers. The Wisdoms might be a sure hand with their fireworks, but they obviously did not know how to properly tighten a chain or tie a basic knot. Imbeciles. All of them.

To the backdrop of cackling Aerys, Rickard was simply hoisted up in loose chains that Rickard was able to slip out of the second the kindling set the wood alight underneath him. Rickard dropped into the stack of burning wood in his heavy plate mail, breaking branches and timber with his fall, only to proceed to walk out of the fire with flames licking at his boots. Free from the fire Rickard felt comfortably warm inside his armor for a second as he stepped on the cool marble floor of the throne room.

Rickard strolled towards his son Brandon with the quiet dignity Rickard was known for. While Aerys laughter first devolved into an ebbing giggle and after into a fit of screams and shaking, Rickard unsheathed his sword and cut the noose his foolish son was threatening to strangle himself with. Idiot.

Behind Rickard his liege apparently found the one wit again that remained in his head and started screaming orders to his guards, to his knights, to his pyromancers, to all the nobles in attendance. The majority were by and large too shocked to act from the way the king had despoiled the sanctity of the Trial by Combat to react to the mad man's screeching commands.

Not so the pyromancers, mad men one and all, of the king's likeness. However, trained alchemists made for poor fighters. Wisdom Rossart was the first to reach Rickard, followed immediately by Wisdom Garigus and Wisdom Belis. The three Wisdoms seemed half-lost to the world around them at the sight of the burning pyre, not even aware of the fact that the guards that were supposed to follow and help them simply did not do so.

As his son was recovering his breath with hacking coughs on the ground behind him, Rickard closed in on the fire slingers and swiftly cut off Rossart's leg with a single swing of his sword, smoothly felled Garigus with a stab to the stomach and cut Belis‘ throat with only a cursory glance in Belis' direction.

Now, however, followed the most distasteful part of this whole sham of a trial. With a little exertion of strength Rickard pushed both the surviving Wisdoms into the burning fire in the middle of the room to quell the king's thirst for the smell of burned flesh, and afterwards Rickard dragged the body of the dead Belis along to keep Rossart and Garigus company. The fire quickly cauterized Rossart's leg, keeping the man from bleeding out too quickly. Screams by the burning pyromancers rose in tandem with the renewed cackling of the king. Lackwits.

„Wisdom Rossart, Wisdom Garigus and Wisdom Belis tried to interfere with my Trial of Combat, your grace. The fire is still burning; therefore my trial is not over. The gods have judged them through my hand for their insolence. Your Majesty, let us watch together as the flames righteously take these heretics in their wonderful glory.“

Rickard solemnly lied to his king with exactly the necessary words. The old wolf had taken the measure of Aerys. To the king it did not matter who burned, it mattered that someone burned. Rickard had given Aerys the spectacle he wanted. The king would be mollified after he had gorged himself on the stink he craved, the noxious odor of fire and blood. Rickard watched stoically as the two men in the fire died screaming. Aerys laughed. The fire cracked and hissed. All else was silent.

The screams stopped after ten minutes. The fire continued to burn for another hour, accompanied by the king's manic laughter and the smell of burnt hair and flesh. Not once did Rickard avert his eyes from the flames that would have been his doom had the alchemists been any less foolish.

Once the fire had burnt itself out, leaving only ashes and three vaguely human looking incinerated husks, Rickard dropped on one knee and addressed the king on his throne.

„My king. I have won my trial and bid you to release my son and his companions. I need to thoroughly teach Brandon not to question his betters.“

From the corner of his eyes Rickard could see his son gearing up to speak, red rage on Brandon's face. The fool had not learned. Rickard swiftly rose, swiftly strode over to Brandon and swiftly slapped him. Hard. Rickard was still wearing his full plate.

„Son. Why. Do. You. Not. Yet. KNEEL?!“

Brandon stood stunned into silence, so Rickard backhanded his heir, strong enough that Rickard's iron gauntlet drew blood. Brandon finally got the message. He knelt, shamefaced and quiet.

„Please pardon my son's unjust transgressions, your grace, it was rooted in misplaced anger towards your family. Brandon only acted the way he did because your son Rhaegar took action that was only to be in your power, my king. If it pleases you, your grace, to break the betrothal of my daughter to Lord Baratheon, you needed only send the word and I, your loyal subject, would have complied. We did not know it was your will that Prince Rhaegar was carrying out when he left with my daughter Lyanna.“

Rickard's words had the intended effect. Fiery fury twisted the king's face in his unhinged madness. Rickard once more regretted not going to the Tourney of Harrenhal himself. He should have verified the rumors of the king's state personally. The discord between the crown and its heir was the wound to be exploited from this transgression.

Brandon should have salted that wound, not bound it. This was the moment to drive the final wedge between Aerys and Rhaegar. The dragons would turn on each other as the loyalists chose sides and the more cunning houses would watch the spectacle from afar, forcing the winner for concessions.

The king finally got his features under control again before he made to address Rickard and the court.

„Lord Stark, your loyalty to the throne is exemplary, indeed. We regret to inform you that Rhaegar did not act in Our name. It seems like he unlawfully abducted your daughter Lady Lyanna. As a just ruler We cannot condone such an act of tyranny. Let it be proclaimed to all corners of the realm that Crown Prince Rhaegar is to return Lady Lyanna within a moon turn, unharmed and with her honor intact, or he will cease to be the crown prince. In his absence We proclaim Prince Viserys as Prince of Dragonstone, to be anointed by the Faith in a moon if Rhaegar does not return in time.“

The king looked superbly pleased with himself. Brandon was flabbergasted, trapped in a cycle of never-ending shock as one upset followed the next. The whole court mirrored his expression, all the noble lords and ladies schooled in keeping up their courtly masks finding themselves in a stupor that broke their expectations.

It was time for Rickard's exit.

„Your grace. Thank you for the honor you give our family by seeing that justice is done for the abduction of my daughter. I beg you once more for clemency in the name of my son in your great mercy. I am willing to meet any demands you ask of me to see him safe. I promised his mother.“

Aerys was watching him now, slyly and dangerously. Though mad, the king was not hopelessly foolish and was at times prone to cunning schemes that could disrupt the plans of many a great lord. His naming of young Jaime Lannister had been a particularly vicious ploy.

„Lord Stark, as merciful ruler We grant pardon to your son should your offer for his release please Us.“

Rickard had expected worse. He knew what the king liked to take from powerful people under him and what moved his heart at its core. In a way, Aerys perfectly embodied the words of his house, Fire and Blood. He was obsessed with fire and liked to shame lords of high blood and take control away from them.

Making up his mind Rickard addressed the king with a voice that Rickard knew to carry his words to all the lords in attendance. There would be no going back after this proclamation.

„As punishment for my son I am ready to strike him from my line of succession as long as he keeps his life. Brandon has demonstrated he is unfit to rule when he insulted his liege whom he owed fealty to. That would place my second son as my heir apparent, just like the young dragon Viserys might be slated to become your heir.

„Furthermore, I will immediately send a raven to Winterfell to affect the gifting of a year's harvest of ironwood to your grace's treasury. Famed for their incomparable sturdiness when worked into shields and their unique blue flame, I will deliver the processed timber at your convenience.“

Brandon made to turn to his father, probably to say something, so Rickard offhandedly gave his son another firm slap that sent him reeling. Well, at least Brandon did keep quiet after that. Idiot.

The king giggled gleefully at the sight, at the rush of power from shaming the Starks and at the thought of glorious blue fire. Lackwit.

The court stood inactive as the king tore the realm apart with his folly. Imbeciles.

Rickard could not await the minute the gate of King's Landing closed behind him and he was on his way back to Winterfell. Good riddance.

After the king had bubbled his agreements to the terms Rickard proposed and bade Rickard to carry Aerys' good wishes north, Rickard was out of the throne room within a second. A raised hand stopped Brandon when the fool made to speak. Rickard grabbed his fallen heir by the neck, to pull him in and whisper into his ear.

„The walls have ears, you idiot, we will talk after we have left the city. Actually, every time an unnecessary word escapes your mouth, I will slap you again. Understood? No, don't answer. Nod.“

Brandon almost caught his next slap, only narrowly dodging it by keeping his face shut and complying by way of motion.

Behind them Rickard could hear a stout man approach, the steps marked by the man's slapping weight. Upon turning Rickard found himself across Owen Merryweather, the old lickspittle. And Tywin Lannister's replacement as Hand of the king.

It took only a short time for Rickard and Lord Owen to arrange the minutiae for the release of Brandon's companions, chief among them Elbert Arryn, heir to the Vale.

The first thing the young falcon did once he was free of his manacles was decking Brandon in the face. There was no collective gasp from Brandon's young entourage at the action, either. Obviously, all of them felt that Rickard's son had earnt that one. Cutting him off as his heir had been the right decision for Rickard. Too many lords would lose their respect for Brandon after this folly.

It would also give the stick to Hoster Tully. Ambitious cunt. Even denied Rickard an escort to the king and tried to change the Tully daughter's betrothed to Ned the minute Rickard and Hoster heard of Brandon's actions. As if Rickard's firstborn was already dead. Slippery, honorless fish. Hoster would now probably break the betrothal of Catelyn and Brandon.

After that, Jon Arryn would not treat with the trout anymore either, seeing as Tully had also consigned Jon's heir Elbert to death. None of Hoster's daughters would ever be a lady paramount, not when one had an abortion and the other a broken betrothal in their past.

The only other heir left to a great house that was close to marriageable age right now was Rodrik Greyjoy. But that boy was two generations away from the Seastone Chair. And though Quellon was a good sort for an Ironborn and possessed at least some smarts, Quellon's brood did not inherit those at all it seemed.

The Tullys would find themselves no allies, no brides and no friends for the foreseeable future. Served 'em right. It was time to focus on the North again. The southerners and their dragon kings could go fuck themselves for all that Rickard cared.

Chapter Text

Rickard had to release a long, drawn out sigh as he settled into his chair in his guest quarters at the Red Keep. Rickard had wanted to have left the capital already, gone before the day had reached its end, but it was not to be. Why could people not simply leave him in peace after an event as trying as the trial he had to survive in the morning?

Lord Merryweather, while not the swiftest shadowcat at the sight of a snow bear, was able to write down the contract of reparations quick enough. After a lot of bullying.

Gods, what a waste of space that man was. Doubly true, because the Lord Hand was more obese than a horde of Manderlys. The Horn-of-Plenty Hand? More like the Hand that ate the Horn-of-Plenty.

Rickard had been halfway out the door when the sausage-fingered Hand had told Rickard that the king had invited Rickard and his men to stay the night. And for Rickard to join King Aerys at the high table as guest of honor. All because of Rickard's exemplary conduct and victory at his trial by combat. What a load of crap.

After agreeing to the invitation – as if declining it would have brought anything but a second trial by wildfire – Rickard first and foremost took steps to ensure his foolish son would not attend the banquet and kill them all in the process. All four of Brandon's companions were ecstatic that they were tasked with keeping watch over Brandon in their chambers. They all wanted to be well away from the king. Also, the permission to slap Brandon in Rickard's place if he spoke any word at all was the cherry on top of the cake for Elbert, Ethan, Jeffory and Kyle.

After Lord Merryweather had left to prepare his feast Rickard had been surprised when Princess Elia Martell had barged into Rickard's guest quarters with nary a warning. The princess had to her a certain regal air that Aerys decidedly lacked. Appearing regal did only denote a certain amount of poise, however, not any insured measure of intelligence.

The princess, luckily, did not seem inclined to the utter stupidity that suffused the entirety of the capital as much as its infernal stench did. By the Others, the Crownlanders lived where one of the biggest rivers of the realm met the Narrow Sea and they could not even handle waste management properly in this steaming pile of a city. Rickard missed the smell of the North, pine trees and frozen air.

The princess did not mince words with Rickard after pulling him out from his rooms onto a nearby balcony that allowed for a pocket of privacy, away from the Spider's web that spanned the whole castle. There was no Kingsguard by her side to protect her. Odd, that. Even with Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent on the run with Rhaegar the security of the princess should not have been neglected.

More importantly, proper surveillance of the Dornish princess was a matter of paramount importance to the throne. Dorne was too powerful a force to antagonize for matters of pride or foolish disdain. For Rickard it could only be an advantage, though, for it allowed for personal, and more importantly, private negotiations to be held with the princess.

When Elia Martell started speaking to Rickard, she opened with a truth and ended with one, with many a half-lie or empty flattery in between to deter wandering ears.

„My lord Stark, I am glad you bested the fire today for I am sure we both know your survival saved the whole realm a whole lot of blood spilled in the name of revenge. Your honor and skill at arms were at the trial exemplary. I am sure the king could not have named a champion more worthy from the men at his disposal than fire itself and your ingenuity in besting it was unparalleled.

"It was a godsend that you also managed to dispatch the triumvirate of Wisdoms at the trial, they have unduly been trying to get the king to commit unjust murder. Luckily, Varys has managed to always find true traitors to burn so that none that are innocent have fallen to Rossart's schemes.“

Rickard was fairly certain Wisdom Rossart had never been cunning enough to scheme, the pyromaniac did not look like a person that could pull of a secret plan. Oh, he had not been stupid, quite brilliant. Brilliant in that way where some people show an incredible dedication and talent for a singular subject and are useless for everything else. Sadly, in Rossart's case his talent had been in alchemy. A pity. In light of that knowledge Rickard knew how to take the rest of the princess' words.

„I would like to ask a favor of you, my lord," continued princess Elia, "you see, our wise king has recognized that my dear daughter has been exposed to too much – how to put this – Dornishness. Some distance to the Dornish influence here in King's Landing might be good for her. I have seen the lengths you go to see your children save. I would be overjoyed if you could take her in as a ward for some when you leave.

"My beautiful, pale-haired Aegon is still too young to be influenced by wrong forces yet. The king has taken a liking to him and he will not be in danger here, even if my treacherous husband should come to claim him. I fear how we women will be afflicted from his folly. Only my little dragon, I know, will be protected.“

Rickard was pondering under the princess' silent gaze, afflicted with both contemplation and admiration. Oh, what a queen this one could have been. Smart and decisive, loving and fierce. If not for that mad man on the throne, if not for that mad man that took his Lyanna. So much said with so much smoke. Prince Aegon was protected, princess Rhaenys a liability and princess Elia herself had not been aware of her husband's endless foolishness. Maybe bargain could be struck with the Martells, then. An interesting offer.

Rickard's Lyarra had loved all their children equally, as did all mothers. As he did, too. A pity the realm cared more for sons. Still, princess Elia had not glossed over the largest problem with taking in the little princess. A Targaryen daughter of but little value to the king. A disposable pawn. Elia Martell did not hide that fostering Rhaenys offered more risk than reward but confronted Rickard with it, hoping for a parent's love to overcome that looming obstacle.

Above all else, taking princess Rhaenys in would be a liability for Rickard. It put the warden of the North on the map in the political labyrinth that was the royal court. That did not outweigh the benefits if Rhaegar won the war on the horizon. And Rickard did not look to ingratiate himself with the foolish prince who took his daughter besides.

„I am, my princess, truly sorry. I love my daughter. You love your daughter. We are both victims of a cruel prince who did not see with sense. But I cannot take up the charge to see your daughter safe while my own remains in danger. The trade for me and mine holds too much potential for disaster. Know this, though, if my wife were alive, her heart would be with you. I have no higher compliment to give.“

Elia Martell did not look surprised. She did not look saddened or resigned either. There was steel in her gaze still, unbent, unbowed, unbroken. With her black Dornish eyes on Rickard's own she sat up straighter before addressing him again with a crisp voice that had a hard edge to it.

„Lord Stark. I am sure words of my frailty has reached you, I feel a growing spell of dizziness overwhelming me. I do not want to end our talk just yet, however. Would you be so kind and accompany me to my quarters? For your troubles I'd happily show you the royal wing of the keep, not many guests have had that honor. Trust me, it is not a sight to forget. Or a sound.“

Yes, words of the princess' condition had rung through the realm. But Rickard was sure that Elia Martell was not affected by any ailments that could impede her in that moment. Smart women were a force of nature and not to be cowed by flights of dizziness. There was something in the royal wing that could not be spoken of even in veiled words. Something that had to be seen. Something that had to be heard.

Princess Elia stepped from the balcony with Rickard by her side and made for the quarters of the royal family. Her own guards, decked into the livery of the Martells, fell in line behind them along with two Dornish handmaidens that walked right behind Elia and Rickard. A Qorgyle and a Lemonwood, loyal retainers of the rulers of Dorne. They walked together in silence, the princess leading their small procession with a steady step. Definitely not frail.

Finally they reached the part of the castle solely reserved for the Targaryen family. The guards had to stay behind at the entrance as this area was under the supervision of the Kingsguard, no regular men-at-arms were to proceed further. The Ladies Qorgyle and Lemonwood were the only ones to remain with them as they neared a corridor that was guarded by the Princess' uncle, Ser Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard. He tensed slightly as Elia approached with Rickard.

„Niece. What are you doing here? The king is visiting his queen right now, you know it is unwise to approach.“

Elia's answer was had a sugary tone to it, false courtesy dropping like syrup.

„Oh, uncle dearest, whatever do you mean? You know, my frail body troubles me so. I had been having a most delightful conversation with Lord Stark and I would not want to end it on behalf of my poor health. Lord Stark has graciously agreed to continue our discussion in my chambers, where I can take rest at the same time.

"We shan't disturb the royal couple, don't you worry. We merely want to pass through here on the fastest way to my rooms. Besides, I trust your brothers Ser Jaime and Ser Gerold are keeping watch on the royal suite right now, seeing to both the king‘s and queen’s privacy. And safety.“

The last word had an edge of venom to it. Elia raised a single eyebrow at her uncle in mockery and disdain. Something wrong was afoot in the royal chambers. The indignation was gone from Elia's face as soon as it had appeared, replaced by a small wry smile as if she was japing a little with her uncle.

„And you need not worry for propriety's sake, uncle, my handmaidens will act as chaperones.“

Lewyn Martell answered with a stifled chuckle before stepping aside to let his princess through.

„You tread dangerously, niece. I hope Lord Stark will show himself worthy of your trust.“

Princess Elia did not reply, only showing a strained, thin-lipped grimace that tried to masquerade itself as yet another smile.

„I hope so, too, uncle. I hope so, too.“

Then she walked past the Dornishman, silent again. Decidedly tense now, as well, and her two handmaidens were markedly subdued. It was not quiet in the hallway long, however. After turning a corner, Aerys signature cackling could be heard growing louder each step. The sound was soon joined by others. The rough clashing of flesh on flesh common during particularly violent sex. Screams of a mad man insulting a woman with the most debasing terms. And more booming than all, it seemed to Rickard, the quiet sobs of anguish of a mistreated woman. The king was raping his wife like a sellsword would do to a pretty woman during the sacking of a town. It was disgraceful. Rickard had to close his eyes and take a deep breath to keep himself from reaching for his dagger.

The hallway took another turn and Elia and Rickard stood in front of the door to the king's chamber. Ser Gerold, the White Bull, had a steely look in his eyes and always kept them trained on the Warden of the North and the princess from the moment they stepped into his sight. His face was a blank mask, not disclosing a hint of discomfort. He was obviously used to this task.

The young boy beside him was not so schooled in keeping his feelings from his face. Jaime Lannister looked far away into nothingness, his eyes like those of a veteran of many a battle who had lost his soul to war and could not pick up the fallen pieces. The glory of the Kingsguard, in all its splendor. The lion cub must have had his world shattered when he truly had gotten to know his heroes.

Rickard could not help himself. He walked up to the commander of the Kingsguard, the foremost knight of his generation. Almost he spat in Hightower's face. Almost.

„Are you not knights?“, Rickard hissed instead.

The White Bull looked at him, his gaze betraying nothing. Beside them young Jaime cried soundless tears as life returned to his eyes, only for them to swim in heart rending sadness. Rickard felt the princess pulling him away from the door, no one speaking another word.

Rickard let himself be led by the Dornish women, not breaking eye contact with the Gelded Ox that stood guard for his mad master. Silently they walked on, passing Ser Barristan, whose moniker ‚the Bold' now sounded like mockery to Rickard's ears, keeping watch on the entrance to the corridor on the other end of Ser Lewyn.

Even after reaching the princess‘ chamber did neither of them speak a single word. The princess passed Rickard a goblet of Dornish Red which he drained immediately without putting it down. He would have appreciated a strong northern grain brandy right now. Something to make him forget the ashes he could taste on his tongue.

After another two cups of wine Rickard Stark fixed Elia Martell with a gaze that burnt colder than all the winds of winter and asked a single question:

„How often?“

„Every time someone burns. Our beloved king can usually hold himself back until the end of the day. The wait tempers some of his more violent tendencies in bed. Not so, however, when more than the smell of a single burned man tickles his nostrils. Then he visits her straight after court and does not finish until he is spent and exhausted. After those days she will not appear in court for one to three days, depending on the severity of the bruises and scratches. Not all can be hidden with long sleeves, high collars and face paint.“

Had Rickard not seen hell in the Ninepenny Wars and fighting wildling raiders he might have lost his mask once more.

„My princess.“

Rickard had said it before. He had not meant it, not truly. Now the title held weight as he spoke it. Elia Martell was a princess worth more than the ruling dragon and his absent spawn could ever hope to be.

„It would be to my pleasure to take in your daughter as my ward in Winterfell and keep her safe from too much Dornish influence here in the south.“

Because damn them all, Rickard would not condemn an innocent girl to die in fire and blood as her father and grandfather tore apart the realm in their folly. Lyarra would not let him. Elia took his hand in gratitude, a lone tear running down her cheek. All Rickard could see in her features was Lyanna.

Chapter Text

Are you not knights?

Jaime could not get the accusation out of his head. It burned. There had only ever been two things he had longed for. Knighthood and Cersei. Now he stood a member of the greatest order of knight's in the known world, but the ideal of a true knight had never felt farther. And Cersei was lost to him.

What had they been thinking? Jaime thought back to the time he was just a squire. When they had routed the Kingswood Brotherhood the world had shown such promise. Arthur and him had stood in for all that was good in the world, rescued princess Elia and her handmaidens and killed true beasts like the Smiling Knight.

Now he was guarding a beast just like that. Queen Rhaella cried once more behind his back and Jaime wished himself far away. The king was especially vigorous today. Well, at least the man had not started a war. Even Jaime, lacking in politics as he was, had understood the dangers of trying to burn the Warden of the North.

Seeing Rickard Stark fight had been a vision. The way that Lord Stark moved as he dispatched the three pyromancers after dropping a few feet in heavy armor had been graceful and swift without a single wasted movement. He did not brandish his weapons like a sell sword lacking formal training, nor did he fight with the flourish common to the style of knights.

Rickard Stark had moved like a predator and fought with ruthless efficiency. Jaime would have gladly fought him in a Trial by Combat even if he thought he might have lost. Against such an opponent there would not have been shame in defeat.

Maybe it would have even prompted his release from the Kingsguard. The irony, that Jaime tried to find an escape to the oath of a lifetime after less than a year. Maybe he should have just married Lysa Tully.

But Cersei would have been lost to him if he had married the younger Tully sister. For Cersei to be his and for him to be hers, that was what Jaime had always wanted. Now it was the only thing that Jaime wanted. Knighthood had lost its luster. But Jaime knew, Cersei would never be satisfied with only him. For Jaime, though, it would be everything.

The sobbing behind Jaime's back continued even after Aerys had finished with his last grunts. Ser Gerold shadowed the king after Aerys left his chambers, leaving Jaime to guard the door and the Queen on his own. And once more Jaime was alone with only anguished cries to accompany him.

But suddenly the crying stopped. The silence was something different, something new compared to all the times before. After a short fashion Queen Rhaella bid Jaime to enter after the tears had stopped. Usually she would wait a few hours and only invite trusted maids to help her when her wounds had dried completely.

Rhaella Targaryen sat with her back to Jaime as he entered, bleeding wounds and old scars crisscrossing on her pale skin.

In the name of the Maiden I charge you to protect all women.

Are you not knights?

It burned, the shame, and Jaime had to avert his eyes.

The queen was the first to speak before Jaime could find his words again.

“I am sorry to force my appearance on you in this state, Ser Jaime, but cloth on my back would hurt me right now and I have urgent need of information.”

“My queen. It is not to your shame that you are forced to bear these marks. It is to mine.”

While the queen spoke with measured, tranquil words, Jaime knew his to ring hollow. He forced himself to look up again. He would not avert his eyes any longer. The queen turned, her full body on display for Jaime to see.

Queen Rhaella was a beautiful woman with the typical extraordinary Valyrian features but her sight could not arouse Jaime right now. A slender neck marred by a purple bruise from choking on two sides. Jaime could make out the shape of the king’s fingers. On her high cheek the mark of a heavy slap. A trail of blood flowing from her delicate nose. More scratches from the king’s nails across her tout belly. Her breasts were full and voluminous despite her many pregnancies but discolored in old yellow and new purple marks. Her left nipple, rosy like a peach, was encircled by a bitemark. There were more on her shoulders as well. Her sex and her legs were concealed with a silken cover, but Jaime could see the sheet trembling. He felt bile rise in his throat as he kept his eyes on hers.

“Even Ser Hightower averts his eyes. I am sorry my husband forced you into this position, Ser Jaime.”

This was something that Jaime could take pride in. Ser Hightower. Ser Darry. Ser Dayne. Ser Whent. Ser Selmy. Ser Lewyn. Ser Jaime. Only him and one of his brothers was truly in the good graces of the queen, and princess Elia.

“It was a foolish dream of a foolish boy, my queen. Your husband never forced me. There are times I feel honored beyond compare still.”

The queen looked upon him with pity.

“I see your mother in you, Ser Jaime, and I feel I have failed my old friend. You have great kindness in you, just like she did. I thought your father taught you in politics instead. I was not aware you were to be named to the Kingsguard last year. Tell me, why did you not refuse? You were your father’s heir.”

The queen rose as she spoke, to find a backless dress. In her chambers Queen Rhaella usually left her wounds uncovered. Jaime knew the touch of fabric stung on fresh wounds. His mother Joanna had oft spoken of the fondness between her and the queen. Now Jaime's and the queen's talk was a welcome distraction from his duties. The queen she wanted to know something, but this was not it. This question was just to pass the time before matters of importance came to light.

The queen found a cream-colored dress do wear over her smallclothes that left her back free. She picked out a silken mantle and a veil to cover herself later. Before she moved to put any of her clothes on she sat down in front of Jaime with a small jar of salve she picked from a shelf on her night stand and a small basin filled with citrus water and wine in which a small piece of cloth swam. Jaime wordlessly picked it up and carefully wiped the wounds on his queen’s back clean. Then the words flowed out of his mouth.

“My father was not aware of my plans to join the Kingsguard. Only Cersei knew. I was so happy when I told her. And she was happy with me. For me. All boys dream of joining the Kingsguard one day. I was going to be the youngest to ever join this fabled order. Someday, I was going to be the greatest.

"Now I don’t know if you can even be a great Kingsguard. But at Harrenhal, when the king asked me to say my vows, I only saw the honor I would have. Then he sent me away as soon as I rose a Kingsguard and my father had left King’s Landing before I got here, taking my sister away with him. I have not heard from them since.”

Father was surely disappointed. Jaime had received no answers to any of his ravens. The wounds on the queen’s back had stopped bleeding and he started cleaning the edges with the damp cloth as she started to answer him.

“Oh, you fool boy. Aerys never meant to honor you. He named you Kingsguard solely to deprive your father of his heir. You are the hostage he uses to keep your father in line, for Tywin is the one that Aerys is most afraid of in this realm.”

Jaime stilled. He had expected it, of course he had. But his brothers never let him believe he was any less a Kingsguard than they and he forced himself away from the depressing thoughts that his naming to the Kingsguard was not because of his skill with the sword and his honor. The queen shattered the last vestiges of the illusion and while Jaime could have been resentful, there was something liberating about finally, really knowing. He looked to the kind queen Rhaella. Someone worthy of knights.

“My queen. Thank you for opening my eyes. You would do me honor if I could be your Kingsguard.”

The queen laughed, freely. Jaime had not heard it before. Joy overcame him at eliciting such a response from the great woman. He made to apply the cool salve as the queen stopped laughing and spoke again.

“You truly are your mother’s son. You do me an honor, Jaime. I accept your loyalty. Have you seen the lines drawn within the Kingsguard yet?”

Jaime knew what she was speaking of, but only knew half the answers. The conflict between the king and the crown prince had been coming for a long time and today Aerys had lit the spark. He thought over what he knew once more and laid out what he knew of where the loyalties of the Kingsguard had fallen.

“Ser Jonothor is loyal to the king above all. Ser Arthur to prince Rhaegar and Ser Lewyn to the princess. I do not know where the other three stand. But Ser Oswell left with the prince, so I guess he is backing him now.”

“Your insight suffices. The other Kingsguards are more complicated than Ser Darry, Ser Dayne and Ser Lewyn. Ser Whent has more depths as well", the Queen replied, before filling Jaime in on the details of the current order.

“Let’s start with Ser Selmy. He has trained the prince as his squire, but he is loyal to the ideals of the order. He will serve the king even if he wishes for that king to be Rhaegar. Ser Oswell is not acting independently. He is beholden to Ser Hightower, whom he squired under. Ser Hightower wishes to serve a worthy king and he was loyal to Aerys while Aerys was such a king.

"After Duskendale Ser Hightower had pivoted to Rhaegar and brought Ser Whent with him in the fold. My husband does not know this, as Ser Hightower only interacts with Rhaegar through Ser Whent. He has always been inattentive to the ties that bind people. Ser Hightower and Ser Whent had a very publicly a falling out as you know. Too publicly, but not enough people spend enough time with the two to know them well enough.

"I do however believe that with Rhaegar’s conduct at Harrenhal and his recent folly Ser Hightower’s allegiance may shift to Aerys again, as long as my husband does not grow more volatile.”

Jaime could see it now. The disagreement between Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold had always sat ill with Jaime. Oswell had humiliated his teacher in the sparring yard half a year back. A feat only possible because Ser Oswell could only just best his former master now, as Ser Gerold was still suffering from the crossbow wound inflicted in the fight against the Kingswood Brotherhood. The injury still reduced Ser Gerold’s range of motion now.

The fight would have been very uncharacteristic for the two men had it happened but three months prior to the event, almost unthinkable. But suddenly and without explanation the mood between the Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold had grown sour. Jaime was not sure if he should be happy two of his brothers were not truly at odds like they seemed or if he should be angry that they deceived him and their other brothers to such an extent.

Before he could make a decision on that, however, his queen continued to speak.

“There are other fault lines that are more important, Ser Jaime. These run through the realm. Had Lord Stark burned today, we would have an open rebellion tomorrow. The king cannot execute a lord paramount in this manner without retribution. I do not know how many kingdoms would have risen against us. Luckily, Lord Stark survived.

"Unluckily, the wolf proved abler at the game than everyone suspected. At the moment he has the ear of our king and men in that position can deal large amount of damage to us all. Which is why I do not have time to recuperate. I must speak with Lord Stark at once, preferably before the feast tonight. Do you know where I can find him?”

Jaime flinched at the mention of Lord Stark.

Are you not knights?

The queen noticed him freezing as she stepped into her dress, her mantle and veil before her. Rhaella Targaryen looked at him then, waiting for Jaime to speak. He did so in a whisper and with clipped breaths between his words.

“During the king’s... visit to your chambers today, princess Elia and Lord Stark passed through the corridor. They have not returned from the princess’ quarters since.”

The eyes of the queen widened slightly in surprise before she regained control over them. It was uncanny at times, watching these people so trained in their courtly games that it bled into their true persona. The queen turned away from veil and mantle, her injuries on full display as she went towards the entrance of the room. Jaime swiftly walked past her and opened the door for her.

Together they walked to the rooms of Princess Elia. Ser Barristan had left his post at the corridor, probably to guard the king once more. Queen Rhaella stopped right at Elia’s doorsill and turned towards Jaime.

“I had not expected to step in front of Lord Stark like this. I can bear that ordeal; I do not believe him to tell on me to the court and this look will be disarming to him. I do not, however, need to show my face in this condition to princess Elia's handmaidens. Tell them to leave through the servants’ passages, Ser Jaime.”

So Jaime did. He knocked on the door and stepped into the room once the princess bid him enter. Lord Stark and Princess Elia stilled in their conversation at his entrance, goblets of Dornish Red in their hands. He bade Lady Lemonwood and Qorgyle to exit through other ways and announced his queen before he opened the door for her.

When she entered Queen Rhaella Targaryen looked more regal and imposing then all the kings and princes of the world combined.

Chapter Text

The queen entered the room in a backless dress without collar, sleeves or a long hem. Rickard could not have imagined the extent of the abuse Queen Rhaella suffered even as he heard the horrible sounds in that corridor. There were bite marks, red and raw, marring the queen’s shoulders.

Animal!

Rickard had only seen camp followers carry such wounds, and only those that were riddled with disease or craving the shade or the poppy. The queen was neither suffering from the poxes common to those whores nor from the symptoms of substance abuse prevalent to addicts. Her noble visage and excellent features were not hidden by her disfigurement, only temporarily tainted. This was not a woman to be diminished.

Rhaella Targaryen commanded the room the moment she entered it. Rickard rose to his feet by reflex.

Ser Jaime went to gather a chair unbidden as the queen started talking.

“Lord Stark, you need not stand up for me. Please, let me seat myself, we have important matters to discuss.”

“My queen, I must”, Rickard said in answer, “I stand in awe of your dignity.”

Rickard inclined his head and waited for the young Kingsguard to bring the queen’s chair, then he seated himself a second after the queen as she spoke.

“My lord, first let me apologize for the atrocities my family has committed towards yours these last days. Such actions are unbecoming of a liege toward their loyal and leal subjects and the spectacle today was unworthy of people of any station.

"Do tell me though, Lord Stark, you were ready to fight in a Trial by Combat for your son without knowing the opponent. Are you that confident in your skill at arms, to believe you could beat any Kingsguard in attendance today? Their personal failures aside, their skill with their swords is without repute.”

This was a true royal. What was it with the women of the Targaryens, that they overshadowed their men in all ways that mattered yet were bound by the limits of their sex when it came to grasp the power to rule? Cregan had the right of it, supporting Rhaenyra back then. Unlimited power and no proper tutelage made cruel men out of cruel boys, and all children were cruel. Both Aerys and Rhaegar should have been slapped more often when they were children.

In that they were like Brandon. It was a depressing thought. But not even her cunning flattery would help the queen, not with Rickard. Spoken as much to pacify him as to get him to boast and fall into overconfidence for the talks ahead. A weaker man would have been influenced by the attention and praise. By the queen’s appearance. By the royal apology. Not Rickard.

Rickard contemplated overstating or understating his skills as to keep the real knowledge of his skill a secret, both options had their own advantages. All warfare is based on deception. But in the end, Rickard simply went with the truth. The skill of a single man would not make a difference when the war broke loose.

“My queen, I do not know if I would have won. I know I would have lost, were the Sword of the Morning in attendance. I probably could have won against Ser Whent, I do not know. Ser Hightower is still impaired from his injury inflicted by the Kingswood Brotherhood. My fighting style is made to prey on weaknesses such as those. I am sure Ser Jaime noticed my stalking gait with the pyromancers. I believe Ser Lewyn would lose voluntarily as he would have brought Dorne into conflict with the North otherwise. This suspicion has been confirmed now, thanks to the princess.”

Rickard made a vague nod of thanks in the direction of the princess who responded with a non-committing half-wave of her hand. Rickard’s neck swiveled around so his face was towards Jaime at the door before he continued speaking.

“Ser Jaime is too young. No offence, lad. Ser Darry too old. Both of them I would beat. Ser Barristan would have been the biggest challenge, I reckon.

"He is, however, by all accounts the most honorable man serving as a Kingsguard since Duncan the Tall. So, I would not have fought fair. I would have broken his concentration. Maybe, if he was furious or maudlin enough, he would make mistakes that I could exploit. Every moment of our fight I would have told him how, right then, the squire he trained, his prince, was raping my kidnapped daughter in some god forsaken place that he hid her in.”

Rickard did not want it to happen, but his voice broke at the end. There was open sympathy on the faces of the queen and princess and Ser Jaime seemed to be doing an uncomfortable shuffle next to the door. Queen Rhaella was wringing her hands in her lap, obviously uncomfortable that they had arrived at this topic so quickly.

Rickard knew the talk would reach this point. He would not postpone the difficult subject for the queen’s comfort, not when she used her torment to try and soften Rickard towards her. Even if she succeeded at that, just a little. For a man must not follow his instincts to the end, even if he leans into his emotions. A quality the prince did obviously not possess.

The queen saught out his eyes as she spoke again.

“Your love for your children is admirable, my lord. You said you stood in awe of my dignity. I am in awe of you. That you would willingly discard the mask of dignity, your own and that of your house, to save your son’s life is a testament to your character. Not many a lord would. I hope your eldest knows the worth of your sacrifice.

"As to your daughter. If my son truly kidnapped her, I will support you should you seek to have him send to the Wall. If he truly hurt her, I will support you should you seek to have him whipped or beaten. If he truly raped her, I will support you should you seek to have him gelded. I believe my husband would happily comply.

"However, I also love my son and do not believe him to be capable of such vile acts. I might just be a foolish parent, as all loving parents are until confronted with evidence, but I hope that my son just committed a mistake out of misplaced feelings. We all know what happened at that infernal tournament last year, and the disdain of your daughter towards her betrothed is not a secret. I hope they just. Ran away together. As horrible as that sounds.”

Rickard could understand the woman. Truly, he could. For a second, he thought of Lord Ryswell, how he must have had some of those feelings all the same, below his ambitions. There was a black shame to that line of thinking. Amends would have to be made on that front; Rickard decided. Along with punishment, of course, yet amends all the same. Rickard would not wallow in hypocrisy. Still the queen’s speech demanded an answer, so an answer Rickard gave, his voice as iron.

“I hope so as well, my queen. But make no mistake, I’d still be furious. With my daughter as well, but more with your son. She’s 15. He’s 23. The last time a Targaryen prince broke the betrothal to a Stormlord’s daughter it started a rebellion that only ended when Lyonel Baratheon was beaten on the battlefield and Aegon the Unlikely offered the prince’s sister's betrothal as replacement for Prince Duncan's hand.

"Your son, however, managed to offend not just the Stormlands through the broken betrothal of a daughter this time, no, he escaped with the Stormlord’s betrothed herself and risked angering the kingdom of the girl’s father as well as possibly the house of her brother’s bride-to-be of a few days, another lord paramount. The prince this time does not even have a sister he can offer in recompense. Such an action, regardless of intent, asks for consequences.”

By the end, Rickard was almost seething. Almost. It would not do to display anger, not among competent players. It showed lack of control, an embarrassing weakness. The queen remained utterly poised as she answered.

“What, pray tell, Lord Rickard, would be adequate compensation in your opinion for my son's transgression?”

It would not do to inflate his demands here, Rickard knew. They were not fish wives, haggling for the price of a silver trout. No, his designs needed to prove adequate, as it was nicely put. Not too much, not too little. Luckily, Rickard already knew what he wanted.

“I lost my heir today. I want for him to establish a cadet branch, now that other venues are closed to him. He will be in need of a proper keep; the North lacks an empty castle that he can move into. At the moment. Moat Cailin stands a ruin, waiting to be rebuild. It would serve nicely for my Brandon; do you not agree? I hear Lord Tywin’s tenure as hand was very auspicious and the treasury is bursting. Do you think the royal family would be willing to help?”

The Moat had become more important than a return of the New Gift with the events of today. Rickard proved right in his gauging of the queen, after short contemplation she agreed with his peace settlement. The talks turned to the future and the looming succession crisis. Rarely they would be able to speak so candidly again, Ser Jaime and the princess’ handmaiden having properly secured the perimeter.

“I am thankful to Lord Stark for fostering my daughter in Winterfell soon. As you know, mother-in-law, king Aerys is afraid of little Rhaenys being corrupted by the Dornish at court and I am fear what the turn of the year will bring. Do you think war is inevitable, Lord Stark?”

Elia opened the discussion, pulling the queen into her confidence regarding the matter of Princess Rhaenys.

“Yes, my princess. I believe it is inevitable. Fear not, your daughter will be safe in Winterfell. As winter returned, we Northerners will probably not be able to join either side in time to be relevant for the coming war. Rallying the troops in the cold season would prove too difficult.”

Rickard laid out an intension to stay out of the succession crisis all together, even spiced up with a little plausible detail.

“I am glad my granddaughter’s safety is seen to. What is your view on the other kingdoms, Lord Stark? Your insight on matters of war is something we sorely lack.”

The queen gestured a silent thank you along with her words.

“The Vale will stay out of the fighting as well, with Lord Elbert having suffered from this whole fiasco these days. If Lord Baratheon proves smart, he will stay out as well and use the chance to suppress House Connington and their lord. Regardless who wins, the king or the prince, Robert Baratheon is in his rights in keeping his subject from pulling the rest of the Stormlands into the civil war. It will also allow him to present himself as a smart and martial ruler, a necessity in ruling the lords in his kingdom.

"If Lord Baratheon proves himself am idiot instead, he will join Aerys' side as retribution against Rhaegar’s slight towards his honor when the prince kidnapped Lyanna. Dorne will support the king as long as Princess Elia remains in Aerys' hands. The king is well aware of this, the princess is aware of this, I believe even Lord Merryweather is aware of this.

"The Crownlands will hold to the king. After the Defiance at Duskendale the pressure on them has increased. The Iron Islands will wait until a winner becomes apparent and start raiding the losing side for the last weeks of the war. The places that will experience the greatest turmoil are the Riverlands due to split loyalties within and the Reach due to internal rivalry in the kingdom.

"The Westerlands will support both sides with coin, I believe, to even out the scales of the war. The Great Lion has been nursing his grudge for some time, he will try to diminish the power of House Targaryen overall. When the parties have exhausted themselves, Tywin Lannister will sweep in and squeeze the side he chooses dry for concessions. If the Reach does not resolve its inner problems swiftly enough, Tywin Lannister will emerge the deciding factor in this war.”

Rickard gave a largely accurate portrait of a possible progression of the war. Not that it would come to this scenario. Sure, many of the players would act like this and the majority of the kingdoms would follow the laid-out course. But Rickard had interests he would see to, as this war would see to the North’s and its allies’ gain.

“Fascinating. I agree that my brothers will keep faith with whoever holds me. The situation in the Reach sounds like the breaking point of this whole war. Could you please elaborate on the matter? Why does victory in the Riverlands not impact the war as much? It is much closer to the capital.”

The princess pried for more information as she and the queen listened intently. As women they were rarely taken seriously when it came to matters of strategic and tactical warfare, but they were both in the possession of quick minds and grasped many points without the need of an explanation.

“The Riverlands’ forces are too divided between houses in direct proximity that will choose different factions, thus fighting each other. The houses with a significant number of troops or influence can be reduced to seven. The ones that matter are House Tully, Blackwood, Bracken, Darry, Frey, Mallister and Whent. House Tully stands to lose the most, they have the fewest troops of these seven houses and are the lords paramount of the region only due to the grace of House Targaryen.

"They will need to pick the winning side early, otherwise one of the other houses will be rewarded paramountship of the region by the winning royal at the end. Bracken and Blackwood won’t actually choose sides, they will just restart their age-old feud and the other houses around them will steer clear. A senseless war surrounded by a senseless war. Mallister will stay out of the war due to Jeffory Mallister’s involvement in Brandon’s stupidity and the threat to his life by your house.

"House Frey will behave like the Ironborn in that they’ll wait out the initial stages of the war and attack the losing side at the end. House Darry will support the king because of Ser Jonothor. I also believe they will try to make a play for the seat of lord paramount of the Riverlands. House Whent is in a similar position, just with Prince Rhaegar. It seems Ser Oswell is firmly in the prince’s camp so his house will follow suit.”

Ser Jaime stiffened at the mention of his absent brother-in-arms. Rickard was able not to show any surprise on his face. What was the young lion aware of? Was his information regarding Oswell Whent wrong? But that did not make any sense, the knight was seen with Prince Rhaegar the night they took his Lyanna.

The queen seemed to notice Rickard's silence and followed his look to the Kingsguard who seemed rather uncomfortable under Rickard’s scrutiny. Rhaella Targaryen turned to him again and made to speak. So, the queen knew that Jaime Lannister knew something. She knew that Rickard had become aware that there was information he was not privy to. Interesting. This called for some further investigation.

“Lord Stark, you mentioned the Tullys. Whatever will become of the betrothal of your Brandon and Lady Catelyn?”

Rickard had to smother a grin at the queen’s attempt to change the subject of his attention. He had been wanting to bring them up in the conversation and start the groundwork of Hoster Tully’s downfall. Oh, if the greedy cunt only knew his demise started with words to a woman, he would seethe. Rarely had Rickard seen a man more dismissive towards a player of the game because of her sex. Only Lord Frey came to mind besides.

“I am glad you asked, my queen. I have actually been rather cross with Lord Tully since I parted ways with him to come here from Riverrun where I helped prepare the wedding. He was convinced I could not save my son and was only riding to pick up his bones. He even denied me an escort.”

That was a largely toned-down version of the break between Hoster and him, but the princess and queen did not need to know the sordid details. How, before Brandon had even reached the capital, the fucking fish had decried his intended son-in-law for his stupidity and brazenly demanded Rickard marry his second son Eddard to Hoster's daughter Catelyn and make Ned the heir to Winterfell instead.

Rickard's son Brandon might have proved himself an idiot but Hoster Tully was not the person that Rickard would allow the liberties he had taken and the insults he had given to Rickard himself, his son, his house and his late wife. All while the trout treated his own family more like chess pieces than Rickard ever had with his.

A fact Rickard only found out when he set his men out to dally with some of Riverrun’s servants to gather information, gold dragons in their pockets to set tongues loose, ale flowing and beds rocking. A forced abortion and a low-rank ward dispelled from the Tully household. Coin well spent.

Rickard did not have to fake the hint of anger he let seep into his words as he spoke on.

“The man should be spited. Hoster Tully insulted my house, and now he deserves to be taught a lesson in propriety. I ask you, my queen, please arrange for the funds for Moat Cailin to be shipped north unannounced and do not publicize the creation of Brandon’s cadet branch. I want Hoster Tully to squirm like the fish he is until I deign to tell him personally that his daughter will be the lady of a great castle still.

I believe we can help each other this way, my queen, as I am sure you would welcome the chance of not having to tell the realm that you are funding the rebuilding of the Moat to compensate for that highly irregular trial today.”

The queen agreed, it seemed a proper response to the insult given by House Tully and held its benefits for both the Targaryens and the Starks. How little she would expect Hoster’s reaction. But Rickard knew the greedy cunt that was Hoster Tully.

First, the man would again try to bind his daughter to Rickard's younger son. As if Rickard would allow a spawn of that fish to rule the greatest castle in the North. Then Hoster would try to pressure Rickard into resolving the marriage contract. But Rickard knew the wording. For the firstborn daughter of the fish to marry the firstborn son of the wolf. For Catelyn Tully to marry Brandon Stark.

Why would anyone write matters of inheritance of the betrothed pair into the marriage contract? They were the starting points of the discussion, not the principal matter at hand. At the end Hoster would marry his daughter to Rickard’s son if he was smart. But no, Hoster would be greedy. He would break the betrothal and suffer the price of breaking their contract in order to secure Catelyn a better marriage than a disinherited son.

With a broken betrothal to House Stark to her name, Catelyn Tully would never be able to marry the heir to a lord paramount. Rickard would see to that. Nor as well would she wed the heir to a great castle, just like Moat Cailin. Rickard could see it already, the way that fucking fish would rage in his river after Rickard was through with him. He would not even have to bend the truth. It was, after all, a most powerful weapon.

Rickard turned to Jaime Lannister at the door for a second to address him.

“Boy, you know what probably the only good thing is that came from you joining the Kingsguard? You are spared from marrying the second Tully girl. Never have I seen a more vapid twat than Lysa Tully, let me tell you.”

He shared a carefully controlled conspiratory chuckle with the young knight before adopting a slightly solemn expression and addressing Princess Elia. A little misogynistic mummery often helped cloud a smart woman's eyes.

“Actually, my princess, I fear I might be judging the girl wrong. True, she seemed almost catatonic in Riverrun, but the talk of the servants was atrocious and rumors in the Riverlands abound. Apparently, Lady Lysa was in love with a young lordling and found herself pregnant. Her father forced moon tea on her and send the boy, his own ward, away. I wish Lysa Tully the best, and some liberty from her father.

"Gods know, at the end Hoster will end up making Lysa Tully the next Lady Frey. That man was not born to be father. Princess, seeing as she will soon be family to me and I will take care of your daughter soon, can you help me care for the sister of my future daughter-in-law? I would be thankful if you could take her on as a lady-in-waiting.”

Princess Elia seemed unsure for a second, not entirely convinced by his intentions. She was not wrong in that. There also were no rumors about Lysa Tully’s abortion in the Riverlands, at least not yet. There soon would be aplenty, as Rickard would pass through to attend a wedding that would come not be.

Still the princess had no reason to refuse, it was a harmless request. By the end of the week Rickard would have taken care of the fact that Lysa Tully would be all but unmarriageable to important heirs in all of the Seven Kingdoms. But the ladies in discussion with him right now did not need to know that either.

Rickard grew a little concerned, however, as the face of the Dornish princess turned from inquisitive to pondering to slightly malignant before finishing in a grin seeped with schadenfreude.

“Of course, Lord Stark. For the help you are providing me with my daughter, I would do anything in my power for you. Lucky for you my principle handmaiden has recently left for Gulltown on private business and I hope to need a replacement for her soon. You might have heard of her, of Lady Ashara Dayne.”

The grin across the princess face was now definitely back in the realm of the malignant. Rickard was only confused. Yes, he heard rumors of Lady Dayne’s beauty, but little else. Why would Princess Elia display indignation on her behalf, towards him? Elia Martell must have recognized his confusion, for the anger slipped from her face to be replaced only by hollow emptiness as she continued.

“You truly don’t know, do you, Lord Stark? Lady Ashara is like a little sister to me. At the tourney of Harrenhal she fell in love with your second son, and he looked enamored with her as well. You know, she’s a Stony Dornishwoman, hailing from the third most powerful house in Dorne. On the last day before the joust finished, however, she stumbled out of your eldest son’s tent, reeking of wine and her clothes disheveled.

"Eddard Stark saw this and went inside, falling over his brother and punching him almost bloody all over his body. Brandon was screaming for the whole camp to hear how he fucked my darling Ashara, singing 'The Dornishman’s Wife' in his drunken state. He dishonored her before the all the nobles in attendance. My Ashara was trembling in my arms, decrying Brandon Stark a liar, saying she escaped before they became intimate. But who would believe a Dornishwoman?”

The last were hissed with the poison of Dornish vipers dropping out of Elia’s mouth.

Rickard sat still for a second, processing these news. His idiot son. The Stony Dornish were the only ones in the southernmost kingdom to care for matters of marital purity. The rest of Dorne respected and loved them still and they were amongst the fiercest of the Dornish Spears. All these revelations of his former heir’s inadequacy were too much for Rickard. He dropped his head into his hands and let a low groan escape before sitting straight again and fixing his posture before addressing the princess.

“My princess, be assured I knew nothing of what had transpired. All the news that raged in the North were of the crowning of my daughter. I will get my son to tell me everything, and when he has, I will make him scream and shout the truth out to the world and every keep we pass. I would like to offer my condolences to Lady Ashara in person, please write to her that I would be happy to meet her at the Crossroads Inn and I’ll be happy to let her have her revenge on Brandon in a way that she deems fitting.”

Princess Elia was gifting him a beaming smile, even Queen Rhaella was looking on kindly. Lady Ashara must have made many a friend at court. The princess voice was sugary sweet as she answered, her answer saccharine enough to make a stout Northman think he drowned in honey.

“Why, I believe you already shall, Lord Rickard. You see, Lord Eddard and Lady Ashara did not have a chance to speak before the last joust, and well, that’s where the crowning happened. Before he left, your second son gave a letter to a runner in my employ to pass on to Lady Ashara. It was the sweetest thing, truly.

"Eddard wrote how he did not believe his brother and that he did not care even if he told the truth. It was a love letter, a penned confession. Beautiful words, and such passion. Ashara cried again reading the letter, tears of happiness this time. Who would ever believe the Quiet Wolf to hide such flowery language?

"Your son invited Ashara to join him at the Eyrie and be his companion for the wedding of his brother, and to ask you for permission to wed her. I’ve never seen her happier than the day I saw her off on the pier, sailing to meet the man she loves and to spite the man that taunted her together with her beloved.”

The princess, and even the queen, had a dreamy look to them at that moment. What, by the gods, did Ned write in those damn letters? These were veteran players and his son had turned them into simpering fools from the memory of a letter!

Rickard vaguely recalled that they had planned to speak more on the happenings in the Reach at the advent of war, but Rickard could not muster up an ounce of care. He only felt the urgent desire to go and educate his eldest son. Rickard cleared his throat and as the two ladies regained their wits he rose and started speaking

“My princess, my queen, I feel the need for a long conversation between the back of my hand and my son’s cheek. I ask that you please excuse me.”

The queen offered him a smile and a nod while the princess had to suppress a giggle, an action Rickard did not expect from the regal person he had come to know these hours. Oddly enough, it fit her just as well without detracting from her imposing air. The bubbly sound stopped after a few seconds and all that remained was a smile of pearly white teeth. She bade him farewell with a Dornish kiss to the brow as he inclined his head to meet her.

“Rickard, as the last kind words between us before I hand Rhaenys over to you when you leave, know this: I am not just happy that Rhaenys is safe in the North, I am happy she is with you. I had my apprehensions from what I knew of Brandon, but it was balanced with my knowledge of Eddard. Meeting you now, my last fears were put to rest with the firm stance you’ve shown on your son’s actions.

"Your care and love for your children, your political cunning and your skill at the game give me a peace of mind should it come to it that I cannot see my daughter grow up. Please teach her to be kind, to be free, and even to be able to defend herself should she wish it.”

The princess and him had agreed to feign disdain for each other for the rest of their visit. It would convince Aerys to send Rhaenys with Rickard more easily. Jeffory Mallister and Elbert Arryn would join him at the banquet today now, instead of guarding Brandon. Two companions would suffice to meet propriety, and there was a game to be played at the feast. Rickard grasped the princess hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. He left the royal wing and went to return to his chambers.

Brandon needed to be questioned. Rickard's son had behaved like a dog. Now he would be slapped like a bitch.

Chapter Text

Brandon opened his mouth to talk, so Elbert almost unconsciously sent another slap his way. It had become a reflex of sorts within the few hours since Lord Stark had left with the princess. But Seven, did it still feel satisfying. Brandon rubbed his jaw with the left hand while he mimed drinking with his right. Rising with a sigh beside him, Ethan rose to grab a pitcher of water from the table and filled a cup for Brandon.

On strict orders of Lord Stark only water was allowed in the vicinity of Brandon, as according to Rickard Stark, he hoped his son was drunk when he committed his folly in storming the throne room. Because otherwise the Warden of the North would be confronted with the fact that his son was a bigger fool than he could stomach while dealing with all this stinking shit in the capital.

Elbert was never sure whether the stern lord was dead serious or whether Rickard Stark had the driest sarcasm Elbert had ever seen. Acting on these orders, neither wine, ale nor brandy were to be left in reach of Brandon. As Rickard nicely put it, having a son with an alcohol problem was a salvageable problem. Having an idiot for a son was not.

It was deep into the afternoon when Lord Stark returned to their chambers. Elbert had changed babysitting duty with the other four guys a few times in his absence. The moment the door closed behind Lord Stark and his eyes landed on his son, Elbert for the first time saw an emotion in his eyes that truly gave him pause.

Elbert had seen so much in that court session today, and this particular feeling could have been expected of Rickard Stark the whole time. Elbert had seen rage and fury, deference and calm. Smugness and a whole range of faked smiles. The entire time Rickard had stood before the whole court in defense of his son had been a lesson in courtly mummery for the whole realm. But never, during this whole long day, had Elbert seen the utter, desolate disappointment that shone in Rickard Stark’s eyes at this moment.

Lord Stark waved Elbert and Jeffory off with a hand, the two off them stepping away from Brandon to the edge of the room. Elbert did not dare breath too loudly, the titan in front of him giving off a defeated air, and it scared him. Rickard Stark slowly pulled a high-backed chair to face Brandon, not even lifting it from the ground, its legs grating over the keep’s rough sandstone floor. Rickard slumped into the chair and took in the sight of his former heir before speaking, his voice a low whisper that spread into all corners of the room, raw and tinged with accusation.

“Brandon. Son. How could you?”

Even Brandon, brash and cocky as he still was despite today, sat in stunned silence, his eyes bulging. This sight of his father like this was apparently as new to Brandon as it was for Elbert. And while Elbert had only met Lord Stark a few times, seeing him like this had been unfathomable for him.

It saddened Elbert, seeing this, for he knew Rickard Stark was a great man. Seeing the man that saved his life today, empty as a soulless husk, shattered something inside Elbert. He could not imagine how it was for Brandon, who finally seemed to find his voice.

“I, how could, what. Rhaegar took her. He took my sister; I could not do nothing. You know me, the blood took over. How could it not, she’s my pack?!”

If looks could kill, Brandon would have been disintegrated in that second. When Rickard spoke again, he was just as quiet as before, but the pure disdain dripping from his words seemed as if it could cut through the whole keep until it struck the bedrock like acid.

“I did not speak of Lya, but let’s address that particular clusterfuck you caused first. You will be quiet, as it is still obvious you do not realize what it means when I say that the walls. Have. Ears. Lord Jeffory, please stand beside my son and remind him to be silent when he tries to defend himself. I do not trust him to understand the gravity of the situation we are in right now even if I was almost burnt by wildfire today, he was about to choke himself to death and all of you, his former friends, were about to be summarily executed for his idiocy.

"Now Brandon. Your intent to save Lya was the only thing about this whole fiasco that is to your credit. Let’s start with your tendency to let your wolf’s blood run its course. An abundance of emotion can be to your boon, but a 20-year-old is expected to temper it. It is not a convenient excuse for you to run roughshod through common expectations of courtesy and convention because they bore you.

"You are allowed a certain manner of irascibility above other people because of your station. Your frank abuse of this boon without regards for its limits is the singular reason all the Seven Kingdoms were on the brink of open war earlier today. As you have proved lacking in discipline to reign in your temper, you will now be punished every instance you indulge in it.

"Jeffory, to make my point, please slap my son.”

There was no inflection throughout the whole speech, so Jeffory looked a little surprised at the order directed at him. It passed after a second and he absent-mindedly slapped Brandon like they had throughout the day when he made to speak. This was apparently not satisfactory to Rickard.

“Harder. As I said, the slap is to make a point. I don’t want to simply shut him up this time. There has to be a difference.”

As Jeffory complied again with Lord Stark’s request, slapping Brandon with a snap that sent the younger Stark's head reeling, Jeffory himself seemed rather terrified of the calm way the old wolf was ordering his son to be savaged.

Nodding at the louder sound ringing in the air, Rickard Stark continued with his quiet education on the many failings of Brandon.

“Thank you, Jeffory. Now, Jeffory, please tell me, I know that my son made the way through your uncle’s holdings at Seagard. Where were you when news reached you all that Rhaegar had abducted my daughter?”

“At Fairmarket, Lord Stark.”

It could have almost been funny had Rickard been patronizing to the young Mallister and been met with deference, but the total lack of regard the Warden of the North displayed for the Riverman whom he used like a prop in a play made Elbert’s skin tingle in faceless fright.

Elbert knew he would not have acted differently to his friend from Seagard if he stood beside Brandon, doling out slaps as Lord Stark dropped a word. There was a presence to Lord Stark right now that forced the three men in the room to obey him and listen. And listen they did as Lord Stark continued to speak.

“Fairmarket. Jeffory, you are most helpful. Now, even riding your horses hard, it must have taken you a few days to reach the capital which means your blood should have cooled off by the time you arrived here. I’m not going to ask how long it took you five to get here , because one, a temper tantrum that lasts an hour is already a disgrace for a drunk in his cups, nothing to say of a men expected to lead millions of people. And two, because I have come to the conclusion that the reason you screamed for Rhaegar to come out and die is rooted in a cause more base then your anger problems.

"I believe you craved the spectacle and the attention this little stint would bring you, and you welcomed the reprieve from having to marry Lady Catelyn for a few more days. A lord with a temper can be excused. A lord that is not the brightest can be excused, even if it’s likely he’ll be taken advantage of by his vassals. A lord that is callous cannot be excused, under any circumstances.

You demonstrated all three failures in plenty and I have come here from the office of the Hand where I had Lord Merryweather - a better man than you, gods how that admission hurts – draft and sign the document naming you attainted and removing you and all that come from your line from the succession of Winterfell until the last winter.”

Elbert could see it, the moment it all sunk in. The moment that Brandon realized this was truly real. First came the blank shock. It was followed by a little indignation accompanied by a mocking snarl of his left upper lip. Brandon always started like this when his temper came upon him, and when he leaned into it.

Gods, Rickard was right. Brandon was a child with temper tantrums that never grew up to become a man. Brandon started shaking, his eyes both impossibly wide in its pupils while being have closed from squinting his lids. Brandon swallowed and tried to stand, about to rage and scream.

Elbert had seen it once before, in a bar when some Reachmen had insulted Brandon’s delegation as savage barbarians. This time, he did not have the chance to see it unfold. Fast as a loosened arrow did the old Stark slide from his chair, taking a single silent step before arriving in front of his son, punching him.

Not a slap this time, a close-fisted, brutal jab straight to Brandon’s nose. The younger Stark’s head rocked back as he fell upon his chair, the ugly crack in the air denoting the broken nose that had just been given.

Lord Stark stayed standing and walked towards the table, cleaning the blood from his fist with a piece of cloth. He pulled back his sleeve and took out a small flask from a drawer under the table, along with three tiny cups, filling them. He fitted his belt with the knife that had lain there since he left with the princess and tucked a pair of smooth leather gloves into his pocket. Lord Stark came back towards Elbert with the cups in hand as Brandon let a painful groan escape.

“Jeffory, my son made a sound after he just gave in to his tantrums. Educate him please. Firmly.”

Lord Stark did not even stop in his stride as he talked and Jeffory complied to the letter. Elbert received the small cup, knocking it back quickly and feeling the hot burn of Northern grain brandy going down his throat. Jeffory received the second cup and drank just as quickly while Rickard remained standing, towering above Brandon.

“Son. Look at me. I am angry at you for the way you chased after Lyanna. That is not why I am disappointed in you.”

Brandon did not comply, he seemed to ignore his father out of spite. Why, for the love of the Seven, did he believe this was a good idea? Rickard Stark proved himself utterly without patience, and in that moment a little cruel as well.

The old lord grabbed his son by the short hair in the neck with a tired sigh and forced Brandon to face his father. Then Rickard Stark poured the strong Northern spirit in his cup onto Brandon’s freshly broken nose. The scream that followed was simply left to ring out, there was no handing out a slap this time. Rickard simply moved back to the table to pick up the flask to fill up his own cup again and drink himself. After he swiftly moved to take his seat again Rickard once more addressed his son.

“Brandon. I used to believe in you as my heir, but I now see that confidence was grossly misplaced. I do not know how you managed to rein yourself in enough around me. But that is irrelevant. Your failures as a noble are irrelevant to me, to a degree. You said you chased after Lyanna because she is pack. The sad truth is, right now, I do not believe you.

"Because Ned is your brother, isn't he? Is he not pack? How could you, Brandon? Did you ever truly love Barbrey? Princess Elia told me of what you did. Is this some sick attempt to make others feel pain, because you have to marry one of the most beautiful maidens in the whole realm? Are you truly that pathetic? To do this to your own brother?”

Brandon, for just an instant, truly looked ashamed. All the worthless rage, all the righteousless fury escaped him and he averted his eyes, not daring to look at his father. Elbert was confused for a second, who was Barbrey and what was this about Ned? Was Ned not deep in over his head, writing letters to Lady Ashara Dayne?

The man had been insufferable the last few months, waxing fucking poetics for his raven-haired beauty. Elbert could still remember the day a few months ago when he had visited his uncle Jon. Jon's foster son Robert had been moping because Ned was not paying him the attention he craved anymore.

The fool stole one of the letters Ned was writing and read it out in front of all the ladies of the court, trying to embarrass his foster brother. Elbert could have gagged at the contents, but all women in attendance seemed to collectively wet their small clothes at the words. Now older men were regarding Ned as a threat and all the fair maidens at the Eyrie approached Robert to be introduced to the Quiet Wolf, instead of the other way round.

Ned had to physically run from all the tail that was chasing him suddenly, and Robert suddenly found himself without purchase with the finer ladies at court. It had been a hilarious spectacle from outside, Ned being intensely uncomfortable with the attention and Robert in stupor at the realization that he cock-blocked himself.

Maybe this Barbrey had been the old flame of Ned and Brandon had been, as Rickard had put it, callous with her. The thought was sickening. Whatever the answer was, Rickard had apparently seen enough of Brandon to verify what the princess told him. And he had found his son wanting. Calmly, steadily, Rickard reached into his pocket and pulled out his leather gloves and gave Brandon a soft slap with them.

That slap would not hurt. That slap would burn, long after still. Even after Brandon’s nose had healed. Where before Rickard had looked disappointed, now there was complete disillusionment written across his face. Elbert hoped never to be the cause of such a sight on people he cared about. Rickard rose and walked to the door, and Elbert thought he would leave without another word. He did not, instead he invited Ethan and Kyle to join them from the antechamber before he made to address the lot of them.

“Things have changed today. First with the trial and later caused by discussions I’ve had. You all deserve to know what awaits us now, while we are still here in King’s Landing and probably in the months to come. We will talk on most things after we have left the city walls tomorrow, but there are some things that I can tell you that bring us no danger yet.

"I had meant to name Brandon the lord of an important keep after I had to disinherit him, but now I will instead name him a castellan until my son Benjen comes of age. I hope I have time to educate my youngest at least on how to be decent."

Brandon came into the room then, clutching his face to stem the blood. Rickard turned to his son and continued talking without mercy.

"Brandon. Maybe someday Eddard will be merciful and grant you a keep of your own. I will neither be able to, nor will I want to grant you a seat for yourself while I live.

"Ethan. It would be to my honor if you let me take you on as my squire instead of my son. He has proven himself unworthy of your trust.”

The young Northman looked stunned for a second before speedily shaking his head, agreeing fervently. The young man had worshipped Brandon’s cocky bravado before. It seemed his admiration had transferred to another Stark. Rickard’s face was graced by a wry smile for a second before he continued.

“I apologize, Elbert, Jeffory, I will need you to accompany me to the banquet with the king and the wider court today. I know you two will not want to attend, but you must bring back word of what you see to your uncles. There are certain matters that need to be set into motion tonight that will serve to benefit all of us. I will instruct you on how to conduct yourself with the relevant factions at court on the way. Kyle and Ethan will take over the duty of guarding my son tonight.”

Jeffory and Elbert shared a short look before agreeing in unison. As much as they did not want to go see the Mad King again, witnessing another one of Rickard Stark’s stellar court performances would be more than worth it. Elbert could already see that they would learn a lot toady still.

Rickard rose and mimed for Elbert and Jeffory to follow along, to share details on a need to know basis with them. As Rickard opened the door, before he stepped through to leave the room, Rickard Stark once more turned to face his son, a lone tear shimmering in his eye, before leaving his eldest devastated with only two sentences.

“Brandon. Today, for the first time I feel like I completely failed your mother in raising you, failing her last wish from her deathbed.

"I am ashamed of you.”

Chapter Text

Rhaella surprised Lord Merryweather with her attendance at the banquet that night. For the life of her she would not have missed it, not with the waves the Northern delegation promised to cause at court. She had donned her mantle and veil to take her seat next to her husband up on the high table, the feel of the fabric uncomfortable on her raw back. She would bear it today.

The fat Hand had meant to seat himself next to the king, with Lord Rickard to the left of Aerys in the place of the guest of honor. Now Merryweather sat at the edge of the table, with Elia and her handmaidens also making a surprise appearance at Rhaella’s side and pushing him down the order of importance. Lord Rickard was only flanked by the heir to the Vale and the Mallister lordling. A measured show of force of the Northern-Vale-Riverland faction, united in strife despite Brandon’s folly.

Though expected, the absence of Brandon Stark was telling. The deference Elbert Arryn and Jeffory Mallister showed to the older Stark was an unpleasant surprise though. Lord Rickard became more relevant to the balance of the realm with every look for approval the two young men by his side directed towards him.

Even Lord Chelsted, who had claimed the seat beside them, did not yet try to either antagonize or ingratiate himself with Lord Stark yet. The man might be a craven, but he knew to read the flows of the king’s favor and the ebb and flow of the court to his advantage. And Lord Stark was making big waves today.

Of course, Rickard was aware of this. He played up his disregard with the wider court as he talked quietly with her brother-husband. Rhaella could hear them from her place, the content of their talk was just so politically inane that she did not even bother to listen in detail.

Praise be the dragon.

Oh, King Aerys, you brought greater prosperity for the realm than even at the times then Jaehaerys I.

Your wife looks most lovely tonight, not needing to show off skin like all the fireflies trying to get your attention. Dignity personified, a consort befitting of a king.

Wait, what?

Rhaella turned her head and saw Lord Rickard’s eyes on hers for a cursory second as Aerys bellowed out an agreement for the court to hear, praising himself more than his wife in the process for their blood of Old Valyria. The wolf was playing her husband, but he knew who understood the games in session right here.

I stand in awe of your dignity.

He was playing all of them with the same words. However, different games, different meanings. Masterful. He was probably having fun as well.

Insufferable man.

Not all lords in attendance were happy with the obvious favor Lord Stark showed he carried with the king right now. Rhaegar’s faction had taken the heaviest hit when the wolf and the old dragon stood united in purpose. The mighty beasts had different goals, maybe, but the same way might carry them there together.

Luckily Viserys, Rhaenys and Aegon were in the nursery, leaving Rhaella with the freedom to watch all the factions and their players. Connington, Rhaegar’s most stalwart defender in his absence, was for now only watching with a growing impotent rage. Elia was sitting slightly amused on the sidelines. She knew her act would come up.

Varys could be seen appearing in the corners of the room at times, untraceable as always. Some servants were especially young today, were there some little birds among them? It did not matter; Varys would find out what he wanted in time and there was little one could do. He was not one to look out for today.

Lord Chelsted was still on the fence, Lords Celtigar and Bar Emmon lost without instructions. They would decry Lord Stark if he misstepped or join him when it suited their agenda. Lord Stark would not misstep, Rhaella knew.

Lord Jeffory and Lord Elbert had risen and seated themselves with some of the ladies from the Crownlands, a Stokeworth and a Rosby among them, waiting for the moment the music started. The field was prepared, and the spark would be lit soon. Rhaella wondered how the old wolf would set the ball rolling.

Rickard Stark did not disappoint.

“Oh yes, my king, I must thank your Hand for helping me with the matter of naming Brandon attainted. Lord Merryweather. I thank you for finding the time in your busy schedule today to draft the document for the disinheritance of my firstborn, putting that unsavory matter behind us quickly. Sometimes I wonder if other lords face similar troubles with their eldest as well...

"Lord Hand, I am also in awe at how quickly you managed to organize such a grand feast at the same time. You honor us with the lavish food. On this short a term and with the food situation in the capital, it almost feels prohibitive to indulge us. You must have emptied the markets for us today. I hear they call you the Horn-of-Plenty Hand, Lord Merryweather, both nobles and peasants. A fitting title, my lord, and in this setting it does you honor.”

Marvelous. Simply marvelous. The composition. To open with a matter of national importance that would grab all the ears in the assembly. Raising your voice to address the Hand, today surprisingly seated away from the king, reaching a volume loud enough to carry throughout the whole hall as if estimating the acoustics wrongly. The unsavory matter of disappointing firstborn sons. A common problem among lords, and then there was Rhaegar. Aerys' rising distrust of his heir was well known by now.

Giving a back-handed compliment to the Hand, widely known for the sumptuous feasts the man was proud of. It could be received either way, praise or derision, coupled with either disregard or concern for the starving smallfolk. Whatever the lords in attendance feared or wanted to hear, they had just gotten the confirmation they expected. And then Rickard raised his cup to the king for the master stroke, conveniently forgetting to lower his voice again.

“My king. It would be to my greatest honor if you could put your signature to the document regarding my son as well. Nobody would dare question it for eternity, if it bore the mark of the dragon.”

So it started. An attack on Rhaegar, not surprising, but oh, the execution. Aerys let loose a pleased cackle. And Connington rose, fuming.

Never one for patience, that one. A strutting griffon did not make a social butterfly. Huffing and puffing he came up the dais, a familiar sight, so the guards let him through. But today there was no Rhaegar to receive him. And no Arthur to restrain him from folly, so the griffon lord sat himself in Lord Elbert’s seat with impudence. Lord Rickard did not even acknowledge him, locked in hushed conversation with Aerys again.

The Stormlord’s quiet attempts at Rickard Stark’s attention went unanswered and the man had to clear his throat and reach for the older man’s shoulder. Oh, the indignity, on display for all the people in attendance. Lord Chelsted looked like a hawk, now expecting his moment to strike. Rhaella saw Varys behind the curtain at the dais. It seemed the Spider was now paying his complete attention to the happenings at the table, as did the whole room.

Rickard Stark turned, and the confusion looked so genuine on his face. Like a man truly unversed in court, and as if all this mummery was the truth. Rickard Stark did not stammer, that would have been giving it away. The halting words of caution hit the tone perfectly.

“I’m sorry, ser, I am not familiar with the livery you wear. I heard the approach but assumed it was Lord Elbert returning. Please, do tell me your name and the lord you are in service at.”

That must have stung, for at court Lord Connington was a familiar presence. Of middling importance in the Stormlands maybe, but he had attached himself early to Rhaegar and still stuck to him openly throughout all his troubles. The griffin would rise when Rhaegar took the throne. If, now.

But a savage Northman was excused from not knowing court members of prominence and Stormlords of currently middling importance. Still, it must have rankled as Connington answered Rickard Stark a lot more deflated than his temperament had promised when the man had sat down.

“I am Jon Connington, Lord of Griffin’s Roost. Lord Stark, I believe we have important matters to discuss.”

The thought why Jon Connington presumed the Warden of the North owed him his attention, much less a discussion seemed to flit over Rickard Stark’s face before being replaced by a look of clarity, as if inspiration struck and he could see through all that the young Stormlord wanted to speak of.

A look of understanding and even a certain warmth graced Rickard Stark's face as he reached out to clasp Connington’s forearm, greeting him as if they were familiar. The discussion that followed between the two was quietly watched by the whole room, and it was definitely not to Connington’s expectations. However, it definitely exceeded all of Rhaella’s.

“Ah yes, Griffin’s Roost, of the Stormlands. Neighbor to Storm’s End. Have you arrived on behalf of Lord Baratheon, to ask the throne for the matter of Prince Rhaegar riding off with my daughter, his fiancée?”

Lord Rickard seemed excited to meet the unexpected ally, and for the Stormlord to approach him so openly at the feast.

“No, my lord, I was already at court. I was bewildered as any when Lord Brandon stormed in with his rash accusation. It came as a surprise to all of us at court. Preposterous, that Crown Prince Rhaegar would do such a thing.”

Lord Connington seemed surprised by the warmth Lord Stark showed him, and taken aback by his presumptions. They were, of course, purely logical. To expect a lord to stand by his liege. Connington tried to turn the game around; unsuccessfully, as Rickard proved.

“Yes, my stupid first born was being stupid. A sorry business, and how it developed. I am eternally grateful to my king for his leniency. And I wholly agree with your statement regarding prince Rhaegar. Preposterous. Of him to abduct my little girl.”

Rhaella heard Elia beside her choke on her wine, along with a few suppressed chuckles among the lords in attendance. It was all so natural. Did they even suspect Rickard Stark of cunning, or did they all see a Northern barbarian with no guile, as they wanted to see? Connington was turning a shade of red already, barely a moment into the conversation.

“You mistake me, my lord. I meant it is preposterous to assume that Prince Rhaegar could be so vile as to abduct a young maiden. I believe a big misunderstanding is afoot, the crown prince will surely resolve it soon.”

At least Connington managed not to explode in Lord Stark’s face. Yet. He had that tendency when the prince was insulted in his presence. Mayhap he at least saw reason in not offending Lord Stark. The Northern did present himself the head of a powerful faction, and a man that spoke his feelings. And Rickard Stark continued to play that role as he spoke on, turning from confused and stunned at Connington’s careful accusation, to angry at the Stormlord.

“Assume? I did not, my lord. The king, my king confirmed that the prince abducted my daughter. Do you question that? There is no assumption of guilt. The king in his mercy has granted his son time for clemency. He loves his firstborn despite his act towards my daughter. I deeply respect that, for have I not come here to beg for my son despite his foolishness?

"And my king understood, and he granted my son mercy and promised justice for my daughter. Now, I ask you, Lord Connington. As a Stormlord, where is your fury on behalf of your liege?! Your king’s cousin once removed! That found his fiancée! My Daughter! Abducted?!”

Rickard’s voice grew louder and louder as he spoke, reaching the ends of the hall. His tone devolved into a wolf’s growl by the end, but still clearly understandable. His Northern accent tinged his voice for the first time, painting him the savage the court had seen in his son Brandon.

Aerys beside Rhaella was quietly giggling at the spectacle and Merryweather was running off towards the musicians, to save the banquet. Lord Chelsted seemed like a cat on the prowl, ready to jump in on the discussion with accusations aplenty. The king’s favor had fallen towards Lord Stark tonight. Connington could only scramble to save some face still and try for the purpose of his prince.

“Lord Stark you misjudge me! I am a loyal lord of the Stormlands. However, the prince is my friend. Trust me, the prince will come forward and clear up this misunderstanding. He may even be interested in courting your daughter, would that not appease you? You must have heard that his wife has become barren. Princess Elia cannot bear him more heirs, to secure the prosperity of House Targaryen. Is that not what we all wish for?”

The foolish boy. Rhaella did not believe Connington cared for a second which woman would grace Rhaegar’s arm; rather, his disdain towards their entire sex could not be more pronounced. Sometimes Rhaella wondered how her son could not see the man for what he wanted out of their association. But Rhaegar was obviously immature in such matters, as his most recent exploit now showed the whole realm.

Rhaegar must have only seen that Connington was not interested in him for his royal favor, and that had been enough for him. Oh yes, it was just a lady’s favor Connington craved for from his silver prince. And while his talk did not manage to pacify Lord Stark, with his disgrace he had already served his purpose. He had even allowed Rickard to now move on to the next point in his agenda. Elia.

The music started to play. It seemed Lord Merryweather had finally reached the bards. Rhaella could see Lord Elbert and Lord Jeffory rise with the Stokeworth and the Rosby from earlier as Rickard started speaking to Connington again, the Northman stone-faced and his voice as ice.

“Did you know, boy, that I had started negotiations for Lord Baratheon’s betrothal with his lord father, the late Lord Steffon? The closest kin of my king while he was alive, aside from his beautiful queen. The cousin whom my king bore a lot of love for, and whom Lord Steffon loved dearly in return. He told me so, before he set off to find his cousin’s son a true bride. A task that, to his eternal sorrow, Steffon could not fulfill, before he died in that infernal storm four years ago in front of his son.

"Steffon, whose death forced the king to find replacement in a Dornishwoman of all people as a bride for his son. I believe your liege Robert Baratheon would be furious with you right now if he knew. I believe your liege's father Steffon would be furious with you right now.

"You are not here to speak for your liege, boy. You are not here to speak for your king, either, for his stance on the matter is clear. I don’t see a Stormlord loyal to his liege in you, Connington, I don’t even see a Stormlord that is loyal to the king. I name you a sycophant of the prince that took my daughter. You say to trust you, that all this is a misunderstanding. Do you know then, where the prince took my daughter? I shall trust you if you can answer me in full.”

The beautiful queen? Rickard had only seen her bruised and battered. Rhaella would accept his compliments to her poise, she had acted to earn them, even as they pleased her. But beautiful she could not dare to accept. Beautiful, Rhaella had to say, today she was not. It would not do for her, to believe others could still think of her as such. That way only lay hurt. Joanna had told Rhaella she was beautiful, when she still was young. As had Mariah, and her daughter Elia sometimes still told her.

Aerys had said so as well when he was younger, but with him it was never a compliment, it had been a statement of vanity. That Aerys owned her, such a beautiful bride. There had only been two other men who had dared Rhaella's father’s and grandfather’s wrath in saying she was beautiful to her face. Sweet Bonifer, with nothing to lose. And Steffon. Rhaella had loved her cousin. Just as Aerys.

The realm knew of their close bond, with Tywin and Joanna and Cassana as well. Where Tywin had no regard for beauty but Joanna’s, Steffon was jovial and generous with his compliments. The reminder of him stung. Rhaella felt a tear in her eye and she could not tell if it was of remembrance or resigned sorrow. It would only bring hurt if she chose to believe in Rickard’s compliment.

As long as Aerys was her gaoler, hope could only end in pain. Blinking to see clearly again, Rhaella saw Connington’s star sink in the king’s eyes. As Connington could only answer with silence, Rickard dismissed the Stormlord, now that Connington had served his purpose.

“Lord Connington, in the North I would purge a vassal as disloyal as you. I will inform my future son-in-law of our discussion today. Actually, I wish it never happened. You insult me. You insult my daughter. She is the daughter of a Lord Paramount, not the replacement of a replacement. Not the replacement for a Dornishwoman.

"How did you ever get the guards to let you through and approach me? Remove yourself, boy, before I fail to contain myself any longer.”

Before Connington could comply or object, Aerys managed to get his rage under control. Connington should have fled. He did not, and Aerys ordered the guards to approach with a gesture before he spoke. Aerys would not burn Connington, he’d had his fix for today. And the Stormlord was a fixture at court, known by face to too many people. Those people would become afraid if he burnt, and Aerys was in control enough today to not commit another folly. He would, however, prove himself cruel tonight. Rhaella felt a shiver.

“Lord Stark speaks my mind. You will be removed from our presence for this evening, Connington. Guards. Please escort Lord Connington to spend a night in the Black Cells. Tomorrow, when Lord Connington has reflected on the transgression he committed this evening, set him free outside the River Gate so he may return to his keep. I banish him from my court.”

The guards carried out their order as Connington complied. All knew not to question the king. Prince Rhaegar had just lost the most vocal supporter he had in the Capital. That would hurt his faction as the news of the dismissal made their rounds and how it came to be. Her husband was twitching furiously in his seat now, Lord Stark beside him with the face of a storm waiting to happen. None approached as the music continued to play and the two men ate in silence.

Lord Merryweather had returned to his seat and was quaking in his boots at the sight of his king in his fury, his three chins quivering. The older lords in the hall watched the raised table, likely speculating on which way the wind would blow tomorrow, after today’s north wind had passed. The younger lords were locked in their dances, courtly games on display. All the daughters in attendance, it seemed, were sent towards Lord Elbert and Lord Jeffory.

As Lord Stark's two young attendees danced with the ladies of the Reach, spun around their friends from the Riverlands and the Vale, laughed with the Crownland women, approached the girls of the Stormlands and stole chaste kisses from the maidens of the Westerlands, people started to notice as the third Dornishwomen tonight being rejected by Jeffory Mallister and the fourth by Elbert Arryn. With the next lady the pattern became obvious, and tongues were sent wagging. None tried after the seventh lady to be rebuffed.

Coupled with Lord Stark’s comments earlier, a clear stance of Lord Stark’s faction quickly became apparent. Lord Chelsted moved to take Connington’s seat beside Lord Stark, likely to ingratiate himself as much with the Warden of the North as Chelsted had with Aerys, now that Rickard Stark had calmed once more.

And Qarlton Chelsted, while no more important than Connington in the wider scheme of things, received an entirely different welcome compared to the Stormlord. Seeing Rickard positively delighted at his approach made Lord Chelsted hesitate for a second. But Lord Stark displayed no cunning, no guile, no falsehood. And Rickard Stark seemed so sincere as he spoke.

“Ah, Lord Chelsted. A true leal subject of the king, I heard say. You know, my lord, you were one of the men I contemplated approaching to help me in asking for mercy for my son, but in the end I could not bring myself to ask a good man to beg with me for clemency when the harm to my house was self-inflicted. Please tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Rhaella well knew there was anything but pleasure to the company of the craven now seated to the side of the king. Still, seeing Lord Chelsted fall to the words he so often wove himself, a barely restrained smile splitting his face, gave Rhaella a small measure of satisfaction. She had always known Chelsted would be the one to approach.

Craven the man may be, a sycophant without compare, but Qarlton Chelsted always did press foremost for his own personal advantages, and he pursued those relentlessly. Rhaella had seen Rickard give cursory glances to other lords that followed the favor of the king like hounds, Giles Rosby and Symond Staunton. But those lacked the thirst for power that put Chelsted ahead of them, so Chelsted came over first and Chelsted spoke first.

“Lord Stark, you honor me with your words and your thoughts. I would have come stand with you in a heartbeat, for do we not all have the best in mind for the realm and our families? I want to apologize that I did not have men immediately remove the impudent griffin earlier when he had spoken so brazenly. I did believe him to come in support of his liege, never would I have thought him capable of such treachery.”

Of course not, Lord Chelsted. Then how come that you are always the first to decry Rhaegar and his faction of treason for actions like breathing? The horror! Rhaella was at the first time glad of her veil tonight, she did believe her mask had a weak point regarding men like Lord Chelsted. Those that reinforced Aerys in his belief of his infallibility and drove him to indulge in his madness and cruelty.

Just like right now you had waited for Rickard Stark’s reaction to Connington and saw how it played into your own designs and warnings regarding Rhaegar and Elia, didn't you, Lord Chelsted? Lord Stark played the Crownlander that failed to suppress an elated smile at his new Northern friend as he answered and Lord Chelsted just took the wolf's words at face value. Rickard Stark was, after all, only a savage Northman.

“Lord Chelsted, please, that young lordling’s failings could not be laid at your feet. I see you only a man of integrity, to apologize for not acting before you even could know disaster would strike. There is no fault to be found with you. You are a man of character, my lord. Never let it be said otherwise. I strive to be that myself, to always reach to be better. To fulfill the obligations of a lord and inspire loyalty in my vassals.

"It pains me, to see people unlike us, Connington and his ilk, that just latch on to the foolish prince despite living during the reign of King Aerys II, the man that brought the longest time of peace since old Jaehaerys, and only because our king has not reigned long enough in comparison. Lord Chelsted, you have been at court long enough. Tell me, good man, what do you think is leading young prince Rhaegar astray?”

Rhaella could well believe that Rickard was having a great time, seeing all these fools around taking his words as valid as a priest would the Seven-Pointed Star. It seemed he could get away with the most outlandish exaggerations to Rhaella. She could only imagine how truly derisive Rickard Stark thought of a man of character like Qarlton Chelsted. And the bait, so deliciously prepared.

The dismissiveness throughout the evening. The refused dances. The off-handed comments. All for this moment, so that a sycophant like Chelsted would attack the faction most foreign to the capital. And he did, all but giving the game to the Northern predator.

“My lord Stark, I see you have a keen eye, to recognize the prince was led to his downfall by another. Lord Connington is a fool, it is true, but in one thing he spoke truth. I also believe a daughter of your raising would have made a proper princess to our prince. But not as a replacement, that would be unworthy of a man such as you. The daughter of a man as loyal and true to the realm as you, Lord Stark, could have kept prince Rhaegar on the right path and would have made him a great queen someday.

"Sadly, those Dornish vipers the king invited to our court, to help them become a more integral part of the Seven Kingdoms, have proven themselves to be just as vain and treacherous as their reputation. I fear the prince is lost, seduced by the princess and her handmaidens, maybe even some of their normal attendants. How shameful of the Dornish, how they have repaid our king’s generosity!”

Rickard looked almost horrified right there, something that not even wildfire beneath him had caused. How did they not suspect Rickard Stark of deceit? Would Rhaella have been like the rest of the court had she not talked privately to Rickard before? To believe him to be genuine in all his naïve emotions and unquestioning honesty? She hoped she would have suspected him, but then all everyone ever knew of the wolf in the North was his quiet dignity and stern honesty.

How long had he assumed this mask, or was it only here in the south? Could court be so different in Winterfell, that people could be true and themselves there? Rhaella never left her thoughts wander, not since Aerys started locking her in at the Maidenvault at times. She would never leave King’s Landing as long as Aerys was here to keep her by his side.

I stand in awe of your dignity.

Insufferable man, Rickard Stark was too talented in his mummery. How could Rhaella ever trust a word the man said, knowing the intelligent cunning Rickard Stark possessed? Just seeing him now, acting indignant to help Rhaella's granddaughter, could it ever work out as Rickard Stark had planned with Elia? Rickard's next words gave Rhaella the answer, spoken with a quiet intensity.

“Dornishmen! Others take them! Vipers and deviants, the lot of them. To tell you the truth, Lord Chelsted, I am hardly surprised. You know what they say about the Dornish. But have they truly gained that much influence, here in the capital? Are steps being taken to insure the children are safe-guarded? Despite their mother, prince Aegon and princess Rhaenys are trueborn Targaryens, of the noblest stock.”

The queen could almost see Chelsted licking his lip. This was what he was always pushing for, to diminish Dornish influence in the capital. The man thought he saw an opening, and he went for it.

“You have the right of them, Lord Stark. That man earlier, Connington? Rumor has it he might be a sword swallower. And he has become the one of the prince’s closest confidants. Dornish acceptance of such deviance is well known, isn't it? And now the Dornish occupy two spots on the Kingsguard!

"Elia Martell always has her husband’s ear. There are times prince Rhaegar speaks but it is Elia Martell's words you can hear. Disgraceful, that’s what it is. The Dornish princess should defer more to her princely husband, like our gracious queen does to our king, but they do not teach women to be ladies in Dorne I fear.

"Fret not though, Lord Stark, prince Rhaegar's heir is being seen to, the little Aegon the picture of a proper Targaryen. I have heard tell that our king intends to help educate the crown prince’s son himself in matters of rule and kingship as little Aegon grows.”

Rhaella could almost feel the bile rise in her throat. Did she imagine the way Rickard’s eyes darken as Chelsted prattled on? She wasn’t sure. It did not matter, anyway. What did matter that she could see the outline this conversation would take now, even if she was not sure how Lord Stark would press his suit to foster Rhaella's darling Rhaenys.

As it turned out, Rickard Stark wouldn’t press his suit. No, the perfidious man knew exactly who was in front of him as Lord Chelsted worked himself up in his indignation and Aerys leaned in to hear tell of traitors and how to punish them. And Lord Chelsted was about to deliver to the old wolf what Rickard Stark wanted after just another sentence from the savage Northman.

“But what about the little princess Rhaenys? I hear she already has the Dornish coloring; we cannot allow her temperament to be tainted by the Dornish as well. To have her disregard the sanctity of marriage between one man and one woman, as both old and new gods agree. Is there not a loyal subject that can raise princess Rhaenys to behave as the Targaryen she was born to be?”

Rhaella could see Aerys gears turning. Her husband did not care that sweet little Rhaenys was raised right. He cared for the opportunity to humility Elia and punish his daughter-in-law for imagined slights. Chelsted could see it, too. But the Crownlander was becoming wary. Did he make the conversation flow this way? And Rickard saw the man's hesitance, and so Rickard spoke and squashed all of the craven’s suspicions.

“Lord Chelsted. Would you not be the perfect man to raise Princess Rhaenys as your ward, a true and loyal subject to the throne?”

The temptation. The gratitude of the king as Lord Chelsted showed the Dornishmen their place. The gratitude of the prince as Lord Chelsted acted the safeguard to his daughter from the erratic king. The gratitude of the infant princess when she had grown up, molded by Lord Chelsted's tutelage.

But then Lord Chelsted recognized the drawbacks. Princess Rhaenys would never be a royal of much importance, too Dornish, and just a princess to be wedded away. The prince would not forget Chelsted's previous slights and recognize the man's maneuvering for what it was.

And, worst of all, Chelsted would have to remove himself from court and the source of power, his place of influence at Aerys’ side, to raise princess Rhaenys in his own halls. Lord Chelsted could not be the Master of Coin any longer. So, the man needed to find reason to refuse, but to do so without refusing the intention. And Lord Chelsted tried, but...

“Lord Stark. It would be my greatest honor. Yet I fear to leave the court without people to stand up to the Dornish, and I fear they would manage to place one of their agents as the next Master of Coin and try to rob our king of his taxes. Maybe we should not –“

“Then another of the king’s loyal men? Lord Merryweather sadly cannot, as the Hand he cannot be expected to leave his post here in the capital, not with the splendid job he is doing. A year ago, I would have put Lord Tywin forward, but not after his disgraceful conduct last year, when our king honored him by naming his son to the Kingsguard? No, not Tywin Lannister. Maybe one of the honorable Lords Rosby, Staunton or Velaryon?”

And Lord Chelsted had lost. With Rickard pressing him before he could change the subject, interrupting him before he could decry the idea. And the men Rickard named, such good options for the task. Of course, they would want to decline for the same reason as Chelsted. Rhaella could see Rosby and Staunton, scrambling closer from their seats at the table. But all of them were in a bind.

They could not take on the task of fostering Rhaenys, for it would remove them from the capital. Yet they could also not have one of their fellow sycophants, the exact lords Rickard Stark mentioned, take on the task either, for there was favor to be found. The bumbling lords almost fell over each other as Staunton and Rosby fought over the seat next to Chelsted, trying to make their point.

“Lord Stark, I could not help but overhear your ingenious idea, but as Master of Laws I cannot abandon my seat in the capital at the moment.” Lord Staunton heaved as he spoke.

Lord Rosby picked up immediately as Staunton took a breath: “My lord, I fear my seat is too close to King’s Landing, the Princess Elia would just waltz in at her leisure and we would not be able to keep the Dornish influence contained.”

Rhaella could see the Darry brother’s making their way over, likely to press their suit to have their family take on the responsibility. Gerold Hightower was similarly approaching, but they were not the guards closest to the king at the moment. Those were Jaime and Barristan, too unversed in politics to care for such matters, even if the Selmys were a compromise that all lords in attendance could probably agree on as a foster family for the little princess. In the meantime, Chelsted spoke to prevent his last direct rival from becoming foster father to a princess.

“Lord Stark, Lord Rosby makes an excellent point that I fear also applies for Lord Velaryon. Driftmark is sworn to Dragonstone, which prince Rhaegar rules and where Princess Elia spends a lot of her days. The island is a common waypoint on their way over, they could simply invalidate our purpose. I suggest we overthink –“

“What about Lord Mace Tyrell?”

And Rickard Stark gave the death knell. Chelsted once more found himself interrupted. Would he not come to suspect the old Wolf? The solution was so obvious. Lord Mace Tyrell, famously loyal, famously ambitious and famously stupid. And the son of the Queen of Thorns. A point that did not matter to Aerys, obviously, for what could a dainty rose and a frail woman at that ever do to prick a dragon?

Of course the other lords were not that blind-sided to the dangers of Olenna Tyrell of House Redwyne, a woman who in two generations managed to unify three of the five most important houses of the Reach with her son’s marriage to Alerie Hightower. Gerold was already returning to his post. The Darry’s would not find purchase anymore, so they dispersed as well. Rhaella could see Aerys convincing himself already that the idea was actually his all along.

Rhaella could also see Chelsted, Staunton and Rosby thinking of reasons against the Tyrells. Of a better alternative. A man that appeared steadfastly loyal. Maybe not as ambitious, or if so, similarly stupid. Or at least lacking in cunning and guile, and definitely without an Olenna-Tyrell-type at their back. And a man of similar station as Lord Tyrell, because all else would be an insult to the Warden of the South when word of this very public discussion reached him.

That eliminated the Selmys and the Darrys, the Whents and the Hightowers as candidates. Lord Chelsted seemed to notice the obvious candidate first. He remained silent as he noticed it, looking at Rickard Stark as if he was a whole different person suddenly. Lord Rosby got the idea second. He, however, had not been interrupted twice in the row when he tried to table the manner of the princess' fostering, so Giles Rosby spoke his mind.

“Why, Lord Stark, would it not be a great idea if you took in the little princess? There is no place farther from Dorne and the court than the North, sweet Rhaenys would be well out of Dornish reach. I cannot say I have seen a more loyal lord than you. And would it not have a sense of poetic justice, with prince Rhaegar taking your daughter to corrupt her with wicked Dornish ways and you being awarded the prince's daughter to foster, to remove the Dornish corruption from her?”

The banquet could have ended right there, for Rhaella could see Aerys already coming to terms with the idea. Lord Staunton gave his support for the plan next and Chelsted followed along after a reluctant pause. After all, it would not do appear discontent with the idea now when even the king had the look of agreement to him.

Rhaella could see the Spider removing himself from the great hall as Lord Stark put up a half-hearted fight for courtesy’s sake, the old wolf slowly coming to accept the praises of the sycophants. Aerys gave the proclamation of his decision not even 15 minutes later, awarding Lord Stark with the wardship of his granddaughter.

Afterwards, it seemed as if Lord Stark gave up the control of the conversation to Lord Chelsted, apparently having reached all his goals for the evening. It devolved into banalities for the rest of the night, Lord Chelsted becoming mollified again to the seemingly harmless wolf but not daring to bring up contentious matters in any way lest the predator awoke. Only once more did Lord Stark bring up a topic of his own again, and it could not have been more tedious to Rhaella as it was just inviting all the men to brag. War stories.

For when men have tired of all interesting things to talk about, they talk of past glories. Wildling raids. Recent conflicts. The Ninepenny Wars. The Kingswood Brotherhood. Old stuff. Until Rickard Stark asked the Kingsguard to share their experience, inviting them to the table one by one with the king’s permission. For after all, the Kingsguard’s glory was the king’s glory and Aerys loved his glorious accomplishments.

Ser Lewyn was guarding the nursery and Elia soon disappeared with her entourage. Ser Jonothor Darry talked of his accomplishments. Ser Barristan Selmy gave an account of his, more modest than bold in his embellishments. Ser Gerold Hightower retold a bare bones version of all his life’s important fights, though Rhaella got the distinct impression he was wary of Lord Stark. Something to ask Jamie later, who came up next to tell his accomplishments.

Jaime Lannister did not have much to talk about. The youngest of the Kingsguard, kept confined at the Red Keep like a hostage. No tourneys since he became a knight, only his bout with the Brotherhood as a squire. It looked like Rickard Stark took pity on him.

The Warden of the North asked Jaime Lannister to retell the story of the Reyne-Tarbeck-Rebellion instead, in the way Jaime's father Tywin had told of his accomplishments to his son. One of the few stories Aerys still liked about his former Hand, an innocent choice for Rickard to make. Lord Stark seemed fascinated, as if the story was new and not the most well-known massacre in recent memory.

It was as Jaime ended with a short ‘and now the rains weep o’er his hall, and not a soul to hear’ when Lord Jeffory and Lord Elbert returned from their dancing. Exactly as Jaime ended. And they in turn asked for their own retelling of the Rains of Castamere.

But by now Aerys had grown bored of the story. All saw this, and conveniently Lord Stark said right then it was time for him to retire. If young Jaime could not tell the story once more to his young friends Jeffory and Elbert on their way out.

Another innocent request which Aerys granted, so the party rose together, the young lords falling in behind the old wolf as they made their way out, locked in discussion. Lord Stark moved around the hall, bidding farewell to lords and ladies left and right as he made for the door.

It seemed Jaime once more reached the end of his tale. The young knight said his goodbyes to the two young lords and Lord Stark. Nobody cared about them anymore, so only Rhaella noticed as Rickard snuck Jaime a piece of paper and leaned in to whisper something. Had Rickard Stark tarried for this very reason?

Jaime looked up, apparently unconsciously, and locked eyes with Rhaella across the hall and the Queen could see Rickard follow Jaime's gaze, until Rickard's grey eyes also landed on Rhaella's purple ones.

A sly, wolfish grin appeared on the old wolf's face. Then Rickard Stark winked. Winked! The insolent man! Rickard slipped Jaime another paper, whispered again into Jaime's ears and turned towards the door, Elbert Arryn and Jeffory Mallister flanking Rickard Stark on both side in lockstep. The music still played, in tune with Lord Stark’s steps now as he exited the hall. Or the other way round.

Rhaella did not stay around for long after. She managed to persuade Aerys to have Jaime guard her on the way back and immediately brought him into her room for questioning.

“What did Rickard Stark give you at the end of the banquet, and what did he say to you?”

The young lion hesitated for a second, then reached into his pockets and brought out the two pieces of paper she’d noticed earlier. He took out the papers, one a nice, folded letter on rich creamy paper and the other a smaller piece rolled up with a violet ribbon and held them out towards her as he spoke.

“This one is an invitation to my father, to come to his son’s wedding at Riverrun. Lord Stark said he left space underneath for me to sign as well. And 'for my handler to put their name to it as well’. The phrasing was so geared towards you and yet not, it confused me for second, and then he immediately slipped me a second letter and said it’s for your eyes only, my queen. Why did he not say the same with the first letter? I cannot figure it out...”

Jaime had been played. Rhaella knew Rickard suspected something about the young Lannister after he flinched at their afternoon talk, now he knew of the youngest Kingsguard’s allegiance for certain. Rhaella closed her eyes for a second.

It was not Jaime's fault, but Rhaella would need to instruct him closely in the future. She turned to the letters and decided to deal with her personal letter first and the wedding invitation for Tywin Lannister after.

The personal note almost turned out a disappointment, the matter discussed so incredibly unimportant to her. Yet the letter did not disappoint at all, exciting in a different way.

My lovely, dignified queen,

I have had an extended conversation with my son Brandon after our talks with the princess today and was sad but not surprised to find the accusations against him to be true.

In light of his transgressions I have decided to change my plans for him and would ask you to change his future position from lord of Moat Cailin to the castellan of the restored castle. Please continue to keep the entire matter quiet as discussed and extend my condolences to princess Elia.

I hope to see both of you upon my departure when I leave with princess Rhaenys for Riverrun tomorrow.

I remain faithfully your loyal subject,
Rickard Stark

Besides the appellation, which Rhaella silently but with vehemence protested, the most incredible thing about the letter was that it must have been penned before Rickard Stark arrived at the banquet. All the lords tonight had been puppets on the wolf’s strings, and they were still thinking themselves players.

The realization was frightening, and imagining such a control and command of power was exhilarating. Rhaella put away the letter among her private correspondence and took up the other rich and creamy paper. It was a wedding invitation, nothing more, nothing less. But why tell her?

Rhaella thought back to their afternoon talks, on Rickard Stark’s predictions about the war. The Riverlands divided, the North and Vale reclusive, the Westerlands funding both sides. In Riverrun all the makers and breakers would now meet, maybe a last time before the storm.

What were Rickard Stark's plans regarding Tywin before the events here at the capital? How would those plans change with Tywin at the table in Riverrun? Was Rickard Stark really going to remain above the Neck? Would he push his alliance in the Riverlands forward to bring more power behind him in the war? Would he look to join forces with Tywin as well, holding out with three and a half kingdoms to sway the entire coming war in his favor in the end?

And why inform Rhaella that moves were being taken? She could not see the purpose it served. Was Rickard Stark trying for Rhaella to advance herself with a new faction of her own, or fall in with Elia’s?

Or was the man planning something else entirely and merely trying to throw Rhaella and Elia off, now that he had presented them with a plausible prognosis for the war? To just threaten to flip the whole board? What was Rickard Stark's game? Rhaella knew she would not get much sleep tonight, deliberating on that insolent man and all these questions.

What, by the old gods and the new, was Rickard Stark up to?

Chapter Text

The thought to pinch himself had crossed Brandon’s mind a lot since yesterday, to wake himself up from this strange dream. Pain was supposed to do that, rip you from your nightmares. His burning face and the repeated slaps he had gotten showed Brandon, sadly, that either pain was not a sufficient tool to wake him from truly horrendous dreams or this twisted world he was in right now had become reality. But really, for Kyle to slap Brandon awake to tell him that he was snoring and therefore making a sound, thus deserving of a slap was really over the top.

Brandon had after all never meant to bring his friends in trouble, and the king would have stopped the mummery with the fire and the noose soon enough. King Aerys might be mad but his councilors could not be that stupid. Right? Everyone was just overreacting, and father would soon tell Brandon it was all an elaborate joke, planned by the king with his trusted Warden of the North to teach a wayward son a lesson. It had to be. The king could not be that mad, the councilors could not be that stupid and father could not be so uncaring for Lya and so uncaring for Brandon.

I am ashamed of you.

Over a fucking Dornishwoman, for gods’ sake?

Ned might bitch about it for a while, apparently snitch to father on Brandon, but Brandon could get Ned a hundred Dornishwomen and make this right again. So, the Dayne whore had a nice piece of ass, what of it? All this most fair lady of the realm was pure horse shit, that one Lyseni he’d once had in White Harbor was definitely more beautiful than Ashara fucking Dayne. Brandon briefly wondered, if the Lyseni still went for a gold dragon the hour?

Brandon might have to plow the trout for a while first, with father hot on his ass, but Catelyn Tully would not hold Brandon's attention for long, he knew. Sure, she was pretty, but oh so proper. Oh, so boring. There would not be any excitement in their marriage bed, no, the trout would probably lie cold turkey – or trout, ha – and pray to her Sevens for the fun to be over and for Brandon's seed to germinate. Bleurgh!

Could you be any more dull? To be fair, as Brandon thought on it, Catelyn’s sister was probably worse. After all, Catelyn Tully was at least pretty. Er. Prettier. All this trouble with wenches would be over as soon as they’d all left the Crownlands. Brandon would be heir again or his future father-in-law would probably have a fit. And Brandon's friends would be his friends again.

All of them were too tense right now, sitting in their saddles around Brandon and casting him nervous looks. Yes, they better be nervous, for when this farce was over Brandon would make them his friends regret their part in it. Brandon allowed a small grin to grace his face, he could almost picture it. Brandon also sent his smile in the way of that one lady up on the balcony that was looking their direction.

Curious, though, the lady did not even try to meet Brandon's eye. Was she looking at Elbert? Interesting, he’d question the Arryn later on the girl of the blue fish on silver and white. Did Jeffory and Elbert get some tail at the feast yesterday?

Father returned to their group, his business with the king apparently done. Rickard Stark had left early that morning and spoken of arrangements to be made, then sent Ethan to the saddler and asked him to organize an additional padded child’s saddle that could be placed on the same horse with an experienced rider. Had the old wolf found a Snow he had left behind years ago, looking to take the child north so it wouldn’t melt down here?

Brandon had to suppress a grin at the thought. His father could act it, but he was not so different from his true heir. His old man took the contraption Ethan held up for him and fastened it onto his own saddle. Brandon thought back for a second to when he must have been five or six, he remembered riding the same style with his mother. If he would ever again find a lady that could capture his heart as completely as his mother had his father’s? A lady like Barbrey? After all, Rickard and Willam did close that option for him…

Father addressed the whole group, telling that their last member would arrive soon and that they could finally escape all this infernal stench. The Northern guards released a few chuckles, probably reminiscent of the crisp air of the North, smelling of pinewood and ice and home. Two women approached, one of Brandon’s age but more pretty than beautiful, looking exotic but a little frail as well. Her slender form was less to Brandon’s taste, though her silken robes showed off ample skin.

The lady was clutching a little girl, looking Dornish like her mother, and the little girl in turn was holding a tiny black kitten at her breast. Princess Elia, Brandon realized after a second. The crown prince's wife entered into father's presence together with another woman that drew Brandon's eye away from Elia Martell.

The princess’ companion was her polar opposite, obviously older, more his father’s generation, clad in a dress that covered almost her entire body but could not hide the formidable curves the woman obviously had. She must’ve been 38 already but Brandon’s expert eye estimated there was not even a little sag to them. Her. Her silver gold locks reminded him of that Lyseni already for a second time today. The only detraction to the queen’s appearance seemed a heavy inclination to the use of face paint in Brandon’s opinion.

However, what absolutely baffled Brandon about the queen’s look was, well, her look. Not her appearance, the look in her eyes. Brandon knew that look; oh he knew it all too well. He had seen it a hundred times directed at him; how could he not know it? It was a look, not of infatuation mayhap, but of definite interest. And it was directed at Brandon's father.

Had the old man charmed himself a fucking queen? The balls of him! Oh, Brandon would get to the bottom of this when they were out of the city, he so would.

With the queen almost-but-not-quite eye fucking his father, the entire host dismounted as one and dropped to their knees, Brandon included. The king’s wife motioned for them to rise and held out her hand for his father to kiss, which Rickard Stark did definitely longer than propriety demanded. Brandon would have liked to imagine the queen to blush, but he could not tell with all that mascara on her face.

Rhaella Targaryen did not even offer her hand towards any of the other nobles in the party, though she did share acknowledgements with both Jeffory and Elbert. Of course, the two had met her at the banquet yesterday that they would not yet divulge any information on. Courtesies behind them, the queen and the princess stepped up to the old wolf and talked a little, luckily within earshot of Brandon.

“Lord Stark, your requests from yesterday has been seen to. Grand Maester Pycelle sent his fastest raven before midnight, he should arrive at his destination soon and your new wedding guest will probably arrive at Riverrun before you. It has been to my pleasure to endorse your invitation personally. As for that other matter, the princess and I were most happy to comply with your request. Elia was most satisfied with your decision on her lady’s behalf.”

Brandon wondered about the look of disdain the queen shortly flicked his way, but he probably just imagined it. She could not be angry with Brandon over his discourtesy to the king now, could she? After all, it was her gods that ruled in his favor at the trial. But Brandon did not have the luxury to ruminate on the matter as the princess stepped up to his father and held up her daughter to him, which Rickard quickly took from her before listening as Elia Martell spoke.

“Lord Stark, I have sent for Lady Lysa already to take up her place as my lady-in-waiting as soon as it proves convenient. I believe she shall make her way over shortly after her sister's wedding, don’t you think? By the way, I never did express my thanks to you for the removal of Connington from court. The man was not fond of me and took every chance to express that opinion to my husband. A shame Connington will never be able to give Rhaegar an heir of his own. Good riddance, we’re better off with him gone. The man had no brains for politics, only the wardrobe.”

“Thank you both for your help, my queen, my princess. Princess Elia, talking of letters, you will be most pleased to know that I have written to my heir to bring his lady friend along from the Eyrie, to introduce her as his companion for the wedding. I believe princess Rhaenys will be glad to see a familiar face again when we meet them off Darry along the Riverroad. Your lady is as close as a sister to you, did you not say? Mayhap I shall look favorably on her union with my son.”

There was too much information in his father’s words that was too outlandish for Brandon to comprehend for a second. Ned and a lady friend, coming down from the Vale? He would question Elbert so hard on the subject! And the new addition to the group was the little princess? Preposterous, why should they care to look out for that vile dragon’s spawn?

The girl was too little anyways, not worth much and a girl besides. Why did father let himself get shafted so much? They should have stayed around until Lyanna was back in their hands again, not settled for a girl-child and her kitten instead. But nobody seemed to pay Brandon any regards in his brooding, princess Elia leaning down to ruffle her daughter’s hair and talking to her soothingly, lovingly.

“My little sun. Listen to Lord Stark, do you hear? He’ll take care of you for some time, and Balerion will watch over you with Auntie Shasha joining you in a few days. I will come get you as soon as I can, just you wait for me.”

Princess Elia pressed a kiss to princess Rhaenys' temple before addressing Rickard again.

“Lord Stark, Dorne stands in your debt. Word will reach my brothers through trusted channels, so they know of your service to me. They will not believe the rumors that will spread about you in the coming days but know you for the man of honor you are. I hope we can share another drink together, when this whole sorry business is finally over.”

Did his father charm the queen and the princess? Brandon had so much to learn on this ride to come. They all saddled up after they bade each other a final farewell, Rickard pressing another kiss to the queen’s hand that stretched the limits of propriety. Did she squirm a little there, or was that again wishful thinking on Brandon’s part?

They made their way to the Dragon Gate and Brandon was bursting with questions, but it seemed he would have to wait a little longer. The guards stopped them, and a rather portly man approached them, bald and effeminate almost. A most disconcerting combination. Who did this man think he was, to stop the Lord Paramount of the North like a peasant? Picture Brandon’s surprise as his father greeted the man not derisively, not enthusiastically, but guarded and with his iciest mask in place.

“Lord Varys. I am not surprised to see you, to be honest, but I had expected to meet you outside the city gates on the way. Coincidentally, of course.”

“Please, Lord Stark, I have come to the conclusion that would only be an insult to your intelligence. May I compliment you on your most splendid performance during your days here in the capital?”

A eunuch, Brandon realized. The high pitch was grating, though his father did not show a single reaction. What was it that this man wanted from them? Father seemed a little uncertain as well, and that was enough to leave Brandon wary.

“I appreciate the compliment, Lord Varys, but I would of course never perform like a mummer at court. It is, therefore, unnecessary.”

The two man shared a short chuckle, and both were obviously faking it. So obviously that it seemed they wanted the other to know. Rickard continued on.

“I knew you would approach me, for I must intrigue you, Lord Varys. As the king’s spymaster I cannot remain a mystery to you. It must be grating to have your bird’s confined to White Harbor in the North, with little purchase to be found elsewhere.”

“You are frightfully well informed. Tell me, Lord Stark, why do I not seem to find any other in your kingdom willing to help our king?”

The bald eunuch did not at the least appear frightful, only amusedly interested.

“Lord Varys, I fear lonely street urchins and orphans are not prepared to face winter when it comes truly knocking. We huddle together in our holdfast and what little food we have is difficult to spare for strangers when the summer snows threaten the harvest.”

Rickard spoke of doom smilingly, and Brandon thought of old men going hunting at the height of winter. His father had called Brandon callous, but he did not belief he shared this disregard for the life of children.

“Yes, I did not face this problem on the warm shores of Essos. Still, your network here in the south is most surprising as well. You are well informed, and I cannot tell by whom. It is most irksome, Lord Stark. How ever did you manage that?”

The way these two spoke of people like things was most irksome to Brandon, though he kept his mouth shut still.

“Why, Lord Varys, there are wolves in all the woods of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond, and the direwolf rules them all. Leave me with my mysteries. I’ll not go raiding dragons’ graves in return.
‘Only a cat of a different coat, that’s all the truth I know.’”

At that the eunuch stumbled and blanched, stunned into silence. He did look frightful now as he gazed at Rickard again. Why, was the man scared of Lord Lannister?

“Who knows?”

The not-man's voice was nothing more than a croak.

“At the moment?”

Rickard wore a sardonic smile as he answered.

“None of import, truly. But the ravens are sent and the riders on the way since yesterday. I shall trust in your discretion should you deem it vital I want information to… disappear. Know that I am really ambivalent to your plans, but contingencies for my death and that of my heir are being put in place.

“Depending on your choice, Varys, I will either bring winter and shelter for you myself when I ride south again, or leave you with all the others in my way to burn in a pyre you will never be able to contain. Did you know spiders deal badly with both extremes, should they fail to find their corner to hide early enough?”

Rickard almost made the bald man cry, it seemed, for Lord Varys gulped like a fish before a quick curtsy and a hasty retreat. The things Brandon would enquire on during their ride continued to grow.

They left through the Dragon Gate shortly after and were not met with anymore hindrances on their way out. Brandon tried to start a conversation with his father and his friends several times but was shut up rather quickly each time, even given a guard of his own the permission to ‘slap my stupid son unconscious should he speak before we have ridden for three days’.

Brandon's father paid all his attention to the little princess for the rest of the day, bringing in Ethan and the others at times to help distract Rhaenys Targaryen in rotation. The little girl luckily did not start to cry like a little bitch the moment they were out of her mother’s sight.

Princess Rhaenys did slow their group down a little, though. They could not ride their horses hard the entire day with the small girl around. They would arrive at Darry in 12 days after setting off from King’s Landing and for the first three days of the journey, true to his father’s words, Brandon was not included in the hushed conversations of the group.

When those days had passed his father sent Brandon's friends to explain to Brandon what had transpired at the capital and the moves Rickard had undertaken with Elbert and Jeffory at the banquet because Rickard himself ‘could not be bothered to translate his actions into words an idiot could understand’.

The thinly veiled contempt Jeffory and Elbert showed Brandon stung. They did not need to uphold the charade any longer, did they? They'd left the capitol, there was no reason to lie any longer. The tale Jeffory and Elbert spun was fantastic beyond compare.

A tale of Brandon's father leading all the nobles at court around by their noses in an act so intricate that he managed, within one feast, to clip the wings of the crown prince's faction, claim the little princess Rhaenys as a bargaining chip away from the royal family to hold against both prince Rhaegar and princess Elia while making them both indebted to the Starks for the little girl's safety. All the while having the rest of the wider court believe Rickard was at odds with the Dornish and ingratiate himself with the king so that the mad dragon thought there was no truer subject to the throne than his Warden of the North.

Father showed the court a simpleton and they swallowed it, all the while dancing in the palm of his hand. And, for fuck’s sake, Rickard Stark managed to charm the queen!

There was other stuff Elbert and Jeffory talked about, but apparently, they had not lured any southern ladies into their chambers during their stay, only charming specific houses on orders of his father. They did not divulge either if his father and the queen were doing more than just eye fucking each other, but at least Ethan seemed to react with reproach to Brandon’s opinion suddenly.

Hah, as if, the young Glover was probably just jealous of the charm all wolves apparently had. Brandon had still not gotten any word on Ned’s lady friend out of Elbert after Jeffory had held the man back when Brandon first questioned Elbert, only cold looks every time afterwards he tried to bring it up.

Finally, Brandon's isolation seemed to be over after five days as his father invited Brandon to privately step out with the Warden of the North for a conversation during their lunch break, pawning off little Rhaenys to Ethan. Brandon did not know if he was allowed to broach a subject himself. So, out of caution, he waited for his father to start the conversation. However, Brandon did not expect his father to start with the most unimportant topic there was.

“Son. Tell me what you know of Dorne.”

Really, Dorne? Father did not have anything more pressing to talk about than Ned’s whore of yesteryear? Brandon could feel his blood pumping as he spoke.

“You want to start with talking of whores and vipers, far on the horizon that interest us nothing in the North? Does that shit about Ashara Dayne bother you that much, even now that Ned found himself another floozy in the Vale? I’ll apologize to him when I see him, but I do not see the point why Neddy is so angry still over a fucking loose Dornishwoman!”

Rickard only regarded Brandon coolly, the same way his father always had since their conversation where Ashara Dayne first came up. Finally, Rickard spoke with Brandon, but in a tone as if his son was a mere servant.

“Yes, I want to talk of Dorne. Your bigoted opinion is disgraceful, Brandon, it’s what they think of Dorne between the Marches and the Neck. The same places where they speak of us as wild savages cowering to trees and fucking with animals to keep warm in the winter.

"Sadly, you did not prove the royal court wrong in those thoughts when you barged into the throne room, foaming spit running down your beard and screaming for the head of the prince. When I arrive back at Winterfell, I will call upon Lord Dustin to chastise him for his failure in raising you and ask Lord Cerwyn why the fuck I never heard of your conduct from him.

Now, Brandon, let me tell you of Dorne. The only other place that the dragons did not subjugate by force of fire beside the North. A place with a people just as united as us Northmen in spirit, something no other province can claim. And that with three distinct peoples, not just a singular people like we have up North. So, here is your second chance, Brandon. Try again. What do you know of Dorne?”

Brandon had to scramble for a second. The accusation stung, especially as it rang true. Had he acted the picture of a savage? He hastily thought of his lessons on Dorne, but only came up with short descriptions.

“Um, Dornishmen, Salty, Sandy or Stony. The first kind live on the eastern coast, heavy with Rhoynish blood. House Nymeros Martell is Salty. Dark of skin and eye. Sandy, dessert dwellers, fewest amongst the Dornish. Never beaten on their home ground for long, bleeding armies in the dunes. Darker still, not from their blood but burnt by the sun. Stony Dornish, First Men or Andal. More alike with the rest of the realm, though culturally deeply suffused by Rhoynish and Dornish influences. The foremost House amongst them are the Yronwoods.”

“Yes, Brandon, all that is correct. Not much, but it is correct.”

Father shot Brandon a short nod before turning grim as ice again.

“Now tell me, as a Stony Dornish house, do you think it might have offended the Daynes, the third most powerful house of Dorne, beloved by the entire region for the Sword of the Morning and with current ties to the Targaryens and a serving Kingsguard amongst their peers, to have you loudly and blatantly lie about having dishonored their darling daughter for the realm to hear? You could have lost us our trade relation with the whole region for a whole generation, you imbecile!

"And for what, Brandon? Showing up your younger brother? Who, just so you know, apparently managed to smooth out the whole problem you caused without me even hearing about what happened. The princess and the queen seemed bedazzled over letters that Ned wrote to Lady Ashara, fucking bedazzled! Lady Dayne and Ned will meet us after Darry, where we will stay for a night. Where you will confess - in front of the entire Darry household - the offence you committed at Harrenhal against lady Dayne when we arrive.”

Brandon could not help but gape at that. His little brother, sending women swooning? With words? Ned, the Quiet Wolf? What a load of shit was his father talking off? And Ned was still with the Dornish broad, even after Brandon's exclamation?

Ashara Dayne was not the first noblewoman Brandon had boasted of deflowering, even if it was the only case where he had actually not managed the deed. True, the boast had been a little unsavory. But that his father would dishonor his son over this matter, over the honor of a Dornish woman? That could not be. Brandon spoke up, voicing his protest.

“But father, you cannot mean that! If the problem is truly that dire, we can surely take care of the problem without disgracing me in such a manner! How will the lords ever accept it when you reinstate me as your heir after I have been made the mockery of the whole the realm?”

Rickard looked at him then, and Brandon's father laughed. Loud and long, without inhibitions before speaking again.

“Gods, you fool. Did you think this was a game, these last few days? Brandon, you will not, cannot be reinstated as my heir. You almost killed me, you almost killed your friends and you almost caused the civil war we have been standing on the edge of for years now! You were about to squander all the cards we had stacked in our favor since before I send Ned as a ward to Jon Arryn and arranged for your betrothal with Hoster Tully’s daughter.

"Ned is my heir now. And I am not disgracing you, Brandon, you did that yourself. It is all your own fault with your deplorable conduct at Harrenhal. I have spoken with Elbert and Jeffory, Ned is deeply in love with his Lady Ashara and with a union between the two and with princess Rhaenys in the North with us we might just pull Dorne to our side in the coming war.

"Trust me, Brandon, for the smallest chance of that happening I will have you scream your transgressions against Lady Ashara at every keep we stop at for the world to hear or I might just agree when Hoster pressures me to marry you to Lady Lysa instead of his elder daughter.

"Did you know the younger trout sister had an abortion recently? The father being the boy you almost killed when he challenged you for Lady Catelyn’s hand? You may fear the older sister will bore you in the future, but the younger is an instable little floozy that is likely to slit your throat in the bedroom some night. But be my guest, don't try to make amends.

"But know this: If Lady Ashara was my daughter, or the woman I loved, I would clamor for your head. How did you ever get Ned to forgive you after Harrenhal?”

There was silence between them. Brandon took his time to process all that was said. It was true, there was no going back, his future was in pieces. Winterfell would be Ned’s. Brandon was no longer the heir. He would still marry Catelyn Tully, and that was if Brandon was lucky.

A fortnight past the image of a boring marriage to Catelyn had been hell, so Brandon had welcomed the reprieve his sister had seemed to give him by being abducted. Now Brandon would be at his brother’s mercy and in danger of marrying a psychotic bitch that would want to see Brandon dead. His father was looking at Brandon as he deflated, neither satisfaction nor pity on Rickard's face. Only indifference. Rickard Stark was still waiting on his son's answer.

“Lya.” Brandon croaked his sister’s name out. “Ned forgave me for Lya’s sake. Whoever Ned may fall in love with, I doubt my brother will ever love another more than Lya and Ben. And me, before that day. We took care of Lya together after the prince shamed her and continued sticking together for Lya. Ned forgave me, but he did not forget, and there was rage still in him when I saw him off the last time. But Ned forgave me, for Lya's sake.”

Rickard regarded Brandon for a second before speaking again.

“Brandon, what you loudly claim to do in the name of the pack, Ned does silently without question. Your brother will make a great Lord someday and I advise you, son, to do better by him. You have much to make up for. Your performance at Darry will be the first step on that journey. Now come here.”

And Brandon's father pulled him into a hug then, the first in a long, long time and Rickard held Brandon close as he spoke.

“My son. You have fallen far and landed hard and I cannot shield you anymore then I have done at the moment, but I am happy, so incredibly glad, that you are alive. You are my son and I love you, despite what you have done. I would have stepped up to fight for you had there been a dragon in front of me in that room, not just a madman with his pyromaniacs and lackeys. Never doubt that.”

And his father held him tight as Brandon’s eyes moistened and he came to accept the truth. Brandon was not the heir anymore, he was less than a second son now, but he still had family that cared for him despite his failings. It was time Brandon did right by them, and it was time he apologized to his friends. But that would come later, for right now Brandon was warm and safe and protected by the mightiest wolf in the world.

When Brandon had calmed again and extricated himself from his father’s arms, he thought of lightening the mood. Brandon knew he bonded well with people with his charms, but there was little to talk about that was happy right now. Brandon would marry Catelyn. He would disgrace himself in the coming days loudly and often.

His brother Ned would return with his new lady, but Brandon had gravely offended both of them. Brandon's sister was still taken. His friends almost died because of him. The king was mad. The continent was on the brink of war. The Starks were charged with protecting a bratty little princess.

His father had charmed the queen.
Perfect.

“So, father… How did you manage to charm our lovely queen?”

Brandon's father looked at Brandon, then far away towards the horizon as Rickard started to speak.

“You know, son, I will never love another woman like I did your mother. At the capital I have flattered and groveled before the king. I have lied and cheated and threatened the lords into every advantage they could not believe a Northerner would be savvy enough to grasp. I have whispered with the princess and I have smiled at the queen. I have gotten a look at the myriad allegiances of the forces of the Red Keep and manipulated all the relevant ones to our advantage.

"With the prince proving himself an idiot, the king a lackwit and all of the lords he surrounded himself with either imbeciles or traitors hidden too well for the king to suspect, I have only found two forces in King’s Landing that were both capable and inclined to have the Targaryens survive the coming war. But while the princess is now looking out for herself and Dornish interests with the prince’s infidelity, she will not care for Targaryen lives but for those of her children. The queen, however, is interested in keeping both her sons and grandchildren alive as well as keeping the Targaryens in power. She is the only competent force truly on the Targaryen side.

"But the queen is lonely, Brandon. She may have powerful friends in the realm, yes, but none that stand against the king in his moments of madness now. Those friends will only turn towards queen Rhaella for guidance when the other Targaryens show themselves to be causes completely lost. Make no mistake, Brandon, that time will come. But right now, the queen is lonely, and abused, and vulnerable.

"So, I gave the queen what she deserves and craves the most but what she doesn’t get at the moment. Respect and attention. Make no mistake, the queen is a lovely lady and could have made a stunning consort for me if things lay differently. But while the queen might forgive me the murder of her royal husband in the war to come, she will not forgive me for killing her firstborn, for sending her second son and grandson to a place like the Citadel, the Wall or the Faith or for standing aside as the bedmates I shall chose for this war move to kill them.

"The queen will not, cannot forgive me for ending her family’s reign and the Targaryen line within the next years. For that is what I will do, now that her mad husband has threatened to kill my son and her ingrate of a son is off somewhere probably raping my daughter.”

And his father looked at Brandon again, Rickard Stark's eyes burning with icy fire that could freeze all the dragons that ever flew across the world as he spoke.

“But until I have accomplished all that I plan for the Targaryens, the queen is useful to me if she just believes I am well inclined to her. And she already has done more for my cause than she thinks, her signature to my letter will bring Tywin to my table to negotiate. Because in doing so she proved to Tywin that his son has a protector in the queen at the capital, a development that happened very recently in my opinion. And the old lion will know he has me to thank for that knowledge.

"If the queen survives the coming storm, if she manages to preserve even a scant amount of Targaryen influence over the realm, I might look to her again and see if I can reach out to the queen without compromising the destruction of all she now holds dear. Because, son, if I truly was looking to help queen Rhaella now, I would tell her of Varys. At the moment, the threat the Spider poses to the Targaryens is still small. As is his potential to be of use to me.

"But Varys' usefulness for me will grow as he sows chaos between the prince and the king for Varys' own purpose. As Targaryen disunity serves my interests, our lovely queen will sadly end up suffering on the side. I don’t care enough about Rhaella to let go of any of the cards I hold. Let the lizards in the capital devour each other in another Dance and open the realm for the wolves and lions and falcons to devour. We old beasts will expand our influence once again, for the first time in almost 300 years.”

Rickard remained in silence afterwards and did not speak another word to Brandon as they rode off towards their day’s destination. After another week on horseback they reached Darry and after they had been welcomed by the lord of the castle, Brandon screamed his throat raw as he bellowed out of his disgrace for all the world to hear. The next day they would meet Ned on the road.

Chapter Text

Jon was filled with a mixture of trepidation and excitement as he waited for Rickard’s party to reach them. The news of the last few weeks had been worrying. First the report of Brandon’s foolishness and Rickard’s frantic chase after him. Hoster had sent a letter saying the son had run off to die and the father had followed. The gall of that man, demanding Ned fulfill his father’s contract and make Catelyn Tully Lady of Winterfell.

As if that were not enough, Elbert almost became collateral damage in Brandon's whole fiasco. And Hoster? The greedy fish wanted Jon himself to take Hoster's crazy daughter to wife if he wanted the support of Riverrun in the war that would inevitably break loose. The gall of that man! Elbert, his heir, written off as collateral damage! Hoster might be a Lord Paramount, but it was not like his Riverlords were a faction that would support him to the man.

Not to think of his younger ward, even! Just the look Ned shared with his lady love as he read the letter! It was the first time Jon had seen the boy crying, a second before Ned stormed over to Ashara and pulled her into a deep hug, as if to never let her go.

They had not deigned to answer Hoster, not until news from the capital had arrived. The letter that had come had been written in Rickard’s hand, but the words had only caused more questions.

Jon.

I have saved my son from his own foolishness. My stay in the capital has been interesting. Our plans need to change. Meet me on the Riverroad a day from Darry. Tell Ned to bring his lady friend. Leave Denys and Robert at the Eyrie.

Also. We need to talk about Hoster.
Rickard.

The letter did not really serve to alleviate Jon’s worries, but at least his friend was alive and not stuck in a Black Cell. But Jon still did not reply to the trout. Hoster could squirm a little longer for all that Jon cared. Ned and Ashara had been ecstatic, the Dornish beauty not letting the Northman out of her room anymore. The two lovebirds did not even question how Rickard had come to know of Ashara's presence at the Eyrie, even though Jon did wonder.

Ashara herself had been very territorial since she had arrived at the Eyrie. Every dainty lady that now accidently tripped, stumbled or fell into Ned had been verbally eviscerated by Lady Dayne for their clumsiness, leaving a few in tears. It did not help to stop the ever-present sighs that haunted his halls since Robert had to read out that seven-damned letter, but it was a start.

Some of the ladies at Jon's court were finally looking elsewhere again rather than trying to capture his Northern ward’s attention. Who knew the Quiet Wolf had such a gift with words that now veteran bards would try to approach Ned for advice on how to pen a moving ballad?

After departing from the Vale Jon's party heard the wildest rumors at the Crossroads Inn. The gossip was obviously very fresh; it had probably not even reached Riverrun yet. Rickard would only arrive shortly after word reached the Tullys, and if there was any truth to all that Jon heard, Hoster would be fuming.

Rickard alive, having bested the king’s champion - wildfire, the audacity - with only Rickard's regular sword. The Northman chastising his own eldest son in front of the whole court, making a mockery of Brandon while Rickard ingratiated himself with the king and casted prince Rhaegar from his pedestal of infallibility. Lysa Tully, impregnated by Hoster’s wayward ward and forced to abort the baby by her father. Brandon Stark disinherited.

Ned was shocked at those news, the specter of Catelyn once more looming in the distance for Jon's ward. Jon was happy he could calm his foster son on that end, Rickard would not have asked Ned to bring Ashara along if Catelyn waited for him under the weirwood tree at the end of the Riverroad. Still, Jon could not fathom if all the rumors were true and if so, why Rickard seemed so intent on snubbing the greedy fish. What did the old wolf plan?

Waiting by the roadside they could soon see Rickard’s group approaching, the horses kicking up a dust cloud, riding at a harsh tempo. The Northmen and their companions soon pulled up to their resting place and dismounted to approach, Rickard quickly enveloping his second son while a young girl ran towards a surprised Ashara Dayne.

Elbert came over as well, sharing a brief hug with Jon. Jon held his nephew close. The old falcon had feared the worst upon receiving Hoster’s letter, only now did Jon feel a weight lifted from his chest again. Brandon did not approach, apparently apprehensive of being confronted with Lady Dayne again. He was seen though, and the Dornishwoman’s burning eyes promised murder while Ned’s reflected icy indifference.

The young lovers had told Jon of Brandon’s actions at Harrenhal and the Valelord was appalled by the Northern heir’s callousness. Did Brandon even think his actions would likely alienate all of Dorne from the North for a generation, only averted by Ned’s and Ashara’s obvious affection for one another?

After the first greetings were done, Rickard stepped away from the group together with Jon, Brandon, Ned, Elbert, Jeffory Mallister and Ashara. Ethan Glover took the little Dornish girl from her arms and went with Kyle towards the guards. Before Jon could ask Rickard for clarification on all the wild news they had heard the last few days, before Rickard himself could address the group about his plans going forward, Ned burst out with the matter that had been on Ned's mind and heart since he picked up Ashara from her ship at the harbor of Gulltown.

“Father. I ask your permission to wed Lady Ashara Dayne.”

“... why?”

Rickard did not decline straight away. Rather, the old wolf took a look at the two lovers, surprised by Ned’s bold attitude.

“Because I love her, father. And because I have dishonored her.”

Ned’s face took on a slight shade of red that only grew deeper as Rickard regarded him a little coolly while seconds stretched into eternity.

Ashara Dayne herself did not really look the part of a dishonored woman, though. She looked a little stoic instead of her usual vivacious self, true, but not ashamed. But Jon had come to know Ned's ladylove quite well, and he saw the hidden trepidation in Ashara's poise. Rickard continued his silent scrutiny. Sadly, Brandon seemed to think this was a good time for him to give his input.

“Ned. My brother, I am proud of you. How did you manage to get those – her?”

Ned did not seem particularly happy about his elder brother’s endorsement, or Brandon's sleezy grin. And Ashara seemed ready to spit fire. However, before either could unleash a torrent of scorn upon Ned's elder brother a hand clamped down heavily onto Brandon's shoulder, causing him to flinch.

"Brandon", Rickard said, his tender tone a direct contrast to the way Brandon seemed to shrink with every word, "what did we say about speaking before we think?"

The answer Brandon gave almost sounded meek.

"That it is the mark of children and fools, father."

"Correct. Now, Brandon, do you want to go back to the arrangement we've had in the capital, and the first five days on the ride? Because your comment just now had my palm itching."

While Ned and Ashara held their breath at the exchange between father and son, neither Elbert nor Jeffory seemed surprised at all. Ashara seemed unable to recognize Brandon in the man before her, but maybe that was for the best.

Before Harrenhal, Ned used to tell Jon of Brandon's vivaciousness, and that had been the man Jon had gotten to know at Harrenhal. What had happened in the capital?

After another second Ashara seemed to pull herself together again and retorted to Brandon’s earlier exclamation of stupidity, her answer scorching like the Dornish sun and her eyes burning purple.

“Well, Ned definitely did not have to try to get me drunk to unconsciousness. My dear Ned only had to use his talented tongue; you know. He's not just a sweet talker.”

There was something deeper in that statement, and Jon did not mean the innuendo he was almost choking on. The other young men in attendance simply stared open mouthed, though, and Ned’s visage turned a darker shade of red. Both Jeffory and Elbert started stealing glances at Ned after a few seconds, though, while Brandon at least had the grace to look a little ashamed. Rickard released a fake cough to pull the attention back to him, dramatically looking at his son for a long moment before speaking.

“Ned. I will permit your formal courtship of lady Ashara for now. I have come to a sort of accord with Princess Elia. You may introduce the lady as your companion in Riverrun. We will talk on this subject later in private."

At that Rickard swiveled around to Ned's Dornish lady and smoothly picked up her hand for a kiss to the knuckles before he continued speaking.

"Lady Dayne, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I did not hear of Brandon’s misconduct against you at Harrenhal until my recent conversations with Princess Elia. I formally apologize in the name of my House and I have chastised and punished Brandon for his actions. You have my permission to seek any matter of retribution against him that does not cause lasting bodily harm.”

The faces of both Ned and Ashara went through a whole range of emotions as Rickard talked. Both started out ecstatic, but while Ned’s face turned first to remorse, then to satisfaction and finally to abject terror, Ashara’s morphed into vindication followed by satisfaction - like Ned - before twisting into a smile that grew more sardonic by the second.

When Ashara finally directed her haunting violet orbs to scrutinize Brandon, Brandon started to shiver as if the winds had picked up. Ashara never averted her eyes from her tormentor as she answered Rickard with a soft, almost fleeting voice.

“May I ask, Lord Stark, which punishments your son has received these last few days?”

“Certainly, my lady.”

Rickard complied; his speech devoid of all emotion as he talked.

“Doubtless you have heard of Brandon’s disinheritance due to his foolishness at the Red Keep. Under revision of all his many failings - his transgression against your personage included, lady Ashara - I have insured with the help of the queen and Princess Elia that Brandon cannot receive lordly status unless my new heir Ned elevates Brandon after I have died.

"Furthermore, my son Brandon is to confess his appalling transgression at every keep we will stop in the Riverlands on the way to the wedding. Brandon has already started doing so at Darry.”

Ashara slowly turned to the father of the man she loved, appreciation shining in her eyes as she slowly spoke.

“I like that, Lord Stark. I like that a lot. I like that so much, in fact, I would like for your son Brandon to go south after his wedding at Riverrun, to my home at Starfall, and continue with the same punishment with an escort to insure he does as he is ordered to, never stopping at the same keep twice."

Ashara waited for the old wolf's respond to that request, gauging Rickard on how he would take her request. As Rickard gave a silent nod and an indication to continue, Ashara did so with a smile.

"With your permission, Lord Stark, I would like to pen Brandon’s confession myself, which Brandon will then have to exclaim for all to hear. I promise you, Lord Stark, it will not include any falsehoods. Only... very descriptive language.”

After a solemn nod by Rickard Ashara turned to her lover, the gleam to her eye now predatory.

“Ned. Dear Ned. Will you help me put the confession to paper with your honey tongue? I promise to reward you handsomely the better I like this confession.”

Jon's ward Ned nodded with some trepidation while Jon and Elbert shared a look of pity. Brandon had no idea what had just happened to him, his doom was now just waiting for the ink to dry. Ashara tried to pull Ned away from the group straight away, maybe to give him a little encouragement to do well with his writing. The two had been stealing kisses from one another at every dark corner at the Eyrie.

Rickard stopped the two from leaving fast enough, luckily. Some things were still in the air that needed clarification. Rickard bade Ashara to look after little princess Rhaenys and leave Ned behind for further discussion. Wait, what, that little girl was the firstborn of the crown prince? Oh, Rickard had so much to explain.

Brandon had apparently not gotten the message earlier and moved to sling an arm over his brother’s shoulder, with Ned being obviously uncomfortable in his new position. As Brandon spoke, Jon wondered if the older Stark brother still had not learned to think. Also, Jon had to marvel at his ward’s composure. After all, Ned did not immediately break his brothers nose as Brandon Stark started speaking again.

If looks were anything to go by, it would have been the second time Brandon's nose was broken in as many weeks.

“Finally, the broad is gone! Ned. Tell me tell me tell me. How does the famous Ashara Dayne measure up to all the ladies of the Vale?”

If Jon thought Ned’s earlier stare had been icy, Jon did not know how he could describe the look that now sat in Eddard Stark's eyes as Ned disentangled himself from his brother. Jon knew his ward had a gift with words, but Jon had only rarely seen this gift used to put people in their place. Jon did see it now.

“You know, Brandon, there are so many things you can liken a beautiful woman to. Why should I cheapen Ashara by comparing her to another woman and offend both Ashara and the other lady in the same breath? I am not surprised anymore that the only women you managed to have a go with more than once were only ever whores, brother.”

Rickard shooed Brandon away off-handedly on that note, the former heir retreating from the group entirely too sullen, as if he did not see any fault in his words. Jeffory went after Brandon on the command of the Rickard. The young lordlings that had followed Brandon to the capitol all seemed to regard the Warden of the North with reverence bordering on worship. Jon wondered when that development had happened.

After his eldest son had left, Rickard launched into a tale of pure madness. Apparently, the king was descending into utter lunacy, despoiling the sanctity of the Trial by Combat by naming wildfire his champion. The king's lickspittles in the capital were holding sway over Aerys' fickle mind, as all the while the Targaryen monarch kept savaging the queen in their marital bed. The Dornish princess, consort to the crown prince, held hostage. The crown prince himself disappearing with Lyanna without the king’s order.

The last matter did allow Rickard to drive a deeper wedge between the monarch and his successor, despite the heavy toll Lyanna's abduction took on Rickard. But now the old wolf had won the confidence of the king, the trust of the princess and the favor of the queen while letting all the puppets at court dance from the strings Rickard held.

Dorne had been made into a possible ally in Rickard's and Jon's endeavor by taking in princess Rhaenys as a ward; Rickard had tricked the queen into bringing the Lannisters to his negotiation table. The new way forward that Rickard had opened for them was staggering in its audacity, even more so than Jon and Rickard's original plan.

“Hoster Tully has shown himself to be a liability, not an ally in the last weeks, so we will dispose of him as a political force."

Rickard's voice was calm as he spoke, but Jon knew Rickard enough to hear Rickard's cold fury still.

"The old trout is a greedy cunt, so when word reaches him that his daughter Catelyn now stands to marry a disinherited idiot, Hoster will throw a fit and try to change the groom to Ned. Hah! Fat chance I let that happen, Jon!

"I have now officially approved of Ned's courtship with the Lady Ashara with you as my witness, Jon, and us two will stand as a steadfast deterrent to Hoster's ambition. Honestly, Jon, I say the fish can go fuck himself on that front. The second thing Hoster will try to do is exchange Brandon's bride Catelyn for her insipid sister Lysa. The young woman was dishonored by his ward Baelish and had to suffer the abortion of their bastard. The Lord of the Little Finger was not important enough for Hoster to wed his daughter to.

"Well, now I have had my agents spread the word of Lysa Tully's disgrace in every winesink, every brothel, every servant’s kitchen and every inn in the southern, eastern and northern Riverlands since I have left the capital. Word should reach Riverrun slightly after we reach the castle ourselves, but the whole realm will know at the same time as the Tullys. Hoster will never find a proper match for the girl that will satisfy his greed.

"I myself will naturally refuse such a woman for my son Brandon. Luckily for Hoster, princess Elia has invited lady Lysa to join the princess as a handmaiden at court, the only option left to the young girl's father when the rumors abound. And thinking his daughter Catelyn too good for my Brandon now, Hoster will end up breaking the betrothal between the two, of that I have no doubt.

"But mark my words, Jon, I will make both his daughters look like secondhand goods in the eyes of the realm, one with a dead bastard and the other with a broken betrothal. The lords will see Catelyn's broken betrothal as Hoster's fault in the end, not Brandon's, I will see to that myself!

"Don't tell Brandon he won't have to marry the fish, though. I know my idiot son would not be able to keep himself contained if he was aware. Brandon would also appear way too happy and right now, I'm entirely fine with letting him wallow in misery. Better than having Brandon destroy years of planning because Brandon once more cannot keep it in his pants, or keep his mouth shut.

"Our original plan needs to be revisited anyways because the principal reason we invited Hoster to the table years ago is redundant. Tywin Lannister is no longer the King’s Hand. And after Aerys robbed Tywin of his heir last year at Harrenhal, the Great Lion must be seething for retribution.

”Jon, we don’t need the Tullys to block the Riverroad to the west. Neither do we need Hoster's loyal vassals at Pinkmaiden, Wayfarer’s Rest, Acorn Hall, and Stony Sept to obstruct the Westermen on the Goldroad.

"Instead, we will invite Tywin Lannister himself into our den and decide with him how to split the Reach, the Riverlands and the Crownlands. Depending on whether Doran Martell and your ward Robert join us as allies, all of us will profit as the dragons dance themselves to the brink of their destruction.

“The Florents and the Tyrells will choose different sides in the war to come regardless and set the Reach aflame. With the Tarlys now firmly on the side of the fox, we only need to ensure the war to the south does not end too early.

"The Seven Kingdoms have served their purpose; it is time the regions separate again. Now that almost 300 years of stagnation come to an end, us old kings should come together to redraw the borders of Westeros once again. The spark has been lit, let us feed the flames of war until all that remains are ashes. And when war is done and the dust has settled, I will piss on the graves of the dragons and fishes and show the world why you do not rouse the wolf from his lair.”

Jon was left just as speechless as Ned and Elbert as Rickard heaved, a sack of venom weeks in the making unloading in front of them. While the two young ones were still coming to grasp with the enormity of the undertaking in front of them, Jon was frantically going over the rough edges of what Rickard had just revealed. Seven, it fit so perfectly. It could really work.

The cunning, the secrecy involved would be staggering and Jon could see Ned trying to come to grips with the treason they were about to commit. Jon knew their endeavor was standing in direct contrast to the notions of honor the young man steadfastly clung to, the self-same notions Jon had instilled in Ned. Rickard apparently saw the same, and with a bark the Lord of Winterfell got his son’s attention with a single spoken line.

“'To Dragonstone I pledge the faith of Winterfell.'”

Ned spoke on, as in trance.

“'Hearth and heart and harvest I yield up to you, my king. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to my weak, help to my helpless, and justice to all, and I shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire.'”

Jon knew these words. He had heard similar ones once before, spoken by a young Howland Reed to Brandon Stark when Lyanna had brought the man into the Stark tent at Harrenhal, just after Howland had been savaged by three squires at the tourney ground.

The crannogman could barely stand back then, but even as Howland's blood was flowing from his wounds, the heir of Greywater Watch had knelt in the dirt in front of the Starks and pledged his fealty. A powerful oath.

When Jon had asked Ned about it later that day, Ned had told Jon the words went back to Brandon the Builder. The old words were still a common oath of fealty among traditional First Men houses in the North, houses such as the Umbers, the Reeds, the mountain clans, and others. Rickard looked upon his son Ned in satisfaction as Rickard spoke, and Jon and Elbert listened in with rapt attention.

“Torrhen’s words, Ned. Mercy. Help. Justice. All that was denied to us Starks not a fortnight past by our king. It is not us Starks who are betraying the dragons, son. It is the dragons who have betrayed us Starks.”

And Ned stilled, only acceptance in his eyes. None of their entire group spoke another word until they broke camp.

Chapter Text

When news had come that Rickard Stark was returning from King’s Landing to Riverrun, alive and with his son in tow, her husband Walter had raved that he could not be bothered to return to his liege’s keep again. Who knew whether the wedding would actually take place this time; Walter had said. Of course, no one could say, in fact Shella found it highly unlikely that the wedding would go off without a hitch now that the Stark heir was not the Stark heir anymore.

Shella Whent had seen Rickard Stark when the man had left Riverrun to chase after his wayward son, calm and collected and calculating. Hoster had made an enemy that day, insulted and chased off a true beast, and now the wolf was returning from his hunt.

Shella shuddered at the thought of what Rickard might have in store for the children of Shella's cousin. Shella knew that to Hoster his daughters were only pieces in the big game. But Minisa had dearly loved Catelyn, Lysa and Edmure.

Shella could not believe it when all her contacts from the capital had shared the opinion that Rickard Stark was nothing but a Northern barbarian – straight forward, honest to a fault and without a single strand of hair capable of cunning or intrigue in his beard.

How did the old wolf manage to leave that impression on the hyenas at court and depart from their keg of wildfire in a shower of sparks without all those fools shaking in their boots?

Rickard Stark’s actions would start the civil war that had been looming over the entire realm since the Defiance at Duskendale, and afterwards the man had extricated himself from court in a masterstroke, taking a princess with him and leaving a battlefield of political corpses.

The king showed himself a threat to all his lords, the prince’s men were all but banished from court and the capital's vultures in open opposition to one another. Sure, Rickard Stark's demeanor spoke of a bumbling fool leaving chaos behind, but his results in themselves spoke another language.

People would notice, of course. The queen would know; likely the sly woman had already approached Rickard Stark over the matter of her son Rhaegar and Rickard's daughter. Some sort of accord had probably been reached between Rhaella Targaryen and Rickard Stark, but to what end Shella knew not. If it were different the king would have called for the head of his Warden of the North, after all, almost nothing got past Varys.

Two other explanation to Rickard Stark retaining his head were either the wolf was as simple as he showed himself to the world; or the Spider had been compromised. And while Shella knew to dismiss the first of those options, the second scared her. Others would see the smoke in the King's Landing as well, the waters muddy with blood of tomorrow.

No true player of the great game would misread the chaos in the capitol for a mistake. The great lion, the old falcon, the thorny rose, the calm kraken, and the viper brothers of Dorne most important among the players were all going to take heed.

Not the trout, ever-grasping as Hoster Tully was. The man was probably as bigoted and blind as ever. If Rickard Stark had died on the pyre, Hoster Tully would have stood at the crossroads of the war with the power of a kingmaker in his hands. Now Hoster was in danger of becoming mere prey to the true players, without rash young fools like Brandon Stark to run off into a war and elevate Hoster to heights he always dreamt off.

If Shella's thoughts proved true, Hoster would bring about the downfall of house Tully in his greed and ambition. Shella would have her answer when the wolves were back at Hoster's door again.

So Shella had shown her husband who the heiress to House Whent was, and that Walter had only become a lord through his marriage to her. Oh, Walter had raged, but Shella's vassals, her servants and the smallfolk would fall in line behind Shella and Walter knew it. So, just as Walter wished, when Shella set off to the wedding that would not happen, she left him behind.

On Shella's instruction her husband Lord Walter Whent was to be kept confined to his chambers until she returned Riverrun. More important things than a marital union were at stake there now, after all.

Shella took her two youngest along to Riverrun with her, her son Simon and her darling Linia. While the boy was not the best with a sword among her four sons, he did have the quickest mind and was not fool enough to question Shella's actions like her other sons Henry and Frank. The two idiots had joined their father in confinement as Shella left. Still, Shella was glad that her eldest son Leon at least knew how to read the game a little. After all, Leon was aware in whose hands the power of Harrenhal rested.

Walter had been left to his devices for too long and seemed to dream of his own grandeur. Her fool husband had probably been influenced by his brother, and Oswell had lived his formative years under the White Bull in the Reach.

A wonder that Oswell's perspective on women became so backwards, one had to consider that as a squire Oswell lived in a region under Tyrell rule he would know the power women could hold. The whole region lived under the iron heel of the Queen of Thornes, no matter how fashionable Olenna's shoes were.

With all the sad business of the tourney last year still haunting the Whents still, it was time for Shella to take a more active part in commanding her castle again. And if her brother-in-law Oswell got another idea of advancing the royal designs of his mentor Gerold Hightower by whispering into the ear of Shella's husband, to use the Whent's position in those designs once more...

... well, then it might just be time for another spot in the Kingsguard to become vacant, after only a year of young Jaime Lannister's appointment.

Dreadful business when Ser Grandison could not be roused anymore. Webbing and venom and three lions lay victim, though the youngest of the lions was left blissfully unaware as he welcomed the poisoned gift, the induction of the youngest knight ever in the history of the Kingsguard.

And even as Shella remained silent on the distasteful matter, sitting between King's Landing and Lannisport as she was, a little bird carried Shella's message to the intended ear before her bats chased the rest of the small flock from Shella's halls. A message stayed granted a favor untold yet.

After all, the Master of Whispers himself knew best that, even without evidence, mere words would be enough to compel the high and mighty king Aerys into action if it served to combat imagined traitors.

Now the Spider owed Shella a large favor, but certainly not obedience. Not like the Spider owed the wolf, as it seemed. Rickard Stark must have serious intel on Varys himself, to force the Spider's compliance. Even Shella's bats in the capitol only knew the eunuch beat a hasty retreat in the face of the Warden of the North.

Shella and her party made good time on the Riverroad towards Riverrun. She estimated they would have at least another week before the groom and his father arrived after them.

Hoster received Shella in the courtyard of Riverrun, though he did not seem happy at her arrival. Rather, the manlooked on with a tense expression as Lord Blackwood and Shella dismounted with their retinue. Tytos had joined the Whents at Harrentown. The new Lord of Raventree Hall had been on the way back from the Isle of Faces after some silly Old God's inheritance ritual of his house. Shella suspected, though, that young Tytos travelled to Riverrun more for the expected spectacle than out of sudden political insightfulness.

Many a banner could be spied already on the men milling about Riverrun; Bracken’s and Piper’s and Vances’ and Smallwood’s and Mallister’s among them. Finally, Minisa's children approached. Catelyn and Edmure at least greeted her enthusiastically, even as Lysa was strangely absent.

The Blackfish was on the edge of the plaza, his eyes fixed on his brother Hoster with a truly murderous stare. This looked to be worse than another attempt by Hoster to pawn Brynden off in a marriage alliance gone awry. Brynden would be the one to crack when Shella asked about what to expect this week. The man always had had a soft spot for Shella's side of the family, after all. Soon Shella would at least know what Hoster wished for, and what Brynden dreaded.

“Auntie Shella, we are so happy you could make your way here again! Is it not wonderful? Father was so certain my Brandon would – that he... that he would not return."

Catelyn seemed to choke on her emotions as she spoke before visibly brightening again.

"But now Brandon is coming back. For me.”

Catelyn at least seemed happy that her promised was to return to her, even if Hoster’s visage darkened at the mere mention of Brandon Stark's name. Gods, how empty had the old trout left the heads of his children?

Enough rumors of Brandon’s raucous behavior had circulated for years; how could Shella's little niece not have heard of any of them? Did anyone ever tell Catelyn that her knight in shining armor came from the kingdom without knights?

And now, with Brandon’s position as heir to the North in jeopardy, where would that leave his little southern wife Catelyn? Still, Shella did not have the heart to break her niece’s.

Besides, it might prove dangerous to Shella's house to be too close to the Tullys in these volatile times. In the end Shella only gave her niece a tight hug and prayed Hoster would not continue his streak of obstinate stupidity, all the while telling Catelyn sweet nothings.

Linia and Simon distracted Minisa's two children as Shella made polite, if dull, conversation with her liege Hoster afterwards. God, the man did not seem able to conceptualize that women could have a mind for something other than comfort and romance and sewing.

How Minisa’s father ever thought a marriage could bring the Whent's a boon was beyond her. Hoster Tully obviously did not understand that ties were to bind an alliance together both ways. Alliances were not supposed to only to support everything always in Hoster's favor!

Shella left Hoster soon after to seek out his brother Brynden who at least did not insult Shella's intelligence. Sadly, the Blackfish had little mind for politics, or anything beyond the sword and the battlefield, for that matter. Still, maybe such a conversation was warranted now. Marriages were the highest tool of politics, after all, and Brynden was intimately familiar with proposals.

Also, men were prone to speak truths without knowing they did, especially military men such as Brynden. Shella finally found Brynden still up on the balustrade overlooking the courtyard and called out to him.

“Brynden! I see you are as happy with Hoster as ever. Did he bring up another Redwyne girl for you to marry?”

That brought out the anticipated scowl on Brynden's face. The foolish man would start ranting, Brynden could never shut up about the wrongs his brother Hoster committed towards Brynden.

“No.”

That, Shella knew as she startled, was a surprising answer. And it meant that Hoster had truly alienated his brother; likely in a very, very stupid fashion. So, not just another proposal for Brynden, there was only one button Shella knew that, if pushed, would have Brynden so furious with his brother.

Hoster must have done something to one of the children. And seeing Catelyn and Edmure frolicking in front of Shella with her own children, Lysa was the victim. Hoster, you foolish man. Shella dropped all friendly pretense as she continued with Brynden.

“What did your brother do to her?”

“Nothing I will tell you. Nothing I can tell you.”

Brynden only spared Shella a short glance as he answered, his face mellowing as shame crossed it. Shame and pity. Shella was beginning to feel a little curious. And angry, she felt angry. This did not look to be good.

“Brynden. Minisa was my favorite cousin and even if your brother does not care about us Whents as kin, her children are my family. So. Tell me. You will not brush me away, Brynden. I would get… inventive.”

A little scowl helped against Brynden as she talked. The Blackfish did not have a mind for politics, but he knew Shella had one. And Brynden knew threats well enough when he heard them, even political ones.

Brynden had been Minisa’s and Minisa's children’s confidant more than Minisa's misogynistic husband Hoster himself, and the Blackfish had travelled the Seven Kingdoms a lot in his knighting days.

Brynden was perceptive enough to understand who ruled Harrenhal in truth, and as young as House Whent's claim was to Harren's old seat, Harrenhal's lands and armies and position always gave smart men pause. Especially military men from the Riverlands.

“Lysa almost died recently. Hoster is responsible, I cannot tell you how. What I can do is forget to lock her door tonight. You know the way, Shella. Raise a fuss when you see her, do me a favor.”

Brynden was bitter, truly. Some of Shella’s anger deflated. Now there was only small anticipatory kindling of wrath left in Shella, waiting to explode in a bonfire. And worry. Brynden’s words promised foul things. However, there was more to be talked about with the Blackfish. Lysa would have to wait until tonight.

“I’ll go for a walk tonight then, Brynden. Still, that is not what has Hoster on edge. How is our liege's reaction to the news from the capital? Anything special I can expect at this second attempt at a wedding?”

Brynden did not reply immediately. Strange, for such a snappy man. There must have been many a change in house Tully in such a short time span. When Brynden finally answered, it did deliver a few surprises.

“I am worried, Shella. I cannot tell what the wolf is planning but what I know gives me hope and fear in equal measure. Hoster did not part with Lord Stark in good spirit, it is well known. My brother was telling the Northman that his son Brandon was dead already and Hoster would not sacrifice good Rivermen on a fool’s errand; Hoster would not order his men to follow the old wolf as Rickard rode straight into the death trap that was waiting for him in King’s Landing.

"Immediately afterwards, as if that breach of trust weren’t insult enough, my brother tried to change the betrothal agreement to a new marriage between Catelyn and Rickard's second son Eddard. Rickard Stark was, unsurprisingly, rather wroth with Hoster at that. So, Lord Stark simply rode off with his two hundred Northern troops in silence as Hoster decried Stark a Northern savage, without any understanding for southern politics.

"I think my brother was hoping for the old wolf to die and then pressure his new heir Eddard into a new alliance, what with the heir of the Vale at risk and the bride of the Stormlord whisked away. Hoster already fancied himself kingmaker.”

Brynden snorted at that, almost satisfied that Hoster was now suffering from his rash idiocy. Seven hells, what had happened to Lysa to anger the Blackfish so? Brynden continued, mirth lacing his words as he spoke.

“But Rickard Stark survived and became the king’s new favorite lord paramount. Brandon is disinherited, but the betrothal contract between the boy and Catelyn stands, still. Hoster is not happy with seeing his priced daughter wed to ‘an idiot without a piece of shit to his name’, as my dear brother calls it. Not that Hoster ever cared Brandon was a piece of shit himself. Hoster had no regard for that before; all that mattered was what Brandon Stark stood to inherit.

"Now Hoster will probably try to change the marriage contract that is in place, either to match up Catelyn with Eddard or, if that doesn’t work, Lysa with Brandon. All to keep our prized Tully broodmare ready for a worthy candidate.”

Brynden was brooding over that a lot by the looks of him. So, Hoster stood to antagonize the wolf lord further. Idiot. That could not be all though. After a lengthy stare from Shella Brynden did continue, finally.

“There’s more, Shella. Lysa has gotten an invitation from the capital, to serve as princess Elia's handmaiden. Hoster will take that chance if Lysa does not end up wed by the end of the next fortnight, with all the eligible lords that are coming for the wedding. He has damaged his daughter irreparably, but all Hoster cares about is how Lysa will reflect on our house. If the whole situation weren’t so personal, it could have been morbidly funny.

"You wouldn't believe it, Shella. Hoster almost shat himself when, not a day past, a raven came in from Wayfarer’s Rest, from Tywin Lannister himself of all people. The old lion was writing he would arrive soon and that he was grateful for Lord Stark’s invitation to attend the Wedding between the houses Tully and Stark. Grateful? Before Harrenhal Hoster wanted to marry Lysa to Tywin's son, but since then, there is only been bad blood between Riverrun and Casterly Rock.

"There've been more surprise guests announcing their presence. The new fox lord from the Reach, Alester Florent, wrote us that he was on his way by raven. The Queen of Thorns sends her regards and apologized she will not be in attendance because her fifth grandchild is supposed to be born any day now. Third rose bud of Highgarden they call it already, Alerie Hightower is breeding the next alliance pieces for her mother-in-law.

"The Riverlords are coming in force, despite the recent change of dates for the wedding. And, to top it all off, apparently the stag lord got bored at the Eyrie without his foster father and brother to keep him company. So. Robert Baratheon decided to ride after Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark left two days before him. And while Tywin Lannister is the only new addition coming with an invitation, Hoster only sees potential brides and grooms lining up for his children in all the additional guests that are appearing at our doorstep.

"But Hoster is wrong, Shella. I see all that is happening now as the calm before the storm. This wedding will be last great gathering of lords in peacetime; to build factions between only us lords without the dragons before the war breaks out.”

Those news were… worrying, to say the least. Lysa Tully in the princess’ clutches was the easiest riddle to decipher. With Elia's daughter in the hands of the enemy of her husband Rhaegar, the Dornishwoman needed leverage. The sister of the Rickard Stark’s future daughter-in-law was the only person Elia Martell could get her hands on without insulting Lord Stark.

Shella did not even want to imagine how the wolf would react if the mistress Lyanna were the one to be called to court to serve as princess Elia's lady-in-waiting.

The old lion's presence at the wedding, though? All Riverlords knew of Tywin's split with Hoster after Ser Jaime had taken up the white cloak. Riverrun and Casterly Rock could have built a powerful bloc, together with the Eyrie and Winterfell, uniting four of the five Northern regions together. After all, no one trusted the squids far enough to include them with anything.

Alester Florent had shown himself to be intelligent so far, in marrying one daughter of his to Tarly and another to Hightower, but this involvement in pre-war politicking rank of too much ambition from the Lord of Brightwater Keep. Not a good quality when one stands opposite to the Queen of Thorns, but if the fox played his cards right, the Florents might be able to finally usurp the Tyrell’s position in the Reach in the coming war.

Leyton Hightower would probably be inclined to back his daughter Alerie’s family before his wife’s family in the conflict at the start, but Oldtown was flanked by Horn Hill and Brightwater Keep. Lord Leyton Hightower could probably be persuaded to sit the conflict out and follow the winning side in that Reach at the end.

Why the whoring warrior of the Eyrie made his way over to the wedding was anyone’s guess, though the explanation of Robert Baratheon simply following one of his whims was as likely to be true as any other reason.

Shella did keep most of her thoughts on the matter to herself, though. Even as Brynden was not likely to care much about the talk behind closed doors that would ensure over the entirety of the wedding period, it would not help advance Shella's interests to distract the Blackfish from his grudge against his own brother Hoster. Depending on how Hoster managed to handle all the trouble coming his way in the coming days Shella might approach the other lords in attendance on whether the trouts were still fit to rule the rivers.

Then, when Hoster might still mourn his chance gone by to become kingmaker, the paramountcy of the Riverlands would be open for Shella and the Riverlords to plot over. After trading a few more friendly barbs and small talk with the Blackfish Shella left, retiring to her quarters with her children. Only later in the evening did Shella emerge again to seek out her shy little niece Lysa.

Coming down the corridor towards Lysa’s chamber, Shella was first hit with a pungent floral scent. Shella knew this type of aroma was usually caused by burning incense candles to mask the stench of death and corruption that men carried with them when their battle wounds festered and started to rot. She'd often smelled it at the Maesters' tents at the tourney last year.

Some of Riverrun's servants tried to divert Shella from her path now, but Shella was having none of that and hastened towards Lysa’s room.

Finding the door to Lysa's room closed but not unlocked Shella was greeted by an air reeking of stale sweat and tears, the wine of the Maesters and recent death. Her cousin Minisa’s darling daughter Lysa looked a skeleton with skin. Lysa's matted hair no longer a looked bright Tully-red, the color instead dulled and the strands frayed. Lysa's face was pale, her pallor that of a man embalmed with a waxy sheen to it.

Shella would have thought herself standing before a corpse if not for the quiet, rattled breaths and the agonizingly slow rise of Lysa’s chest. Lysa's cheeks had sunken in and the bags underneath Lysa's eyes seemed to carry more blood than the rest of her body. How could Catelyn and Edmure be so merry when their sister was knocking on death’s door? Why, why was Lysa on death’s door?

The door behind Shella opened and one of Hoster's servants burst in, freezing in place as Shella fixed him with a stare screaming murder. When Shella spoke to the man that same ice carried in her voice as well.

“Tell your lord I’ll be expecting a talk with him later. But if Hoster Tully disturbs me while I comfort my niece, I will be very wroth with him. Now. Out.”

The servant showed his intelligence by leaving at the drop of a hat. The man even ran off so fast he dropped the key to Lysa's. Shella locked up behind the servant and then sat down beside Lysa. The young girl Shella had come to love since Lysa was a young girl dreaming of knights and love.

As Shella was taking Lysa's pallid, trembling hand into Shella's own, the little girl in the bed tried to pull away in her dreams, fitful as Lysa slept. Her niece's mumbling left Shella in a pit of dread most deep.

“… Petyr… forgive me… blood, so much… red, our baby, so much blood… father, why… just tea... not tansy, it was tea…”

Lysa kept whispering on and on, her words repeating endlessly. Shella had known of the Tully ward. Petyr Baelish was always hanging on to the Tully girls when Shella came to visit Minisa and Minisa’s children. And the boy had been obviously, hopelessly in love with Catelyn.

All the Riverlands had spoken of the foolish and feeble Tully ward that had challenged the Wild Wolf for the favor of the elder Tully daughter.

But apparently Petyr Baelish had ended up catching the wrong fish in his net. Shella pressed a kiss to Lysa’s forehead as her niece young niece slowly calmed. To sooth little Lysa Shella sang to her. The Ballad of Florian and Jonquil, Fair Maids of Summer and Seasons of My Love, Two Hearts That Beat As One, Shella sang of all that was lovely and kind and good, all the songs that Shella knew Lysa loved.

Even when Lysa finally slept soundly and deep, Shella sang on until she could think of no more songs that were lovely and kind and good. As the last note faded out Shella rose to meet with Hoster.

All the love and all the kindness and all the goodness Shella bore for Lysa had left Shella with the songs as the Lady of Harrenhal went to talk to the man that almost killed Shella's niece in his greed.

Shella strode into Hoster's solar where Hoster sat behind his heavy oaken desk. Shella kept her posture rigid and regal and her eyes glinted dark as the night that is ruled by bats. Shella's dress was as usual, form-fitting, and high-collared with long sleeves. It had wires in the back to support Shella's bosom.

Her teats had not shrunk again after childbirth like her belly had, much to Shella's dismay. At times they caused Shella backpain already, however, Shella had not grown stout after the five times she had survived the woman’s battlefield like so many other women had.

She had been lucky to be aging in grace and dignity instead of dying in the birthing bed. Unlike Shella's cousin Minisa, who had wasted away from the many pregnancies Hoster had forced on Minisa in short order, Shella still looked the picture of health. Her voluptuous frame was supported by strong but lithe limbs and topped with a finely chiseled face.

True, Shella's behind had never gone back to how it was after Leon had been born, but her more voluminous derrière had never been to Shella's detriment.

Many men who had only heard of Shella's beauty and seen her daughter's grace did not bother to notice the steel both women carried within them, only noticing both women's exteriors. Shella usually did nothing to dissuade foolish men from such thoughts, for no enemy was easier to turn or kill than an idiot besotted with Shella's assets, a smile or a simpering compliment.

But still, those womanly weapons Shella only brandished against men easily beguiled, or the few men worthy of her attention. Hoster, fool he may be, had ceased to be either worthy of Shella or of being a man to be manipulated comfortably. No, Hoster Tully would be treated like the insect he proved himself to be.

As Shella waltzed into Hoster's solar she did not give the servant a chance to announce her presence before entering.

“Lord Tully. After this... wedding, or whatever this event with the Starks turns out to be, I will be taking Lysa back with me to Harrenhal. You have failed Minisa. I will not.”

“Shella. I am glad to see you as well. After the wedding of Catelyn to the Stark heir Lysa will not go with you. With all these lords in attendance I will find an advantageous match for her. You may help me in that endeavor. Now leave.”

Imbecile that he was, Hoster lazily waved a hand at Shella as if she were someone to be shooed away. Hoster Tully did not even look up at Shella as he answered her.

Shella could not help herself at that display of foolishness. She laughed at Hoster, sharp and scathingly. When the husband of her dead cousin finally looked at Shella, probably truly seeing her for the first time since Shella arrived, she replied.

“That’s Lady Whent to you, Lord Tully, and you have lost my respect too much that I would extend the courtesy to pretend I was glad to see you. The lords you are trying to wed Lysa off to would want to see Lysa first I reckon. You are trying to sell your youngest daughter to them as a broodmare, and Lysa is in no condition for that task. Lysa looks the part of what you have done to her.

"Right now, you will find neither a lord nor an heir for her, Lord Tully. Give Lysa to me and I will see her happy. If she recovers and proves amenable, I might wed her to one of my sons. Not Leon, but for Minisa and for my niece I am willing to shield Lysa from disgrace.”

The lord of the trouts regarded Shella coolly for a second before answering.

“Lady Whent it is, then. You will see I have no need for you after Lysa is either betrothed by the end of this week or en route to the capital to serve as lady-in-waiting to princess Elia. I’ll repeat myself: Now leave.”

Shella looked at Hoster in silence. The blasted fool. One year past Hoster had antagonized the lions, this moon he had offended both the falcons and the wolves. Hoster's own lords were circling like vultures since Hoster deemed his children too good for them, and deemed their loyalty owed.

Shella could tell him the truth of that, even in words Hoster would understand. Hoster could still make moves to save his family, his house, his seat. Probably the window of opportunity for that was open until the Starks arrived, until Rickard made to filet the fish before Shella that was Hoster Tully. Instead, Shella turned around in silence.

As Hoster said, Shella did not have need of him. Shella would save Minisa’s children herself after their father left his legacy in shambles. Shella knew she would not lose any sleep over it. Shella left Hoster Tully behind in his own solar, leaving without another word

Over the next few days more lords arrived and Shella and Linia watched on as the pageantry of houses grew and banners increased. The Old Lion outright bought an inn at a nearby village, his disdain for Hoster clear for all to see. Alester Florent came to ingratiate himself with the lords close to the Goldroad, at times even sucking up to Hoster himself. Hoster Tully was smirking at Shella then like an idiot, no doubt thinking of the fox’s unwed heir as a consort for Lysa. Lackwit, to try to meddle in the Reach now of all time.

Old Lord Frey came as well, an unwelcome surprise. His newest wife was left behind, nursing their youngest daughter who had been born less than 20 days ago. Specifically, Walder Frey left behind his sixth wife and his 23rd trueborn child. To top it off, Bethany Rosby was dying from birthing little Roslin Frey. Seven, Walder Frey was a revolting man, already leering at Shella and Linia the whole time he saw them.

As if Shella would ever forgive the old weasel for Sarya. The repulsive man did not even mention his fifth as he asked if Shella's daughter or one of her sons were looking for a partner. No, Shella quickly moved to extricate herself from that discussion with Walder Frey.

Baelor and Garth Hightower came uninvited but not unwelcomed. Shella was unsure how they had made it to Riverrun so fast; probably by ship to Lannisport. The biggest upset however, arrived a day before the wolves themselves. A runner came in to Riverrun from the Whispering Woods to announce the newcomers, and an eerie silence spread amongst the Riverlords when they heard the news.

But then again, their kind were never welcomed here, especially since they’d been thrown out of the Riverlands near three centuries ago.

For Shella, however, all these eligible elder bachelors opened up a new question even. Maybe it was time to trade up from Walter.

With now five unmarried lords paramount in attendance, the lines of the war would be drawn here at Riverrun. Of course, Hoster could never be a viable marital prospect for her and Robert Baratheon would never be a good prospect for anyone from what Shella knew. Still, with Lyarra Stark, Joanna Lannister and Myrelle Piper dead, Shella was going to have the pick of a husband between the wolf, the lion and the kraken at this gathering at Riverrun.

Because when Quellon Greyjoy and his three eldest sons arrived for the wedding unannounced without a single person expecting them, Shella knew the coming days then and there would set the course for the war to come. Shella could only lament her husband Walter for the fool he was once more.

Riverrun was, without a doubt, the place to be right now.

Chapter Text

It had all spectacularly gone to shit.

That was not really surprising to Oswell, he had been cautioning against such a development from the moment the prince had revealed his plan. If you could have called whatever that crazy 'dragon in need of two additional heads'-thing was a plan.

However, this progression of events was something no one could have expected, not even Oswell at his most sarcastic moments.

Casual insanity was not surprising to Oswell anymore, actually. After all, guarding a pyromaniac lunatic was Oswell's job. However, it was sad to see the slated successor for Aerys' royal position was just as crazy as the current king, even if that insanity was of a different kind.

Really, to spirit away the only Stark daughter because she longed for freedom from her betrothal, what was Rhaegar thinking? And that was already bad enough, but promising Lyanna Stark princely intervention with her marital problems only to slowly start putting the moves on the girl to have a half-bred mutt down the line was ridiculous.

Lyanna Stark wasn’t even that pretty and, by the Seven, the girl was 15. Prophecy, my ass. Rhaegar's cravings just did not lie with his adult wife.

Hah, lie with his wife, Rhaegar, what a joke.

Why could there not be a sensible royal in Oswell's generation? But no, Oswell had to pull the short straw with his pick of Targaryens. Any of the five kings before Aerys II were at least untainted by their blood’s madness and now it happened twice in a row.

Well, come to think of it, Jaehaerys II restarted the whole incest thing and in doing so broke marriage contracts with the Tyrells and the Tullys. And Aegon V burned most of his family at Summerhall. Seven be damned, seems like King Maekar was the last really good king. Wait, didn't Maekar become a kinslayer by killing his brother? ...Fucking inbred lizards.

Still, not since the reign of the Unworthy were the ruling Targaryens this bad. Mad king Aerys with a boner for burnings and now crown prince Rhaegar showed his stiffy for smoke and mirrors. And children, apparently, depraved ephebophile that Rhaegar was. Lyanna Stark had even smaller tits than princess Elia.

Luckily the prince was not used to wooing the fairer sex and had not managed to bed the child since they whisked Lyanna away from her guards, even if Oswell expected it wouldn't have taken much longer until prince Rhaegar managed to bed the fool girl.

Well, that was before the rider from Blackhaven had come in, at least. Oswell only had to read the letter the rider carried once to know that Rhaegar was going to have a harder time getting into Lyanna Stark's pants now. Hah, pants, because the lady hated dresses.

With Gerold’s letter in hand Oswell interrupted one of Rhaegar's and Lyanna's many rendezvous under the blackened roofs of Summerhall. When he told the Stark maid of her father’s and brother’s close brush with death the girl just wanted to go home to Winterfell.

Finally! At least one of the fools that Oswell was guarding came to understand that their actions had consequences. It was to the shame of the prince that it was not him that understood, but lady Lyanna. The 15-year-old girl was evidently quicker on the draw then the 23-year-old prince trying to seduce her. Before Oswell had even finished reading out the letter Lyanna Stark went to saddle her horse

And then prince Rhaegar ordered Oswell to restrain Lyanna by force. How romantic. Rhaegar's words were nauseating.

“I had wanted to do this without force, my she-wolf, but I need a third dragon and Elia cannot give me a Visenya. Oswell, hold lady Lyanna down. I’ll tell Arthur to guard us while I save this realm.

"You are my ice, Lyanna, in time you will understand the necessity of this.”

And oh, how the screaming had started. Poor little girl, escaping from a whoremonger into the arms of a rapist. Lucky for her that Oswell read out the rest of the letter Gerold sent instead of following the prince's orders. The rest about the threat of the crown prince’s disinheritance if Lyanna Stark was harmed.

And suddenly Rhaegar was not sure about Lyanna being his ice anymore. Whatever that meant.

However, there had obviously not been mending any bridges after between the wolf and the dragon. Prince Rhaegar tried to gloss over his very recent and very casual threat of rape and smooth things over, but Lyanna Stark was having none of that. Even Arthur, drawn in by the girl’s screams, had been aghast with his best friend Rhaegar.

The Stark daughter sought Oswell's and Arthur’s protection now. Ironic, in a way. If Lyanna knew of queen Rhaella's daily fate under the Kingsguard's watch... Well, Lyanna Stark would definitely not look at Oswell and Arthur the way she was now.

Sometimes Oswell wondered, was their order of Kingsguards even an order of knights, still? But every time Oswell stopped himself from following that thought, that line of thinking only led to remorse and regret.

The Dondarrion rider had departed the moment he had delivered his letter to Oswell and now Oswell was finally about to leave this blasted ruin as well. Good riddance, the place gave Oswell shivers. Why Rhaegar always wanted to return to the halls of his family’s doom was a mystery to Oswell, but then again, he wasn’t really that curious about it. There was no reason to be found in the head of a Targaryen, it seemed.

All was fine with Oswell if they could just leave Summerhall a second earlier. Looking at Arthur’s grim face the man agreed. Lyanna, while not opposed to the location, was now decidedly averse to the company of Rhaegar and she looked itching to get on the road home again.

Still, before their little group of four could finally be gone, the last resident of Summerhall had to step into their horses' path to block them. Of course. Fucking dwarf woman.

No matter how much Rhaegar lent his ear to the witch’s mummery, Oswell did not buy it. By now Oswell had passed Gerold’s letter to Arthur and taken the reins of Lyanna Stark’s horse. They had specific instructions to bring the girl to King’s Landing unharmed and Oswell preferred to have the Sword of the Morning on exactly the same page as Oswell.

Lyanna was likely to bolt the minute she had a chance to and Rhaegar had proved himself erratic. Oswell was not going to risk either of his charges hurting themselves in their stupidity.

When the white-haired crone with her blood red eyes stood in their path Oswell thought to ride the woman down, to kill this blasted twisted thing that haunted Summerhall since her Jenny died. Rhaegar always sang to the ancient woman, and the prince listened as spellbound as his grandfather Jaehaerys had. Mad fools, both of them, to listen to a woods witch speak of royal destiny.

But before Oswell could spur on his horse prince Rhaegar commanded Oswell and Arthur to stop in their tracks. As the Ghost of Summerhall spun her story of destiny again, Oswell wished he had simply ignored the prince's order to halt his horse, that Oswell had just followed his first impulses. Because the crone's words were a poison the prince did not need.

“Stay, prince of smoke. I dreamt it. I dreamt a bed of blue roses, drenched in fire and blood. The child you need, not the child you seek will come forth there. There would be grief in the birthing bed of your child, just like you were born in grief, prince Rhaegar. The wolves pack reduced down to two members, the dragon brood as well, and one child more to combine both lines, born of ice and fire and salt and smoke. I dreamt it.

"But if you abandon your path now, prince Rhaegar, the future becomes uncertain. All I know is that the last vestiges of magic may wain. The oldest monster in the North chafes under his bindings. If he is not delivered his promised foe, old signs may become worthless and Winter may come early.

"Do not abandon your course, prince Rhaegar, or the future will unwrite itself. The promised prince will vanish, dormant to come another day perhaps. But some promises cannot be broken, prince Rhaegar, and your destiny will be of pain still. Beget the girl with child, prince, and your suffering will not be worthless. You have entered into this world mired in grief, Rhaegar Targaryen, and mired in grief you shall leave it. That is the only thing that will not change.”

And just like that, the prince was wavering again. A few words from a charlatan, and all Rhaegar saw was a confirmation of his dreams. Fucking mad Targaryens.

Oswell let go of the reins to Lyanna's horse in his hand and spurred on his own charger, but before Oswell could reach the little woman to chase her away, the ghost of Summerhall collapsed into herself. Right in the middle of her right eye there was an arrow shaft poking out, fletched of sentinel pine with raven feathers to steady it. Oswell turned to look at the perpetrator; and there Oswell saw that Lyanna Stark had levelled her bow on prince Rhaegar, her eyes like ice and another arrow primed.

“No more blue roses for me.”

Lyanna Stark's voice was as cold as her stare.

Arthur was too far to intercede. Oswell’s horse was away from the prince as well, and it was facing a wrong direction besides. Oswell knew the prince would be dead if lady Lyanna so wished it. They all had seen her hunt and she was a surer hand with the bow than either Oswell, Arthur or Rhaegar. Yet the lady did not fire her arrow at the prince immediately. A single tear ran down her cheek; but Lyanna Stark’s hands did not tremble for a second as she spoke on.

“Tell me, Rhaegar. Was that what all this was about? You needed a broodmare, and I seemed easy and highborn enough? Was anything real since you promised me freedom from Robert, and to help mediate with my father to break my betrothal?”

Silent tears flowed faster while steady hands did not move an inch. These were the moments that Lyanna Stark shined radiant. Arthur had seen it, Oswell as well. The Northern lady was not yet a beauty, but she would grow into one. Lyanna Stark would be more than just beautiful, though, she already had iron and fire and ice within her, strength and passion and will. Rhaegar was silent for a second before he answered.

“Not all was a lie. You are not easy, Lyanna, and together with Elia you two can be my queens. I will love you and I will be true to you.”

The girl laughed hollow in response. There had not been hope in Lyanna's eyes since Rhaegar casually threatened to rape her, but now Oswell could only see disdain shining in those steel-grey orbs.

“No one is less free than a queen, Rhaegar. The way you talk of me and of love, you are obviously not capable of it. You do not care what I want, you do not care who I am. Love is sweet, Rhaegar, but it cannot change a man’s nature. Or a woman’s, and all I yearn for is to be free."

There was a forlorn yet wistful look to Lyanna as she said those words. It sounded like something reiterated. The moment did not last long. After it had passed Lyanna seemed to remember the arrow she had pointed at Rhaegar's head, and her countenance turned razor-sharp again.

"Tell me; why should I not kill you, Prince Rhaegar?”

This was getting decidedly too dangerous for Oswell’s taste. A war between the crown and the Northern coalition was not something Oswell could allow to happen, not with Gerold’s letter explicitly warning of Rickard Stark. So, Oswell slid out of his saddle and knelt to the ground, facing Lyanna. Oswell pulled his sword and rammed it into the earth in front of him before addressing Rickard Stark's daughter.

“Lady Lyanna. If you will have me, I will swear to be your shield until I can return you to your father. In return please spare the prince’s life. If you were to kill him now, I fear you may spark a war between house Targaryen and house Stark, the same war your father just prevented.

”I will safely escort you through King’s Landing and back to your home in Winterfell and will die in your defense should any wish to harm you on this journey. Be they my king, my prince or anyone else. So I will swear. But please, do not push all the Seven Kingdoms into civil war with that arrow.”

Lyanna did not even look at Oswell. Arthur did, though, and Rhaegar. Arthur understood, Oswell could see it as their eyes met. Rhaegar did not understand. Of course not, the prince was blinded by the principles of the Kingsguard, the sworn shields of the royal family. Rhaegar did not see that Oswell doing his duty in the only way possible in their current circumstances.

Rhaegar's shock only increased as Arthur slid from his horse and knelt to Lyanna Stark as well, mirroring Oswell and also speaking of oaths and honor.

“Lady Lyanna. I stand by Oswell and will also serve as your sworn shield until you are returned to your family if you take the road through King’s Landing with us. Please do not kill the prince.”

“Arthur, Oswell,” Rhaegar’s voice was hoarse as he spoke, disbelief leaving his tone raw, “you cannot serve another. You two are sworn shields of my family, you cannot be the sworn shield of someone else.”

“Rhaegar, your safety is paramount."

Arthur kept his eyes on Lyanna as he answered the prince's words.

"Oswell and I cannot protect you from that arrow with our swords. But we can protect you from the foolishness you’ve caused this way, Rhaegar, by ensuring you remain safe. This is the only way I can see Lady Lyanna trusting us.

“And right now, some distance from you would do me good, Rhaegar. I named you my king because I thought you different than your father. I do not want to trade guarding one rapist for guarding another. If I have to betray any of my vows, let it be those of the Kingsguard before those of the knight.”

Rhaegar looked stricken at his best friend Arthur’s words. Oswell had no sympathy for his prince as he followed with his own statement after Arthur had delivered his first.

“My king Aerys II Targaryen commands me to see Lady Lyanna returned to King’s Landing unharmed and unspoiled. The direct order of my king trumps the direct order of my prince. What I am doing right now, Rhaegar, is saving you outside of my direct orders.”

“Did you not accept me as your king, Oswell, when you helped me organize the Tourney at Harrenhal?”

Rhaegar asked in return as his eyes were boring into Oswell. But Rhaegar would get no reprieve from Oswell. The Kingsguard's answer that followed only left Rhaegar brooding and melancholic, just like so often.

“Rhaegar, I pledged to follow you as my king after you had ascended to the Iron Throne. After the Great Council you planned on calling at the Tourney of Harrenhal. The tourney I helped you arrange for that express purpose myself, even at the risk of severely insulting my sister-in-law Shella.

"Tell me, my prince, how did that work out? No council was called. Instead you alienated the North and Dorne in one move, your father spurned the lions and now I am banned from my ancestral land on threat of death by my sister-in-law. So, I continue following the king as I have; and you are not that king yet.”

And finally, the fool was silent. Defeated as well, probably, but Oswell did not look up to check on Rhaegar once since Oswell had knelt down. Lyanna’s voice finally released Oswell and his brother Arthur from their crouch.

“Ser Oswell, Ser Dayne. I agree to your proposals. Say your vows and I will lower my bow and release you once I am home with my family.”

Ser Arthur answered in unison with Oswell.

“Lady Lyanna Stark, I, Oswell Whent/Arthur Dayne will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

“And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise.”

Lyanna replied to the two Kingsguard without missing a beat.

The two Kingsguards rose and Lyanna did as she promised. As Oswell’s eyes fell on the prince Oswell saw that Rhaegar looked only disappointed and defeated, not angry. Never angry. Just like he always had when things did not go his way. On the other hand, Lyanna still radiated in cold fury, more threatening and more righteous in it than any stag Oswell had ever seen.

“You are lucky, prince, that in contrast to you I love my family. More than I yearn for freedom, more than I dread the fate of being Robert’s bride. More than I hate you. But you will never understand that. The part of me that does not hate you pities you for that.”

Lyanna rode past the melancholic prince. Behind Rhaegar the diminutive girl stopped shortly, but only to spit at his horse’s feet in contempt before spurring on her own horse again. Oswell and Arthur mounted their horses quickly and rode after Lyanna Stark, their prince following suit behind them.

The four of them soon rode due north, setting their course for the Roseroad close by Fawnton. It had been seven days after Rickard’s trial when the letter from Gerold had reached them. Neither the prince nor Arthur knew that the letter had come from the White Bull but Oswell had deflected all questions regarding the sender.

Rhaegar still had tried asking a few times. Sometimes Rhaegar just acted as if the norms of conversation did not apply to him. As if privacy was not sacred before royalty.

Oswell still remembered Rhaegar constantly asking why Oswell was more afraid of Shella than Oswell’s own brother, seeing only that Walter was the Lord of Harrenhal. Rhaegar had not been able to perceive that Walter was not the man in charge of Harrenhal.

Growing up with a suppressed mother and not caring about his wife had given the prince a skewed perspective of the power women sometimes held. Power they held even if they were unfit for it, Oswell had to concede, but they held it none the less. Oswell himself could not fathom why a woman cared for power. It did not fit their nature.

Well, Oswell also could not always fathom why Shella had to be such a massive bitch, but such was life.

When they reached the Roseroad after nine days of riding they found an escort waiting for them on the edge of the Kingswood, just as Gerold had written. They were all surprised to see said escort was Connington, except Lyanna. The Stark had been as emotional as a block of ice their whole way back and did not even deign to answer the prince whenever he tried to approach.

Before the Lord of Griffin’s Roost joined them Lyanna had at least talked with Arthur and Oswell a little, even if the subject was either knighthood, their travels or Arthur’s sister. Gods know what that was about.

Jon changed the dynamic of their troupe for the worse, though, and Oswell was glad the obnoxious Stormlord would part ways with them at the Kingsroad. Having his favorite sycophant around helped Rhaegar regain his usual air of aloofness and superiority but the image of the perfect prince was now forever tarnished even in Arthur’s eyes. Maybe the Dornishman's loyalty could be shifted now, a worthy matter to ponder on with Gerold.

The retelling of Rickard’s visit to King’s Landing had been in parts terrifying and hilarious. Jon seemed convinced the man was a brute straight-forward idiot. Oswell was silently of the opinion that in the Griffin Lord’s opinion the straight part of that description was the saddest part of that appellation. Anyways, trusting in Gerold’s letter painted the picture of a man that was terrifyingly competent instead. The Lord of Griffin’s Roost was not unused to court, tricking him displayed a proficiency in court mummery a Northerner should not possess.

Connington also managed to thoroughly alienate himself from Lyanna Stark within seconds. With a greeting like his that was no big surprise.

“So, that is the wolf bitch that has tried to seduce you since Harrenhal, my prince?”

Really? Just because Connington didn’t swing that way makes all women wanton harlots? Smooth.

Still, not even Rhaegar’s abysmal choice of friends disappointed Lyanna Stark as much as the prince’s utter lack of reaction to the fate of his daughter Rhaenys. When Lyanna told Oswell and Arthur how her own brother Eddard had been fostered away from home for ten years they had come to understand her visceral reaction to the prince’s lack of the same. The woman had read the prince exactly right. Rhaegar was incapable of love. It was a sad thing to realize.

They were well rid of the prancing Stormlord five days later at the crossing of the Roseroad and the Kingsroad. The new addition to the party that was waiting for them there, though, was a surprise for all of them. This time, however, it had been a positive surprise for the Northern lady.

“Edwyle,” she screamed as she dismounted and ran into the man’s arms. The man wore the white and grey livery of the Starks. Oswell had not expected ever to see it, but Lyanna Stark started crying. Not just silent tears that ran from stoic eyes. No, Lyanna was bawling her eyes out, crumbled in the embrace of a rough Northerner.

When she had calmed again Lyanna introduced the whole party to Edwyle Snow, the captain of her father’s personal guard. The man looked ready to murder the Lord of Griffin’s Roost who looked on the smiling and crying lady in Edwyle’s arms with disdain. Connington was only lucky that Lady Lyanna’s comfort was obviously more important to Edwyle Snow than ending the Stormlord's life. The prince seemed only slightly less high on the shit list of the hardened guard, though Oswell was quite sure that would soon change.

Connington tried to say his goodbyes with a flamboyant fashion, as if he were addressing the royal court still and not just five people of whom four could not stand him. However, the man was finally gone so all was good. Lyanna and Captain Snow rode a little apart from Oswell, Arthur and Rhaegar for the last three days until they reached King’s Landing.

Upon entering the city, they were all quickly allowed into the Red Keep. They had made it in time, Rhaegar would not be disinherited. Court was in session when they entered the throne room, but luckily there was no stench of burned flesh in the air. Yet.

Oswell was glad to see that the three Wisdoms that always stood at the feet of the king were truly dead. Their replacement seemed to be not as old and mostly trembling in fear of the king. Aerys himself was cackling his shrill laugh as Oswell's party came before him.

Gerold and Barristan were guarding the king. Oswell shared a brief nod with both of them, locking eyes with his mentor before reaching the start of the throne’s dais and kneeling with his companions. Edwyle Snow chose not to stand with them, the Northman instead joined the wider court. After leaving Arthur, Rhaegar, Lyanna and him on their knees for ten seconds longer than usual, Aerys finally talked.

“Girl. Stand.”

Lyanna did as told and Aerys continued talking after looking at her for a second.

“We don’t know what our foolish son thought running off you, scrawny little thing. Rhaella whispers to us you ran away from your betrothed, our beloved cousin Robert. My Warden of the North and my hand tell us you have been kidnapped and our son violated you. Tell us, Lady Lyanna, did our son kidnap you? Did our son rape you? Or did you just run into his arms like a wanton whore?”

For a second the Northern lady remained quiet. Oswell saw her eye the crowd, as if daunted to speak of her ordeal before the whole court. Oswell also saw Lyanna lock eyes with Captain Snow who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Oswell had a very bad premonition at that. One that proved true as Lady Lyanna Stark answered King Aerys II Targaryen.

“No, your majesty, I was not kidnapped. Your son lured me away from my guards with false promises, lies and mummery. Ser Oswell saved me from being raped by him. I stand before you unspoiled not because of the virtue of your son but because of the honor of your Kingsguards Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell.”

That was obviously a prepared line, but already the court was whispering. And Lyanna Stark’s words were no lies. Aerys looked at Arthur and Oswell, motioning for them to rise, schadenfreude spilling out of his eyes and smile.

“Tell us, Ser Oswell, Ser Arthur, does Lady Lyanna speak the truth? Did you prevent her from being raped at the hands of Prince Rhaegar? We command you to answer us before the whole court.”

Prince Rhaegar. Not Crown Prince Rhaegar. Oswell glanced at Arthur who had noticed the same detail. Most telling was that Rhaegar was still forced to kneel in humiliation. Arthur looked like he did not care about that. The Sword of the Morning would answer truthfully and completely. Oswell would have to as well. Fuck.

Just like when they had sworn themselves to shield Lyanna, Oswell and Arthur spoke in unison. The last time they did it to protect the realm. Their words now would kindle the flames threatening to swallow the realm whole. Arthur’s voice was pure steel, Oswell’s resigned.

“Yes, your grace, Lady Lyanna speaks the truth.”

Around them the court’s whispers turned into shouts and the lords and ladies erupted into chaos.

It had all spectacularly gone to shit.

Chapter Text

“Lostah, I ride with you please?”

Rhaenys asked Rickard with as earnest an expression as possible at two and a half years old.

“Of course, Little Sun. But are you sure you do not want to ride with Shasha and Nappa today? This is our last day on horseback, we will arrive at Riverrun later in the afternoon.”

Rickard had to suppress a smile while the little princess was pondering seriously on the matter. Everyone at camp knew that his son Eddard had become Rhaenys’ favorite person in the world. Even Rhaenys nickname for Ned, Nappa, was a mix of Ned and papa. Rickard was of the belief that Shasha, the Lady Ashara, had actively encouraged this development.

Ned had proved himself a wonderful caretaker with the little girl and was just as captivated with the princess as she was with him. Eddard had been the first to call Rhaenys Little Sun, a moniker every one of the riders for Riverrun soon adapted.

Well, everyone except Brandon, whom Rhaenys gave the nickname Rapey after some creative nudging by Ashara. The Dornishwoman had done her best to avoid Brandon, and where that was not possible, completely ignored his presence. Still, that did not mean she was above taking her revenge on Brandon in… roundabout, but perfidious ways.

After almost a minute of deep thinking Rhaenys made her decision on who to ride with today and Rickard was not at all surprised he was not chosen.

“I ride with Nappa!”

Not at all earnest anymore, the little girl was now giving Rickard her toothy grin, bubbly and happy as only a child can be. Rhaenys’ smile really did warm hearts and lighten moods, the name Little Sun fitting her perfectly. Then the little girl changed from giggling to thoughtful again in a heartbeat.

“But Nappa and Shasha in bed now…”

Gods, still? Ned always used to be the first to be ready in the morning. At least before meeting his ladylove, now Ned was rarely up earlier than necessary. Still perfectly on time to break camp, but Rickard was coming to doubt the Lady’s reason for sharing Ned’s tent of being that she only felt safe in Ned’s presence with Brandon around.

Still, it was a difficult subject to broach, and the tension between Rickard’s two sons was high enough as is. But Rickard had been young and in love, too, and Lyarra had not been shy about keeping warm in winter, even before hers and Rickard’s betrothal had been official.

With that in mind, Rickard had agreed to the lady’s request to keep watch over the princess every second night after Rhaenys fell asleep. The Little Sun was most comfortable around Rickard, only discounting Nappa and Shasha

And your tent is the best and most comfortable, Lord Stark, just right for a darling princess, Ashara had said to Rickard, as flimsy an excuse as Rickard had ever seen. True, Rickard’s tent was the best and most comfortable in the camp, but the googly eyes the Lady Ashara and Ned shared belied her intentions. Rickard just hoped they were being careful.

The clever woman also asked for her and Ned’s tent to be stationed on the outskirts of the camp with Brandon’s tent on the direct opposite end. Obviously, the Lady’s apprehension was not gone, but the request had the added bonus of increased privacy for her and Ned at night.

Still, Rickard noticed some of his men-at-arms occupying the tents in the vicinity of the young pair throwing Ned either jealous or admiring looks, so Lady Ashara was probably a little louder than she thought. Though, Rickard did not have the heart to tell the young lovers to stop – and Rickards’s men that were robbed of their sleep did not have the heart either, or the balls.

Both Ned and Lady Ashara had proven themselves quite protective of each other, and vicious of tongue. Also, Rickard highly suspected, quite a few of his companions were now living vicariously through Ned, with their wives back in the North and on the road for so long.

There were no other women riding with their group at the moment and even Rickard had to admit, gods, what a woman Ashara Dayne was. She was too young for him, sure, and Rickard was not of a mind to entice his son’s love away from Ned.

Growing older together with Lyarra, even after she had now passed, Rickard had acquired more of a taste for… seasoned women, so to speak. And if Rickard ever had to think of marriage again? Well, he’d prefer a woman with a more ample… dowry, than Ashara Dayne.

The young couple just exited their tent as the precious princess bounced over to them to hug their legs before being lifted onto Ned’s shoulders. There she promptly fisted his hair. His son as always set about taking down and packing up his tent without seeming to mind the girl straddling his neck.

Almost like an established ritual now after ten days with the Vale party since Darry, some of Ned’s tent neighbors came up to Eddard and gave him a few respectful shoulder claps. At the beginning one man had asked Eddard how he did itit, only to be met with stony silence and a truly deathly glare. No one ever dared asking again. Eddard Stark was definitely no kiss and tell.

It did not take long anymore for the whole camp to saddle up and Rickard soon found himself approaching his heir and his heir’s beloved for some important planning. Before Rickard could start talking, however, Rhaenys stretched out one hand towards him from her vantage point on Ned’s shoulder.

“Lostah, hug!”

With a lazy smile Ned took to directing his horse only by his feet, letting the stallion slow from a trot into an easy walk. As Ned arrived at Rickard’s side, Ned lifted the girl on his shoulders up to seat her in front of him until Rickard was ready to take the princess. Ned never denied the girl anything. Rickard was already afraid is future grandchildren would be spoiled rotten.

Princess Rhaenys was handed to Rickard soon enough and she cuddled into him for a little before she began pawing at his beard with wide eyes. She liked doing that with all the Northmen, fascinated by their rugged facial hair. Most southern nobles tended to always be clean shaven.

Even King Aerys, who had not cut his hair since the Defiance of Duskendale, did not have a nice full frost catcher in his face. The king for the life of him simply could not grow a proper beard. Rickard, on the other hand, could not help but be a little prideful at keeping the most immaculately groomed beard in all of Westeros. It definitely had the Rhaenys seal of approval of the highest order.

Despite his intentions Rickard found himself playing and snuggling with the vivacious child in his arms for a while, riding quietly content alongside his son and Lady Ashara. Not since Benjen had been young had Rickard spent so much time playing with a little one so often.

Oh, Lyarra, if only. Rickard missed the sound of children’s laughter filling the halls of Winterfell

Maybe again someday. A new marriage for him was definitely a powerful tool in the coming storm, even as he balked at the idea of anyone taking Lyarra’s place beside him. There was no strategically beneficial woman on the market at the moment.

Lyarra had been a Flint on the maternal side and his most important bannermen were in on his plans and supportive of southern alliances. Maybe Emmon Frey would have to die soon. Other prospects were viable, too, like future widow Rhaella or a Stormlands’ bride. Perhaps even a Sisterwoman, but that would require a lot of concessions.

No matter. Time for marriage came later, time for politics came now. Rickard addressed the bundle of energy in his arms and beard.

“Little Sun, I need to speak to Shasha and Nappa. Who do you want to ride with? Fofo, Kylie, Uncle Jon?”

The princess switched from crestfallen to thoughtful to giggling in an instant again.

“I want Rapey. He taller. I fly!”

Rickard still cringed at the name. Ashara chortled beside Ned, suppressing a laugh. At least his new heir had the decency to look abashed, even as Ned’s beloved remained entirely unapologetic at the withering look Rickard shot her. He understood Ashara, sure, that did not mean that Rickard had to like it.

Regardless, Brandon might have to be part of the discussion, so he would not be able to look after the little princess. Not that he would be happy to, as Rhaenys only addressed people with her nicknames. So, Rickard replied:

“Sorry, princess, Brandon may have to talk with us, too. Elly is rather tall; do you want to fly on his shoulders?”

“Fly with Elly! Yay, let’s.”

Apparently the exchange was acceptable, and Ned winked for Elbert to come over. As soon as the Arryn heir arrived, he quickly lifted Rhaenys onto his shoulders. The little girl once more turned to Rickard; even at two she could be prim and proper.

“Thank you, Lostah, bye.”

“Lord Stark,” Elbert himself repeated with a trace of mirth to his smile and an inclination of his head as he took on the delightful burden that was the princess.

As Elbert distanced himself from Rickard, Ned and Ashara to give themselves privacy, Rhaenys could already be heard humming her new favorite tune and asking Elbert Arryn to sing for her. She loved it when Ned or Ashara sang for her most, and Ashara gladly indulged Rhaenys in singing their favorite song.

When the three of them were alone, Rickard finally had his chance to address what he approached the two love birds for.

“Lady Ashara, the next few days at Riverrun will be one of the key gatherings before the coming civil war. Can I convince you to excuse Brandon from his compulsory confession during our stay there? I will try my hand at a performance and too much of a stain on Brandon’s name beforehand may be damaging.”

“Lord Rickard, of course that poses no problem,” she said. “May I fund a few bards to spread the word instead after our stay at Riverrun, in return?”

Scheming, shrewd woman she was. Rickard approved. Her answer would have left Rickard smiling if the subject of their talk had been an enemy. The warm violet eyes that regarded him could not mask the cold turning wheels he knew they hid. Ned’s grey eyes were hard as iron as he spoke, his own concerns showing he learned well from him since they reunited.

“Father. You spoke of Hoster and how he declined to help you and brother. He will slight Shara.”

It was not a question. Rickard did not deny it. Eddard continued, in turn.

“Send a raven from Riverrun to Starfall, on the day after you accomplished your goals. Arrange my marriage. I will bear the slights towards my beloved in that case, as will she. I will not forget it. I will also not forgive Hoster Tully condemning you and my brother to your deaths. None may condemn Brandon but the pack leader, and Hoster is not worthy to sit in judgement of you.”

Despite his calm Ned was seething. Hoster Tully was not in his graces, but his mask was impeccable. His lady looked upon him with such devotion, such love, and after a second as he caught her gaze, he returned it in kind. Rickard was not entirely opposed to Ned wedding Ashara, but his son could not have everything handed to him.

“Convince me, son. Why not a Northern House, after this fiasco with the Tullys? What does House Dayne offer the Starks? What the North?”

Ashara seemed ready to come forth and drown him in words, bursting already, as Ned took her hand and looked at his father. Calm, steady. Worthy. Ned could become great, Rickard knew it. His son’s answer was well thought out.

“Since the betrothal of Brandon and my fosterage at the Eyrie, many Northern Houses started betrothing amongst each other. There aren’t too many eligible daughters left. There are no Glover or Bolton daughters this generation. The Umbers do not have a single one for us either, not since Mors’ daughter was taken when I was young.

“Leona Woolfield is now a Manderly, and they already have a babe. Donella Manderly married Halys Hornwood a few years back. Halys has a sister, Berena, but a connection to the North’s important harbor and the North’s most important House? In one generation, that is too much growth. Besides, I hear they are having talks with the Tallharts, to get access to both seas. Smart of them, and Ashara’s and my planned arrangement with Starfall may interest them.

“Sybelle Locke is an option, but then grandmother Marna was of their House. The Lockes are talking of a betrothal to one of the Glover brothers as well. We might just offend the Masters of the Wolfswood if we break their betrothal. Besides, your marriage to mother bound all the Flints and all the mountain clans to our House, another marriage to either is unwise.

“Arnolf Karstark has daughters, true, but his relation to Rickard is contentious. Lord Karstark will not thank us if I wed one of his cousins. The only other eligible woman is Dacey Mormont, and not for another ten years. We need alliances now and the Mormonts are our most loyal bannermen already.

“Besides, Dacey is heir to Bear Island at the moment and Lord Jorah has so far proven to have a weak seed. Her mother Maege may not thank us for taking Dacey away. A better option is to wed Benjen to her and let their children carry the Mormont name.

“There is Barbrey Ryswell. I… do not see her as an option. Honestly, father, I believe you and Brandon thoroughly botched out relations to both father and daughter of House Ryswell. Either bind Barbrey to Brandon or to the Dustins. If I take her for a bride now, we will only appear weak.

“I say better we pay the Ryswells off or bind them in the next generation. Besides, if we show our banners that insolence like that of Lord Ryswell is rewarded, we will have problems with ambitious lords for generations to come. And as you taught us, Father, every good lord is ambitious.

“Among the Northern houses, that only leaves the Neck. My friendship with Howland Reed is unshakeable, and besides, the Lord of Greywater Watch is a friend to Lady Ashara as well. He will support our marriage.”

After that Ned fell into a short lull. Rickard had rarely heard his son speak so many words at once. Ned truly was fond of the Lady Ashara, there was no denying that. Rickards’s son continued speaking, grasping Ashara’s hand just a little tighter.

“As for a Vale bride. I thought it might have been your intention, seeing how you send me to the Eyrie to foster. But the Lord Paramount of the North marrying a bride from the most Andal kingdom? That could terribly upset our bannermen. Only a Royce or a Redfort would work.

“However, just as in the North, there is no Redfort daughter of suitable age for me. There is a Ryella Royce somewhere, but she is from a minor branch. Also, seeing you and Jon, I have come to the conclusion that you sent me to foster at the Eyrie for a different reason than marriage. Even if I do not know yet why.”

His son was watching Rickard. Ned’s assessments were right for the most part, even if Rickard had bigger plans for Benjen than wedding him to Dacey Mormont. Rickard was surprised though; Ned did have a better head for the marriage web of the North than Rickard expected. But maybe that was attributable to Ashara by Ned’s side. Such a keen eye would speak in her favor,

The support of the lord of the crannogmen was to Ned’s boon as well and provided a small surprise to the lord of Winterfell. Few bannermen were as loyal as those of the crannogs, and the Reeds were held in high esteem throughout the North, even if they were reclusive.

Rickard’s son had been preparing for this conversation, obviously. And yes, there had been deeper considerations for Ned’s fosterage with House Arryn. The affection Jon now bore Rickard’s son was only an added benefit. Still, Ned knowing the reasons could teach him a little.

“You are right, son. Your fosterage with the Andals served as a statement. I hear you sallied out against the mountain tribes, flying our banner. Seeing the direwolf ride against the clansmen was a symbolic measure to show a united front with the Valemen, as the tribes are the last pure First Man vestiges in the Vale.

“The Arryns have always remained suspicious that we Starks had informants among the tribes and supplied them in their cause. Your presence in the fight against the tribes assuaged these suspicions.”

Suspicions which were true. The tribes were the Starks’ informants, supplied through narrow passes only the mountain men knew and through shipments along the coast of the Bite by the crannogmen. Even now still, despite Ned riding against the clans, the Starks held their allegiance. Rickard had to strike a difficult balance and concessions had been made towards the tribes, payed in armor, weapons, and grain.

However, that was a discussion for when they were away from their current company, and only if Ashara was bound more firmly to their cause. So, right now, that information was irrelevant to the matter at hand.

“You’ve listed reasons against other marriages for yourself. Why should you not marry into the Reach for grain, or the Westerlands for gold? Janna Tyrell is said to be bountiful herself and will bring a bountiful harvest.

“And then there is Cersei Lannister. The Light of the West, supposedly as beautiful as your Ashara. She would bring us all the gold and power of the Rock. What does a marriage to Ashara bring us that a marriage to these other candidates doesn’t?”

Ashara almost looked scared as Rickard talked to him, but then she had not been part of most of the discussions Ned had been in over the last few days. Cersei was a viable option, even if Janna was not. Ned though? Ned almost bristled at Rickard as he spoke and as he answered.

“None of them hold a candle to Shara or her beauty, and I have seen all three of them up close at the tourney at Harrenhal! But yes. Let us talk of what they could offer us.

“The Reach is a fool’s investment right now, you said so yourself on our rides. Bountiful as Janna Tyrell may be, not all the grain in the world would be worth being drawn into the conflict in the Reach. But I guess that was just another of your tests, father.”

Rickard had to concede that point, Janna Tyrell had never been an option. And from what Rickard knew, Janna Tyrell was to her wedded sister Mina Redwyne as Lysa Tully was to Catelyn Tully. Well, maybe not as about to be disgraced as Lysa, but a vapid twat none the less.

“As for the Lannisters,” Ned continued, taking Rickard out of his thoughts, “we might make our beds with them against Aerys, but you cannot honestly tell me that you want Tywin Lannister to have a controlling influence on the future heir to the North. That is folly.”

Ashara must have seen something in Rickard’s face at that, for Ned’s tirade came to an abrupt stop as his lover squeezed his hand. Ned looked almost timid at that.

“Father-. You cannot mean to-”

“I can, son!”, Rickard interrupted Ned for the first time, a little irate, “your words just know? That reeked of sentimentality. Do you truly believe I would let Tywin Lannister have a controlling influence over you and your children in the North? I do not know if I should be insulted by that.”

Rickard did not speak loudly. He had long learned that a quiet voice was more threatening than a raised one, and Ned was now learning the same. Rickard’s son looked a little ashen at the thought.

“We can revisit Cersei later,” Rickard pressed on, dragging Ned along, “for now, give me an argument for your marriage to Ashara. Not just arguments against your marriage to another.”

Ned took a moment to recollect himself, and Rickard saw his son drawing strength from the woman beside him. As Ned started speaking again, his voice was steady. Good.

“A connection with Starfall gives us an entry to the Dornish market for timber, a good highly in demand in the desert. For the marriage contract we can negotiate for preferential treatment and port fees for Tallharts, Glovers, Mormonts, Manderlys and other Houses.

“We strengthen House Stark by strengthening our bannermen. They will thank us for that. It also has the added bonus of the development of the Town on the Torrentine, preparing it for a time when the Arbor and Oldtown get embroiled in the civil war and their harbors become too unsafe.”

That was a rather good argument for a Dayne alliance aside from silly sentimentalities. The port of the Arbor would probably not be as imperiled as Oldtown. That would only be the case if the Redwyne fleet stood against the royal fleet on opposite sides.

However, as soon as the Arbor gained significance as a military command center for the navy, Northern timber could be seized on the Reachmen’s docks for the war effort.

Starfall was a good option for southern trade relations. But it also had glaring disadvantages. Rickard caught himself in his own musings. The two lovers in front of Rickard were looking at him in growing trepidation. Rickard could not assuage that worry immediately. So, he laid out his largest misgiving:

“Starfall is a long way from home, Ned. We do not trade a lot that far south. The result might not be worth the effort.”

Ned looked grim at Rickard’s words, and Ashara was clutching Ned’s arm so tight now that she was almost drawing blood. Rickard’s son turned to look at his love, as if to find something in her face. Strength. Resolution. Rickard was not sure exactly, but it looked as if Ned found it.

Rickard saw as his son slowly untangled his hand from Ashara’s to press a whisper of a kiss to her knuckles, more tender than any Rickard had ever seen. Then, Ned whispered something into the Lady’s ear before she rose and slowly left. Ned looked after her, vulnerable and impenetrable at once.

“Brandon once… asked me to break his betrothal to Catelyn Tully, Ned. He wanted to wed Barbrey Ryswell. So, I asked Brandon, what could the Ryswells offer me, offer us, to rival the armies of the Riverlands and a bulwark against the Golden Tooth.”

Rickard took over the conversation as soon as Ashara had stepped out of hearing range, speaking softly to his new heir.

“At that, Brandon should have questioned why I needed security from the Lannisters. He did not. Instead, Brandon spoke of love. He was fifteen. Fifteen. Brandon had no business speaking to me of love then. I denied him. Of course, I denied him.

“So, Ned, tell me. What does your marriage to Ashara Dayne offer me, offer us, that I should forego the chance of forging an alliance with Tywin Lannister through your marriage to his daughter Cersei?”

Rickard met his son’s eyes, grey on grey, as steel on steel. Just for a moment, Ned looked… older. Wearied. Cold. Not as much as if something had broken in him, truly, more like something… cracked. Good. Ned talked, quietly. Almost too silent to understand. Ned did not look happy, then, as he talked.

“My marriage to Ashara will splinter the Dornish faction in the war to come, or at least sow the seeds of doubt in the Martells that the Daynes may not be loyal to their prince anymore. That would deny Dornish Spears free use of the Prince’s Pass as the Martells cannot risk being held up in the Red Mountains. It might also make it easier for us to win over Dorne after the dust has settled.”

Ned did not shrink away under Rickard’s scrutiny. Rickard felt a grin steal onto his face, slowly, unstoppable. Predatory.

“That”, Rickard answered Ned just as quietly, “is a good reason.”

Rickard stayed silent after, once more. He could admit to himself, a marriage between Ned and Cersei Lannister carried risks. Risks not present in a union with Ashara. While House Dayne was an old one, they simply did not carry the power to rival House Stark in a true negotiation. With the Lannisters, larger concessions would have to be made. It would be a gamble, to offer Ned for Cersei. Still…

”Now is the time to bring up any more arguments for your suit, Ned.”

“I love Ashara, father. I know that alone does not sway your opinion. But, between possibly marrying Cersei for a good reason, and definitely marrying Ashara for a good reason and for love, which brings House Stark more?”

“You would pursue desire over reason, Ned? The possibilities a marriage to Cersei Lannister bring, and the possibilities a marriage to Ashara bring, are incomparable. You know that.”

“No, father. I would pursue desire over ambition.”

Rickard waited. Weighed. Ned did not elaborate, did not need to. So, Rickard named his terms.

“You will continue learning to rule at my hand.”

“I will, father.”

“Until it comes the day that you assume my mantle, you will obey me in all I ask. You may disagree. You may complain. You may ask for forgiveness, after. But you will obey.”

“I will, father. For Ashara, always.”

There was a break in their conversation, and the silence was a harsh one. But it was not malignant.

“Fuck Hoster Tully. You have my blessing, Ned. We will send a first proposal from Riverrun, to Starfall and to Princess Elia for endorsement. I will also write a first draft of your marriage contract and send it with a few trusted riders south today. Now, you may go and bring your betrothed before me.”

Ned did not thank Rickard profusely, no. Ned simply rose and returned shortly after with Ashara in tow, their lips almost scarlet.

“Daughter.”

Rickard turned towards Ashara, who seemed almost ecstatic, no, giddy, as Rickard addressed her fondly. It was a stark contrast from his stern demeanor earlier, but Ashara was to be pack now, after all.

“Please write your own letter of endorsement for your betrothal to Eddard. I expect the wedding to happen as soon as possible, ideally before war breaks out across Westeros.”

“Thank you. … Father?”

Ashara’s reply was happy, yet tentative, as if she were trying out the new appellation for Rickard. At the fond smile she received in return Ashara’s face almost burst. And when Ashara turned towards Ned, looking at Rickard’s son in adoration, it just felt… right.

Rickard briefly wondered, if Brandon had been able to answer his questions adequately back then, would Rickard have broken the betrothal to the Tully daughter? Was there an adequate answer Brandon could have given, comparing the benefits of a Ryswell and a Tully wedding? Rickard did not know the answer himself, and it just felt… wrong.

The rest of the ride no one tried to approach the young couple, lost in their own world as Ned and Ashara were. Only little Rhaenys entered their little bubble without problems. The two even disappeared for a private lunch together at noon, and they looked properly mussed when they returned.

Rickard did send them a disapproving glare, but he was under no illusion about their relationship. Rickard was certain at that moment, though, that the wedding could not wait to be long after a few exchanged letters with Starfall and King’s Landing.

The riders reached the outskirts of the village outside Riverrun before dusk and Rickard’s guard alerted him to a man of the smallfolk expecting him. Perfect, just as planned. Rickard took Ned along with him to where the man was cordoned off with bread and salt by some of his guards.

Rickard’s men-at-arms quickly vacated the premise and guarded the vicinity as soon as they saw Rickard approach. As they approached in their direwolf livery, the smallfolk man introduced himself to the Lord of Winterfell and his heir.

“I greet Cregan’s get. I’m Tom.”

“Cregan’s get greets you, Tom. Who came to Riverrun for my son’s wedding?”

Rickard regarded the old Riverman shortly. A fourth-generation seedling, by Rickard’s estimation, probably one of the network leaders in the area. The man’s name was definitely not Tom. He was dressed to look as non-descript as possible, smudged, and dirtied.

That could have been on purpose for this meeting, though, it was just as likely Tom’s normal appearance owing to the side occupation Tom lead here. Maybe as a farmer, from the look of him. Tom continued speaking after he had been acknowledged, his sentences short and to the point.

“The Riverlords have arrived in force. Four surprises are among them. Old Man Walder himself came down from the Twins. Jason Mallister declined to be hosted by the trouts, he camps on the north of the Tumblestone. Lord Whent is not in attendance, his wife is.

“One of us Cregan’s Men rode in Lady Whent’s retinue, she showed herself the real power in Harrenhal. Word from the castle is, she had a break with Hoster. The Blackfish is on her side, though, and Lord Blackwood may have joined the Lady’s camp. Though, Blackwood seems to be not entirely entrenched, yet.”

Those news were… interesting. Jason Mallister stayed his hand at Rickard’s recommendation and Jeffory’s endorsement. Walder Frey could prove a pox to anyone. Stevron Frey alone would have been preferable, but as troublesome as the Lord of the Crossing could be, he was not stupid.

A public break between House Whent and House Tully, though… This was either about Lysa, in which case the Lady Whent could probably be exploited, or there was a deeper game afoot.

With the lady making a power play here, Rickard wondered if she would send someone to approach him now that Rickard had entered the field. Her family was not to be discounted, despite the Whents’ recent rise to power.

Harren Hoare had chosen the location for his castle wisely back in the day. Even if the Whents had not held Harrenhal for long, the lands belonging to them were fertile and strategically important. Harrenhal also fielded one of the bigger armies of the Riverlands. Lady Whent presented an unknown in the wider game; and unknowns were always the most dangerous.

Lord Blackwood attaching himself to the Lady of Harrenhal was not a surprise, though. With Stone Henge on one side of Blackwood lands, only a fool would suffer an enemy behind them as well. Tytos Blackwood not being a fool was neither a threat nor a boon yet, though it could develop to be either.

Still, the domestic Riverlords were the less important guests to the wedding. Which ones of the big players had arrived? Tom continued as Rickard motioned him to go on.

“We have some surprise guests from outside the Riverlands. Lord Lannister has arrived with a sizeable retinue of family and lords.”

“Which ones?” Rickard interrupted Tom shortly, who then elaborated on the information.

“Lord Kevan was not amongst the Lannister host, however, Lord Tywin’s sister Lady Genna Frey and his third brother Lord Tygett are with him. Lord Emmon Frey has joined the host of his father Walder Frey, even as his wife Genna stayed with her brother.

“Lord Westerling has joined Tywin together with his wife’s family, though so far, we have not been able to ascertain if House Spicer has a larger objective at play here. Leffords, Baneforts and Crakehalls have sent heirs and second sons, but no ruling lord to accompany the host.

“The Westerland Houses have taken up residence at the Running River Inn on the edge of the village and rented out the entirety of their rooms.”

Tywin, Genna and Tygett. Tywin, the strategic mastermind; Genna, his political silk gloves, Tygett, his primary military tactician. Rickard expected an interesting and hopefully fruitful discussion with the Lord of Casterly Rock.

Of the other major lord currently amongst the Westerland host, Lord Westerling, Rickard knew only little. Oh, Rickard was aware that the Westerling House continued its decline under the man’s rule, and that Lord Westerling had married the daughter of a merchant’s house just recently elevated to nobility.

However, it bothered Rickard that he knew even less about this House Spicer than House Westerling. Up-jumped merchants, new money. Not that there was anything bad about that, but those types were unlikely to be subtle players of the game.

The problem of their kind was that you could always make big waves with enough money. Sometimes, those waves revealed the true monsters hidden in the deep. Even without a foundation, Rickard intended to keep an eye on House Spicer. Tom talked on.

“There have been a few smaller Houses of the Reach arriving, but they all follow in the wake of either the heir to Hightower or Lord Florent. The Tyrells are absent save for a few knights from minor branches in the retinue of Lord Baelor. Apparently, Lady Alerie is having a third child and the matriarch of the roses has decided against leaving her son alone to travel here.”

Tom hesitated after saying this. The news were rather interesting, and knowing of Lord Mace Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns probably did choose the prudent option in staying behind. Leaving the man without supervision when a war could start any moment could be recipe for a disaster. Only spies from her, then.

Still, did Baelor Hightower come on the command of the Tyrells, or did Lord Leyton go independent? Maybe on the advice of Leyton’s uncle Gerold, as well. Something to talk with Walys about, Winterfell’s Maester despised his mother’s House. Rickard’s informant still seemed to be on the fence about something, Tom only spoke again on Rickard’s urging.

“There was a big upset just yesterday when the Ironborn emerged from the Whispering Wood in force. Quellon Greyjoy knocked on the gates together with his three eldest sons and the lords or heirs to Blacktyde, Drumm, Goodbrother, Harlaw, Orkwood and Saltcliffe. Such a wealth of Ironborn nobility has not entered the Riverlands at once since the days of Harren the Black.”

Unsettling. Rickard did not know what to make of that. What did the kraken want, ever grasping? Rickard knew one thing, the Ironborn were not invited by House Tully. Hoster’s lords would be in open rebellion now if that were the case. Should Rickard approach the Lord Reaper of Pyke, or wait for the man to come to him?

Rickard had heard good things of Quellon Greyjoy, and the man had proved a smart steward to his people. More restrained, more in control, more intelligent than the Reapers before him. More dangerous. Another asset or another threat.

By now, Tom was fidgeting in his place. Despite probably having been an informant since before the Ninepenny Wars, nothing of such import had happened in the Riverlands during that time. Tom had likely gleaned to understand the game a little, and the man knew something was approaching.

Ironborn in the Riverlands. Madness. Rickard could read it all in Tom’s face. The man was afraid for his life, uncertain of the future and presented with many a sign of danger. But he was Rickard’s man, so Rickard spoke to ease his worries.

“Tom. A war is coming, and it will be fought throughout the Seven Kingdoms. I do not know what the Ironborn want. I have an idea what Lord Lannister wants. I know for certain what Hoster Tully wants. I will know more before I leave here, and I will tell you what is safe for you to know then. You have been loyal to the Starks; the Starks are loyal to you.

”If Hoster Tully goes to war in the Riverlands within the year, follow him unless he goes against known allies of mine. For now, that means House Mallister. I fear with the Reachmen here; Lord Tully will try to meddle in the south.

“But, if Hoster Tully intends to cross the Goldroad, he will lead most soldiers following him to their deaths. Abandon him if he does so, and come North if you are discovered with your network. The descendants of Cregan’s host will be given a hero’s welcome when they return North after more than 150 years of leal service.”

“Thank you, my lord. Is there any other way I and mine can be of service?”, Tom replied relieved.

“Yes”, Rickard answered, handing Tom a letter and a bag of gold dragons, “this letter details information regarding Lady Lysa Tully’s recent abortion, forced on her by her father. Starting tomorrow at noon I want your men to spread the truth in all the brothels and wine sinks and inns around.

“My guards have informed your brothers in all other parts of the Riverlands, the northern Reach and the western Crownlands to do the same. Soon, the whole realm will know. That is all.

“Cregan’s get thanks you for your service.”

Rickard released the Cregan’s Man before him with the customary dismissal, and received the customary reply.

“I thank Cregan’s get for the fire in my hearth in winter.”

Tom disappeared quietly soon after, taking the letter and the gold with him. Rickard would see him again before he left. Now it was time to meet the other players.

One of Rickard’s senior guards was sent to Riverrun to inform the Tullys that Rickard would not enter their keep before noon the next day. The guard was to tell Hoster explicitly that ‘the advance warning was meant to give the Tullys time to prepare for the reception of Rickard, his heir Ned, and his other son Brandon the groom’.

Rickard and Ned reconvened with Jon at camp. They agreed to head for the Running River Inn at once, with Elbert coming along as well and a few guards of both House Arryn and House Stark for protection.

The men-at-arms the four met along their way were mostly clad in red and gold, and there were more and more soldiers the closer they got to the inn. There was one very notable exception between all the Lannister men, though.

A tall Ironborn was standing not 50 feet away from the inn where the Lannisters dwelled, with two men holding the golden kraken banner of House Greyjoy behind him. The man was tall, grey of hair and beard and with a scar splitting his mouth vertically in two.

Dagmer Cleftjaw in all his glory, the second most famed and dreaded man of the Iron Islands alive, only surpassed by his liege. And now he stood directly in Rickard’s path towards the lions’ den. As soon as he saw them Dagmer addressed the falcons and wolves on their horses.

“Lord Stark and company,” the man said with a curtsy that was neither practiced nor easy.

The move looked comical on the giant. Rickard wondered which of Dagmer’s companions had told Dagmer to perform a curtsy. Rickard had to fight to keep up a straight face at the sight.

While it was likely that whoever had told Dagmer to curtsy instead of bow had played a joke on Dagmer, it would not surprise Rickard either if the Ironborn simply did not know that only women curtsied. Either way, Dagmer obviously did not like being here, scraping before Rickard and Jon, scraping before anyone.

“I am Dagmer Cleftjaw, envoy of the Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands. Quellon Greyjoy, the Lord Reaper of Pyke, invites you to speak with him at your convenience, my Lords Stark and Arryn. You will be welcomed at our camp with bread and salt.”

The man, having said his piece, turned to leave. Clever of the kraken. But sending a mouthpiece with limited instructions and limited diplomatic capability was as much surrendering initiative as grasping it.

No matter if Quellon Greyjoy knew how to play the game, if his subordinates could not, it simply was not enough. And the Lord Reaper did not sit in a position of sufficient power to command the Warden of the North and the Warden of the East. A reminder, then, and a show of strength. Rickard Stark did not suffer to let Dagmer Cleftjaw leave in silence.

“Captain Cleftjaw. I will be speaking with Lord Lannister now, but I am willing to speak with your liege immediately after. At mine and Lord Arryn’s camp. Two of our guards will join you back to your host and accompany Lord Quellon and his advisors to our tents.”

Dagmer turned around again at Rickard’s words, but he was not given the chance to retort. Spurring on his horse, Rickard continued talking in passing.

“As Lord Quellon will be forced to wait for us at our camp, our men will organize the most lavish food possible on such notice, and entertainment from the village as Lord Quellon requires. We look forward to seeing him later.”

At that Rickard had ridden past the stunned Ironman, leaving Rickard’s and Jon’ guards to organize themselves to his specification. The man-at-arms rotated into their positions with practiced ease as Rickard, Jon, Ned, and Elbert swiftly dismounted and entered the inn. Dagmer Cleftjaw did not have time to reply.

The inn was lit by the warm light of four hearths. Westerland nobility filled the halls. Rickard spied some soldiers of higher military standing on some of the tables, keeping apart from the more lavishly dressed lords and sers. A few ladies were scattered throughout the hall.

Above the others sat Tywin Lannister, the Old Lion of the Rock, with his brother Tygett and his sister Genna on either side of him.

Tygett Lannister sat ramrod straight in his under armor, consisting of a chainmail byrnie cut like a shirt with a cloth cover in red and gold to fit a formal dinner table. He wore an unadorned sword by his side in a blank sheath, hanging over a pair of painted but sturdy boiled leather breeches. Tygett’s boots though were standard issue plate; the same armor Rickard saw on the feet of the Lannister shoulders.

The younger Lannister brother’s eyes were on Rickard already as he entered the room and the wolf lord saw a muscle twitch in his body before his brother Tywin looked up to regard him. Genna Lannister’s eyes found the group not a second after her brother’s, however, her movements seemed entirely smooth and natural as if she had always meant to look towards the entrance in that second.

Whereas Tygett’s posture screamed of discipline and training and Genna’s languid ease belied a keen political mind, Tywin’s body gave nothing away except perfect control.

While Genna Lannister’s body at 37 was overflowing from her crimson gown in all the right places and her long hair flowed freely across her shoulders, her elder and younger brother both cut an entirely different look, even as Tywin and Tygett shared a few styling choices.

Both men kept their golden blonde hair in a close military crop, and both did not sit against their chair’s back.

All three pairs of Lannister eyes had directed their green glare upon Rickard, but where Genna’s were of controlled warmth and Tygett’s were of controlled cool, Tywin’s eyes were of controlled apathy, giving nothing away.

The lion lord himself wore a noble’s doublet hinting at a muscular body with broad shoulders and firm waist. More red than gold, and the bloodiest red Rickard had ever seen. While his brother Tygett was clean shaven, Tywin Lannister wore immaculately trimmed sideburns.

Not a full beard as magnificent as Rickard, true, but the man did look razor sharp and as dangerous as the edge that must have cut him.

Tywin Lannister did not even need to speak to get the hall to quiet down. He merely knocked against the stein in front of him with the golden sigil ring on his right hand. Silence spread out in a wave from the high table and all men turned to the lord above them.

“Leave.”

A single word from Tywin Lannister and all the people high and low left the hall quickly and orderly. Rickard could not help being impressed, and he could feel both Ned and Elbert tensing up in their group. Jon stayed calm while the horde of Westermen parted around them to leave the hall.

Already before everything around them was empty did Rickard start walking towards the raised dais, not willing to wait until Tywin would call their group over. On the high table there were already four empty chairs standing opposite the three Lannisters.

Tywin had been prepared for them. Rickard sat down opposite the man and was pleased to find both bread and salt waiting for him and his companions. They all partook in silence.

“Your letter from the capital was a very welcome present, Lord Rickard. I had been appalled to hear how our king has treated you during your visit there. Not surprised, merely appalled. I am curious about your invitation to your son’s wedding. I do hope you have something more pertinent to talk about though than Lord Eddard replacing his brother to be the new groom.”

Tywin did not even deign to great them, as if his words were too precious to waste on such frivolities. The old lion shortly let his eyes linger on Rickard’s son, though he barely spared Elbert Arryn a glance. Tywin’s voice was the same as his poise, controlled, and polished sharp like a blade. Rickard replied with just as cutting a voice, cold and biting like winter winds.

“I highly doubt any betrothal between the trouts and mine will survive until tomorrow afternoon. For you, however, that is largely irrelevant, Lord Tywin. I have not asked you to come to primarily speak of marriage. I have been slighted and betrayed by our king. The whole realm knows you have been slighted and betrayed by our king. Maybe it is time he stops being our king.”

Both Genna and Tygett seemed caught off guard for a second upon Rickard’s blunt words. Not Tywin, though. Tywin just looked at Rickard, controlled like always. When Tywin finally spoke, it almost seemed like he was threatening to sneer at them.

“And who is supposed to rule us if not the mad dragon? The prince, who to your benefit took off with your daughter? The stag lord, who is betrothed to your daughter through claim of blood? Why should I put your grandchild on the Iron Throne, Stark? Why risk my soldiers fighting your war?”

Tywin Lannister was always controlled. That served well in discussions, mostly. Some people dealt better with displaying the right emotion when called for. Where Tywin muted his sneer a little while talking of the Targaryens, Rickard did not bother to stifle his snarl as he spoke.

“I will not suffer the man who abducted my daughter to hold real power before he dies at my ministration. I will not leave a single dragon in power after they threatened to burn me and strangle my son. Why should I elevate a Baratheon on claim of blood to be my overlord when it is his dragon blood I despise?”

Rickard turned to the side simply to spit out as if he had bitten on ash to emphasize his point.

“No. The Iron Throne. The Seven Kingdoms. Nine provinces. One royal dynasty. Five up jumped families fashioning themselves our equals for three hundred years. What are they to us? The Tyrells, the Tullys, the Greyjoys, the Baratheons. The Targaryens. What are they to us? What are they to us?

“I say we see them spend themselves warring each other, and after they either bend to us or they will be obliterated. I say it is time the unified Seven Kingdoms are at their end. We bide our time for the lizards to kill each other and redraw the borders of the Reach, the Riverlands, the Crownlands and more. You tried to make your daughter queen. I will give you more.

“What say you, Tywin Lannister, King of the Rock?”

Rickard did not need to raise his voice. It did not do to scream of treason. Rickard knew the three he brought with him to remain impassive as he spoke. Genna looked at him intrigued as Tygett was sizing him up a second time. Tywin, though? Tywin was given Rickard a tightly wound smile.

“I say we have lots to talk about, King in the North, things great and terrible.”

And they did. They talked for hours before Rickard left for the krakens he had invited into his camp. During the entire time they talked, Tywin continued wearing his threatening smile.

Chapter Text

Tygett rose slightly before dawn, as he had done since before Maelys Blackfyre tried to invade through the Stepstones and before Tygett had claimed his first kills at ten years old. Back when the Red Lion had still been Tygett’s hero. Back when Aerys II Targaryen was still a welcome guest at Casterly Rock. Back when Tygett and his siblings vowed to reclaim the respect owed to them as lions of the Rock.

They had done that, and more. Now House Lannister was again one of the preeminent powers of the Seven Kingdoms. As it always should have been. Tygett no longer worshipped the Red Lion, traitor and failure that Roger Reyne had become. Tygett no longer thought of King Scab as a friend to House Lannister. And since yesterday, a new vow had replaced the old one of merely reclaiming respect. It was time to reclaim a kingdom.

With practiced ease Tygett put on his standard attire. Cloth, mail, padding, full plate. Where Tywin’s armor was embossed in gold and crimson, Tygett preferred plain grey steel, polished to shine almost silver. To each the armor that served them best. Whereas Tywin did not fight at the front, as the leader he needed to cut a great figure. Tywin’s image was his guarantor of safety when dealing with matters outside the battlefield; the few times that Tywin did take up the sword could not be allowed to diminish that.

Tygett, however, needed steel he could trust. Steel he trusted to blind his enemies, so it was polished to perfection. Steel he trusted to cut through his enemies, so it was sharpened to perfection. Steel he trusted to shield him from harm, so it was forged to perfection. Trust in your tools, trust in your comrades, trust in your commanders. And because Tywin displayed the image of the perfect leader and Tygett showed the prowess of the perfect commander, their men trusted them. And in turn, Tywin and Tygett trusted in their men. The most valuable commodity there is, trust.

Though commander in name, Tygett’s heart was that of a soldier. Oh, he laid down the plans for battle and led in the van, true, but the only battles Tygett planned were the ones Tywin told him to. Tywin was the leader. Tygett was still in awe of the flood, still in terror at times. He was no visionary, only a soldier at heart. The best soldier.

His sword’s sheath Tygett clasped to his side, the pommel of his sword plain and carefully wrapped in well-worn leather. No golden pommels for soldiers. Tygett had always known that Jaime had craved a plain sword like his, no matter how much Tywin kept pressing golden blades into Jaime’s hands.

Still, to join the Kingsguard? Foolish boy. It would have just been a question of time.

Tygett would have convinced Tywin in time, to give the boy space. Kevan was in agreement with Tygett, but as always, Kevan remained too quiet when confronted by Tywin. Genna was in agreement with Tygett as well, but as always, Genna became too vocal when confronted by Tywin.

But Jaime’s matter was a military one, and in matters strictly military, Tywin listened to Tygett. Even if it took Tywin some time. Time that Jaime had not left for himself and time that King Scab had now taken from them all. When Tywin had agreed yesterday to the wolf’s proposal, he had been slightly displeased when Tygett had interrupted him.

Only slightly. The fate of his heir presumptive, disregarding contrary oaths, had been on Tywin’s mind all the same. But Rickard, Rickard was the flood all over again. A commander, a visionary, not a soldier. For does an oath exist if that what it is beholden to exists no longer? There can be no celibate Kingsguard if there is no king for him to guard. No battle, just the flood. No release, disbandment. Tacticians and strategists.

Of course it was a gamble, what they planned. But as with every gamble, the bank has the highest odds, and banks were nothing compared to the Rock. Tygett still shivered at the things Tywin ordered done yesterday, after the wolves and falcons had left. A strategy to execute if Rickard Stark really did deliver today at Riverrun.

And if it worked, if the alliance stood? Well, they’d have apex predators leading them, pride and pack united, with the finest flock their vanguard. Even a pit of snakes as their anvil was possible, though the odds on that were not yet final. The herd and the swarm did not have to be enemies either, though their reliability at least was still heavily suspect. They could make a good hammer, though. Good tools.

But that was all for later. For now, Tygett loosened his muscles behind the inn. Slow swings, fast swings, wide swings, short swings.

Repeat.

Today, Tygett would face off against his brother-in-arms from Bloodstone.

Repeat.

The rider had been sent, requesting a spar around noon.

Repeat.

A friendly spar, in the training yard.

Repeat.

Not so friendly elsewhere, Tygett knew that. Somewhere close, a proper fight would take place. Not with blades, not just deciding the fate of one man. No, a fight with words, deciding the fate of thousands. But Tygett’s friend knew none of that.

Repeat.

But it was not Tygett’s place to worry about that. Tygett was just a soldier. A cog. A tool.

Repeat.

Dawn broke. Tygett would train for another hour. As ever.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Tygett returned for a proper breakfast when he was done with his training, his brother and sister in their respective combat outfits at the table. Tywin more regal than their king, Genna more enticing than for her husband.

Tygett joined in silence, taking the bread and the stew offered. He’d had a little before warming up, but now Tygett felt famished. His cloth was drenched underneath his mail. Sweat and hunger, a good morning. The silence was comfortable between them as they ate.

Before noon struck, news came in from other camps. The wolf and the falcon had been seen visiting the Lannister camp at dusk. The krakens had visited the Northmen in the night, feasted at their tables until their hosts deigned to return.

Early today the eagles had been reunited north of the Tumblestone, and the mother bat had visited the new arrivals together with the young raven. The Reach had banded together, foxes making their dens between towers. Smaller lords dined with the fishes.

Tygett could smell it. Oh, the smell. Blood, iron, and bonds forged and broken. War, it smelled of war. They might call it other, they might name a different date, after it was over. But Tygett, soldier to the bone, smelled it and felt it tickle his marrow. The war had started already, and no beautiful clothes and dresses could hide that from his nose.

They left to arrive before noon. The Blackfish had agreed to the request for a spar. He was a friend to Tygett, though Tygett knew not for long. The betrayal would strike too deep. But Tygett’s commander had no need for friends, only tools. And a soldier was a tool. Another soldier could only be the second-best friend to Tygett. Tygett’s best friend was his blade. But regardless, Tywin made no distinction between Tygett’s first and second friend. To Tywin, all those were just tools.

The Northmen host was not far behind the Lannister host. Tygett could discern Rickard Stark at the front. The wolf’s look was startling, even as Tygett knew what to expect. The carefully groomed and waxed beard of yesterday looked wind-blown and salted. It could never look poor, or scraggly, but today it looked wild, savage. The finer clothes of yesterday, the carefully treated leather of good quality, had been replaced with a traveler’s gear that was well worn. And well fought in.

Rickard Stark looked a Northern savage that did not care a whiff for politics, or bootlicking, or the great game. He looked the way that Tygett had expected the Warden of the North to look like, before Tywin had shown Tygett Jaime’s letter. Rickard’s entire guard was not cloaked much different, only a mantle of rich wolf’s fur put Rickard Stark and his sons apart from the rest.

Aside Rickard, Jon Arryn and his heir looked the epitome of Andal knighthood, decked out in resplendent plate engraved with prayers and stars. Towering over their Northern companions on their destriers, their shields strapped to their backs, the only thing the two groups shared was a grim countenance. Neither looked happy, neither looked cunning, neither looked dangerous to a lord in a castle. Perfect, honorable fools, all of them.

Tygett passed the dry moat and the entrance to Riverrun behind his brother, Genna at Tygett’s side. Brynden Tully welcomed them at the entrance while his brother Hoster stood aside, waiting for the Northmen behind them. Tygett was perfectly fine with that arrangement, the younger Tully brother by far his favorite of the two.

Tywin, however, would not let this insolence stand. No, this was an insult. Hoster had done that before, but slights against Tyrion, while not forgiven, were understood. This? This was disrespect. Fool.

“Lord Tully. Thank you again cordially for the invitation to your daughter’s wedding. You must look forward to the joining of your House with one as noble as the Stark’s.”

Slight for slight. But Tygett knew his brother. The great lion, even behind his biting dry sarcasm for sarcasm’s sake, was amused. Amused expectation was a mood his brother seldom found himself in.

The Blackfish could not suppress a snort at Tywin’s words. Join a House as noble as the Stark’s. Up-jumped trouts, leaping from their river, belittled in their keep. One did not insult the lion, ever. Hoster Tully did not even spare them a glance as he answered Tywin, fixated on the looming shadow of the wolf crossing beneath the gate.

“Welcome, Lord Lannister, to my humble halls. Please, my brother has been looking forward to sparring with yours. Join them in the courtyard, would you not?”

The lords in attendance did not look comfortable. The slight tension between House Tully and House Lannister was known in the upper circles, people did just not expect the way both parties carried their slights.

Tywin did not even care to answer Hoster as he gave a sharp nod, but no Lannister moved an inch as the big bad wolf dismounted and stepped up to the lord of Riverrun.

“Bread. Salt.”

Bluntly spoken, eyes as ice. Tygett noted that the Northern accent of the wolf’s speech was more pronounced than yesterday when they had talked at the inn. Rickard Stark was not here to mince words and make merry, and all around knew it instantly.

Cold fury, untempered by days on the road, radiated out from the Lord Paramount of the North. Hoster Tully was not happy at the affront. The implication alone was insulting, but still, not too outlandish for a savage.

At Hoster’s gesture his daughter approached. Lady Catelyn was dressed impeccably, her hair carefully braided to highlight her auburn tresses. She was, Tygett knew and recognized once again, undoubtably, a true beauty.

Rickard Stark took both offerings and ate a little before passing the tokens of guest right on to Jon Arryn who had stepped up beside the Warden of the North. Only after Rickard had partaken in bread and salt did he show the girl before him a small smile. Rickard Stark even sounded kindly as he spoke, then.

“Lady Catelyn. It is a pleasure to see you once more. My son has been eager to meet you again. Brandon could speak of nothing but you since we left the capital, and of his regret to almost have lost you to his own foolishness.”

The girl’s face slowly took on the color of her hair. Still her voice did not waver as she answered, her eyes glistening as she shot an infatuated look at her betrothed who smiled at her as he dismounted.

“Thank you, father-in-law, you are most kind. I, too, have been counting the days. When I heard of my Brandon’s sister being abducted, my heart ached for him. Still, I am happy that he has returned. To me.”

Poor girl. The world was not kind to you, it never was to those like you, Tygett thought. The eldest pup walked over to the eldest trout fry and leaned down to exchange whispers, the girl giggling in return. Brandon Stark was a handsome and charming young man. The two young ones made for a beautiful pair, or would have made for one.

The wolf father smiled a fond smile as he looked at them. The eldest trout looked constipated, instead. Behind Rickard Stark, the true heir to the North helped the most beautiful woman from her horse, and Hoster Tully looked like he was about to explode. However, Rickard Stark seemed not to notice as he addressed his eldest.

“Brandon, son, why don’t you take your charming betrothed for a walk while us old men have a short talk?”

Brandon Stark smiled from ear to ear as he nodded and grasped for the maiden’s hand, pulling her along, and being pulled in turn. Catelyn Tully’s face was one of pure bliss. Knowing of the Wild Wolf, Tygett remained unsure how genuine Brandon Stark’s show of affection was. As soon as the pair was gone, Rickard turned to Hoster Tully, and the Stark’s scowl was back on.

Rickard did spare a short look for a servant, not contemptuous but harsh, and asked for a proper mug of ale to wash down the welcoming offerings. The servant scurried away in a hurry before quickly returning with a solid stein topped by foaming ale. When Rickard finally made to talk to Hoster again, contempt had crept into his tone.

“Lord Tully. It is time we talked without all your southern layers of deceit and lies. Where?”

“My solar.”

Tully spat out the words like ashes. Rickard almost walked past him into the keep, just as a squire approached to take his weapon. After all, guest right had been accepted. Lord Bracken sucked in a breath and the old weasel released a cackle as Rickard Stark refused to be parted from his blade. Hoster turned a shade of livid red as he spoke in a whisper that sounded like a shout.

“Stark. You are guest in my halls. Do you not trust my word? A poor showing, as we are to be family.”

The wolf barked out a laugh.

“Tully. I had uncles I did not trust, and they never betrayed me. You left me to ride after my son, your son-in-law to be, without support as promised in our marriage contract as you scorned me when I tried to protect my Brandon.

“You fucking cunt told: ‘Your fool of a whore mongering son is riding to his death. I’ll marry my Catelyn to your spare, instead. Young Eddard has not been promised yet, has he? ’

“I do not trust you, Hoster. I do not trust your word. The only reason I do not name you an oath breaker is that, taking a note from your book, I will follow our contract to the letter. Fool you, to put into writing what we in the North agree to with our word as our bond.

“You will rue the day you screamed after me that I was as dead as my Brandon, and my Ned would be more pliable if he tried to recover our ashes.”

Rickard Stark’s accent was slipping, his words becoming crisper and harsher and angrier as he spoke. The courtyard stood in silence. Vances, Brackens and Freys were silent, as were Darrys and others. They all watched the start of Hoster Tully’s end.

The absences were telling, too. Blackwood and Whent and Mallister. Their lordly allies would inform them of what happened here in Hoster’s halls, but that the Riverlords had not been there to stand with their liege to start with showed the Tully's position well enough. Ravens would fly, telling the realm.

And Rickard Stark had just started his tirade.

“Tully. You are lucky I have honor. You are right that I am your guest. So. Leave as many of my guards at your solar’s door as your own while we talk, and I shall leave Ice with my heir.”

With perfect timing Ned Stark stepped up to his father, the stunning woman in purple at his side. Star and sword. A Dayne. Ashara Dayne, looking up lovingly at the man whose arm she had taken.

The younger Stark did not even glance at Hoster Tully, a smile playing on his lips as he gazed at the vision by his side. Every step and every breath an insult. Rickard took a sip from his mug and Tygett almost imagined the old wolf tried to hide a smile.

“Agreed. Choose two of your guards and follow.”

Gnashing his teeth, Hoster did not wait for a reply as he turned. He did not wait to lead the wolf into his castle either, leaving the trembling servant who had brought Rickard’s ale to show the wolf in.

The moment Rickard Stark entered the keep proper, the entire courtyard seemed to release a breath long denied an escape. Then it was drowned in hushed whispers, none willing to talk aloud of what just had transpired.

Genna looked properly shocked and affronted, Tywin looked in control like always and Brynden… Brynden looked after his brother and Lord Stark with unmasked fury.

Genna, after visibly recovering her breath, made her way over to her father-in-law Walder Frey and his family. Tywin approached the Vances, engaging them about safety on the roads between Wayfarer’s Rest and the Tooth or something else. Tygett did not really care. He looked at Brynden, his friend. His friend who Tygett was about to betray.

“Brynden. Want to hit something?”

“Yes,” the Blackfish answered, closing his eyes for just a second. “Let’s go sparring, Tygett.”

The training yard was just through another gate to the side. The highest tower of Riverrun was overlooking it, even if the tower was not really all that tall. There already was a prestigious pair of lords exchanging pointers. Jason Mallister was sparring with Quellon Greyjoy.

The towering Ironborn was wielding a pair of battle axes lesser men would have to use two hands each for. The Lord of Seagard was armed with the standard attire of longsword and shield and was proving a deft hand at avoiding and parrying. Why two lords of such antagonistic holdings were sparring in the yard might be the explanation for the gaggle of spectators in the ranks.

Another pair to the side was made up of the youngest Whent brother born to Lord Walter and his wife training young Edmure in the use of bow and arrow. Lady Whent and her daughter were observing along with Lord Blackwood, whilst Jeffory Mallister stood to the side with some lads from the Houses Piper, Mooton, Cox, Vance, and Darry.

Almost all the important houses of the Riverlands were gathered in Riverrun’s training yard, in just a few boys. Brynden and Tygett took up an arming sword each. As the two started testing the other’s guard Brynden was already too furious to hold back any strength. Tygett obliged, knowing Brynden’s fury would only increase.

Low swipe. Back step. Parry. Stab. Charge. Shield. Metal on metal. Push. Swipe. Dodge. Strike. Parry. Back step. Their looked blades released, Tygett and Brynden measured each other, a wild smile to both their faces.

From the corner of his eyes Tygett could see Brandon Stark arriving at the yard with Catelyn Tully, his yet-betrothed, on his arm. According to Rickard, his former heir did not have a clue of what was going to happen here.

The lady Catelyn looked prim and proper, her hair still in place and decidedly unravished. That had been Tywin’s suggestion, leave Hoster no choice but to accept. Just… pluck the flower, Tywin had said.

Except that Rickard Stark did not want to be bound by the marriage after Lord Tully had betrayed it in spirit, if not in word. Still, a telling bruise was now forming on Brandon’s neck, just on the edge of his collar. Tygett almost felt sorry for the girl.

Tygett could spare the pair no more attention as his spar with with Brynden resumed. Short, vicious bouts and short breaks in between. It could not be long now.

Within five minutes into Tygett’s spar Tywin had made his way over to the gallery with both Lords Vance, and the Lady Smallwood as well. Genna, too, had arrived with an entourage of Freys. Somehow even a Hightower had joined the crowd at the balustrade. All was in place and Tygett, the soldier, the tactician, knew the time was now.

Glass shattered. Something had broken the window of the topmost room of Riverrun’s highest tower. The window of the solar. Glass shards fell onto the ground, and something else broke as it landed in the dirt.

It was a heavy mug that had broken the window, a rest of ale was wetting the sands of the training yard. From up above, screams in a harsh Northern voice could be heard coming from the now broken window.

“YOU FUCKING FISH. NOT TEN MINUTES PASSED SINCE YOU SAID TO TRUST YOU, AND NOW YOU PROVE YOURSELF AN OATH BREAKER IN WORD AS WELL. THE CONTRACT IS CLEAR. THE INK HAS DRIED, WE HAVE BOTH SIGNED IT. AS HAVE OUR WITNESSES, WITH COPIES FOR EACH. HOSTER TULLY AND RICKARD STARK AS SIGNATORIES, MAESTERS KYM AND WALYS AS OFFICIANTS, BRYNDEN TULLY AND MEDGER CERWYN AS WITNESSES. AS IT IS WRITTEN IT SHALL BE, YOU TAUGHT ME AND I HAVE LEARNED:

“‘WE HEREBY PLEDGE TO BIND OUR HOUSES IN MATRIMONY THROUGH THE UNION OF BRANDON STARK, ELDEST SON OF RICKARD STARK, AND CATELYN TULLY, ELDEST DAUGHTER OF HOSTER TULLY.’”

The yard was silent as a funeral. There was a short lull as it seemed that Hoster Tully seemed to answer, but forthwith the screams of Rickard Stark continued.

“AND NOW YOU INSULT ME AND MY SONS. FAMILY, DUTY, HONOR. YOUR WORDS, THAT I AM ABIDNG BY STILL, WHILE YOU OBVIOUSLY DON’T CARE ABOUT THEM. AS WRITTEN IN THE CONTRACT, YOUR DAUGHTER STILL IS TO HAVE LANDS HALF THE SIZE OF YOUR ENTIRE HOLDINGS TO HER NAME UNTIL THEY REVERT BACK TO HOUSE STARK UPON HER DEATH. AND THAT IS NOT SUFFICIENT TO YOU?

“I WILL NOT SIGN AWAY MY HEIR TO YOUR DAUGHTER WHEN YOUR HONOR IS OBVIOUSLY WORTH SHIT. MY NED IS CURRENTLY PURSUING ANOTHER BETROTHAL AND I AM NOT INCLINED TO NEGOTIATE WITH YOU. NEITHER SHOULD ANY OTHER LORD, SEEING HOW YOU OBVIOUSLY DON’T CARE FOR YOUR CHILDREN.”

The silence in the yard was now almost oppressive, though Tygett could see Catelyn Tully standing to the side in silent shock, tears streaming from her eyes. Brandon Stark beside her almost mirrored her expression. The boy might have faked his affection, Tygett would never be sure, but he did not fake his empathy just then.

That, and only that, seemed to be the only thing that stayed Brynden Tully’s hand from cutting Brandon Stark down. Instead, Brynden once more directed a look filled with the promise of murder towards the window above them. The screaming picked up again.

“I KNOW MY ELDEST SON IS NO SAINT, BUT YOU CAN FORGET FOISTING YOUR YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OFF ON HIM IN EXCHANGE FOR THE OTHER. THE CONTRACT IS CLEAR, THOUGH I PITY THE YOUNG GIRL YOU TRICKED TO DRINK MOON TEA THAT LATE IN HER PREGNANCY! THE WHOLE RIVERLANDS WHISPERS OF HOW YOU SAVAGELY KILLED LYSA TULLY'S CHILD WITHOUT A CARE FOR YOUR YOUNGEST DAUGHTER'S LIFE!”

There was a silence in the courtyard so deafening in the wake of that last sentence that the Tumblestone sounded loud enough to flood the world.

“THAT’S WHY SHE DID NOT GREET US WHEN WE ENTERED YOUR KEEP, ISN’T IT, HOSTER? STILL BOUND TO THE BED FROM THE TIME YOU ALMOST MURDERED HER. TELL ME, DID YOU ALSO CONVICE MAESTER KYM TO BREAK HIS SALUTARY OATH; OR DID YOU BUY THE HERBS FROM A WOOD’S WITCH YOURSELF WHEN HE WOULDN’T?”

The silence was broken now by Catelyn Tully’s deep sobs. Brandon, her kind-of-still-betrothed, awkwardly tried to console her; but what could anyone say hearing such tragedy? Edmure Tully had long abandoned his bow and arrows, coming over to seek Brynden’s embrace while tremors rocked the boy’s body. The screams started again, but this time the voice of Hoster Tully rose.

“YOU FUCKING NORTHERN SAVAGE! I RUE THE DAY YOU FIRST APPEARED ON MY DOOR AND SOUGHT TO TAKE MY DAUGHTER FOR YOUR SON. NO MORE OF THIS, THE BETROTHAL IS BROKEN! I WILL NOT SUFFER YOU IN MY HALLS ANY LONGER, STARK. LEAVE! YOU ARE NO LONGER WELCOME HERE. KING SCAB SHOULD HAVE BURNED YOU AND YOUR MISBEGOTTEN SPAWN!”

Rickard Stark did not take that lying down. A last few screamed sentences in an angry Northern drawl rang out.

“MISBEGOTTEN SPAWN? MY LINEAGE STRETCHES BACK 8.000 YEARS; UNBROKEN FROM ONE OF THE MIGHTIEST DYNASTIES OF ROYALTY IN WESTEROS! ON THE OTHER HAND, YOUR ENTIRE HOUSE OWES ITS RISE OVER YOUR BETTERS IN THE RIVERLANDS THANKS TO THE KINGS SITTING ABOVE US! KINGS YOU SO READILY INSULT.

“AND TO THINK THAT I EVEN ARRANGED FOR THE SUPPOSED SISTER-IN-LAW OF MY SON, YOUR DAUGHTER LYSA, TO BE CALLED TO COURT AS A LADY-IN-WAITING TO PRINCESS ELIA. AWAY FROM THE RIVERLANDS, WHERE EVERY INNKEEPER’S DAUGHTER TELLS OF HER SHAME!

“CAN SHE EVEN BEGET CHILDREN STILL, NOW THAT YOU HAVE RUINED HER WOMB? I PITY YOUR CHILDREN, TULLY, BUT I CAN ONLY SAY I AM THANKFUL YOU ARE SUCH AN HONORLESS CUR! NOW THAT YOU BROKE THIS BETROTHAL, AT LEAST MY SON DOES NOT HAVE TO SUFFER YOU AS HIS FATHER-IN-LAW.

“I MAY HAVE TO BREAK BRANDON’S HEART, BUT I CARE FOR THE HAPPINESS, LIFE AND HEALTH OF MY CHILD, IN DIFFERENCE TO YOU. I’D FEAR FOR ALL OF THAT IF YOU WERE HIS FATHER-IN-LAW, SEEING WHAT YOU DO TO EVEN YOUR OWN CHILDREN.

“DON’T BOTHER SHOWING ME OUT, TULLY, I AM HAPPY FOR EVERY SECOND LONGER THAT YOU ARE OUT OF MY SIGHT. AND MAY YOU CHOKE ON YOUR DAMN PRIDE.”

The sound of a heavy door slamming into its frame resounded, shortly before a sobbing Catelyn Tully ripped herself from the embrace of her former betrothed and ran towards her uncle. Brandon Stark almost followed her, perturbed, but stopped in his tracks after exchanging a look with the Blackfish.

Brynden Tully did not look even angry with the eldest Stark son, merely agonized for his nieces, and so very hurting. Brynden almost seemed thankful that Brandon stayed back, then.

Shella Whent rushed past Brandon Stark, enveloping her cousin Minisa’s daughter in the hug of a mother, and cradling Catelyn at her breast. The eldest Tully child seemed between catatonia and hysteria as she asked for her sister, her betrothed, her mother, her uncle and for all the reasons why, all in clipped sentences between cries of anguish.

Catelyn Tully asked for explanations, for comfort and for help. Never, though, did she ask for her father. Only sometimes did the words ‘Lord Tully’ leave her lips amongst her sobs.

The majority of the court was still deathly silent. But not all; Tygett could hear Quellon Greyjoy laughing in a deep, low chuckle. His opponent Lord Mallister, while looking sympathetic instead of amused, did not seem shocked. Shella Whent pulled a veil from somewhere in her sleeve to cover poor Catelyn, an unusual thing to carry around with you randomly.

And Tywin? Tywin wore the same smile he had worn when Tarbeck Hall had crashed down on the whore Ellys and her youngest get. Tygett had to suppress a shudder. Still the rumble of the Tumblestone was echoing in Tygett’s ear. Or was it the dead echo of that unnamed stream coming back to him, flowing through the mines?

Brynden excused himself and his family from all in attendance. Tygett, standing close to the Tullys as he was, heard Shella Whent saying she would take them all to Lysa and, if necessary, away from Riverrun afterwards.

A furious looking Lord Stark stepped into the trainings yard, then, stopping dead in his tracks as he beheld the scene in front of him. Rickard Stark even managed to look sheepish and almost plagued by a little guilt as the Tullys strode past him. The Blackfish had to throw away his arming sword, probably to prevent any urges that could have overcome him.

The Stark lord collected his sons and entourage, keeping a quiet and very much shocked Brandon close at hand while young Eddard and Lady Dayne shot looks of pity after the Tully family. And then the Northmen were simply gone, leaving the paramountcy of the Riverlands bereft of the most valuable commodity of all.

Trust.

Chapter Text

They had left Riverrun in a hurry, his father leading their procession. Brandon was still processing what had happened back there, at the training yard of the Tully castle with his betrothed Catelyn. Former betrothed. The appellation left Brandon morose where it would have made him ecstatic not a moon past. But then, nothing ever was quite like a moon past.

The whole trip from King’s Landing Brandon had been trying to come to terms with his new position, his new fate. Brandon had never disliked Catelyn Tully, at least after he had met her the first time. She was an awfully boring woman, but then again, awfully exciting woman could rarely hope to be betrothed to the heir of a high lord. Or, in general, pass as dutiful southron noble ladies. No, Brandon preferred a wild Northern lass any day to sate the wolf in his blood.

Brandon felt his thoughts drifting again, back to those blessed days with Barbrey. They did what they wanted together, and they enjoyed doing it together. Riding and hunting, crossing the wide wild plains, chasing the sun. Barbrey was a better archer than Brandon himself, and she was a vision with a bow on horseback. And the sex! Barbrey had enjoyed fucking, too, once she had been initiated.

Then, when Brandon had first stood in his father’s solar to ask for the right to wed Barbrey, before Brandon could even speak, Lord Rickard Stark had given the death knell to Brandon’s foolish dream. My son, I have arranged a betrothal for you with the eldest daughter of Hoster Tully of Riverrun.

Brandon had run. Run from his father, run from this unknown intruder threatening Brandon’s happiness, run from his own powerlessness. And oh, how Brandon had hated her. Catelyn Tully. Brandon had tried to sway his father, at first. But when Brandon’s plea had been denied, his hate for Catelyn Tully grew. Brandon had held his Barbrey as she cried, and his hatred grew. Brandon had traded letters with Catelyn, proper and courteous and noble, and his hatred grew.

And then Brandon had met Catelyn, and she was just so... Happy. Kind. Nice. And Brandon’s hatred withered.

But Catelyn was not Barbrey. And Brandon hated that, even as he did not hate Catelyn anymore. He simply could not love her.

In those early days of his betrothal when Brandon was still hopeful, he did not bed another beside Barbrey. When Brandon still had hope. And then Barbrey’s father had started looking to betroth his Barbrey, Brandon’s Barbrey, to someone else. Anyone else, because Barbrey was sullied goods.

Then, there, Brandon did not know what to do. Brandon only knew he was hurting. And the only one Brandon could blame was himself. Himself, and Barbrey’s father. Lord Ragnar Ryswell forbade Barbrey and Brandon from meeting, to not jeopardize Barbrey’s chance for a good marriage even more.

They continued meeting in secret, of course. But after a time, Lord Ryswell caught on, and set about making clandestine meetings for Brandon and Barbrey impossible. Barbrey’s father finally managed to separate the two by keeping Barbrey under constant guard and giving her a permanent armed escort. And all Brandon wanted to do was spite Ragnar Ryswell.

Barbrey was lost to Brandon, and Catelyn was boring him endlessly, despite being happy and kind and nice. And when Brandon was bored, and when Brandon was calm, and when Brandon was comfortable, he thought of Barbrey.

Barbrey, who was probably bored and calm and comfortable herself. Barbrey, who was probably betrothed already. Barbrey, who maybe also sought comfort in the arms of another.

Drinks helped; Brandon had found out. Fighting, too. But most of all, women helped. Nobles, commons, bastards, and whores. Brandon did not have to think with a woman in his arms. Just do. No thoughts of Barbrey. The Wild Wolf, as everyone knew Brandon now, had been born.

It had almost been a haze, Brandon recognized after. A long hazy dream since Barbrey had been lost to him. Like being thrown into the Long Lake in an ice hole, Brandon had woken up with a start on the way back from the capital.

Brandon had almost caused his own death. His friends’ death. His father’s death. Brandon had been, as his father had shown him, callous.

“What has gotten you brooding in such a somber mood, brother? That does not fit you, Brandon. You’re not me.”

Ned rode up to Brandon’s side. His little brother had been different when they had met again, after years at the Eyrie. Brandon still remembered stealing a march on Ned to get a dance for the Quiet Wolf with Ashara Dayne first. To snatch the Dornish lady after, when Ned had inevitably failed at keeping her attention. Shy, Brandon had described Ned as.

Brandon had lied back then. Ned had not been shy. Quiet, yes, withdrawn, yes, but shy? No, Ned had a confidence to him that he kept to himself, that did not need the validation of others. It was something that took Brandon time to realize.

However, that quiet confidence made Ned popular with anyone that took the effort to get to know him. A pool of calm wherever he went. In balance with himself. And then Ned had gotten the girl he wanted. Some people had just their life handed to them.

“I’m just. I do not know, Ned. I had come to terms that this would be my life. Married to Catelyn. Probably banished from Winterfell when you took over, tending to my wife’s lands in the North. And I have recognized that not so long ago, my future looked bleaker than that.”

Brandon would have liked to be left alone with that, but Ned did not grant him even that.

“Brandon, for what it’s worth, I never wanted to rule the North after father. Shara and I, we wanted to see the world together. The Wall to Dorne, then up the western coast of Essos. Afterwards, a restored keep, maybe. A family. The last part, family, that is what remains of our dream. And you are part of that family, Brandon. Despite all.

“I do not want to banish you from Winterfell. Ashara will never love you, true, but you will have a place at my hearth, Brandon. Just don’t…

“I want the brother back that I left behind when I left for the Vale. The one that played the monster when I protected maiden Lya. Not the monster that plays a human I met at Harrenhal.”

It was hard to stay mad at Ned when he was so earnest and reasonable. Of course, Brandon’s anger did not just dissipate. It just lacked any purpose, then. There was not much anyone could say against those words.

“Aye. I’d like that.”

Brandon could not believe how soft his voice had gotten. Heir, that had not just been Brandon’s calling. It had been his dream. Lord of Winterfell, with Barbrey at his side. His dream. Not Ned’s.

“Speaking of family”, Ned started up again, “Ashara is going to be your sister-in-law.”

Ned was silent after that declaration, hard and unforgiving. Brandon reeled at the news.

“Father agreed to that?” Brandon could not keep the anger out of his voice entirely. And though Brandon’s ire was with their father, Ned seemed to take it personally. “Yes, Brandon. Or what is it? Do you think Ashara is not a worthy wife to the heir of Winterfell? Because then I might regret curbing her enthusiasm when we were writing your confession. You are not using the most vicious version yet, did you know?”

Brandon had to wince at that. The confession was terrible for Brandon already. Especially seeing that wherever they rode, people seemed to really enjoy hearing it. Brandon definitely did not want Ashara Dayne to get even more explicit with the wording. Ned tried to turn his horse away and ride off at that, but Brandon was quick to interject.

“Wait, Ned! I am not-. I am not angry that you and Ashara are getting married. It is just. I once asked father to marry the woman I loved. Love. He… did not allow my request.”

Honestly, that was rather large an understatement of Rickard Stark’s denial to Brandon’s plea. Ned halted at Brandon’s words, though. There was a flash of pity on Ned’s face, and Brandon knew that father had told Ned. That hurt.

But at least Ned did not leave. And Brandon had been wanting to talk with Ned, alone. But until now Brandon’s brother had not cared much for Brandon’s company. And Brandon could understand that, still… Better to talk of something aside from Ashara, first.

“It’s just, the Daynes are not the largest house. And Dorne is far, Ned. I am happy for you, Ned. Or, at least I try to be, truly. It is just, I had figured you to be slated for the daughter of a more influential family. I thought maybe for Cersei Lannister; you guys did enter the Lannister camp yesterday when we got here, after all.”

There was another look to Ned at the mention of Cersei Lannister, but Brandon was not sure how to read it. There was pity mixed in, though it was not directed at Brandon this time. The look was gone fast enough as Ned’s eyes returned to ponds of silver before he answered.

“No, Brandon, I am not going to marry Cersei. In fact, Ashara and I sent the raven for Starfall from Riverrun today, with father’s blessing. We took some letters from the rookery, too. A few lords sent their correspondence to father there, from all over the realm, actually.

“We just came down the tower when we saw the spar between Lord Tygett and the Blackfish at the training yard, so we went to saddle our horses.”

Wait. Brandon stilled at that. Something did not fit. Went to saddle our horses. The timing did not match. Why did they saddle the horses when the spar was still -. Oh.

“How did you know?”

Ned turned towards Brandon to find his brother’s eyes burning into Ned’s skull. It must have been the voice that caught Ned’s attention, low and tense. Ned stayed silent for a second; not questioning what Brandon was talking about.

“Brother”, Ned finally replied after an eternal second, “Hoster had all but condemned you to death in King’s Landing. Father faced Aerys for you. Did you really honestly believe Father would saddle you with Hoster Tully as your father-in-law?”

“You know, “Brandon’s voice did not rise above a whisper as he spoke, “I think I could have come to like her. You have not seen her when it happened, when she cried over our broken betrothal. Over her broken sister. Over her broken family. Catelyn Tully would have made a great addition to the family. I think she’d been a good mother to my children.”

“I agree. Just not a useful family addition for father. For what it is worth, I pity all the Tullys but Hoster.”

Useful? Useful?! Brandon remembered, then. What can your marriage to Barbrey offer me, offer us? And Brandon grew angry. Not in the usual way, no, this was not a hot rage. This was a cold fury. But cold or hot, anger demanded an outlet.

“Well,” Brandon drawled, knowing the words to come to be a mistake, yet uncaring, “I am awfully glad then, that beside you father also managed to find use in lovely Ashara.”

“I see talking to you has been foolish idea, brother. I’d rather we did not speak again too soon, Brandon”, Ned said, his voice steel and his tone venom, “I should have listened to my beloved betrothed.”

And Brandon’s brother left with that last sting. But Brandon did not mind the scorn. No. The cold anger helped Brandon focus as he silently went through the event at Riverrun once more. Lived the event once more.

It all made such perfect sense. Why then, did Brandon feel so empty? Brandon did not love Catelyn Tully; Brandon did not even particularly like her. Did he feel responsible for her plight? Was it guilt? Brandon did not know the answers, so silent he remained.

Not even a mile away from the gates of Riverrun did Brandon approach his father. Solitary at the helm, Rickard Stark looked almost serene. The tense expression and scrunch of his shoulders present at Riverrun had not left a single trace on Brandon’s father. Rickard Stark had returned to his usual effortless noble bearing.

It had not entirely clicked until then. Despite Ned telling him so, despite the fact that Brandon should have expected something like this from his father, that this had been a ploy. Rickard Stark always did get what he wanted, just as Brandon had seen this past moon. Today was no different. But now Brandon knew it to be truth.

“You goaded Tully to break the betrothal.”

It was not a question. Brandon did not ask as he spoke. It was a statement, an accusation.

“You lied to me.”

Father had lied to him. Lied to Brandon since they left the capital, since Brandon’s world had fallen apart piece by piece.

“Yes, son. Your reaction needed to be genuine.”

The utter calm in father’s voice almost extinguished any fury Brandon felt. As if it did not matter.

“But why?”

And Brandon hated that he almost sounded desperate.

“Because for the lords’ opinion to fall entirely in our favor and for them to continue to underestimate us as uncouth Northern savages, we needed to be caught off guard when Hoster put his ambition above his honor and broke your betrothal in a manner that was both public and incredibly detrimental to his reputation.”

Which sounded great on paper, but a meeting in the private quarters was hardly public. Brandon saw the dots, saw the line, but for confirmation…

“But you talked in the privacy of Hoster Tully’s solar, until – “

“Until I shattered the window to the training yard below with the next best object on hand and screamed at Hoster for all the lords in attendance to hear me. Lords in attendance that I had all orchestrated to be at the right place at the right time to listen to the beginning of Hoster’s end.

“I set up Quellon Greyjoy to spar with Jason Mallister, and Jeffory Mallister to bring all the attending heirs to the yard. I asked Lady Whent in the morning to have her son train his cousin Edmure, and to bring to the gallery all the ladies Lady Whent and her daughter Linia could gather. I asked Tygett Lannister to spar with the Blackfish to draw even more a crowd, and I asked Tygett’s siblings to bring all important Riverlords to the yard within ten minutes of our arrival.”

“… and then Ned and Ashara came and informed Catelyn and me that Catelyn’s uncle was sparring with the field commander of the Lannisters, knowing I would immediately want to see it. I did not even think about it when the two of them left to somewhere else.”

“Yes, Brandon, Ned did help me a lot these last few days. I would have liked it if that could have been you. Maybe in another life it could have been. But then again, maybe in another life I would have burned trying to save you while you suffocated trying to save me. But there are no what ifs.”

At that, Brandon felt lost. Brandon was coming to terms with what he was not anymore, heir, betrothed, popular; however, Brandon did not know what he was supposed to be instead.

“What is to become of me now, father?”

Rickard Stark looked at Brandon, truly looked at him. Contemplative, yes, but not resigned.

“I don’t yet know for certain, Brandon. Lady Whent offered her daughter’s hand for you earlier today. As well as her own hand in marriage to me, I might add. I declined, but I expect her to visit later today. If she is smart, she will not show too much anger. The Riverlands will burn, a useful alliance here would be advantageous. She will probably try to press her suit again.

“However, the Lady Whent implied she could easily do away with her husband if I took her as a bride, and I do not intend to let such a blood sucking bat into our castle. Few lords that cherish their daughters will offer them as your reputation spreads. I’d be cautious of those that do.”

His father’s words that followed almost stopped Brandon’s heart.

“If your Barbrey was still looking to take you, I might not object, but her father Lord Ryswell will not be as eager anymore, now that you’re disinherited. And you know she has been betrothed to the heir of Lord Dustin, interfering too much in such private affairs carries risks for a liege lord.

“However, I have been looking for a way to punish both the Dustins and the Ryswells for their failures in raising you. On the other hand, any legitimate children you may have can someday pose a threat to Ned’s own children. Especially if you have a Northern bride from a family as ambitious as the Ryswells.

“The whole situation would also antagonize two important bannermen where so far only one has been wroth with us. Lord Dustin’s failures in regard to you should be addressed separately anyways, and concessions will smooth relations over at a minimal cost. And without the Dustins firm backing Lord Ryswell will be more afraid of my ire than I am of his. Even Ragnar’s new alliance with the Boltons will not suffice in that regard.”

It was a bitter pill to swallow. The truth hurt. Brandon would prefer to prevent that future from happening. The North did have its own tales of succession crises. Cregan’s sons. The Greystarks. Sygerrik Serpenttongue. Brandon did not want to be the cause for more strife for House Stark. In the end Brandon saw only one solution, though he was loath to speak it.

“Father. I can take the black. Send me to the Wall.”

Rickard looked at Brandon incredibly conflicted. Emotions warred in his eyes before Rickard spoke again.

“I cannot”, Rickard said, his voice almost broken.

“But why?”, Brandon said, in turn suppressing a shout. Brandon had offered the biggest sacrifice he could think of just then.

Rickard Stark looked out over the road before he spoke, but his eyes did not return towards his eldest.

“When we met Ned at Darry, he sat me down the first dusk and pleaded me not to send you to the Wall. I was not going to, but he could not know that. I had told him before about the plans I had made for Hoster, he knew he would never have to take your place and marry Catelyn Tully. Still, your brother came to me, despite what you did to him, Brandon.

“When I ask for the reason why, Ned proved to me that he would be a better Lord of Winterfell than you ever could. I am not saying this to make you angry, Brandon. But tell me, do you remember what your excuse was for your foolhardiness in storming the capital?”

“I said I wanted to protect the pact”, Brandon all but whispered as he spoke. “What did Ned say? Did he ask because I was pack? To look after me, to safe me from the indignity of serving with rapists and murderers?”

His father once more looked at Brandon, a sliver of disappointment again shining in his eyes. It still hurt.

“No. Ned spoke of Benjen. Your youngest brother will now have to marry. We will need the extra alliance in the war to come. You crushed Benjen’s dream of joining the honorable order of the Night’s Watch.

“Brandon, I cannot punish you by giving you the one thing Benjen yearns for and in turn take the Wall away from Benjen at the same time. All those changes because of your folly. Eddard saw that. I hoped you would have seen it, too.”

With those words Brandon’s father spurred his horse on and left Brandon behind in thought. In that moment Brandon realized that he did not know his brother Eddard. The dutiful one, when they were young. The caring one. The quiet one. All those traits still applied to Ned, even as the last one had come to define him in the eyes of Westeros. Eddard Stark, the Quiet Wolf.

Ned was not just quiet, even if that was the first thing everyone could agree on after meeting him. The realm was quiet about Ned, too. Brandon tried to look at Ned as if he had not grown up beside him for eight years when they were children, to compare his own and Ned’s reputation in the eyes of others.

The Wild Wolf, him. Vivacious, charming, unrestrained, and easy to befriend. Never shy, not prone to wait. Emotions so overflowing that Brandon burst into bouts of fighting or fucking, whatever he desired. People flocked to him. Men befriended him. Women desired him.

Over the ride Brandon had had plenty of time to analyze his own behavior a little. After he had asked his friends what they thought. His former friends. They surprised him, Ethan even opening up to Brandon a little again, as did Kyle.

And they agreed with Brandon’s assessment of himself. But then they added to it, and Brandon could not refute. He was whimsical. Egoistic. Volatile. Lacking restraint and easily manipulated. Cruel at times when he did not need to, like a child that did not get what he wants. The last one had been supplied by Ashara.

His brother had only allowed Brandon to talk with her after Ned had stripped Brandon of all weapons and sat himself to sharpen his own blade behind Brandon. Then, Brandon had tried to apologize, but the Dornishwoman had only laughed and told Brandon to return only when he actually realized what he had done wrong. That had stung.

Brandon’s brother, though, Eddard was a mystery in comparison to Brandon. All that people knew of Ned was that he was quiet. And, apparently, a great poet. The last was a recent addition to Ned’s reputation. Little was known about Eddard Stark elsewise. Foster-son of Jon Arryn, foster-brother and best friend of Robert Baratheon. Fighting prowess unknown. Cunning and honor unknown. Politics and strategies a mystery.

Oh, Eddard had kept in touch with letters from the Eyrie, but despite a certain eloquence to his writing, most of Ned’s letters had been filled with anecdotes of how Robert got the two of them in trouble, and about how Ned had to take the reins to mitigate the disaster that inevitably followed.

Brandon decided he would have a drink with his brother and get to know Ned again; today. Despite their last separation. Maybe Brandon could even set a few things right again.

So, that is what Brandon did. Around noon their entire party had relocated to an inn maybe ten to fifteen miles out from Riverrun and occupied the whole building. The topmost floor was reserved for the nobles in their host, and there were not enough rooms in the whole inn for the men at arms, but it was a vast improvement over the usual camps they spent their nights in on the road.

Standing before his brother’s door Brandon sharply knocked and called out to Ned:

“Ned, it’s Brandon. Can we talk for a little?”

There was a short bout of silence before an answer came.

“I do not want to talk with you right now, Brandon.”

Despite expecting Ned’s answer in light of the way they had last parted; Brandon could not help the small emotional sting he felt at the words. At the dispassionate way Ned said them. However, Brandon knew that he and Ned needed to talk again, to reconnect. Taking heart Brandon reached for the doorknob and started to repeat his intention, first by apologizing.

“Ned, I am sorry for the words I said earlier, but I would like to -.”

Ashara sat straddling Ned on the divan in an almost transparent shift. Brandon should not have opened that door, he realized in that moment. Ned’s fingers hovered over the silk on Ashara’s thighs, but his eyes were on Brandon and Ned’s stare was murderous. Brandon could see Ashara’s back tremble. Brandon felt as frozen in the doorstep as he saw Ned take a cape off Ned’s chair and throw it over Ashara to shield the woman view.

“Close. The fucking. Door!”

Brandon snapped out of his trance, snapping the door shut immediately. However, Ned seemed not an ounce happier.

“Why are you still in my room, Brandon?”

Oh. Right. That was why. Of course, Ned had wanted Brandon to close the door behind him as he left.

“Wait”, Brandon heard Ned say behind himself as Brandon made to exit. Turning around Brandon still only saw Ashara’s back, though it was now cloaked, and a furious Ned. Ashara had pressed her head into the crook of Ned’s neck and apparently whispered something to her lover,

“Sit”, Ned commanded Brandon, and like before Ned’s tone brooked no argument. So, Brandon complied. Brandon felt really uncomfortable, but Brandon complied. Brandon sat himself on a small stool at a side table positioned on the wall right next to the door. Neither Ned nor Ashara moved from their place by even a fraction of an inch.

Silence filled the space between the two Stark brothers. Ned was still looking straight at Brandon, Ned’s stare hard and unforgiving. Brandon, on the other hand, did his best to look anywhere but at Ned, and Ashara on his lap.

After Brandon’s eyes had roamed the emptiness for a second, they focused on a pitcher of wine not an arm’s length from the side table. Swiftly taking the carafe and the cup beside it, Brandon poured himself a cup and drank deep. Ugh. Sour Dornish red.

“You barged in here to talk to me, Brandon”, Ned said suddenly, drawing Brandon’s attention back towards Ned, and Ashara on Ned’s lap, “so. Talk.”

Brandon took a second sip – it was actually a rather large gulp of wine – to regard the couple in front of him, and he could not find any words to talk. So they sat there: Brandon looking anywhere but at the couple. Ned looking at Brandon with eyes screaming bloody murder. Ashara ignoring everything but Ned. Brandon had never felt as uncomfortable.

“Brandon. Shara might be happy to ignore your existence entirely right now, but I do care that you barged into here. You better get to the point you came here for, instead of simply staring holes into the air. There is stuff I want to do right now that I would really prefer privacy for.”

It was not that Brandon did not understand where Ned was coming from, but that did not change anything about the discomfort Brandon was feeling right then. How had Brandon been supposed to know not to enter? It is not like it was his fault, now, was it? Brandon did ultimately look back at Ned to talk, but once again the sight kept Brandon silent.

Ashara lay nestled into Ned’s arms, looking almost like a cat nestled into an especially comfortable and scratchy rock in the sun. Though, staying with that metaphor, Ned was more of a rock with hands. A rock with hands on Ashara’s ass.

Despite his expressed wish for privacy Ned did not seem willing to stop touching Ashara. Content with the shadow of a purr on her lips, Ashara pushed herself off Ned’s chest a little before she started undoing the bindings on Ned’s doublet. It was true, Ashara simply acted as if Brandon did not even exist.

Ned, on the other hand. Ned was getting handsier and handsier with the ass of his lady love, all the while Ned’s eyes remained extremely cold and trained on Brandon. Right there, right then, Brandon had a moment of epiphany, in a way.

Brandon realized that this conversation was very unlikely to progress in a civil manner. This would not be a talk to bridge gaps with Ned. But Brandon thought there would never be a better chance to open old wounds again, so they could heal properly this time. Brandon hoped they would. Ultimately Brandon simply cleared his throat, then spoke.

“Ned. We have not really talked eye to eye since before you left to the Eyrie, now more than eight years ago. Even at Harrenhal, both of us kept little company with each other. You were always staying either with your friends from the Vale, Lya and Ben or Northmen that were not in my circle of friends. Or, well –“

Gods, this was awkward. Brandon did not know how to finish, so he simply raised his goblet in Ashara’s direction. Quickly after, Brandon continued.

“Let’s get to know each other again, Ned. Talk to me. With me. You said you missed your older brother. I talked with father today and I-”, Brandon paused, unsure of the right way to say what his father had laid bare in Brandon, “I have recognized I am missing who I used to be as well.”

“Alright, brother”, Ned replied, and Brandon’s bated breath escaped in relief, “let us talk. I have a nice topic. Our sister.”

Well.

Shit.

Brandon’s face must have fallen, for a sneer crossed Ned’s face for a second before Ashara grabbed his jaw with both hands and kissed Ned with a fervor that seemed to draw a deep growl out of his lungs. The kiss held on until both released each other’s tongue out of breath, panting. Ned’s eyes had shortly turned to pools of liquid silver, possessive and hungry. Brandon was quiet sure Ned had forgotten his presence in that moment as well.

That reprieve did not last long. Still breathing with a rasp, Ashara turned to nuzzle Ned’s neck, pressing hickeys onto his exposed skin wandering down towards his chest. As Ned’s eyes fell onto Brandon they turned hard once more. Brandon could not help thinking that maybe Ashara was not really ignoring him, but maybe using this torture as a way to get back at him.

For multiple reasons now Brandon was glad the pitcher in front of him held enough wine. This did not look to be a nice talk. That proved true as soon as Brandon’s brother started talking in earnest.

“You know, Brandon, for all the politics involved, I don’t care whether or not you marry Catelyn. You never really cared for her, after all. Or about her. Robert, however, cares about Lya. But you, Brandon, were her most vocal supporter in opposing both father and me in the matter, without ever bothering to listen to us. Was all that a petty protest, just to get back at father for your own betrothal? Or do you actually have any reasons against Robert marrying our sister?”

Brandon almost recoiled at that, but deep inside he asked himself if there was not a kernel of truth to that accusation. On the other hand, Brandon was sure he had valid reasons Robert was unsuitable for their Lya.

Could Ned really not see Robert for what he was? Good company, sure, but the whole realm knew of the Stormlord’s penchant for whores. His bastard daughter was no secret; Robert was even known to visit the mother still. How could Ned ever consider such a man to be good enough for their sister?

At that though Brandon felt it again, the familiar sensation of his blood pumping hotly. No. This was not the time for anger. Brandon spoke with a forced calm, but calm none the less.

“You asked for it, Ned. I mean, Lyanna threw it in your face often enough, we all heard it as well. Robert is simply not good enough for her. A bastard daughter? A renowned whoremonger? An irresponsible lordling? What else do you want to saddle Lya with?

“And do you honestly believe Robert will ever stay true to her? To only Lya? No, Robert will smother our Lya in southern silks in his southern castle surrounded by southern ladies; Robert will smother everything about Lya that makes her Lya while he rides off gallivanting with whores. Or do you honestly intend to tell me Robert will take Lya hunting, fight with her and love her like she deserves?”

Whatever Brandon expected in response from Ned - anger, quiet condemnation, a lack of understanding – Brandon had not for a moment considered Ned would simply laugh at him. Still a quiet laughter, like all Ned did, but chuckle he did.

“‘Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature.’”

Ned’s chuckle had ebbed and hollowed before he muttered that sentence, not without a trace of scorn.

“That is what Lyanna always said about Robert when she brushed me off, Brandon. She never wanted to talk about Robert. And some of what you said rings true, Brandon. Robert is a whoremonger that beds all the legs on sale he can find, and he has a bastard daughter. The whole realm knows that about Robert.”

There was something dark to Ned when he paused at that, and the words that followed seemed bitter as they left Ned’s mouth.

“However, Brandon. Is your reputation not much the same as Robert’s? Worse, even, because Robert never tried to force anyone. Earlier you said you could have come to like Catelyn. That she would make a great addition to the family. A good mother. That is all wonderful and nice and oh so wholesome coming from you. But tell me truly, Brandon, would any of those reasons have made you stay true to Catelyn?”

Brandon did not answer. He did not have to. The accusation burned, like hard truths often did. Ned and Brandon both knew Brandon would not have kept to only Catelyn’s bed. But Ned did not even seem to expect an answer from Brandon, or even a retort. No, Ned simply talked on.

“I told Lya that Robert is a good man who can come to love her with all his heart. That he will love their children. You should see Robert with his little girl, Brandon. Yes, he visits Mya and her mother. And I come along on those visits; did you know that? Father knows of this. Officially, I come along as a chaperone for Robert.”

There was a trace of mirth to Ned’s face at those words, but his face slightly warped as Ashara traced one of her fingers from Ned’s collarbone to down to his belt. Ashara’s fingernail was lightly scratching the surface of his skin, leaving a white line but drawing no blood. As Ned directed a smoldering gaze at his lover, he captured her wrist with his hand, but Ashara only returned a teasing smirk.

Ashara once more leaned in to claim Ned’s lips; but before she reached his face Ned had grabbed her by the hips and turned her around on his knees, half-lifting her. As the lady chortled throatily with abandon, Ned gently bit her ear while drawing his cape to cover Ashara’s front, one eye trained on Brandon.

Under the cover of the coat Brandon saw Ned’s hands roaming Ashara’s body. The left hand was drawing up to Ashara’s tits, the other… Ashara threw her head back in an almost guttural moan and Brandon had to avert his eyes. Ned did not miss a thing, and while his hands did not stop, both his eyes now focused on Brandon. Almost seamlessly Ned talked on, then.

“Of course, the chaperone duty was a flimsy excuse. What I actually most wanted to see was how Robert would treat his daughter, and her mother. And you would not believe it, Brandon, but Robert is a fool in love with the little darling, always throwing Mya into the air for hours because she loves to fly and cannot stop giggling then.

“As for the bastard’s mother, well, Robert now treats her more like a friend than a lover. It was never love or desire with Doris. Robert’s parents had just died in front of him three weeks before Mya was conceived. What Robert found in Doris arms was merely… comfort.

“After Robert had learnt to live with his grief, and Doris with hers, they stopped sleeping with each other. They are still fond of one another, and Robert takes care of Doris and Mya financially, but they are no longer involved.

“Of course, Robert is not a saint. He sleeps with whores regularly. Often. There is no point in denying that. Robert has come to enjoy sex. I mean, sex is great, is it not?”

It sounded like a question for his opinion, and Brandon did not know how to answer as Ned let the silence linger. The tension grew uncomfortable, until Ashara was the one to hum her approval to Ned’s question. Looking back, Brandon wished he had answered before that. It was even more uncomfortable than the silence before, watching the writhing vixen on Ned’s lap quivering slightly between moans. So, Brandon was almost thankful when Ned continued. Almost.

“But Robert is not intentionally cruel, Brandon, or callous. He knows the consequences a woman has to bear when she loses her maidenhead. If Robert did not take care of Doris financially nowadays, she would have to go whoring to support herself and Mya.

“To keep another smallfolk woman from that fate, or a noble lady from falling from grace, Robert now only sates his appetites with whores. Do tell, brother, what is your noble excuse for bedding every woman with legs?”

Brandon had to gulp at that. While Ned was not malicious, he was certainly merciless with his questions. Brandon knew he should answer. He even had an answer. Barbrey. After Barbrey. For comfort, just like Robert. But also, for spite. Now, that reason only felt pathetic. The words would not come out of his mouth and Brandon was stuck, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. In the end, Brandon was spared from answering. For Ned had all the answers.

“After the Ryswell girl. Isn’t it, Brandon? I know. Lya liked Barbrey, did you know? She wrote about you two, and about the endless talks Lya had with Barbrey on, and about, horses.”

Brandon smiled at the memory, bittersweet as it was now. Ned mirrored the expression for a second, before he talked on. Brandon’s own smile faltered as Ned continued speaking. Gods, it was obvious why Brandon’s brother kept so quiet. Every single one of Ned’s words had such weight behind them. Not a single breath was wasted on idle chatter, on and on he pressed.

“Honestly, compared with Robert’s ordeal, yours is pathetic, Brandon. Robert saw his father, his mother, and a good portion of his household drown within a few hundred meters of his own castle. The woman you were happily bedding was not meant to be your wife. What were you expecting? It is not like it came as a surprise that you, as the heir, were fated for a strategic marriage.

“Every time Lya spoke out against Robert childishly, I could excuse, for she’s a child. You, though, Brandon? You were just disappointing. You did not even notice that whenever you were disparaging my brother by choice, you were only disparaging yourself. Robert is a better man than you and I am proud of the friendship we share.”

It was all so surreal to Brandon. Any other person would raise their voice, would grow angry when they unloaded such an amount of venom for the world to see. Ned remained stone-faced, his voice even, stroking a content lady in his lap. Ashara even smiled at the dressing down Brandon was receiving.

At least, Brandon thought so. Maybe Ashara really just was ignoring him, and simply blissful in Ned’s lap. Brandon now regretted not having this talk with Ned just one-on-one. He could not say a word in his defense as Ned’s accusations kept him silent. But. Finally, something like anger was creeping into Ned’s tone

“And where do you all get the notion that Robert is going to dress Lyanna up like a doll, lock her up in the tower at Storm’s End and leave her to play with her hair and embroider on her babes’ napkins? Do you think Bobby fell in love with a pretty picture? He beds the best whores in Gulltown.

“Robert fell in love with the idea of a companion as wild and as willful as our sister. Hells, Robert will train her properly in the yard himself. I know that he will because I fucking dictated that part of the betrothal agreement. And Robert can scarce believe his luck, still.

“Robert may not keep to Lya’s bed, that is true. And yes, she will have to bear him children. But then she always was going to bear children for someone and nary a husband would indulge Lya’s less proper whims the way Robert is going to. And who is to say Robert is actually going to stray from Lya’s bed? Did you stray, Brandon, when you were with Barbrey?”

It took Brandon a second to grasp that his brother actually expected him to answer.

“No. I did not.”

It was supposed to sound defiant as Brandon said the words, but it only came out hollow. Ned’s short laugh in response was cruel, and the question that followed was asked cruelly.

“What did you do together that she kept you true?”

“Everything,” Brandon whispered, “we did everything together. We rode the Rills, hunted in the Wolfswood, sailed the Spear and fucked like rabbits.”

Brandon did not enjoy this talk nearly as little as he had expected. Still, brash talking and coarse language just might get Ned to retreat. A little. It did not. Figures. Ned must have been used to way worse from Robert and Ned could probably even pick up those mannerisms when it suited him. It showed.

“So, Barbrey enjoyed it when you two fucked like rabbits?”

Brandon did not have a habit of sputtering, but still some undignified sounds escaped him together with a mouthful of wine as he looked at his brother. Looked at Ashara, wiggling on Ned’s lap. Looked back at Ned.

“What?... Wait. What?” Brandon croaked out, the wine still burning in his throat.

“A simple question, Brandon. Very simple. Did Barbrey enjoy it when you two fucked like rabbits?”

Ned kept his eyes on Brandon as he talked still, but at the same time he started stroking Ashara more strongly. Boldly. She tried to turn on his lap again, but Ned held her firm; and soon Ashara started grinding him, instead. Brandon could see Ned was keeping a tight grip on Ashara’s breast beneath the coat, kneading her teat roughly. The other hand’s movements sped up, stroking more strongly.

“Shara.”

Ned had turned to purr into Ashara’s ear, drawing a whimper from her lips. Ned’s voice was tender, yet strong. Loving, yet forceful. Controlled, yet hungry.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you, my love. Tell me where you want me to do it. Tell me how you want me to do it.”

Ashara’s eyes had closed as she backed up into Ned, a content smile on her lips. Noises between gasps and sighs escaped her. Ned had to stop his hands, before she could answer.

“I want you, Ned.

“All of you.

“You are mine.

“Do you hear me, Ned?

“You are mine!”

It started as a whisper, but Ashara’s last words were a scream. She had opened her eyes, blazing purple, and her gaze had kept Ned’s a prisoner as she looked at him. Brandon had never seen his brother look so possessive, and Ashara did not lose to Ned in that sentiment in the slightest.

“You    are    mine,    Ashara    Stark!”

Ned growled the words, with an intensity kindred to wildfire. Like an oath. Brandon shivered, but he could not look away. Even as none of the two seemed to pay him any mind at all, anymore.

”I want our whole group to return North at the pace my wheelhouse will set, Ned, because you are to fuck me so thoroughly, even the thought of riding a horse will have me in pain!”

Ned bit her shoulder, and Ashara looked like she spasmed for a second, her head jerking aimlessly and her eyes wild. The cloaked shifted, and Ned was obviously ribbing Ashara hard, leaving her panting and breathless.

“I want your tongue to map every inch of my body and your cock to leave me screaming your name in ecstasy, until my throat is too raw to even whisper the word ‘enough’!”

Ashara’s hips bucked faster and harder by the second, and if not for Ned’s tight embrace, the cloak covering her would have long been tossed to the floor. Her mouth opened impossibly wide, as if to howl to the gods, but only deafening silence came out. She relaxed a second after, apparently coming down from a high, as her whole skin seemed to start glistening. Ned wrung a kiss from her mouth and got a tongue sucking for his throat before they released another again.

“I want you to feast on me until you drown in my juices, and after I will ride you so hard that you will not have the strength to even rise from your bed until three nights have passed! I will -”

Whatever Ashara was going to say, she could not. A scream, almost a wail, ripped itself from her throat as she collapsed in Ned’s embrace, panting and gasping and shivering. She did not move, after, at least not consciously. Tremors still ran through Ashara’s body, and Ned was drunk on her sight.

Ashara Dayne, the most beautiful woman in the realm had convulsed and collapsed in his brother’s arms right in front of him, and Brandon had never in his life felt as uncomfortable. But he had been unable to avert his eyes before it had ended. The only sound that could be heard was the shallow breath of a woman in blissful oblivion. Ned was gentle now with his strokes, but he never stopped.

Ashara opened her eyes then. She did not even spare Brandon a glance, her gaze fire and passion as she turned and gave Ned a long, tender kiss, more a slight brushing of lips. After she had released his eyes, she kept hold of his eyes.

“Mine.” Ashara said it once more, but this time it was just a whisper. For all that, it was not any less possessive or intense.

“Mine.” Ned returned just the same.

For the first time since Brandon had entered, Ashara truly looked at him, and Brandon almost flinched at the bottomless hate and the pure contempt in her eyes.

“Get rid of the vermin and come to bed, Ned.”

The way Ashara said it Brandon knew she meant every word. And yet. For the first time Brandon thought he saw something akin to a flicker of pain in Ned’s face. Nonetheless, as Ashara rose, Ned’s cape wound tight around her body, Ned rose not a second after and opened the door as Ashara sat herself on the bed. Brandon knew when he was dismissed.

“Wait a second, my love. I have not finished my important talk with my brother.”

Brandon had not thought Ned to follow him out of his room with a short word to Ashara, yet he did. And as Ned looked at him once more, Brandon felt like a doe facing the huntsman.

“So. Brandon. Brother. You never answered. Did Barbrey enjoy it when you two fucked like rabbits?”

Once more Brandon was stuck silent. He could hear Ashara’s almost petulant mewling for a second as Ned closed the door behind him, but Brandon had his own troubles connecting what he had seen to, well, anything actually. Ned did not seem inclined to wait for Brandon to recover his bearings before he spoke on. Brandon almost had the faint impression his brother was enjoying this.

“When you fucked Barbrey up her cunt, Brandon, did she enjoy it? Did she ride you to oblivion because you enjoyed each other or did she lie in bed like a dead fish, waiting for you to finish?”

“Is there a point to this?”

Brandon did not really enjoy this conversation. He was not shy about talking of his exploits, but the way Ned kept pushing the issue was discomforting. So, Brandon’s answer only came out through gritted teeth.

“Yes, Barbrey did enjoy my cock up her cunt. From the back. From the front. On top of me. Under me. She liked to explore, Eddard. I have not had a woman who I enjoyed sex with as much as with Barbrey. Does that answer your fucking question?”

It was galling to see that Brandon’s little brother was simply unconcerned at that answer, almost showing Brandon complete disregard. The familiar fire started within Brandon then, beckoning. Blooming. It would be so easy, so satisfying to just. Lean into it. Ride it. Rage. But, unconcerned, Ned simply talked.

“You know, Ashara likes riding. Horses, I mean in this case. Hawking as well. Dancing. Oh, how we love to dance. Not just dainty steps like a demure lady that is afraid her sweating will ruin her face paint. No, Ashara loves dancing to exhaustion with me.”

There was almost a wistful shine to Ned’s face as he spoke, and Brandon knew his brother was far away right now. That did not lessen the fire coursing through Brandon’s veins. But Ned also seemed earnest and not hostile to Brandon for the first time since Brandon had entered that room.

“The reason I am telling you this, Brandon, is the same reason why I believe Robert is the right man for our sister.”

Eddard did not even seem to notice Brandon’s wolf’s blood boiling. Or he did, and he simply did not care. Would it matter? Did Ned ever feel it himself, the rage, hungry and wild? Ned’s words, though. They gave Brandon pause. So, Brandon did not storm off, he did not rage. He remained. He listened. And just a little, Brandon understood as Ned talked on.

“Lya thinks she needs a man devoted to her, true, knightly, shining. That is stupid. Lya’s been given a huge berth of freedom by father for the daughter of a Lord Paramount, North or elsewhere. Robert would let her keep that freedom. He would encourage her, to be even wilder. Lya wants another Aemon the Dragonknight. What she needs, though, is her own Rogue Prince Daemon.”

And suddenly, Brandon did not know anymore. Despite himself, Brandon found that he agreed with what Ned had said. However, Brandon really had not needed to hear the next thing Ned said as well. True as it might probably be.

“And trust me, Brandon, Lya craves the freedom we have. That includes to enjoy fucking like we do, despite being a lady. Because it is fun. Because it is exciting. Because it is liberating. Lya will ride Robert through the Seven Kingdoms once she has gotten a taste for the dastardly deed, mark my words. And what our spirited little sister brings to the bedroom might just keep Robert bound to only her. Like Barbrey did you.”

There was an evil smirk to Ned’s words at that, but it was the kind of evil smile friends gifted another along with a playful insult. Gods, that image. Their little sister. Was there nothing Ned held holy? Still, Brandon felt the selfsame evil smile splitting his face. Ned spoke truth. Painful truth, maybe, but truth. Brandon had heard much of that kind of truth, recently. Still. Brandon finally felt like brothers, just for a second.

Then, the door behind them was ripped open. In a flash, Ashara had grabbed Ned, pulled him back inside the room, and then slammed the door shut again.

Well. There was no way Brandon could miss that hint. Also, Brandon knew neither how well the inn kept the noise isolated to the respective rooms. Or, how loud Ned and Ashara were going to get tonight.

Turning, Brandon hightailed out of the entire inn. Maybe it would be reasonable to sleep in a tent still today.

Chapter Text

The sex, as ever, was pure bliss. Still Ashara marveled at that. But right then, right there, in Ned's arms and gloriously sore, she felt like ever after. Safe and loved. Right. Lucky dream on a falling star.

And her thoughts returned once more to the unthinkable, before she squashed them. It happened less every time. That those two could be brothers still baffled her. That there could even be a man like Ned, for once, made for just her. And then, the monster that was his brother.

She did not like to think of him. She did not like to see him. She did not like him, though that was an understatement. Unbidden, the thoughts came once more and she nestled back into the warm and safe embrace. As always, her soulmate seemed to know what was on her mind and pulled her tighter.

“I’m here with you. He’s not worthy of your fear. Today is a good day, Shara. You are to be my wife.”

A soft kiss, a soothing nip on the back of her neck. The words needn’t be said, but a comfort they were none the less. Wife. Husband. Lady Stark. It felt so right, now. Oh, how she loved him. At Harrenhal, ill-fated as it was then. The letters after, picking up her pieces. Seeing him on the docks, and not a day they spent apart after.

She thought back again to the first time they found themselves in bed with each other. Neither seduced the other, it somehow just happened. Mysteriously. Magical. Wonderful. They’d both been clumsy, then, but so tender.

They’d talked after. Of it. The only time. That tent. His brother’s invitation, and she’d been so trusting of Brandon then. How not, the brother she’d fallen for was just all for her. How could his family not be? She’d even liked Brandon back then, he’d been their catalyst after all. And, objectively, beautiful. Not like Ned, though both Starks were a vision.

One, lithe and lean, strong and broad of back, and somehow graceful. The other was taller, broader in his shoulders but not compared to the rest of his body. Pure muscle. Brandon's betrothed, well, Brandon's betrothed back then at least, as well as many other ladies at Harren’s hall did obviously favor the heir. It also helped that Brandon was more boisterous than Ned. And, well, the heir. Back then. Oh, how sweet that thought still tasted.

Ned had been at the training yard with Robert, then. Brandon had strung lie after lie, and among friends the ale flew. Among friends. Until they weren’t. Until all was hazy, as Ashara's dream shattered. As it turned into a nightmare, the brother of her love turning and pawing and grasping and pawing and holding and ripping and –

She’d run.

Run, run as that infernal song rang in her ear, as her bliss turned poison. Until it just wasn’t.

She did not even see Ned that day. She did not open his letter until the day after, when he’d already left. Though all spoke of Lyanna Stark’s crowning, the Northern host at least must have been rampant with rumor about Ashara. She’d dreaded Ned’s letter. That all had been a lie. That Ned was just another man, seeing her like they all did. She’d almost burned the letter unopened, if not for Elia.

It had been the balm that Ashara did not know could even exist. She’d cried, happy and cathartic. For days. She could not even bear the touch of most men, then, only Oby and Art. And the touch of Ned's words, arriving every few days by raven. Seven, Ned put more words to paper in their relationship then he took into his mouth. Ashara still kept her favorite letters with her.

And then they met again. The reunion on the docks was sweet, but the stay at the Eyrie was magical. Just them, above the world. Lord Arryn had been courteous, though some ladies at court were openly disdainful. Surprisingly, Robert had been a friend, despite his reputation. Robert was probably even one of the happiest at the Eyrie to have Ashara with them. Finally the other ladies around had visual proof that Ned was taken. Robert's flirtatious ways had made Ashara uncomfortable at first, even as he solemnly kept to whores for bedmates. Some of Robert's traits had seemed too much like Brandon’s.

They’d become friends one day when Ned took Ashara with them to visit Mya Stone. Despite Robert's affection, Robert's friendship for Ned, Ashara had not expected Robert to be a loving father. His daughter Mya was a delight, and another stony person around was soothing, somehow. She’d known then that Robert was not a beast like Brandon. She could never imagine Brandon the way Robert was with Mya.

As Stony Dornish herself, though bastardy and wedlock were seen as a bigger taint then for her Sandy and Salty compatriots, natural children were not nearly as reviled to Ashara as north of the Marches. And then, she did grow up under Mariah in the Water Gardens from her twelfth name day along Elia and Oberyn. If you could say that Oberyn ever grew up, that is. He’d probably make great friends with Robert, though.

Ned’s rustling pulled her back to their room as he made to stand. They had excused themselves from Rickard’s, from father’s company earlier to celebrate. And they did, until the savage had come. Brandon had become a lesser demon now Ashara had not feared him since a good half year after the incident. She had been afraid it would bubble up when they faced each other at Darry, but a letter from Elia had her hopeful.

And then her new father had threatened to slap Brandon like a bitch for even just bothering Ashara. She’d loved Rickard Stark a little, then, and more for his words and every day she heard Brandon’s confession at dusk before their whole company. Oh, how sweet that tune had turned, honey on Ashara's soul. The men had taken it up already, and while some still looked at Ashara lustfully, more were respectful and deferent towards her. Ashara would get the whole North to love her, and all of Westeros to sing to her happiness. Dorne, for sure, would.

Brandon had still looked at her with a glimmer of that lust he’d had when they met again, though subdued now. He’d been reduced to a more familiar, more pathetic monster than Ashara had remembered Brandon Stark as on bad days. Not worthy of her fear. Not worthy of her attention. Not worthy, even, of her barest acknowledgement to his presence.

Ashara had had to deal with lust. Always, ever present around her. It had been her shield and her companion since she was three and ten. It was a familiar shield. A familiar weapon. Turning cravens onto themselves and leaving beasts leashed or ravenous. They were not special. Brandon was not special. It had been time to reconquer her weapon against the shadowy vestige of her nightmare again, earlier. And her arsenal had only grown with Ned on her side.

Lady Stark. Ethan had been the first to call her that, not three days after they’d met at Darry. Ashara suspected that it had happened at Lord Stark’s directive, for everything seemed to happen for that cause. It had caught on quickly, and Rhaenys had started sleeping in her foster father’s tent the day after.

Yes, Ashara's Dornish reputation was a weapon.

'They danced through the night, both entranced.'

The day after, the song was on everyone’s lips. And now, it had come true. Lady Stark. Her future husband was putting his breeches on, but oh how Ned's chiseled abs glistened. Ripples on the flesh, whispers of promise.

Sore, and happy for it, that'show Ashara felt as she stretched herself a little on the bed. The fog was on fire in Ned's eyes, and her Ned did not have his mind on his doublet as he tried to tie it.

Ashara rose, too, to tie Ned's coat for him. Ned's hands stilled immediately as she stepped up to him, his eyes hungry. As Ashara took care of the strings Ned's hands grasped her face, and after each knot she was rewarded with a deep, lingering kiss, burning and melting. Gods, she had half a mind to undress Ned instead of the other right then.

After Ashara finished lacing Ned up she turned for her own dress, taking a seat on the couch to more comfortably complete the complicate bindings. Ned sat down behind her, reeving her raven tresses down before taking out her ivory comb he’d taken possession of. Like each morning, before they joined he took care of her, complicated knots or beautifully elaborate hairdos, then changing it up with wonderfully simple Northern styles.

Ned had once told Ashara how he’d taken care of his sister that way in the aftermath of their mother’s death. The memories he’d told her of Lady Lyarra were all so familial, so precious. She could almost picture it, Ned's mother singing songs to him and his sister while she braided her daughter’s hair. The picture even left Ashara yearning a little.

Today, though, Ned seemed to want to leave Ashara's hair unbraided. Ashara was surprised when Ned took out a small pitcher and started softening her locks with olive oil. Where had he gotten that?

The olives smelled of home. Ashara loved Ned's hands. Leaning back, minutes passed them in contend silence. Ashara was most reluctant when Ned got slower and slower in weaving her hair, before stopping to kiss the top of her head. But as Ned turned Ashara around and started kissing almost all parts of her face, it wasn't to bad, either.

She did not know what the catalyst was. It wasn’t anything fun, for their laughter was one of pure happiness. No words were needed as Ned and Shara rose, almost in unison. She just felt, in these moments, that they were complete.

They kept with each other today, they had discussed yesterday what they would do. First they made for Lord Arryn’s quarters who readily let them in. Elbert and Kyle were both standing in front of Lord Jon's desk, and all three of them were pouring over a map of the eastern Riverlands. The talk seemed to be on economics, Runestone’s trade capacity through Gulltown and by road being the focus. The conversation stopped as Ned cleared his throat.

“Kyle, Elbert. Jon. Allow me to reintroduce my future wife, Lady Ashara”, Ned said, his tone quiet as ever but laden with emotion. Gods, her future husband and his penchant for the power of words. Her future husband.

There was silence for a second, before Jon was the first to step closer and envelop his foster son in a tight hug. The old man did not need to say a word as Ned returned the gesture. When they released each other and the elder lord turned towards her, Ashara almost believed to see a slight shimmer to his eyes.

“I am beyond words and know you two will find happiness together, Lady Ashara, you and my son.”

Ashara had never expected to gain two new fathers through a single marriage, but she could not be happier. She felt the moisture in her eyes, then, too, and saw it reflected in Ned’s eyes. Elbert congratulated Ned in silence as Kyle came to her first.

“'And now the Maid‘ll be the Quiet Wolf's wife.'”

Gods. Kyle stepped away humming after a kiss to the back of Ashara's hand and a whispered ‘Lady Stark’, a smile playing on his lips. Afterwards Ashara did not even hear Elbert’s congratulation properly, though he must have spotted the happiness in her eyes as he stepped away.

“There is no question, then, that Lord Dayne will consent to the match?” Jon asked.

Ned looked at her in askance. He did not doubt the answer, he only kept quiet for her to speak. Gods, how she loved him in these moments. She’d only ever stand at his side. At his side, she’d only ever stand. There was even a trace of mirth to Ned's quiet smile as Ashara spoke to his foster father.

“When I entered the capital as my princess' lady-in-waiting, my lord father transferred to her the right to arrange a suitable marriage for me in his name as long as it proved fruitful for Starfall’s trade. Sunspear might even offer to add to the dowry the usage of its own ports so as to not lose control of the timber market in Dorne entirely.”

Ashara turned to Kyle after a second, the lay of the Vale in her mind. She tried to keep her voice innocent, though a small chuckle by both Ned and Jon belied her.

“Tell me, Ser Kyle, do you not think Runestone might serve a faster relay point than Gulltown for some ships of that increased ship traffic to stop on their way from White Harbor to Sunspear? The ships could circumvent the Bay of Crabs entirely in that case…”

At her words Ashara could see the wheels turning in Kyle’s eyes. He was just a distant cousin of the main Royce branch, but it was not difficult to contemplate. Ashara knew of the fondness between Ned and Bronze Yohn as well. It was well known in the Vale. Still, Kyle did not have the necessary authority to make decision in the Royces' name. So, he only promised to bring the matter to his lord cousin’s attention as quickly as possible. Ashara and Ned left the three Valemen, after. Ashara liked to believe they continued talking on the economics of Runestone. The word of increased trade alone would benefit them in the lordly circles soon.

They made their rounds together through camp. Speaking of the confirmed betrothal, painting pictures of a wedding in Winterfell, dreaming of children. Not loudly, but loud enough. The guards picked up on it, of course they did. Lady Stark. A promise fulfilled. Maybe Ethan Glover would receive a station at Winterfell come time.

The Tumblestone was where they ended up. Rickard knew, but left them to their devices. For half an hour they were alone, talking up the future amongst themselves, not as a way to spread information, just them. However, not long after came an old woman to the river, ancient even. There was an indignity to leaving a woman of her age to wander here by herself. She did not look comfortable in her bones.

At Ashara’s urging Ned did notice her as well. He’d not noticed before, attention all on her. Together they approached her, and ancient did not begin to describe her. Rheumy eyes almost overgrown. Not a single tooth left in her mouth. Warts, thick and swarthy, marred her aged face. Was green a skin tone one aquiered with age? She turned towards them, a scowl on her face even as her eyes seemed to remain unseeing. A woman of such appearance rarely invited kindness, Ashara knew. It was a pity, for kindness was free yet ever in short supply.

“Grandmother, where did you leave your family? Can we help you in any way?”

Ned’s words must have struck a chord with her, for as much as her face displayed astonishment and joy, it showed disbelief. Ashara’s heart went out to her. Did she not have anyone?

“You are kind”, the crone chuckled, though here voice was still laced with an undertone of derision, “but you will find no purchase with my family when you return me to them. I have served my purpose. The one that makes decisions for us, my granddaughter, decided I had no more use to them since the same day my last fellow wayfarer on this western shore died, bout twenty days past.”

While Ned did keep a reluctant distance before, he now closed it to the old woman without a second thought. Looking at her with a mixture of compassion and pity, Ashara almost thought he meant to give the old lady alms. She knew that would have been displaced, because for all her wretched appearance, the woman wore clothing of fine make. She was not a beggar. Instead, her man put a hand on the shoulder of the old woman, protecting without appearing to be patronizing.

“My lady, tell us. Can we help you seek comfort? Just say the word.”

Ned did regard all women as 'my ladies', regardless of station. A good notion, one that spoke of humility. That might have been one of the traits that pulled Ashara towards him, she though as she looked on him fondly.

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” A throaty, hacked laugh escaped a withered throat. “A family man, I can tell. I am not for long, I have known since my last friend died, though that expression does not capture what we were to each other. Only the last two in Westeros who understood. But then, she’s been a Ghost for years.”

Ashara knew they were missing a joke in that statement. There was an accent to her voice, but it was old and washed out. The old lady once more turned to Ashara to speak, and something in here voice might have been frightening once, though Ashara felt the woman was well disposed towards them.

“You are lucky, star child. And truly beautiful, inside.”

Suddenly, unseeing eyes turned seeing, blank grey turned fel yellow, hugging the blackest night in a pupil Ashara had ever seen.

“And outside, too, just as beautiful. You two deserve each other, not the fall of swords. Your quiet wolf and you have the gift of choice now. You will not understand, no one ever will again. The web I saw is unwoven. No rubies will litter the fords and no beds will be made of blue roses and blood. You have escaped from the edge of your family’s highest Sword, but I do not know anymore what the future will bring, star child. Now, I can only see the past.”

There was something unholy in the wind just then, but the crone only caught a shiver and it had passed.

“I have only seen a beauty like you once, you know, but only on the outside. Young man. I believe this will be of import to the Starks of Winterfell, so listen. I am dying, I know, but I have never not returned a kindness.”

There was something to Ned at that moment. A belief, of a way. Ashara did not know why, but even she felt the crone’s words pulling her into a spell.

“A queen that was to be came before me once, the beauty I spoke of. Her future is, as all, now unwritten. Will her children bear crowns; will her children bear shrouds? I do not know. She had it in her to be great, but she shackled herself when she asked for her morrows. That all has returned to uncertainty, and I know not why. What I know is this: Cersei Lannister has potential great and terrible, and I was the one to set her on a doomed path once.”

Ned stirred, his eyes tight at Cersei’s name. Why did this old crone talk of her, and why was it important for Ned? Her betrothed, though, was visibly unsettled as he spoke.

“My lady. What are you talking of?”

It seemed as if Ned wanted to deny a truth neither of them could see, even as it was unveiled in front of them. The woman spoke on, silencing both Ashara and Ned.

“Six years past, when Cersei Lannister was ten, she came to me. That same night, she left her friend Melara Heatherspoon to drown in a well and to be devoured by worms. She knows little of kindness since her mother has died. If you see her, tell her Maggy the Frog releases her from her burden.”

The crone seemed spent, her eyes turned blind once more. When she said her last words, the weight of her words was lifted and all Ashara could hear was boundless fatigue, though her mind seemed clear as water.

“Do not leave my bones for Sybell Westerling and my other grandchildren to find. Give me to the Tumblestone, let the fishes clean my remains. Give me a last kindness, please. I am tired. Quiet wolf. Give my regards to Howland Reed. His great-grandfather knew me.”

She was gone after another breath, lying dead on the grass. Lord Gawen Westerling and his wife Sybell had been looking for an audience with Lord Stark when they had left the inn. While Ashara felt a little shocked at what had just happened, when she looked towards Ned his face showed fear without bounds. They fulfilled the crone’s last wish, as if under a spell. Seeing Ned perturbed still, Ashara turned to ask him as she intertwined their hands.

“Beloved, what has you so distraught?”

Ned looked at her, deeply and despaired, and Ashara did not know what was to come.

“If Jaime Lannister is not released from the Kingsguard, Cersei Lannister will take up the position of Lady Paramount of the Westerland after Lord Tywin. The Great Lion will take up training her as his heir when he returns to Casterly Rock.

“Benjen will be her consort, or the two of them will take up their seat in Moat Cailin if her brother returns. Father and I arranged their betrothal yesterday at dinner with Tywin.”

Chapter Text

While Brynden did wait with Catelyn for her to overcome the first wave of hysteria, he left her in the care of Shella after. He did not have the time to sooth all the pain, not with their entire House on the precipice. It could not have been five minutes since his niece’s future broke apart in the court yard since when he strode into his brother’s solar. Obviously, he was the first person to enter since Rickard Stark left. Hoster sat quietly furious at his desk, not working in stormy haste to contain the damage he had inflicted. He did not know yet what he had wrought. Somehow, that only left Brynden angrier.

“Brynden. My plans will have to be adjusted. Our savage visitor has been banned from Riverrun, the wedding will not come to be. Luckily, there is many an important lord in attendance right now. A new match will have to be arranged, and what better time is there?”

Seven, his brother’s ambition would be all of their deaths. Did he really not care about Family, Duty, Honor unless it served him? As furious as Brynden felt for Rickard Stark, he could understand the man. The name of his brother tasted like bile on his tongue.

“Hoster. The whole training yard heard your lover’s spat. You should not look to increase your station; you should look to save your life. You just insulted the king in public. Do you remember what almost happened to the Starks in King’s Landing? All the lords in the keep right now speak of you committing lèse-majesté. You may burn for treason, you imbecile!”

While Hoster’s face was quickly losing all its color, Brynden only found himself uncaring. However, as the seconds stretched on and nothing happened except Hoster’s pallor turning paler, Brynden pulled his off-hand knife and stabbed it into the desk in one smooth motion. The noise at least jolted his brother.

“Hoster. Think, for the gods’ sake. You just put all our lives in jeopardy. You cannot look further than the Riverlands anymore, you need to bind our bannermen.”

“No. No no no no no. Fucking Northern cunt. Damn savage. Fuck.”

Hoster at least regained some color, even as it was only his face turning red. After a few more expletives, Brynden spied a familiar glint in his brother’s eyes though. Suddenly, the solar seemed to shrink.

“Brother. I did not tell you yet, but the board has been completely overturned today. A letter from the capital came today, addressed to me and Lord Stark. Rhaegar Targaryen has returned in disgrace. Aerys’ Kingsguards saved Lyanna Stark from being raped by the crown prince, the she-wolf is being sent North in the honorable escort of Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne. The capital is about to boil over soon.”

There was a short lull in Hoster’s speech. It helped Brynden digest the news, but it made him dread what his brother hesitated to say.

“The writing is on the wall, brother, a second Dance is coming. We need to support the prince, and early. I have forced our hand today. I am sorry.”

Fuck.
Fuck!
FUCK!
Why, why did his brother not simply not shout?

“Hoster. I understand that point. I hate you for it, but I understand it. But! I will not agree to help you, unless you tell me what will happen with Cat, Lysa and Ed.”

“We cannot send Lysa to the princess anymore. Any Tully within reach of the king becomes a liability. However…”

Hoster stopped talking. Something akin to disgust flitted over his face as he spoke on.

“Brynden, you are right. We need to bind the Riverlords more tightly to us. The Vances, Pipers and other lords on the western border will stay loyal. The Whents might help for my children, or keep to the king. The Darrys and Mootons are closer to the throne. However… Bethany Rosby died in child bed last month, birthing a daughter.”

No. Surely not. No. Hoster could not mean. Could he? The disgust was still there. Please no. Brynden heard his voice break as he asked, he only imagined his eyes looked as aghast as he felt.

“Walder Frey?”

The response he got was a hollow laugh. It did not comfort him in the slightest that Hoster did not like this desperate plan. Brynden could already believe himself to smell ashes and wound rot. When Hoster did talk on, Brynden only felt the pit in his stomach grow.

“Oh, trust me, he will love the offer, brother. He gets what he always wanted, and just because of his position. He won’t even have to fight much for us, only block both the Northmen and Seagard. If only Jeffory Mallister and Brandon’s whole blasted party had died, Jason Mallister would have been first of my men to clamor for lead of the van. Will you support me, brother, like in old times?”

It did make sense. As much as Brynden hated it all, it was sound tactic maneuvering. He understood tactics. He hated himself for what he was about to do. Family, Duty, Honor. Family.

“Yes, brother. Family. Family comes first. Always.”

Before they set on to make more plans the steward knocked on the door. A minute later, an unexpected visitor entered.

“Lord Tully. I would like to offer the hand of my heir Alekyne for your daughter. I believe we can help each other in the coming storm.”

When Brynden did return from talking with his brother to sit with his nieces again, Shella found him a shell of the man who left but two hours earlier. She left him to stew a little in silence over the two daughters that weren’t his until he would rouse himself. He would come to her. She was family. These moments reminded her why her mother had pushed her father to betroth Minisa to the younger Tully brother. A shame.

“Shella. I need you to help my nieces and nephew.”

He did not speak on, he only looked at Catelyn and Lysa sleeping side by side, the older sister’s eyes red from crying still. Quietly, Brynden and Shella left the two a picture of innocence. Brynden looked back a last time as he closed the door. When they sat down in Shella’s room, having avoided the servants, Shella topped up their cups with a full Butterwell vintage. Her family kept some of that disgraced family on as retainers for their knowledge as winemakers. She waited for Brynden to quickly drain his cup before starting their dance

“Tell me what has transpired in that solar to leave you like this, Brynden.”

“Hah. Transpired. We just planned four different types of treason in the span of an hour and put three of them to paper. A vassal. A liege. A king. The family.”

Not even a hollow laugh. Shella had never seen the mightiest warrior of the Riverlands so broken.

“There are two secret betrothals in place right now. Edmure will marry Barbara Bracken and Catelyn Alekyne Florent. As the foxes march on Highgarden with the Tarlys we will surprise the Tyrells with a large host from the North. In return, the Blackwoods will be reduced to petty lords as Barbara Bracken becomes the next Lady Paramount of Riverrun and as the Florents will usurp the Reach from Tyrell control for Prince Rhaegar, Cat will become wife to the future Warden of the South.”

Hoster proved once more, despite his failings, to be a player of insight with no small talent. It was a gamble, but the odds were uncertain. The man was crafty. At last report, Melessa Florent was pregnant. With Tarly on their side and Leyton Hightower’s loyalty split between his wife and his daughter, he could be persuaded to join the foxes. However, these moves would not drive Brynden towards Shella, and part of the situation’s premise was missing.

“What of the Crown Prince?”

“Hoster received the raven today that Aerys’ Kingsguard saved Lyanna Stark from being raped by Rhaegar. The Crown Prince has returned to King’s Landing in disgrace and an escort of the highest order is to bring the she-wolf home. The capital is devided, as is the realm. A mad king, a rapist prince. We can only support the latter.”

Madness. This news would split the Riverlands, the Crownlands, the Stormlands and the Reach. Dorne will hold to whoever has their hands on their princess and Prince Aegon. The Vale, the North, the Westerlands and the Iron Islands. Shella knew, only because Rickard Stark wanted her to know. Gods, he was testing her. A rider would need to be sent for their camp. Who to barter first?

“There’s more”, Brynden said, “Alester Florent has promised the Lannisters Red Lake and Old Oak.”

“Heh. Come now. The lions don’t sell their support that cheap.” The idea was laughable to Shella.

“No. Not their support. Their neutrality. They are given almost a sixth of the Reach for doing nothing while Rivermen and Reachmen go to war.”

No. Brynden did still not get it. Even their neutrality would not be that cheap. They were being played already. But if -IF- Shella tipped Brynden off she would put any chance of entering the Stark alliance in jeopardy. She could not do that. Still, Brynden had not said why he had come to her.

“Why are you here, Brynden?”

“Because tomorrow Hoster wants to betroth Lysa to Walder Frey as his seventh wife and I want you to spirit my niece away from here today before he has a chance to.”

If Shella had drunken from her wine just then, she would have spit it all over Brynden’s face. Walder. Fucking. Frey. Oh sweet Sarya. She would not lose more family to that misbegotten weasel. However, as much as Brynden knew her thoughts on the matter, such a move on her part would be a clear show of intent to all of Westeros. Shella Whent was not someone to be used without getting her due.

“Brynden,” she said, her voice a forced calm, “you are trying to play me. You know I hate the Lord of the Crossing. However, I hate more to be played. I will help you. But in return, I own you. Because I will not only save Lysa. I will also help you save Catelyn and try to save Edmure.”

Even Brynden, Brynden who knew her, regarded her like a person he had never seen. He did not see the politics still. A small part of him, too, thought of her as just a woman.

“Shella. What are you talking about?”

“Do you know when the war will break out, Brynden? Because I know what you think. I know Hoster is waiting for a summons to the capital. That summon will never get here. The war has already broken out.”

It seemed that all feeling had left Brynden, or he might just have been to weary to exhibit the incredulity he felt. He did not believe her. How could he, if Rickard Stark had never been summoned, Hoster would not have balked at going to the capital when summoned. No one had truly known how far the depravity of their king had spread. Shella needed to open his eyes, needed him to see, needed him to understand. He would come to her, after.

“If Rickard Stark had burned in the capital, together with his son and Elbert Arryn, battles would already be fought now. The moment the old wolf survived his trial, however, a more dangerous kind of war started. A lord paramount was almost murdered in a farce. Do you think any lord will ever again answer a summons to King’s Landing if that threat hangs over his head? Traitors will litter all of Westeros within moons.

"But Rickard Stark did not just leave the capital alive, he left it a keg of wildfire waiting to explode, a hungry pit that will grow to engulf the Seven Kingdoms. He set up a succession war and weakened key political factions. He saved the heir of the Vale. He walked out of that fucking cesspool with a princess wrapped as a gift. And now Rhaegar Targaryen has been confirmed a kidnapper and rapist with just as little regard for the lords directly below the king as his father has.

"Since the news broke, every lord that understood what happened has been raising their levies, forging their weapons and training their armies. The whole continent is not waiting anymore for a war to surprise it to summon its people to the slaughter, all the lords are now stacking their decks because while the war has started, no sides are clear and no one knows friend from foe. This will be the most brutal war Westeros has ever seen because every lord will have all his troops prepared to the best of their ability and their larders prepared for the campaigns.

"If anyone now tips off the king to start the war early, whoever prevails at the end will see the man die a more horrible death than Aerys ever could. The Spider, the Queen of Thorns, the Great Lion, the Old Wolf and all the others will have their spies keep the news of your brother’s idiocy from the king and his more stupid advisors, like Merryweather, Rosby and Staunton, from finding out about this before it suits them. Hoster has not only lost the chance to choose a side, he has lost the chance to take the initiative. He will be used up as the pawn that makes the opening move of this war, but even the timing will be dictated by whoever is the first to be ready or too afraid of the other players to be ready.

"Now. Brynden. If I move to save Minisa’s children, save you, do I own you?”

The silence Shella left in her wake was not one of indecision, but of defeat. Brynden did not have a choice, and he realized that.

“Family.” Brynden breathed out. He did not look surprised, an empty smile on his lips. “Family always comes first. I feared, I knew this would happen since Hoster asked whether I am with him. Family always comes first. What do you need me to do, Shella?”

“First of, tell me how the Bracken-Blackwood scenario is supposed to play out for Hoster, and Catelyn’s marriage to Alekyne Florent.”

Brynden regarded her for a second before he spoke.

“There will be an attack on Bracken men-at-arms by the Teats. Hoster will summon both the Blackwoods and the Brackens to Stony Sept under the name of arbitration, with the western Riverlords in force as witnesses. The Florents will stage their attack on Highgarden at that time and Cat will be brought to Brightwater keep by ship. First, Hoster will turn on the Blackwoods and marry Edmure to Barbara. Then, the assembled Rivermen army is to fall on the northern Reach to take the Tyrells unawares.”

My, the tactics were sound. With the Lannisters bribed, no one in the vicinity could muster fast enough to offer resistance. Still, it was necessary to squash that illusion.

“I need you to be the one Hoster trusts to take Catelyn south. Until then, you will be a dutiful brother. When you are on the water, you will be taken together with her. The Lannisters will not keep to their peace.”

“How do you know that?”, asked Brynden a little incredulous, a little afraid.

“Did it not bother you that truly almost every single person of interest heard the screaming match of the Northern savage and our vaunted Lord Paramount today, Brynden? Think. Who led all of them there?”

A second of confusion, a second of contemplation, a second of understanding, the dawning of dread.

“Tygett.”

It was not a question, Brynden seemed to be in pain.

“His sister, the Freys. His brother, the lords. Jeffory Mallister, the heirs. Jason Mallister sparred a friendly match with Quellon fucking Greyjoy. Who laughed. Oh, how I wanted to kill him. The Arryns. Brandon and Cat. But he did not know. Did he?”

He looked upon her then, fire in his eyes.

“Your son. You had a veil for her. You knew. You knew!”

Shella heaved a sigh. She had known he’d cast that doubt.

“I didn’t.” She matched his gaze for a second, and his fire would not melt her steel. “I visited his camp early today where I offered him my Linia’s hand for Brandon, and he laughed at me. His beard then looked better than it did when you saw him, I had never seen a more immaculately tended one. The priests of Norvos would have been jealous. I also offered mine own hand for his, and he told me to visit him after the show at Riverrun. He only told me to bring a veil with me, and to bring the ladies to the court yard with my son and Edmure. Said it helped free Jeffory and that it would give a signal. As much as he played me, I got what I wanted. I am firmly in his camp. As are you now. And you were right. Brandon was just as unawares as me. His heir, though, wasn’t. Think on that.”

Whatever anger Brynden had held onto evaporated visibly. Only disillusionment took its place. He did see the web when made aware of it. Later today, Shella would bring a true boon to the wolves. She would see she’d get her due. As Brynden rose Shella held up a hand, forestalling him.

“There will come a time, after Catelyn is safe, that you are going to marry. Unlike Hoster, I will not be denied when I find a bride for you. Are we understood?”

She had not thought he could break anymore, but he did.

“Even you, Shella? You know best, for me there ever only was Minisa.”

Shella did not have any pity to spare for his sentiment. Despite all, he would never make a politician, even if he grasped the lay of the board.

“Especially I. I strive to protect her children for you, I will not leave a useful piece aside for the sake of a cherished memory. I do not have the luxury to do so.”

He left, beaten and broken. Shella did not relish this. Still, there were worse reasons to sell yourself for. Brynden. Minisa. Family.

“Maester, please do send for Galladon, and Septa Roelle after.”

The old man left, leaving him to pour over his letters. The news from the capital had been disquieting since the news of Rickard Stark’s botched trial had come in, but dangerous times were also times of opportunity. The seeds he had laid two years back had bloomed beautifully last year for a short while, until Barristan the Bold had cut down the hedges that protected them and plucked his flower before he’d had a chance to collect it himself.

Still, the prize had been surrendered just because of the possibility is was spoilt. Truly wonderful. The present letters forced him to move up his plans some, but better to be thoroughly prepared for the war to come than be caught unawares, as was usually the danger with such things. Action before reaction, just like with the Ninepenny Kings. And did they not leave opportunities for him with their war?
His door opened and his son strode in. His blue eyes were twinkling like sapphires and his straw-blonde hair was still wet. He’d been swimming again. It was difficult to suppress a smile at the sight of his son, so he did not even try.

“You asked for me, father?”

“Yes, Galladon. I know this comes as a shock to you, but you will leave for Stonehelm when you turn six in two moons to foster there with Lord Gulian.”

Tears came to his son’s eyes, even as he tried not to show them.

“But father… But why? I finally have a sister!”

He felt old, suddenly, and the tears pricked his eyes as well. He opened his arms and Galladon fell into them as he held him tight.

“I know, Galladon. I would love to give you more time seeing her grow. But I need you to stay with the Swanns. You will even have your own lady to protect there, just like our little gem.”

The memory of Arianne and Alysanne hurt. It was just so raw. Both, gone in the cradle. He’d even held little Alys as her last breath had escaped her. He had cried to all the gods that would hear him as she grew weaker and weaker, but none had heard him. His perfect little girl had still died.

“And someday, you’ll even marry her. The Lady Jeyne needs a protector, and she’s the apple of her father Gulian’s eye. And I promise, you can come visit every year and tell our little Brienne about all the things you have learned with the strong Marchers.”

Selwyn Tarth felt the sobs of his son recede at the solemn oath he made and it warmed his heart. He held him a minute longer, but when his heir asked him if he was allowed to visit his mother and sister, he could not deny him. He was barely gone a few moments as his next guest slipped into his solar almost soundlessly.

“Septa Roelle”, Selwyn greeted the fair lady mirthfully, and the young woman could as ever not suppress a small smile at him.

“Lord Tarth. What can I do for you?”

“I have need of your expertise. The ploy with Lady Jeyne already bore fruit, not five days after news of Rickard Stark surviving the King’s Justice arrived, Lord Swann agreed to the betrothal of Galladon to his poor daughter.”

The woman in septa robes gifted him a brilliant smile as she answered.

“A lucky coincidence the Smiling Knight was prevented from despoiling her in order to keep her for ransom, even if contrary news to that spread.”

“Indeed”, Selwyn pushed out between the laughter the two of them shared.

When it died down he finally got to the matter he had called her for. It was not far removed from the last topic, after all.

“A war is imminent, and I have a special task for you.”

“Am I to train your levies with the bow? You will find no better shooters after I am done with them, even the Marchers will pale in comparison.”

Even as that would probably be true, the risk for that would outweigh the benefits. No, Septa Roelle would need to remain just that in front of his subjects.

“No. I have a more important task for you. You will have to get in contact with the cousin of a former acquaintance of ours in Myr.”

Her eyes widened in understanding. For her, it was not difficult to grasp who he was talking about. Still, a defiant glint spread through her eyes as she answered.

“I do not care to go to Essos. My vengeance is here. My mother’s rapist yet lives. His son, my brother, my rapist yet lives. How am I to eradicate House Cafferen from the other shore shore?”

He knew she’d make that point. He’d prepared for it.

“House Cafferen will hold to the king. The Golden Company will never have that option. We will stand against them, and we will have an army like few others at our back. While all the others now need to prepare their levies, we can take the initiative like no others. Our location comes as a blessing for this war, we have the initiative on our hands and none to expect us.”

He had her, he knew. Wenda the White Fawn cared little for the game of thrones, only her revenge was what mattered to her. Still, she was not stupid, so she asked the right questions.

“What can we offer Miles Toyne to brave the Narrow Sea with his troops and his beasts?”

He knew which other question swung in that sentence.

“Why, my future Lady of Fawnton, with the fastest army at the capital we can offer him almost everything. But the Golden Company is an easy animal to understand still. House Toyne will be reestablished after his brother Simon’s death with him as the head. Plunder will be aplenty and other former noble houses can be brought back as well.

We only need to be the first at the capital, there will be so many sides to this war they will all clamor for our support when we take the most important beachhead of all. We won’t be kingmakers; we will be kingsmakers. And when we have taken King’s Landing and we stand at the center of the pit, we will be in the the eye of the storm as the heartlands around us tear themselves apart.”

And they all would. Tear themselves apart and clamor for his support. The writing was on the wall; the time of the dragons was over.

“His name is Loras.”

Mace seemed to think proclaiming the name of his newest babe was an accomplishment. Seven, oaf was not strong enough a word to describe him half the time. It was a babe like any other, pink, shrivelly and squealing. Olenna only hoped the son would not one day go fat like his father.

At least Alerie was not up from the birthing bed yet. A most concerning raven had come, station demanded that she informed her son of what he had to do going forward. Olenna did not want to think on the possibility of what might’ve happened had she left for Riverrun and missed this. Days like these she wished her son was competent, even if it would spell the waning of her influence.

“Bring the little crier back to his mother, we need to have a talk in the privacy of your solar.”

She did not leave him the time to respond, or worse, decline. She knew her son would follow after, even as he was grumbling about it. Her oaf was bad with perceived pressure, even if he should not think to yield to it. Normally, his acquiescence would necessitate a lecture, but more important matters needed to be discussed. Hopefully he would keep his puffy lips shut with his wife after.

She’d taken a seat on the leisure table in the solar before Mace came in. If she’d moved to sit at the desk, Mace would have insisted on his high seat, a pointless squabble, really. Now her son simply sat on a level chair in front of her and he did not even notice his power diminish. If someone needs a special chair to exercise and remind you of their authority, you don’t leave them to command the seating arrangement. A sentiment many a lord will probably follow in the coming moons, if unconsciously.

She’d left the letter out on the tables before her for her son to read. She knew the damning content by heart, it had burned itself into her veins.

‘Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark have arrived at the capital. Kingsguards Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent have confirmed they stopped an attempted rape of Lady Lyanna by the prince. Tensions between the factions of the king and the prince are at their highest point ever.’

Olenna almost felt the need to give out a defeated sigh as neither concern nor fear nor understanding flitte over her son’s face. He read it once more before looking at her typically befuddled. As Mace spoke, she just wished he hadn’t. Silence is golden. Chatter is worth its weight.

“This is good news, mother. The lost daughter is returned unharmed. War is averted. We can even stop training our levies. Why did we have to go to the solar for this? My Loras is waiting for me with Alerie, I don’t have time for this.”

She definitely had not spanked her son enough as a child. Maybe that could be remedied, through her vines she’d heard how Rickard Stark effectively used slaps to educate his grown son still. Verbal chastisement did not seem to do the trick, but she still had to try.

“Sit.”

Her voice was pure iron as he rose to the contrary. He obeyed, luckily for him. It was the same tone he’d already seen her use with Luthor, though Mace himself had seldom been on the receiving end of it. Still he did not want her to unleash a lashing with it, it usually left him in realization of his stupidity.

“This”, Olenna said, waving the paper slip, “is the worst case scenario. The best case would have been that the prince saved the lady from some matter of peril. After that if they had simply run away together, blinded by love. If they’d just staid gone, disappeared, we would have welcomed it, Mace. Hells, even if he’d managed to rape her and had been welcomed back by the father and supported against the fury of the North and the Stormlands it might have been the most favorable outcome of all. This letter, though, ensures that the first part of the coming war will be a succession crisis of House Targaryen. The Reach will be hit the hardest of all kingdoms by that split.”

“Mother!”, Mace said indignant, he was good at that, “how can you say such a thing! The third and fourth option are both downright horrible. At least the lady was saved, is that not a good thing?”

“Mace, child, the first three options would let the waves calm down throughout the whole realm and leave the Targaryens with enough time to present a united front against whichever coalition formed against the father’s madness. The fourth would also unite all Targaryen and the loyalists, we’d even know who the enemy would be in that case. As long as our royals are united, no Reachlord would question their own loyalty towards us. Dorne in their backs would be too much of a threat, seeing how they are tied to the dragons this generation.

If the odds for our side are questionable, we could always waste time while besieging some strategically irrelevant castle and let the other powers spend themselves. The Reach can go toe to toe with any other two to three kingdoms united before such an event in manpower and all together in regards to supplies. After they’ve spend themselves? We can always sue for peace from a position of strength if the other side prevails.”

She could see him puff up like he usually did, probably to launch a tirade against the dishonor of such a maneuver. No, Olenna would not sit here and listen to such drivel so she pressed on and her son at least deflated a little as the gravity of her words sank in.

“Another Dance, however? That will only pitch Reachman against Reachman. Our strongest vassals would choose the sides that suit them best. We do not have a legitimate claim on Highgarden without the Seven Kingdoms, it is always in our paramount interest to remain as paramounts under a united realm. Who are the main threats towards our position as the overlords of the Reach?”

At least basic positioning had been drilled into the boy, as every Tyrell he knew of the grasping foxes.

“House Florent ever desires our seat.”

“Well done, Mace”, - not really, any idiot in the Reach knew that, but he’d need to start using his faculties somehow and rote memory questions at least left him with breadcrumbs – “now which are the seven Reach houses that represent the bulk of the military power of our kingdom in order from strongest to least?”

He mulled over that for a second before almost beaming at Olenna.

“Trick question”, - gods, he was preening at his own intellect, the fool, why did he still treat this like a game – “House Redwyne’s military power, while always in the top five, cannot be quantified the same way as the others. Their position and navy makes them unassailable themselves and the preeminent power on coast and sea, however, they can’t bring their might to bear the same way in the Reach proper.”

He was still smiling like a child, not even bothering to list the other six. Seven, he was to see the balance of alliances in place, not pride himself on recognizing the prominence of the Redwyne fleet. If Olenna said as much as she thought of people the moniker Queen of Thorns would have long been traded up for something way more sanguine, but she always did like to think she had an admirable level of restraint.

“So that is all that you can say to my question on the seven most important houses, House Redwyne? Maybe I should go ask Loras for his input, his squealing would tell me more of the other six than your foolish silence.”

At least Mace had the grace to look chastised, a look that suited his sheepish face well enough, before he finally resumed his task, even if his voice came out rather disgruntled after.

“Besides House Redwyne, the mainland houses in order of military importance are Tyrell, Florent, Hightower, Tarly, Rowan and Oakheart. Any coalition of two of those houses will probably prevail over a single one of the others.”

“True”, - good that she did not have to spoon-feed him that last tid bit – “now which of those houses would the others ever accept as their lieges?”

He thought for a second, actually, and Olenna felt a sting of pride at that. Wasn’t that pathetic in itself? Gods, hopefully Willas proved to be better as he grew. The slew of answers she got after the wait was even surprisingly half decent. Bless the crone.

“Well, we are the paramounts despite opposition by the Florents, so I’d say we are accepted enough?”

“Was that a question, Mace?”

A wonder what a raised eyebrow could express when called for.

“No, mother, but we stand by grace of our kings as you said. The Florents could usurp us, but they would have to placate the other houses after. Tarly is too closely linked to Marcher culture to keep the peace after and Hightower will never be accepted as liege after their folly during the Dance when they ran with too much ambition. Redwyne is removed from the equation for the same reason as their military autarky. Too remote. Rowan and Oakheart could be accepted, but theirs would be a weaker tenure than even Florent.”

For all his faults, for all his many faults, with enough prodding Mace did usually unveil the knowledge he always forgot he knew. More prodding was in order then.

“And what of the alliances between the houses, Mace?”

“We can count on houses Rowan and Oakheart, because without us Old Oak and Goldengrove would be isolated against the Westerlands and the Riverlands if it ever came to that as they would be unable to hold those forces on their own. Florent stands against us and Lord Tarly has recently married Melessa Florent. The lady is pregnant at the moment, so their alliance is probably ensured. House Redwyne has been bound to us for two generations and Paxter will hold to me. Leyton Hightower is my father-in-law. His grandson is already to become paramount, I do not see him moving with the family of his newest wife against us.”

He read the lay of the board correctly, but he did not see. That was the problem with Mace, in hindsight he’d always realize that he traced the correct conclusions only halfway. Both for better and for worse.

“Rhea Florent did not marry Leyton Hightower as a bribe, she was an assurance. Flanked on both sides by Florent forces, the Hightowers would be the first to go. They’ll now remain neutral for our civil war in this civil war. We need to utilize our ties to Oldtown before the fighting starts. Luckily, Alester Florent, for all his smart moves, has the eyes on the wrong price. He is underestimating what is to come. He only sees Highgarden, because Highgarden was all he ever saw above him.”

Time for a lesson, she’d need her son to follow her precisely in the coming storm and understand what could happen if he did not. Olenna rose and stepped over to her cabinet in the solar, something she had insisted on even during Luthor’s time. She did spend more time than him up here when he was alive, after all. Mace seemed nonplussed at her actions, but blanched as she returned with a simple weirwood box lacking usual reach ornaments. Oh, Mace knew the tools of her trade.

“Olenna”, her son addressed her as he only did when he was afraid of her, “do you intend to poison Melessa Florent and her child?”

He did grasp necessary subterfuge, even if he did not grasp subtlety.

“No, you dolt, just listen. All Reach houses of sufficient station have enough clout with the citadel to grow their own loyal Maesters. We cannot allow the shadow of pariah to hang over our heads even unproven now. What you see before you is the finest box of poison in the Reach, better than those of the Ladies Melara Crane, Rhea Florent, your sister Mina, Melessa Florent, Bethany Redwyne and Arwyn Oakheart. All those ladies see no further or higher than this box. Together, however, they’d drown my poison with their own.

But I see others, just as splendent as mine. Joanna Lannister’s was magnificent. Mariah Martell’s was magnificient, and all three of her children now have their own on par with hers. Cassana Estermont’s was a prize. I have never heard or seen Lyarra Stark’s fangs, and I feared her for it. Above all else, Rhaella Targaryen. You should have seen her in action before Aerys confined her to the Maidenvault. Maybe she’ll emerge a phoenix from the wildfire that Rhaegar and Aerys are playing with, Florents and Tarlys and Hightowers could not touch us and the wolfs and lions would be faced with a wall once more.”

Her son followed her so far, even as she still did not understand what she was going for.

“The Reach is a box of poisons, and we all have our own boxes within. The smaller lords do not see the bigger box that is the Seven Kingdoms, because the Reach is the greatest of the smaller boxes within. In comparison to them, we have to think outside the box that is the Reach. However, no one in the other kingdoms will shackle themselves to us and be drowned in our fights, consumed by our poison and that of our enemies. Why do I tell you all this? There is one thing I have learned, because as a woman playing the game I have always not only warred against the other ladies, but with Luthor’s enemies as well. I think more outside the box. And there is one thing we need to do before the others take the initiative: We need to look at the next bigger box. Because there always is a bigger box, Mace. There always is.”

Mace was silent throughout, when his answer came it was only a whisper.

“What box is there that is bigger than the Seven Kingdoms?”

“Send ravens, Mace, for Paxter and for the Bank of Oldtown. We will use all our funds there and the bank's vestigal roots in Lys along with the Redwyne fleet to ferry any sellsword company we can gather over from Essos through Volantis and Lys. Recruit through local channels, we do not want to alert the other kingdoms. Tyrosh would alert the Dornish to our plans. Keep an eye on the Golden Company as well, we cannot hire them for their stance against the Targaryens but we need to know who of the others play to break the whole box apart.”

Her son did not disagree. He did look at her in askance, though.

“All our funds? We are the third richest house behind the dragons and the lions, should we not prepare to rise after the ashes have settled?”

Olenna had to laugh at that, and she knew it rang hollow.

“Mace, you still do not see the scope of the war to come. It will be the greatest war in history.”

“Will we recoup our losses with the spoils then?”

Mace almost seemed confused, he knew it did not add up. They were sending our money off the continent after all.

“No, Mace, we will have to shoulder the losses. This whole war will be a money sinking pit for all of Westeros, taking gold and lives with cruel indifference.”

Mace was frightened, then. He did not ask more, and shortly excused himself as he ran to hold his newest son. Just like Olenna, for him the family’s survival came first. Olenna was truly proud of him in that aspect, the love and loyalty to his family he’d learned at her hand. He even promised not to tell Alerie of their discussion. But even long after he had left, Olenna remained sitting in the Reach’s cradle of power, contemplating the box.

“Sister-in-law, your husband bids us both to come meet him in his solar.”

Her brother-in-law only peeked his head through the beady curtains hanging in the doorframe to tell her before he left, not even waiting as she picked up her baby son to follow him. Noon had already passed so the heat was passable, still she did not relish to sit on her throne right now under the blazing sun shining through the leaded glass above.

Her husband had already taken his seat under the spear, as the male rulers of his line always did. Her old friend was the only non-family member in attendance beside Mellario, Doran and Oberyn as the Prince of Dorne beckoned her to take her seat beside him. The letters in his lap coupled with his troubled expression left her with ominous trepidation.

The last they had spoken had been a screaming match as passionate as their love-making. She could not believe Dorne and all of Westeros followed such barbaric traditions, to wrest children from their mother’s breast and let strangers raise them instead. Never would she give up her baby to be raised by people to assuage their grudge against her brother-in-law because Oberyn killed their father. Her little Quentyn had not even turned one year old yet!

When Doran looked at her though, defeated but full of love, she could not be angry in that moment. He reached for her hand as she took her seat at his side and it like always just fit so perfectly. One last vulnerable look at her before he faced his brother as the prince.

“Oberyn. I need you to do penance by Ormond Yronwood for the death of his father in your trial by combat.”

Mellario felt hopeful, Mellario felt afraid. Quentyn would not have to foster away. What news came with the letters to make Doran change his mind? She knew she herself hadn’t. One look at her brother-in-law and she saw him a betrayed man.

“Why, brother?”

His voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke. Mellario saw Areo tense by the door.

“Why are you sending me to my death, brother? You know I did not poison my spear that day.”

Despite his princely mask Mellario saw the pain in the eyes of her beloved. He picked up one of the two letters in his lap. Mellario recognized the script, her sister-in-law always wrote in such beautifully flowing letters.

“Elia has written.” As Doran spoke Mellario saw Oberyn notice the pain in his brother also. “Prince Rhaegar has returned and our worst fears have come true. He has tried to rape Lady Lyanna, only to be prevented by the Kingsguard. Now Aerys seeks to set him aside as his heir and nominate Viserys, even if those notions aren’t public yet.”

Where Doran felt sorrow, Oberyn felt fury. While Mellario knew both men to be as dangerous as the other when called for, she was always more afraid for her brother-in-law's lack of foresight and lack of regard for consequences. Still she marveled at the leash her husband held, as with just a raised hand his brother calmed enough to at least listen.

“The letter tells of more. Elia has the queen’s support for Aegon, not openly but in writing. You do not know of Rhaella before she had her wings clipped, but mother always talked of her as a friend that should still be feared.”

The younger Martell did listen; he just sometimes did not care. When he answered he did not even bother to hide a sneer.

“And what has this great queen done since Lord Stark walked out of the capital, waiting for the city to burn behind him?”

“That is a worrying matter, actually. Rhaella Targaryen has made no moves as of this letter since Rhaegar has returned and seemed not to be about to take any, according to Elia. Our sister thinks she already has. A raven went east not a day after Lord Stark left. Furthermore, the Holy Hundred and the Faith have been on the move. Rhaella goes to pray daily.”

The implication was heavy, and Mellario only felt herself sink into a black pit of dread. Coming from a city under the hold of the bearded priests, one of the first things she read up on was the politics of faith on her knew continent. Doran must have felt something from her grip for she felt his thumb soothingly circle the back of her hand.

“Worry not, Mel. The rise of a new Faith Militant would see the Targaryens betrayed left and right and deposed in a heartbeat. No, this is likely putting a piece into place to influence the smallfolk when opportunity arises.”

Oberyn broke their moment, though she could not fault him for it. His concern was obvious as he spoke.

“Did Elia write of engaging Lord Stark again? Are we to thank him for taking Rhaenys as his hostage?”

“She did not mention it, but we are. An official letter of his has invited you to Winterfell to make certain Rhaenys is well cared for. You are even allowed an armed escort of unlimited capacity, provided we pay for supplies and lodging of each spear above the 20th.”

That shut Oberyn up. Doran was not finished though, as he held up a second letter now.

“What has me sending you to Yronwood is this letter, though, which was brought here in person. I believe it is also by Lord Stark. It speaks of an… interesting alternative to the Iron Throne.”

Oberyn looked at his brother incredulous.

“Are you expecting me to betray Elia and Aegon? We stand on the cusp of greatness like never before, Doran, why would we risk that?”

“Because Elia and Aegon and Rhaenys would be safer as Martells”, Doran said, “and because if we don’t present ourselves as reliable and worthy partners to whichever side we end up picking between Aegon’s and the Stark’s, we will only lose in the coming war. We need all of Dorne behind us now, not after Quentyn has grown old enough to ward there. Convince Ormond Yronwood of your innocence or not, but bring him back into the fold. You may continue to Winterfell afterwards. Do it for Elia and her children.”

Oberyn did not look happy, but he was placated. Quentyn would not have to leave to be raised by people that hated his family. Mellario almost felt happy, but as Doran turned towards her and did not drop his princely face, she knew that whatever was to come for her was worse than what Oberyn would have to face in Yronwood. She had only been bribed with the fact that Quentyn would not be parted from her.

“Go on, love”, she spoke, her voice of a hollow strength, “what do you need of me?”

He looked at her then, with sadness and love and pity.

“This war will stretch beyond Westeros, Mel. Braavos will be the first to be involved, first through the Iron Bank then through whatever play the Keyholders and the Sealord decide on. Penthos will see the leash slacken and try to push its limits. Likely, it will fail, but many a magister there is rich and likes to play from afar in many a business. With Westeros concerned with itself, the war over the Disputed Lands is likely to extend to the Stepstones. The Elephants reign in Volantis, so they will not fight, only fund. Slaver’s Bay and the Summer Isles will not involve themselves directly, but opportunity for easy slaving raids will increase, so the the first will move to grasp them and the other will seek to punish in turn.”

Mellario saw the web, all the pieces falling into place. Doran was scary in these thoughts, because he so often was proved right. She completed his tale for him.

“And so, with the Dothraki binding Qohor and Braavos focus on the west, Lorath will be up for another power to increase their pressure. Norvos has ever been striving to acquire its spot on the Shivering Sea. But how are you going to bring Norvos to your side?”

The grass that hid the viper showed why it should be feared in itself, for it was a scary thing indeed.

“Ibbenese fishing and whaling raids have increased, so the Lorathi have hired a sellsword company to deter them. The Second Sons. While Oberyn’s contacts there have withered, their paymaster Tybero is in my books. At my word he will open the gates to the city when Norvos comes knocking as my friend.”

Lorath held more than seventy thousand people, maybe more than a hundred. It was difficult to count throughout the sprawling islands. All those she would deliver to the hounds of a god she did not know, one that held her home city under his yoke. She smiled at her husband then, with tears in her eyes.

“I think I would like to introduce Quentyn to the other side of his family. Do you give me leave to return to Norvos for a few moons with him, my love?”

And Doran’s grey-black eyes met her green ones as he squeezed her hand once more and stroked through her ebon hair with his fingers as he answered.

“Mel, my love. A ship for Tyrosh will be prepared to leave at your leisure. Take Areo and my cousin Manfrey with you to keep you and Quentyn safe.”

Syrio Forel, First Sword of Braavos, had a rather uncommon task to complete today. The Sealord had asked him to replace a guard at the Iron Bank, there were two visitors expected today that were in possession of vital information of the increasingly chaotic situation in Westeros. He disliked leaving the care of his charge to the Second Sword, the man was at best in the top six of the city. But the reasoning for his attendance could not be denied, Syrio did see all things for what they were.

The man to receive today's vaunted guests as head banker was a member of House Reyaan and a keyholder himself, the men were both of sufficient station to require the courtesy. The great doors to their central chamber opened and a man strode in, tall and fair, of Valyrian stock and uncommon beauty. No man of the pleasures, this, despite the common fate of men with his ancestry, and neither one to indulge in the same. He wore silks today of the finest make, but Syrio saw the man preferred to be dressed in armor. Leather, for the man was also of the sea. A soldier, that’s what he was. The crier standing at the side of the room introduced the man.

“Presenting the Master of Ships of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark, Lucerys Velaryon, envoy of the Iron Throne.”

The foreign lord did not wait any longer to take his seat. The three bankers he was to deal with remained unconcerned, the invitation to sit alone would presume it was theirs to extend, and despite their position they were still only cogs. However, even for lords did iron not bend, so neither did the Iron Bank.

“Has the Iron Bank not made its position clear to the Hand Tywin Lannister that it will not extend any more loans to King Aerys II after his threats against the city of Braavos in 267 AC 15 years ago? While the former Hand did pay the outstanding debt himself, we have been of the understanding that Lord Tywin had resigned his post last year, has he not?”

The Lord of the Tides – a useless title, for no man controlled ebb and flow – tensed his jaw and Syrio saw him for the poor politician he was. A soldier, that’s what he was.

“I am not here on behalf of Aerys Targaryen”, Lucerys Velaryon said truthfully, “but on behalf of the Iron Throne.”

While the two deputy bankers of this meeting looked up abruptly, keyholder Reyaan simply inclined his head with a smile as he spoke.

“Are we to understand that you come to us, then, in the name of Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne?”

The glib face of the head banker betrayed nothing, but Syrio saw the smaller cogs turning within him. The answer of the foreign lord stopped the clockwork, though, and even Syrio was surprised as the vaunted visitor spoke his next words, all of which the man perceived as the truth.

“Yes. No. Maybe.” Lord Velaryon did not falter as he talked, his intent was unwavering. “As to my most recent knowledge, I left Driftmark 25 days ago and the Crown Prince was missing at that point in time.”

This was known to the bankers. As was the freshest news from the western shore, that had only arrived today and was only known to the upper echelon of the city. The Sealord had seen fit to impart Syrio with that intelligence.

Keyholder Reyaan contemplated the man in front of him for a second. After a second, he whispered to the two deputies at his side who rose without question and took all but two guards with them as they left. One of the guards left was Syrio, the other a mute that could not write. Syrio had seen him for what he was. Whatever developed out of the following talks, the risk that the man could pass on what he heard would be infinitesimally small.

“The Iron Bank knows as of today that Crown Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna have returned to King’s Landing. The accusation of attempted rape against the Lady has been confirmed by two Kingsguards, as their intervention against the crime.”

As keyholder Reyaan spoke, Syrio saw the Master of Driftmark visibly resign into himself. Still, the man found his steel and straightened his spine before addressing the banker before him.

“In that case I speak in the name of Queen Rhaella I Targaryen, Queen Regent to his majesty King Aegon Targaryen the sixth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm. Long may he reign. The Iron Throne seeks to enter into negotiation with the Iron Bank of Braavos.”

Syrio saw it, then, he saw it true. The Sealord had told him a war like no other was coming, and Braavos was to reap great profits. But Syrio only saw the pit, deep and black and hungry, he saw it in the steel of Lucerys Velaryon’s spine and in the gold in keyholder Reyaan’s eyes. And as the two men talked the death of countless, the pit only grew.

Lucerys Velaryon left after the sun had passed its zenith. The room had already been refilled with two new deputies, a new crier and a new group of guardsmen before the great doors opened again.

The new arrival was no soldier, but a warrior. White of hair and beard, full in breadth but cropped close. The man was of tan skin and had eyes the color of smelted iron. A Westerosi, too. This one wore armor, well used but in impeccable condition. Leather as the other Lucerys Velaryon would have preferred to have been dressed in today, but this was no man of the sea. Wandering eyes looked throughout the whole room as the man sauntered slowly towards keyholder Reyaan and the deputies at the table. As he made his way the crier announced him.

“Presenting the Commander General of the Wolf Pack and the Commander General -”

“Stop!”

The new arrival spoke that one word as he raised a hand. The man took a last look at the three bankers before slowly walking in a circle through the room, first looking at the crier and then at each of the guards. He came to a stop in front of Syrio himself, and his face morphed into a smile. A feral thing, though, and the man’s eyes remained iron.

“Your information is outdated. I never was Commander General of the Wolf Pack, as it has been incorporated into my original company and their forces were absorbed.”

The man’s eyes did not leave Syrio’s as he spoke, and besides the iron within Syrio now also saw blood. Despite his age, this man would easily gut the Second Sword of Braavos. Even Syrio would not be sure if he could deny death the day if they stood opposed to another with swords in their hands. This was a man who saw Syrio like Syrio saw the man. Just a tiny bit, Syrio felt fear. It cut deeper than any sword.

“The title a member of House Stark wears when he leads the Company of the Rose is Prince-in-Exile, though I am the first man of House Stark to take up this vaunted position. I am Rodrik Stark, and I have come to negotiate on behalf of Rickard Stark, the King of Winter, with the Iron Bank of Braavos.”

During his whole introduction, Rodrik Stark’s smiling iron eyes did not waver, staring into all of Syrio’s fears. But Syrio saw behind the man, and he saw all the others beside keyholder Reyaan blanch. When Rodrik Stark left the Iron Bank after dusk had fallen, only sparing head banker Reyaan, Syrio had to execute the crier, the two deputies and all the guards in the room. Even the mute.

Chapter Text

Taking Lysa away unseen did not prove to be much of a challenge to Shella. Hoster had other problems to occupy him, he would not care about his younger daughter today and he would not step up to Walder Frey with his proposal before tomorrow. No, that would seem too desperate and too grasping. Either tomorrow or the day after at the earliest.

But even as Minisa had died years ago, Shella did still own a good fifth of all the servants of Riverrun. This move could never be kept secret for long, it was the initiative that mattered. Of course, Hoster could always retaliate, but he would be lacking support and the power to take Lysa back in this case. So, Shella left a letter behind thanking Hoster that he had transferred Lysa into her care to look after. He’d see this the move of a sentimental and foolish woman. Idiot.

Linia had been charming Jeffory Mallister while she talked loyalty and betrayal with Brynden. The boy was never a prospect and as soon as Linia tried to move the subject towards the Old Wolf, Jeffory shut his mouth faster than a proper septa did her legs faster at the mention of Oberyn Martell. Seven, five years and still the faith cursed him from Oldtown to King’s Landing, no matter what else they all disagreed on.

Simon had been sent down into the village as soon as Edmure had been disentangled from him, and true to form as Rickard Stark had said, everyone knew of Lysa Tully’s dead bastard. How far, how long had the wolves infiltrated the Riverlands that they could spread this information so quickly with none to know where it came from? Or did they use Ironborn leftovers that were somehow kept alive after the Conquest? No, that was as unlikely as those isolationist falcons spreading the news. The implications were chilling. Did this network only spread through the country side? Were there any spies seeded amongst the castles? Most importantly, were any of her own spies working as double agents?

She had never suspected Rickard Stark of guile before his visit to the capital, but now everything new she learned about him scared her. Still, other players less focused on the Riverlands probably did not even know how dangerous this man truly was. Shella blessed her luck for throwing in her hat early with the wolves.

Shella bade farewell to the other lords quickly and sent Lysa with some of her guard to travel with a litter cross country and join up with Lord Blackwood when he left for Raventree Hall. At the same time, two decoys were dispatched to divert Hoster’s attention if he proved unreasonable. She pulled Tytos aside so he knew to expect her package and convinced him to visit her as soon as he arrived at home under any flimsy excuse. She did not even have to make an overly obvious reference to the Brackens, the fresh lord had gotten a quick appreciation for her on their ride to Riverrun.

Halfway on the way to the Stark-Arryn camp did their party meet another going the other direction. The first amongst their standards were the Westerling shells on sand followed by their up jumped merchant bride’s house. They made for a harsh pace and Sybell Spicer did not look happy on her high horse.

Did they not, then, see the writing on the wall that the wolves bandied with their betters? Shella did not think the lions would be displeased with mere clams over this issue, the Westerlings were ever loyal, but that grasping new lady required watching.

As they arrived at the wolves’ camp they were received by Ashara Dayne and Elbert Arryn, almost none of the true movers and shakers awaiting them. Shella would have almost been offended, she knew her own worth, but the resplendent lady quickly assuaged her displeasure at being treated as insignificant with only a few choice words and a brilliant smile. Shella always thought herself above flattery but the starling had the making of a great diplomat, without a doubt picked up in the capital and already trained before.

Linia quickly tried to insert herself at the young falcon’s side who displayed a mixture of embarrassment and elation at the attention. Typical Vale knight, the amateur. However, he also could not hide a small hint at exasperation, which in turn gave Linia pause. The Lady Ashara quickly and smoothly cut in between the two, freeing the trapped bird. Linia would have to work better at schooling her irritation, Shella noted at that. However, their talk quickly progressed to marriage talks directly and when Ashara Dayne leaned in to whisper something to Linia, Shella only saw her daughter redden with a smile before becoming a lot more responsive to the Dornishwoman.

Elbert Arryn stepped up to her, but was entirely unreceptive to banter. Straight like a knight’s lance, though he did smile at some of her commentary of her daughter. It wasn’t that the boy did not understand the game, Shella noted, he was just schooled to play on a different field and he knew it.

A little time passed until a Stark guard approached Ashara Dayne with what Shella saw to be a mix of an astonishing amount of reverence, a large helping of fear and just a sliver of suppressed -. Lust was the wrong word, Shella decided. Appreciation, she decided. The fear had won out over the baser form of the man’s instinct. The Dornish star bore watching, she reaffirmed.

Only a few moments after the watchman had stepped away again, Lady Dayne led them in silence to enter the back of the largest tent outside the inn the Starks had rented and motioned for Shella to spy through a slit peephole in the canopy into the main room of the tent as she noticed the words ringing in her ears.

“-less, and justice to all, and I shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire.”

Shella Whent spied Stevron Frey kneeling in front of the Warden of the North and his heir as he spoke the First Men’s oath of fealty, and she could not believe it. All her reports from Sarya spoke best of Stevron amongst the Freys. No, that did not do the man justice, the letters spoke good of Stevron Frey. Of a Frey. And there the man knelt, in front of a paramount that was not supposed to be his own, witnessed by his Lannister sister-in-law and the Warden of the East, betraying his father. As Shella Whent slowly pulled back from her spy hole, she found Ashara Dayne to be attentively watching her. After a second they shared a smile.

She heard rustling from the other side of the curtain and the tent flap open and close before Lady Dayne swiftly stepped through the hanging veils and stepped up to Rickard Stark’s second son, whose countenance visibly softened. While Stevron Frey had already left, Shella was a little surprised that his sister-in-law had remained. Still, it only served her interested to be acquainted with all the upper echelon of this conspiracy of theirs.

“Lady Whent, I am delighted to see you again so soon. I had hoped you would return today ever since your visit to our camp in the morning. I do hope the Lady Catelyn and young Lord Edmure are coping with the events of this day, I bear them no ill in this.”

Lord Stark seemed utterly sincere as he sternly spoke to her and her children. Simon sat straighter at his words, too obviously vary of the man to serve him well, and even Linia did not manage to hide a sliver of fear. A kind smile was shot their way, shining through his freshly oiled beard. My, did Rickard Stark look stately in his grey and white doublet. Shella did not recognize the man from Riverrun.

“Please, my lord, won’t you call me Shella? After all, I did offer my hand in marriage this morning and you have not declined me yet.”

A simpering smile, a fluttering of her lashes, and just as today in the morning when Linia’s suit was presented, the Wolf Lord chuckled a deep, sonorous laugh.

“You are a delight, Shella, it would please me if we are to become more familiar. Though I am sorry to say that I have to decline the offer of your hand. I do hope that does not impede our growing friendship. Just Rickard is fine for me, among such a circle of friends as we are sitting her.”

His was a smile of knives as Genna Lannister sized her up from the side and Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn regarded her with a stony look hiding whatever they were thinking. Those two were no politicians, but they were unlikely to be played by one as well. Elbert seemed a little confused, more than Simon, while Ashara Dayne beside the heir to the North was all kind smiles and starry eyes and Linia tried to emulate the picture of innocence the Dornish presented.

“Of course we are friends, Rickard”, Shella almost breathed the words, “I have even brought gifts with me. Hoster Tully received a raven from the capital regarding your daughter.”

It was terrifying to behold; not a single muscle moved in Rickard Stark’s smiling face, yet the eyes of the man suddenly promised gruesome death and untold horrors. While the Arryns remained rather stoic to the development and Genna Lannister only subtly started to pay even more regard to the Old Wolf, the silence of the young wolf in the room only seemed to grow more… oppressive. The lady by his side squeezed his hand reassuringly as the son’s unblinking eyes sook out the father’s.

Something unsaid passed between them, but Shella could only fathom at it. Still she’d seen what she wanted. Despite all, the Starks were a family above all. A trade up from Hoster, but having just taken Lysa, Shella was not blind to the inherent debilities such a reliance caused. Not wanting to unnecessarily increase the tension, Shella spoke on.

“Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent prevented Prince Rhaegar from raping your daughter. The Prince has returned to the capital in disgrace as tensions between the factions of the king and the prince are rising. Lady Lyanna is to be returned to you with an honor guard consisting of the two heroic knights and 50 men-at-arms of House Targaryen.”

The fury of the Old Wolf did not lessen one bit, but the heir and his lady could not hide their elation at this revelation.

“That”, the wolf lord said with just a hint of his accent shining through and a bloody smile on his lips, “is the situation I had most hoped for. Shella, you are a gift. Let me give you three gifts in return, for I am ever a generous man.”

She returned his smile in silence, even as she grew wary without end.

“In the North we are lacking in knights, and I am ever gracious to our queen for she has agreed to fund the rebuilding of Moat Cailin, which I have elected to confer upon my youngest son. I intend to help him build his household, and I believe your son Simon would make a splendid Master-at-Arms after a few years as an officer in my guard at Winterfell, do you not agree?”

Shella could only give a tight nod in answer, even as her son abruptly turned towards her with a pleading look. A hostage to be traded, but not one high in the succession. Still, Rickard Stark had been a lone father for 15 years now, he could understand the love of a mother as well.

“Secondly, though I regret to inform you that the offer of the hand of your daughter has been refused for my son Ned, Elbert Arryn, Gerion Lannister and Oberyn Martell; however, the heir to Runestone Andar Royce has come to love her from afar and is eager – so eager – to press his suit that no dowry is expected.

"

Of course, I would be thankful if you could lend your signature to the letters I am to send to Casterly Rock, the Eyrie, Winterfell and Sunspear in which we thank the house heads for their support in this match after the other suits fell through.”

A bribe, this, with a warning attached. Now it was her daughter’s turn to look at her in askance, if not in fright. She did not believe her mother to have attempted to barter her flesh away to all these men, but she did not understand what was spoken about. Runestone was a match Shella would have had to offer at least a lord’s ransom for. Still, Shella would gift her daughter the best ladies’ box to help her in the new waters she was to brave. The implication, though, that her new coalition had already had cause to believe that Dorne was to join them hinted at prior communication, and the implication was stunning. Who had made these moves?

“The third gift is a wedding for yourself, even as I regret I had to decline your hand myself. Lord Arryn believes his future demesne should build friendly relationships to other high lords and has allowed for Quellon Greyjoy to present his suit for you. I believe I heard a rumor that Walter Whent mentioned his intent to join the honorable order of the Night’s Watch, is that not true? Congratulations, Shella my friend, you are moving up the ladder.”

Slowly but smoothly Shella clasped her hands together and inclined her heads in thanks, hoping it managed to hide her shaking. She had sold herself high, her ambition of paramountcy in her grasp. So the Riverlands had already been redistributed. Whent and Mallister and Frey and who else? There was no retreat for her now, her question might as well be blunt.

“Thank you for this gift, Lord Stark, Lord Arryn. Am I to proclaim my fealty to the Eyrie, my liege?”

The older man offered a chuckle and a wave of hand.

“Please, Lady Whent. Such is not required of leal bannermen without an audience.”

“Rickard, my cousin Sarya had always only the best words to share on Stevron of all the Freys, what did you discuss with him earlier?”

At her question Rickard Stark only turned his head a little. She was surprised to hear Ashara Dayne speak up from the side.

“Lady Genna was most interested in this new perfume I brought with me. It is in the Lyseni style, those people have made an art of it, I tell you Lady Whent, but this one is particular to Dorne. I swear people above the Red Mountains know naught of it, you use other herbs up here for it. Still, we are somewhat famed for it, especially us women. Then again, our princess’ favorite brother is known to dabble in it as well, but nobody really wants to know what my friend Oberyn is up to half the time. Oh my, I did not mean to ramble on like that. I hope I did not bore you, Lady Whent, thoughts of home do carry me away sometimes.”

“What my son’s betrothed wanted to arrive at, is that at Lady Genna’s behest we closed a deal to use the Twins advantageous position and increase our trade in exotic products, both from the marshlands of the Neck as well as from our future influx in trade from Dorne.”

Lord Stark cheerily wove on the web of lies with the Dornishwoman. A most delightful girl, Shella decided. She would definitely exchange some tinctures with her, and after all, a steady correspondence with the future Lady Stark could only be to her benefit.

The most important bachelor of the North and the Dornish princess’ bosom friend - emphasis on bosom – who would have thought. Still the girl seemed to be a boon herself, the obvious affection only helped. The wolf boy in front of her must have hidden depths beneath his quiet surface if he managed to charm the fiery woman at his side still. Shella had been surprised when her brood in the capital had informed her of this steadily growing bond, herself having firsthand accounts of the farce the former Stark heir proclaimed at her castle about Ashara Dayne. Thinking of Eddard Stark’s brother reminded her of another matter she had yet to mention.

“Oh, Lady Ashara, those perfumes sound lovely, maybe we can talk more on them? You must have used them to charm your handsome husband at the Eyrie. You fostered there, did you not, Lord Eddard, along with Robert Baratheon? How come the Lord of Storm’s End did not travel with you but is following to arrive here in about four days after today?”

There was a short lull in the conversation, but while Rickard Stark’s face gave nothing away, Jon Arryn betrayed his surprise at this news. Gods, the charging stag was rudderless and lacking a handler apparently. Still there was not even a break before the Old Wolf took the reins and spoke up.

“Shella, why do you not stay a few more days with your children? We had intended to throw a small feast in five days to announce the betrothal of my heir to his lady, but Ned did not want to celebrate without his brother in all but blood. A few more friends only make for more of a merry company.”

She had not expected a reversal of the like, but what surprised her was the most was a small predatory glint that came over Ashara Dayne’s eyes. The young woman even batted her lashes at Shella, her voice the chime of a laughing bell.

“Oh, please, Lady Shella, do stay. I swear you have not seen the like of a feast thrown by Northmen, I promise you will find yourself well entertained. I do believe Linia must’ve brought a stunning dress for the wedding, let’s not deny her the chance to wear it. I would put my perfumes at your perusal, I’ll even let you keep one that you like.”

“We both would be delighted to share this moment with friends new and old”, Eddard Stark spoke for the first time since Shella had seen him as his promised gifted him a soft smile, “I met Ashara dancing under your roof, I can think of no better company for this occasion. We even might have a few songs you have not heard yet here in the Riverlands.”

Shella did not see the harm in that, and her children did seem excited at the prospect. Linia’s and Simon’s days in the Riverlands were numbered now, best to make the most of it. Ashara beamed as Shella agreed and Genna Lannister was asked to extend an open invitation to the men of the Westerlands. The young Stark bride-to-be quickly pulled her Linia up to her room to go about preparing the party on such short notice. Genna Lannister did not pretend to linger with Lord Stark and quickly left afterwards, taking Stevron Frey with her and her own husband who seemed to have been occupied by some of the people in the retinue of the Arryns.

Rickard Stark did hold back Shella for a second, but only to bid her to send a raven for Darry on his behalf as he did not care to bother any of the knightly houses around that were unfamiliar to him. The Old Wolf quickly penned a letter to his daughter ordering her to travel on to Winterfell and to reunite with him there, continuing to follow the Kingsroad after Darry.

Afterwards he left, sending out his guardsmen to invite the surrounding smallfolk with abandon and empty all the other inns around of food, mead, ale and wine for the feast. Lastly, some men returned to Riverrun disguised as merchants to cheaply buy some of the food stocks prepared for the wedding and spread an open invitation to all the lords in attendance except the Tullys.

The move could be seen as an uncouth but effective slight against Hoster, to barter away the prize the man had sought to another at the Riverlord’s home soil, as could be expected of an uncivilized Northman. Or as an effective way to draw the impromptu court of alliances from Riverrun towards Lord Stark’s own controlled demesne and challenge Hoster’s authority over his own bannermen, as could be expected of a skilled politician and master manipulator. And the people would come. Hoster would rage, Hoster would plead, and Hoster would lose.

He could not command his lords to stay away, not when all the lords of the other kingdoms would flock to this inn. Bumbling savage or master of the game, as ever with Rickard Stark, the people would only see in him what they were ready to see. And to think he threw the plan together on the spot as he heard of Robert Baratheon approaching. Once more Shella was ecstatic at having come under the wolf’s protection. Lady Paramount. Even if she should lose in the war to come, she’d never expected to climb so high.

“Jon, do you have a minute?”

His younger foster son sook him out early in the morning the day after Shella had been welcomed into his fold. Kyle had already sent a raven to Runestone to notify his uncle the bronze lord of the betrothal of his son to lady Linia late in the night, so Jon was still tired. Yohn was one of his bannermen more aware of the plans being made, though, so urgency was due for the proper information to be disseminated to him at the right time. However, a little tiredness would not be enough to keep Jon from helping Ned if he needed it. Even if a proper bed after days in the saddle was very tempting.

His son in all but name but name came into his room, looking a little exhausted but ecstatic none the less. He’d had that spark to his eyes since bringing Ashara to the Eyrie from Gulltown, and Jon could not be happier for him, especially as today both Ned’s exhaustion and elation seemed to have reached another level. The official betrothal seemed to have worn him out a little in the night. His eyes were shining like dew mist at dawn as he spoke.

“I need to speak with my father soon, and I’d like to have you at my back when I approach him.”

At this Ned hesitated for a second before talking on.

“Ashara thinks she might be pregnant. I want to break camp for Winterfell two days after the feast at the latest, and be wed as soon as we reach home. It would give Shara the chance to have Ser Arthur give her away. And I would like for you to be there with me. It would mean a lot to me.”

“Ned. Son. Of course I’ll come. That’s wonderful. But yes, we’ll have you two get married as soon as possible. How are you holding up with these news?”

Jon again felt that familiar sensation, joy and dread. His family had grown just yesterday, and today the future looked bright. He desperately tried not to think of his five dead babes, but he knew he was making a poor attempt at a smile. However, Ned did not question him as he spoke. He was a man that understood how to read the nuances of silence.

“Euphoric. Terrified. I want to shout it out to the world but tell no one. I fear that I can never be a father. I thought I was afraid of the war to come an hour ago. Now I know, I did not truly know fear.”

“My boy. I am ever thankful for the day I asked your permission to call you son.”

Jon looked at his Northern ward, taking him by the shoulders.

“I was afraid that day. I had already come to love you as a son, but I did not know if you reciprocated my feelings. You are quiet sometimes, you know that?”

His son shared one of his quiet smiles, the one he only gifted to a trusted few.

“Let me tell you what my father once told me when I was a young boy. I usually only tell the words, but I trust you to keep this silent. I was afraid of heights. Can you imagine that? I, the future Lord of the Eyrie, was afraid of heights as a young boy.”

Jon did not think Ned capable of releasing a snort, but he was proven wrong

“My father took me aside, then, and imparted on me the words that shaped my house words to be more than just ‘As High as Honor’. Just like the pack survives when winter comes as you have once told me, honor lies in braving the challenges life throws at us that make us pause.

"If, like for me today, your son ever comes to you and tells you he is afraid of something, tell him that is the only time a man can be brave. That way lies honor, for one is fighting to overcome oneself. The only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid, and a brave man will soar as high as honor.”

His son did not answer, for nothing needed to be said. Jon pulled him into a tight hug and never wanted to let go.

When he did, he told Ned to bring Ashara to the tent outside and meet him and Rickard there. It was time to share the news and to reveal to Lady Dayne the full extent of what they would bring about. The four of them came together not ten minutes after, and while on Ned’s face the euphoria had decidedly won out, Ashara’s emotions still seemed to be fighting for supremacy. Even Rickard spied the woman to be conflicted, where before this moment Jon had never seen his son’s love to wear such a weakness on her face.

As the pair sat across from them, their intertwined hands kept twitching as Ashara looked at anything but Rickard’s face. Ned did not have this shadow of uneasiness stopping him, but he changed the grip of Ashara’s left hand into his own to support her with his right in the small of her back. With Ashara he was just so natural. Only then did he speak to his birth father.

“Father. I plead to you, let us leave as soon as possible after the betrothal is announced. I want to be safe back in Winterfell and happily wed before Ashara shows that she is carrying your first grandchild.”

Rickard Stark’s head immediately turned to Ashara, who still did not look at him. If she had, she’d see that there was nothing but warmth in his gaze after a fraction of a second. As she wouldn't raise her head, Rickard rose and walked up to her, only to take a knee in front of her and grasp her remaining hand into both of his, fixing her eyes with his own finally.

“Daughter”, he spoke softly, his voice raw and tender, “the growth of the pack is only ever a wonderful gift.”

Ashara heaved a sob as a lone relieved tear escape her before Ned put a finger under her chin to gently make her look at him.

“My love.” He said intently, and she smiled.

“My wife.” He said longingly, and she shined.

“My queen.” He said, and she looked at him in question.

“You are carrying the youngest prince or princess of the reestablished and soon to be proclaimed Kingdom of Winter.” He said, and Ashara showed awe and love and shock and fear and disbelief.

That moment Jon saw the daughter of his son realize that the ladder had no ceiling and all she knew growing up would change more than she had thought possible. But that was always the way of the world when a new child strove to enter it.

The four of them spoke then, of the joy of parenthood, of Ned as a child, where both Jon and Rickard managed to embarrass their son enough to grow red, and of the great and terrible war to come and how they wanted the world to look like when it was finished.

And after that it was calm for four more days, until Jon’s other son arrived on the day of the betrothal feast.

The raven for her husband had also carried a letter addressed to her, this one from her mother instead of her brother. Well, they were probably both worded by her mother, but Paxter liked to believe in the illusion that Mace only acted a bumbling fool most of the time to make everyone around him drop their guard against him, and that he was one of the few to understand Mace’s supposed cunning and his intricate letter was a sign that Paxter was trusted like few others by mummer Mace. Is the idiot or the one who sees greatness in one were there isn’t the bigger fool?

Her mother preferred the term oaf, but one was less blind to the failings of one’s brother than the ones of a son. Mina could understand that, now that Horas and Hobber were no longer kicking her ribs but squealing in her arms. Gods, the one slobbered over the majority of her wardrobe and the other’s cries were a horror in the night, as he only settled in her arms and not the wet nurse’s. Still she loved them more than she’d thought possible.

They were but one year yet and already her mother wanted to wrench her away from them on another errand, this one a lot farther than just to the Arbor, but luckily only for a round trip instead of a lifetime. Still Paxter had been reluctant when she told him she would accompany the boats on to Lys and Volantis, and take part of the fleet further still.

When she was younger she’d wanted to travel, see the world, but now that it was happening, she only felt dread. A Grand Tour, circling the free cities? She’d still welcome that, even if she’d rather sit out the coming storm right here at the Arbor. A place like Braavos or Volantis might have been a nice retreat as well, but Astapor? Gods forbid, sand and dust and Dothraki and slaves. The greatest slaves in the world. And she was sent to buy them.

The part of her that balked at the idea of buying people like chattel, though, was drowned out by Horas’ cries and Hobber’s baby blue eyes. Before the cargo boats of the Bank of Oldtown carrying her family’s worth in gold even left their home port did Mina intend to sail for Slaver’s Bay so the ink on the contract was dry before her fortunes arrived after. For if the Lannisters got the idea as well, they could surely outbid them, so the only advantage she had was time and a ready fleet. It would have to hold.

Olenna’s letter had sounded urgent enough. Well, the slaver’s leash would have to serve as a rope ladder out of the pit, then, for fear it could turn into a noose. Her mother had been demanding in her education, seeing that her brother was oafish and her sister ditzy. Growing strong.

“Did you know, Mina, that roses sometimes grow like parasites on other trees, smothering their hosts?”

Mina could remember those words and the lesson they carried the best. Like it was yesterday she heard her mother’s voice delivering her most important sermon.

“All that was left of House Gardener died on the Field of Fire. But then, how come the greatest House of the Reach since time immemorial had been reduced to a line of foolish men, one king and one heir, thrice widowed, by the time the dragons turned up at their borders? Because roses had bloodied the green hand and found their blood was not nourishment that could help them grow farther. No, the shadow of wings were the future then. Smart people had been able to see that. A whispered word, and Mern took his whole kin with him. Another, and the dragons knew where to release their flame. And House Tyrell skipped all the steps on the ladder from steward to high lord.”

Mina had only sat there, frightened at the knowledge that the greatest loss of the Reach had not been just a massacre. It had been the most successful of all betrayals.

“But then”, a younger Mina had asked her mother, “why have we not ensnared the kings since their dragons died? Why have we not sought kingship of our own?”

“Kings, royal houses, they are like the trees that carry the strangling vine. We don’t want to be the tree that dies to the rose. And royal houses always die. When it happens, the tree is not simply felled. It is ripped from the earth, root and stem, the wood burned to ashes and the ashes scattered with the wind.”

Her mother fixed Mina’s chin with her hand, and Mina had felt the vines and the thorns herself for the first time.

“When a king falls, his successor cannot destroy all the vassals of the old regime. It is important we always stay the most important house after the Targaryens, at least until we have consolidated our rule in the Reach to a point that the foxes are either made subservient, eradicated or disgraced to a point no one associates with them anymore.”

There was a fire in the eyes of Olenna Redwyne then, a fire that Mina now knew burned within herself as she listened to Horas and Hobber and truly understood now.

“We need the dragons to stay a few more generations; only then we will aid their fall or quell their authority one at a time with the other great houses. Until that day, when House Tyrell can stand unquestioned in the Reach even outside the shade the dragon casts, we will need to prop that foul and rotten tree up with the strength of our vines against all threats from the outside and within.”

And Mina would do her part in it. Olenna had not given her exact orders, and left her to ensure favorable terms. Well, she already would be a buyer of slaves. Maybe a few foxes, sold before they were caught, could count as credit to the Masters of Slaver’s Bay. It would solve their immediate problem for funds, and their long-standing problems of rivals for Riverrun. When you already would be remembered for trading in slaves, at least do it right. And Mina would see Tyrell rule Highgarden forever. In whose shade was a question for when the dust settled.

Not until after Mina would disembark for a longer break from sea at Lys, more than a moon later, did she find out that she yet hadn’t lost her sea legs. It was morning sickness. The little one, she’d decided, was just another reason to fight for, as she then accelerated her travel plans going forward.

She woke to the echo of the lash, only to find that it had only been a dream. Of course it was a dream, there were no whips around her anymore. She’d banned them the day she’d turned into a person and became an honorable lady. Sticks were banned, too, for after all she knew the value of the commodity of flesh all too personal.

And now, now that she’d suddenly found herself in possession of a great amount of chattel, she'd come to the agreement with her husband that it was a too great a waste to leave marks on trade goods that would lower their value. Even on rebellious ones. Lys had been kind in teaching her that, at least. Or rather, thorough. It was never kind.

It was better to use water; that’s what she’d learned Perfumed Garden. A piece of cloth over the head, and then you tilt the bucket over slowly. A drizzle is what you wanted, not drips. Let them think they’d drown. Rescue them. Do not ask questions. Repeat. They did not need to know exactly what they’d done wrong. They’d think of all possible errors they’d committed, and change them. The audience would do all to escape even the thought of such suffering. After all the slaves were in equal measure thankful and afraid of her, she’d only needed to build a few fountains in her new manse, and they all simply turned obedient.

She herself had been born into slavery, her mother sold by her only known kin left alive. Maybe there were still others, somewhere. But seeing that the last of her mother’s family had killed her brother, raped her afterwards and then sold her as she carried his daughter to a slaver from Lys, she did not think her mother ever wanted to meet any others. She herself always had known the slaving pit would not hold her down, and already at 25 did she birth her first son a free woman. A higher prize was waiting for her, one day, for her climb had not ended and she would reclaim all that was taken from her family. Her son would never know chains like her and her little brother.

She sometimes felt sorrow for the fate of her brother, but he would have only been an obstacle for her children if she hadn’t spoken to that Myrish sorcerer of the boy with the second purest Valyrian bloodline in the world. Of course she hadn’t told him she herself possessed the superior line. After the man had served his purpose, she had only needed to shed a single tear and all her brother had left to feel for her was gratitude. He’d only ever know of the revenge she’d taken for him, never of the children she’d denied him to have.

The news from across the Narrow Sea were worrying though, and Aegor had sounded scared of the Northern Warden having deduced his identity. Illyrio served her better, for what use was a compromised spymaster? No, Serra Blackfyre would need to order her brother to make bolder moves. Though he was the one that had contacted the old sympathizers under his guise as Varys, they had lost a lot of glory even before Malys’ folly. Peake, Osgrey, Costayne, Butterwell, they wouldn’t be enough. But Aegor had whispered he was planning to contact the Hightowers, who were in danger of losing agency in the war to come.

Still, even unawares the rulers of Oldtown would prove to be uncomfortable bed fellows, ever grasping as they were, but more chaos in the Reach would be her goal for them, not hegemony. Greater promise came from the newest King Saan in the Stepstones, and the sons of Alequo Adarys, looking to regain their hegemony over Tyrosh. And, most of all, her student the Black Pearl had helped her contact the Old Mother in the Summer Islands, who now was decidedly more ancient.

Toyne was still on the fence, the anonymity she required clashed with the Golden Company’s need for securities. A fool, but maybe Illyrio should contact them in person claiming his own interests in the battle royal that Westeros was soon to become. Knightly slaves were highly prized, after all.

“Serra.”

The door opened as her husband stepped in. Serra could prize herself on her looks. She used to be prized for them, after all. However, Illyrio was a vision as well. He would have commanded high prices in the Perfumed Garden with his hair a flaxen veil, his eyes a mixture of coal and obsidian, either glossy or matte depending on the light and a sculpted body the artists of Myr could not have chiseled finer out of marble.

“Dear. What brings you to me? Is it news of my kingdom again?”

“In a way”, Illyrio chuckled as he stroked his shadow of a goatee. He’d tried to grow a proper beard since he stopped being a bravo, the facial hair no longer a liability in combat, now a sign of good breeding. Her man could not grow sideburns for the life of him, though.

Her husband drew her gaze to a superbly crafted strongbox, made of weirwood and ebony, inlaid with mother-of-pearl dragons and a locking mechanism of YiTish make. The dragons were more serpentine in their stylings, their whiskers glimmering golden and with opulent manes of chipped gemstones. Illyrio out the box in front of her gently, carefully, almost reverently.

“I believe, wifey”, Illyrio started again, “that for a someone to claim the Iron Throne, certain… regalias are required. As far as I know, the Targaryens destroyed their last cache of this up during the reign of the Unlikely. Take them as a sign of my devotion to you.”

Serra turned the spiral key and watched the intricate clock works turn, before the lid lifted itself and revealed to her three stony eggs with scaly exterior, one of black and red swirls, another off-white with pale gold spikes that seemed do streak the shell like lightning and the last a forest green that seemed to reflect an oily bronze sheen when the light hit it just right. The sight stole Serra’s breath for a second.

Illyrio took the black one into his hands as he looked at her, his hand stretched out towards her.

“Dragon eggs, found in the Shadowlands north of Asshai. An YiTish trader purchased them for his collection. The man in question sadly lost his fortune as his main trade route goes through plains that an upstart warlord now lays claim to. This general, a man called Pol Qo, is luckily in need of a lot of capital to finance his warlording. I purchased these from the man practically at a bargain. I hear their original owner died somewhere around Slaver’s Bay, and we do have greater need of them, don’t we?”

He wore his devilish smile again, and Serra felt the stirrings of affection for him again. She squashed them, for lovers were fools. Even as she knew he loved her. Would he, if he knew how his first wife truly died? Would she have remained a mere slave if she had not done it? She knew of his promise to her brother, but men were fickle. She knew best, after all. Still, the smile she returned Illyrio in the end was not a faked one.

She reached out for the egg, and clasped it into her hands.

“It’s warm to the touch.”

Serra said it softly.

“Warm? That cannot be. I found it to be like a stone taken out of a spring, cooler than the air.”

Illyrio looked upon her in confusion, and Serra did not know what to say. She knew what to think, though, Valyrian ancestry and right and flame and magic. Fire and Blood. The egg in her hand turned warmer, then, and as her eyes opened in wonder and wishes, she did not know anymore.

Then she felt it hot, scalding, and Illyrio next to her retreated a step, the egg in her hand hot to the touch and steaming. No, burning. It was burning her hand, like a branding iron to slave.

The egg dropped from her hand, and as it impacted on the marble floor, Serra thought she heard a shell crack, a lizard hiss and a cackling flame. A flare blazed up, fire licking her feet and burning her, burning her!

It was all at once, everything and the pain, and she was in the court yard, staring at the painful scaly lines imprinted on her palm. Illyrio was by her side talking, but nothing stuck to her, it would not even if she listened.

“They’re all gone!”

She turned at the sheer exasperation in his voice.

“What?”

“All of them. All three. The other two burned after the first blaze.”

“The eggs? But why?”

Illyrio looked at her almost scared. She knew his thoughts. Of course she did. Magic, big magic had died. Hadn’t it? The dragons were gone, and all that was left was addicts in Qarth trying to catch leaking power with a sieve.

Serra shuddered at the thought, of what the sorcerer would have done to her had she not sacrificed Aegor all those years ago. Folly. A folly that claimed more Targaryens than her family ever managed.

No. Fire and Blood was not her way. Magic was a tool for mad men, the mad men that had ruled her kingdom for too long. War and chaos would suffice, for her. Legitimacy were what you made it, and they had the blood, had the look. Serra only needed to wait until the waters were muddy enough with blood, and then her son Daemon would take on the name of Aegon VI Targaryen and use the corpses of Elia Martell and her son as the ladder to reach for the Iron Throne.

And she would be triumphant.

“Why did you come here to darken my hall?”

The man in front of his father did not cower, but then Lord Borrell did not take on a threatening tone, only a tired one. He did have cause for it, though. Their visitor today was especially brazen, after all.

“My lord, I have come to treat with the Lord of the Sisters on behalf of the Iron Throne. Is it not natural, then, that I come to you?”

The man’s address was not overbearing or deferent towards his father, but Godric could still see the sneer that he tried to hide. Most mainlanders did not bother to even attempt that when they stood under their leaking roof in the great hall.

“Ser, last as I know, I owe allegiance to Lord Sunderland, who rules over all the Sisters. I believe his council is what you seek.”

The Knight of Skulls and Kisses showed a smile at the words of the Lord of Sweetsister, but it was good natured, like the four of them were friends sharing secrets. Godric, his father, their Maester and Ser Richard Lonmouth. Two crabs, a rat and a dead man. You could probably make a jape with that premise.

“Please, Lord Borrell, all know that he who rules Sisterton rules the Bite. Maybe, after the war, the king will grant you the respect you are owed, instead of Lord Sunderland. Your port will be needed in the next few years, and the throne will pay to have it ready for the royal fleet.”

“The king”, his father said the word slowly, “who is your king, Ser Richard? Aerys II Targaryen, the man that cuts himself more frequently on that iron chair then Maegor the Cruel did? Or do you speak for Rhaegar Targaryen, disgraced by his father, who you squired for?”

There was a short shock that went through Richard Lonmouth at the last sentence. When he answered, his voice almost did not waiver.

“Both. Lord Chelsted, Master of Coin, Lord Varys, Master of Whispers and Lord Connington, advisor to the Crown Prince agree that the Sisters’ strategic position needs to be secured if the North and the Vale prove rebellious.”

“Is it a certainty, then, that Lord Stark and Lord Arryn harbor treasonous thoughts?”

The old Maester did look more eager to please this knight in front of them then the Lord he was sworn to serve.

“No, it is not”, Lonmouth gifted the rat a tight smile, “but it is possible. Lord Stark has left the capital in much confusion when he left, and the lords and ladies are divided in their opinion of him.”

“What is your opinion of Rickard Stark, Ser Richard?”

His father almost sounded lethargic as he spoke.

“He is either exceedingly smart or a remarkable fool”, Richard Lonmouth said after a second, “but whichever proves true, he can call on a large army and the North is difficult to assault.”

“Lord Borrell, all you will be promising are securities for a war that might not yet happen, against an enemy that might not be an enemy. The investment for Breakwater will come regardless, and honors await if the wolves and falcons prove treacherous. There is little chance for you to lose, especially once a part of the royal fleet is stationed here.”

His father seemed to ponder the decision for a second after his Maester spoke before replying.

“Ser Richard, I require a copy of the contract we will write witnessed by both my Maester and my son and I want the Sisters to become their own constituent region under the Iron Throne in case war with the North and the Vale erupts. Returning to the fold of either region would chafe after what they will see as a betrayal. Breakwater will afterwards become the seat of the Lord of Sweetsister and Overlord of the Sisters. Do your powers extend to promise such change?”

“They do, Lord Borrell. I have a prefilled contract prepared for you to write your conditions into. I intend to leave with the evening tide after, King’s Landing will send funds as soon as I return with the letter.”

The Maester seemed more respectful of his father than Godric had ever seen him as the four of them put their names to the paper twice. After, Lord Borrell spoke to send the prince’s former squire off.

“Ser Lonmouth. You will leave as unseen as you arrived, I trust?”

“At the once, my lord. I will return with the fleet as soon as I can.”

“The Night Lamp will guide your way safely.”

The man nodded towards Godric one last time before pulled his hood up until it obscured his bright smile. As he left the keep, the Maester retreated up to his quarters. Godric did probably not quite understand, he had to admit to himself, the significance of the recent talks just yet. Good for him that his father invited him to his private quarters.

They stepped through the dilapidated parts of the keep into the cellars carved into the rocks underneath, dry and comfortable under a false bottom of the northern tower. The Maester did not know how to reach this place.

A comfortable fire bloomed in the hearth as his father turned towards him, his face stern as usual but with a distinct measure of uncertainty. He did not look like this back in the great hall. Here, surrounded by their share of the main trade of the Sisters, from furs to golden artworks, his father spoke to him true.

“My smugglers have noticed Lonmouth the moment he disembarked, Godric. They have also noticed little birds flitting around all of Sisterton today.”

Godric stopped short as he made to sit on an opulent couch lined with velveteen. The Spider. King’s Landing did not bother with Sisterton much; the Night Lamp was lit often enough to deter too much displeasure. Still, the attention was disquieting.

“Father, that will only increase when the fleet makes Sweetsister a permanent base. Whoever wins, they’ll not leave.”

Godric had realized that early. He understood the position of the Sisters. House Borrell would rise in importance, but the smugglers of Sisterton would dwindle and disappear and the Masters of Breakwater Keep would lose a lot of money.

“Son, you do not understand. The birds will also see Lonmouth leave, quite happy at that. The Night Lamp will shine bright tonight but I need you to make sure that every trusted fake lamp on Littlesister and Longsister shine their light also, along with a good score here on Sweetsister. Take the docks beneath our castle to leave, best before the honorable knight himself does.”

The docks of Breakwater. Godric knew them, but they had never been in use to his memory. Hidden from all views, no one would see him leave Sweetsister. However, the Keeper of the Night Lamp had just promised the throne’s emissary that the beacon would be lit tonight. There was more to come, so Godric asked.

“Father, what do you need of me?”

“Take three trusted ships, sink Lonmouth out of sight of the coast tonight. No looting, no survivors. Then you make for White Harbor and get to Lord Stark with our copy of the contract.”

His father’s voice was grave. Godric shivered at his orders. He’d be a traitor, no matter whether the wolves and falcons rose up. He looked at his father, and suddenly saw him an old man.

“Why, father?”

“We have reached the top of the ladder, as far as it goes here on the Sisters. The fishing and the smuggling keeps us fed better than a fleet and the dragon’s gold ever could. Sure, Sunderland has claim over us, but that house of bumbling fools can truly only lay claim to their supremacy in name. You yourself saw who the throne turned to, who they remembered of the Sisters once it became necessary.”

His father almost seemed angry now, and Godric had never seen Grendl Borrell angry before.

“No, son, either we will remain as we were now that our answer won’t reach the king or the Starks will promise us Sunderland’s position for our inaction if they rebel. We will just be disappointed that the royal fleet and the royal gold never makes it here, but who’s to know what happens in the seas of the Bite?”

Godric smiled at that. He left soon after, and that night another few skulls fed the fishes in the Bite, as they had since time immemorial. Afterwards, the heir of Breakwater turned his ship for White Harbor.

The morning after Richard Lonmouth died at sea a raven left Breakwater Castle for the citadel. The old Maester had died falling down the wet stairs in the rainy night.

The days since they had left the Whisping Woods had mostly left Victarion confused. Since they had left the Whispering Woods. That. Oh, there’d been plenty of amusement here and there. Still, he was a soldier and all this talk of politics left him only wishing to be out at sea again. The first talks between his father, Rickard Stark and Jon Arryn had left him decidedly disinterested, but Balon had been raging for four hours after. The man had not even come with them to the Wedding That Never Was, as some had come to call it; Quellon Greyjoy had confined his eldest son to his quarters like a petulant child.

Victarion could remember it like it was yesterday. Well, it was yesterday, but the scene had branded itself into Victarion’s eyes, he would always remember it like it was yesterday. Or rather, like it would be yesterday when he remembered. No, the day before. Like it would be the day before the day he remembered. Fucking Greenlanders and their fucking flowery language. Victarion knew his problem with words well enough, he knew he was better off silent. He’d probably get along well with the new Stark heir, he was a silent type as well, wasn’t he? Ned Stark would understand his struggle with words.

Maybe they should bond over a few whores, no better way for hard men like them. He respected the Northerners, they’d seemed more grounded then the other flowery fucks around. How did any house with a trout on their shield ever make lord paramount? Victarion was sure only the Reachmen were bigger cunts, flowery… er fucks. Yes, floweryer fucks. Roses, couldn’t get worse than that.

Right, hardy Northmen. Rickard Stark had ripped Hoster Tully a new one that day, that was fun. After all, even father had been laughing, and father was smart. He knew what good fun was. But then, Victarion had become a little wary of the Stark’s, too.

“I think I like the Starks.”

Drowned god, had Victarion become wary when Euron muttered those words beside him with a tiny smile. There had been something that Victarion thought was admiration in his eyes, along with the usual hunger. Any person that Euron liked, or could smile with honestly, was someone to be wary of. Still, he had not expected his father’s announcement when he had returned from the Stark camp. None of the brothers had. But Euron was silently following like always, even while speaking the opposite to Balon.

That was the advantage of silent types like him, they usually listened better. He wondered what juicy secrets Ned Stark knew of the Eyrie for a second. He was the foster brother of Robert fucking Baratheon after all, the whorelord of the Eyrie. No, Storm’s End. No, warlord. The whoring warlord of the Eyrie. Storm’s End. Or was it whoring warring lord? Whoring warrior lord? Something like that, a man that liked fighting and fucking, just like Victarion. Probably a silent type, too, wordy people were usually flowery fucks. And the man was after all known for his friendship with the quiet wolf, whose whole title screamed not a man of fucking flowery words.

Balon had turned very wordy when Victarion had finished telling of yesterday’s negotions with Rickard Stark. Negotiations. That. He’d just been released from his quarters, but then sent back right after his freshest rant, this time without dinner. Should have stayed silent, the idiot. Silent, and smart, like Victarion.

After that episode, father had turned decidedly morse though. Moose. Morose. That. Just sitting there, sighing. Even Euron was silent. That made Victarion wary, though. The only time Victarion was more wary of Euron then when he was silent, was when he wasn’t. It was always better to be wary of Euron. The silence stopped after a second, his father did not look morose anymore. No, he was terminated. Termined. Determined. That. He was determined as he spoke.

“Dagmer. Bring my eldest son down again. Take a page out of Rickard Stark’s book, if he speaks when he shouldn’t, or starts growing loud, slap him. No, punch him. The numbskull won’t get it anyway else. I’ll be giving him what he wants.”

Dagmer followed the order silently. He was a good man. A hard man. The man had introduced him to whoring, a good man. Ugly fuck though. Split lip looked like shit. Probably the reason he only went to whores. He came down with Balon a minute after. His older brother had a red fist print on his face. Imprint. Fist imprint. Probably had given lip to split lip. Heh. Victarion almost had to chuckle, but he stayed silent as his father spoke while his brother scaled at him. Scowled. That.

“Balon, I am not bringing the Old Way back. It’s beyond foolish when we are adjacent to realms that are stronger, can replenish faster and collectively hate us. However, I am giving you the chance to prove me wrong. I am giving you leave to establish a kingdom of your own in the Stepstones built on the Old Way. Pay for it with the iron price. Show me you can be more than a king of ashes and broken hulls.”

Quellon sneered at his eldest son, then.

“Take all the men that will follow you, here from our camp and from all the Iron Islands. But know this. If you take this chance, you will either have to take the Iron Islands from me by the iron price you prize so highly or you will have to convince my subjects to follow you after I have died because you were able to prove to them the Old Way is not yet dead."

His father looked down on Balon, from where Quellon sat to where Balon stood, and his eyes were the storm and the waves and the deep.

"After you leave, I will publicly disavow the actions you take as your own, and if on your way to the Stepstones you reave on the Westerlands, the Reach and Dorne, I will hunt you down with the rest of the fleet you couldn’t convince to follow you. Have I made myself clear, Balon?”

His eldest brother laughed then, deep and hollow and booming. Euron smiled. Balon spat as his father’s feet, then turned to him to talk haltingly. Haughtily. That.

“What fleet will you chase me with, when all the captains follow me to take the world by the iron price? Your men cry out for a return to the Old Way, and you are too old and decrepit to hear it. First I will carve me mine own kingdom, then I will carve myself your kingdom, too.”

Wait. Did he just? Victarion was pretty sure you did not say it like that. And what was deprecit? Decrepit? His brother turned towards him and Euron.

“Brothers. Are you with me? Let’s make our own kingdom, away from this feeble old man! What say you, Dagmer?”

Victarion was silent. Euron spoke first.

“Are you taking your children, Balon?”

“Rodrik and Maron. Gods, they are 14 and 13. By that time I had my first salt wife from the Reach, and those two haven’t gone on a single reaving. Don’t want the girl running around on my ship at six and Theon’s a toddler. Alannys’ll tell right about me, they’ll come when they’re ready. What’s your answer?”

“I’ll keep the Seastone Chair ready for you, brother. Raise Theon with your wife. I’ll take care of ‘em, but you know how it is. Maybe I’ll follow you in a few months when father’s plan starts to bore me. You know me.”

There was a sardine smile to Euron’s eyes as he spoke that had Victarion wary. Sardone. Sardonic. That. How would Euron take care of his brother’s wife? His eldest brother turned to him expectant, and all Victarion could do was shrug.

“You know me, Bal. I’m a soldier. I follow family. I follow the Lord Reaver of Pyke. When you’re that, I’ll follow you. For now, I’ll be staying with father.”

Balon sneered at that. He could be a fucking cunt.

“Fucking cunt.”

Did his brother really say that to him out loud? Fucking cunt.

Balon turned to Dagmer then, who outright laughed in his face.

“I’m a king on my ship, boy. On land, I’ll follow the Lord Reaper of Pyke. I’m like your brother, I’m a soldier. So I’ll stay. Are you going to call me fucking cunt, too?”

He smiled with his ugly split lip, and Balon didn’t call him anything as he strode out. The fucking cunt. Heh.

His father’s post slackened where he sat. Posture. That. He looked defeated as he addressed Euron and Victarion.

“Euron. You heard him, consider yourself heir presumptive until Theon comes of age. Your older brother is a fucking idiot. Still, I did not like sending the lackwit to his death. You see that, don’t you?”

“Aye, father.”

“You’re not going to reestablish the Old Way like some incompetent imbecile, are you, Euron?”

“You know, pops, I like reaving. I know why you don’t like it; it doesn’t work for a whole people. Still, a single reaver has the world open before him. I’ll try being a lord for some time, but just as likely I’ll just leave someday and never look back.”

“By the storm god, why did you have to be the intelligent one…”

His father only muttered the words, but Victarion heard them as he was silent. Louder, the Lord Reaper of Pyke spoke on.

“Fuck it, I’ll mold Theon into something workable. Worst case I’ll make the Reader regent. Until then, you’ll have to do Euron.”

Balon left the next morning. Out of the delegation of 16 lords that had come with Quellon, none followed him. He took some second sons, a few poached green boys from other crews and the odd lone captain that could not afford a good whore and missed the time he could just steal himself a saltwife. Altogether, Balon could probably man 6 long boats with skeleton crews. That would make for poor reaving, as you had to leave boats behind as soon as a few men died. The whole delegation had come in 39 long boats. Euron smiled when he heard the news.

Later in the day, his father took Euron and Victarion along with his main bannermen from seven islands along to the Stark camp, flying the golden kraken on red. The place was busy when the Ironborn arrived, but they had been expected and quickly they were led through to the main tent. Inside the Lord of Winterfell was expecting them, along with his heir and the two Arryns. The Lannister soldier that had fought the Blackfish was in attendance, too, as were a bountiful woman of middling age and the most beautiful woman Victarion had ever laid his eyes on. She looked rashing. Ravishing. That.

Some of the lord’s walked up to Rickard Stark with his father, and Euron joined in with them. Victarion was not really interested in group talks, they were always a primary for what was actually important. Preminary. Preliminary. That.

No, Victarion stepped up to the Quiet Wolf, and found himself regarded by silent iron eyes. For a minute neither spoke, but Victarion felt himself and saw the man across from him relax. This felt right.

“Hello.”

“Aye, hello.”

“Victarion.”

“Eddard.”

“Call me Vic.”

“Ned.”

Drowned god, this man understood him.

“Want to go whoring?”

He was met with silence for a second, before Edd- Ned spoke again.

“I am going to be married soon.”

Oh.

“Oh… Last chance.”

Eddard Stark gave him a smile, but it did not make Victarion wary. It was kind.

“Vic, you remind me of my best friend, somehow. Robert. I think you’ll like him. He will be arriving in a few days, and in three days we are throwing a big feast to celebrate my betrothal. I’ll introduce you.”

Victarion knew it. Robert Baratheon was just like him, a hard silent man that liked fighting and fucking. Ned really got him. It felt like an instant connection.

“So we’ll go whoring the three of us, Ned?”

“No, Vic, I am going to be marrying her. I don’t want any other.”

Ned pointed behind him, and as Victarion turned he saw that Ned had pointed at the rashing woman he’d noticed earlier. The ravishing woman. Wow. He noticed her looking at them with smiling purple eyes, and Victarion noticed he’d raised his right hand and waved to her. She waved back and seemed to be hiding a grin behind the other hand. He looked back to Ned, and he could not stay silent suddenly.

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

Saying it once was not enough.

“You won, friend. You won.”

“Thanks, Vic.”

They stayed silent after that. Everything that needed to be said between them had been said. Victarion did not exactly know how he felt, but he was somehow some way of content. It was nice.

“Enough!” Victarion heard his father’s voice silence the other Ironborn lords. “We have been in talks about this for three days, and decided to cast our hat in with the Stark’s more than two weeks ago at Nagga’s Hill. King Rickard, when can we start sending settlers from Harlaw and Pyke to the Stony Shore?”

“In four months. I need to call the Ryswells to heel first. I will welcome the first group personally.”

“Then”, Quellon Greyjoy, the Lord Reaper of Pyke, the Lord of the Iron Islands, said, “you have my allegiance, the allegiance of House Greyjoy and the allegiance of all the Houses sworn to me in the Iron Island. Drowned god, if this is what it takes to pull my people out of the pit they have fallen back into since the Grey King was swallowed by the waves, I will strap them all to my back and drag them up the ladder you have thrown me. My King.”

“Kneel, Quellon Greyjoy, and say your oath.”

Rickard Stark spoke the command softly, and yet his voice was more commanding then Victarion’s father’s when he had not a minute before cowed his lords. Quellon Greyjoy knelt. Behind him, all his lords followed suit, as did Euron and Victarion after a second.

“To Winterfell I pledge the faith of Pyke.” Victarion said, his voice a promise in itself. “Hearth and heart and harvest I yield up to you, my king. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to my weak, help to my helpless, and justice to all, and I shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire. Rock King.”

““ROCK KING!””

Victarion spoke the echo with all who knelt, and he felt himself tremble as King Rickard Stark answered the ancient pledge of the North and the Kingsmoot. He felt himself tremble at something greater.

“Rise, Quellon Greyjoy, Salt King of the Iron Islands and High Admiral of the Iron Fleet of the Kingdom of Winter.”

Chapter Text

It was the morning of the day of the betrothal feast, and Robert Baratheon had not yet arrived. Other lords had already announced their presence for the Stark feast, even if the official reason had not been announced yet. They all came. Brackens and Blackwoods and Whents and Freys, Mallisters and Vances and Pipers and all. Alester Florent had come, as had Baelor Hightower with some lesser Tyrells, Rowans and Oakhearts. The Lannister’s had come in force and brought all personage of importance from their entourage. Only the Tullys had been explicitly disinvited.

Quellon Greyjoy had come with his lords, though his elder son had apparently decided to take leave of his wits and to carve himself a kingdom out of the Stepstones before a war spanning at least one continent adjacent to them was about to break out. That idea was right up there with riding up to a mad tyrant and threatening him to his face while vastly outnumbered or kidnapping a girl and trying to rape her without making sure whether the very same knights that are supposed to guard you might have moral or obligational objections to such an act. What was it with the first born of this generation’s highest nobility?

Quellon’s second son Euron had been sent back to take charge of Pyke in his absence and Lord Rodrik Harlaw was to already select the first wave of Ironborn settlers of the North, alleviating the drain on the islands’ few resources. One of the most unexpected surprises of this trip had been the fast friendship between his son and heir and the third son of the Ironborn Salt King.

Victarion was an idiot and had pretty much nothing in common with Ned except that they preferred to stay silent, yet somehow that had been enough and the two of them had… clicked. Watching them was akin to witnessing something between a mummer’s comedy and the dissection of a Maester’s treaty on the mating habits of grumpkins and snarks. Rickard did not even know anymore. But even Ashara somehow seemed fond of her beloved’s new friend. People were weird was the conclusion Rickard arrived at after not getting the matter out of his head for a few hours.

Of course, with the big feast in their honor, Ned and his new daughter had taken on some of the creative direction of the feast, aided unofficially by Lady Whent and her daughter. It had been Ashara’s idea to use his network of the Cregan’s Men in the surrounding to spread the word that the Northern lords had convinced some of the guests attending to lend some of the good clothes they had brought in overabundance out to maidens of the smallfolk that came early enough to be dressed in them.

The lords had frowned at Rickard’s savage manners but indulged his whims, and the feast drew more smallfolk than he had ever expected. Shella even told him that some of the Riverrun staff had called off their work due to sickness that day, only to be seen taking the early trek towards the Stark camp.

In one move Ashara had managed to achieve three goals that made his work for the evening a lot easier. She’d reinforced the perception of him as an uncouth man unversed in the high culture of the south in the eyes of the majority of the attending nobility; she’d largely increased the scale of the event while raising his standing in the eyes of Riverland’s smallfolk and made it an easy task to seed his spies throughout the event by drawing people unfamiliar with the residents of the immediate surroundings and she organized for a multitude of people to draw eyes in their unfamiliar costumes away from those that were not meant to be noticed. He’d have never thought of such a move, but he immediately strove to capitalize on the idea.

Ned had left the whole planning entirely to his ladylove, and Rickard saw the vivaciousness and vibrancy of Ashara that his son had spoken to him of on full display. The woman was born for politics, like a force of nature, Rickard realized. She’d even convinced Genna to talk her brother into cosponsoring the event, and the bountylicious woman had joined the planning committee the day after she’d brought Stevron Frey to his camp. It allowed Rickard to throw a truly sumptuous feast with free food and drinks for more smallfolk than he could ever hope would attend, and that estimation held after riders had gone out the first day to announce the feast, resulting in smallfolk taking a three-day trek to attend.

His son was supportive every second that Ashara had need of him, but otherwise preferred to retreat with some guards and friends to put more care into the security of his betrothal’s announcement. Rickard had to admit that Ned would probably never be a politician, one to beguile or lie his way to his goals when necessary. But in return his son had mastered the blank mask to an astonishing degree, and being known to be too steadfast to play the game of thrones dirty had its own advantages. He’d have his wife to cover his blind spots, after all.

As his future daughter-in-law rushed all about the place, Rickard already set about to work on setting up leaving the right impressions he’d plan to impress on the nobility behind after tonight. Jon Arryn had left eastwards to collect the still errant Robert, and Rickard was hopeful the Stormlord hadn’t dawdled somewhere on the road.

He was glad to be proven right by loud and raucous laughter ringing through the whole camp, so he rose to meet his would be son-in-law. Ned had told him what to expect, still, Rickard thought as he saw the giant he hoped to wed to Lyanna, one could probably never be properly prepared for the first time one would ever lay eyes on Robert Baratheon, the man himself. Gods, he looked like the world would shake at his steps and the storms would listen at his bellows. There was a little girl sitting on his shoulders, black of hair and sky blue of eye, squealing in delight, probably around three years old. The bastard daughter. Well, this would be an interesting introduction.

At just the right time Ned strolled into the clearing of the camp, and another loud guffaw of the giant followed as Robert practically jumped of his horse, that looked to be smaller than he did when he stood beside it. The lord of Storm’s End had not yet acknowledged Rickard’s mere existence as he strode over and enveloped his son in a bear hug instead. The girl on his head took the moment to climb over to Ned’s shoulder and cling to his head. Gods, the girl moved like a born climber, did she spend half her life on Robert’s shoulders or what?

He was glad to see his son return the hug just as fiercely, but saddened all the same to see Ned more relaxed around his foster brother than his blood kin. After the Tourney at Harrenhal Lyanna had told him how Ned was just the kind older brother she’d remembered him as and she’d reveled at the casual acquaintance they’d formed after years apart. Rickard had not seen much of that Ned.

After a little while Ned did extricate himself from the giant and led him over towards Rickard. Gods, where Ned would get by in a court in the future, Robert would be ripped apart by the vultures and vipers circling for prey. The man’s emotions chased each other across his face to a ridiculous degree. The joy that’d been visible was quickly replaced by recognition as he glanced from Rickard to Ned and back, followed by dread and anxiety and hope and more dread. Not a single political strand of hair in his mane.

Ned clapped him on the back without looking, like he knew Robert well enough to understand exactly what was going through his head. The man seemed to take heart in that, as his steps became firmer and he came forward more confidently. He did not smile when he stopped in front of Rickard, but you could tell from his face he smiled a lot.

“Lord Rickard, I’m glad to finally meet you in person”, Robert’s voice did not falter, and it was lacking the overt courtliness of most southern nobles, “and I am happy to meet you alive and well.”

And he was blunt.

No stranger had yet spoken so directly, so without flourish, so without agenda to Rickard since the fire. Rickard saw his son adopt his neutral mask, but his eyes spoke of fondness, exasperation and amusement. Gods.

He snorted. Rickard snorted. Then he laughed.

“Lord Robert, it is a pleasure to meet you as well. My son has told me lots about you. I am happy you two are friends.”

A smile split Robert’s face then, before he released his loud laughter again, joined by Rickard after a second and his giggling daughter. Jon looked on in fondness, in pride even from the side, and Rickard understood his son when he’d said Robert was an easy man to love.

Ashara came onto the scene behind Ned, whose eyes magically seemed to seek her out, and she carried little Rhaenys on her arm. The princess was looking on in jealousy at Robert’s daughter having taken over her favorite spot in the world. When Robert saw them, he bounded over without another glance at Rickard, only to perform a flawless, deep bow before Ashara, who returned a full courtly curtsey after smoothly setting Rhaenys down beside her. Rickard would have not thought Robert the man to stand on such courtesies, or even one who could stand them after knowing him for only a second. Everything his own son had told him of the man spoke against that.

Then Robert cracked first, a low chuckle escaped him even as he was still standing with perfect posture. Ashara did not join him, but her eyes were laughing louder than before. Robert straightened first as well, before he greeted her.

“Hey Ash. Glad to see you’re still around.”

His words were laced with mirth, and teasing instead of biting. Of course they got along, they were his son’s best friend and the love of his life. Robert’s charm was so much like Brandon’s when his son cared, this could have been him. Ashara rose out of her curtsey and Robert gave her a short hug as well, though very respectful and tender, not like with Ned.

“Hey Bobby. I saw you brought my favorite mountain goat as well. How’d you convince her mother to let you take Mya?”

“Oh, Mya did that all on her own when I told her I could not visit her for some time, as I would be riding after Ned. It had just been three days since you left, but already she was missing her other papa too much. Mya needled Doris endlessly, until she was almost happy to agree for me to take her away for nigh on two moons.”

Robert looked on his daughter fondly as he spoke, before whispering loudly to Ashara.

“I secretly believe Ned is her favorite person, and all the rest of us are just extras.”

“Nappa is MY favorite person!”

Rhaenys stamped her foot beside Ashara, now having learned the name of the dastardly bastard that was laying a claim to Ned. She looked adorable. Robert knelt next to her with another chuckle. Did the man ever not laugh?

“Well, hello there little one. I am Robert. What is your name? And how do I call that cute cat on your arm?”

Rhaenys smiled then, and the sun rose again.

“I am Rhaenys. And this Balerion. But all call me Little Sun. And this Balerion.”

“Nice to meet you, Little Sun”, the perpetually smiling giant said, “do you maybe want to ride on my shoulders? I am taller than Ned, after all.”

The princess pondered this for a second. She looked up at Robert, over to Ned, and back to Robert again, before finally speaking.

“No. I want Nappa!”

“As my princess commands!” Robert said, before turning over to Ned to shout: “Pass!”

Rickard could not believe what he was seeing next. Maybe it was the little girl on Ned’s head, that suddenly started screaming in absolute delight at her father’s word. Maybe it was Ned compliance to the request without question, his neutral façade unchanging throughout. Maybe it was Robert’s exuberant laughter while madness was happening in front of him. Probably it was because he realized in that moment that Robert Baratheon was bat shit crazy and his son must have caught it as well.

“I FLYYYYYY!”

Mya Stone yelled up to the heavens as Ned calmly took her off his shoulders and threw her towards Robert in a high arc with practiced precision. The large Stormlord caught her with an ease just as practiced before kissing a slobbery kiss to her forehead, and father and daughter called out the finish together:

“LIKE A FALCON, AS HIGH AS HONOR!”

Of to the side, Jon simply stood in resignation. For him it was obviously not the first time to hear his house words misused in this exact fashion. Elbert beside him simply stared on in shock. Robert and his daughter simply cuddled a second longer before he deposited the little climber back on his shoulder. At least Ned, his son, at last seemed to remember who he stood amongst, and for once in while Rickard saw his son’s mask crack. His boy turned red. He turned red.

Rickard did not know how to react. This, this was the man slated to become his son-in-law? This. Gods, Ned had not exaggerated when he told of Robert’s eccentricity, even understated it, as well as his ability to make friends. As undignified as his actions had been, all men at camp looked at the man like they wanted him as their new best friend. He drew people. He’d never draw the true players, though, and that scared Robert, because they would be the danger to his daughter when she moved south. Rickard would have thought more on it in that moment, but he found himself interrupted.

“I WANT TO FLY, TOO! LIKE A DRAGON!”

Rhaenys asked. And Rhaenys got what she wanted. Without a second thought, the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands picked up his little cousin thrice removed and threw her in the direction of his foster brother. Who looked decidedly more panicked, now that a princess shaped projectile was flying towards him.

As he caught her with trembling hands, Rickard only felt himself release a breath he did not know he’d held, collectively with the majority of the people in attendance. The Lord of Winterfell looked around him, still not grasping what had just occurred. His son shakily put the little princess up on his shoulders, where she gleefully took her rightful seat and gripped onto her reins in Ned’s hair. Robert did not stop laughing throughout, and while the same laughter seemed to spread throughout all the guards looking on with the Baratheon as its center, at least the Stormlord would not laugh for long anymore. Because behind him, Rickard spied Ashara stalking up to him with a scowl on her face that woke the fear of the Old Gods in Rickard’s bones. After exchanging a short glance with Jon, they both decided simultaneously to slink away from the action. Gods, he needed a drink. He still had the feast coming up later, after all.

Loud laughter fallowed them as the two founders of the Northern alliance sought out the commander’s tent, and it rang throughout all the preparation. Rickard heard it as the smallfolk arrived in droves, and Robert Baratheon started wrestling all the lowborn in the yard and as the little children started swarming him after he beat their parents, tearing the giant down. He heard it as the lords and ladies arrived, and Robert Baratheon welcomed friends old and new from all corners of Westeros. He heard it as the food was brought to the great tables, in the evening when the wine started flowing and he was about to start the feast officially. He had been right. The man never stopped laughing.

In fact, Rickard believed Ned had to kick Robert’s shin to shut him up as the Lord of Winterfell raised his wine to toast to all in attendance. Rickard sat at the central table with his sons and Ashara and the Arryns. The Riverlords were seated spread out around them, and Rickard did not seem to care for their feuds in the arrangements. The Westerlords had their own seats, as did the Ironborn and the Reachmen. Spreading out into all directions were a multitude of guardsmen and smallfolk, mingling amongst each other with no boundaries between factions. As Rickard had ordered the barrels open three hours earlier, the mood was already merry.

The Lord of Winterfell stood, his usually immaculate beard slightly disheveled, though not as bad as he made himself look in Riverrun. A grey and white doublet cloaked both him and his sons, good quality but unadorned. Almost austere, in appearance. Ashara beside Ned wore cloth of silver grey, purple and white, and both of them seemed to glow. Both Jon and Elbert wore cloth of intricate religious motif, blue and white as their sigil. Robert Baratheon, next to next to Ned, did not wear his house colors, merely a comfortable and fine cloth of green and brown.

“Friends”, Rickard said loudly, as all around him grew quiet, “I am beyond glad that all of you have come to attend. When I came to the Riverlands, it was in expectation of taking home a bride for my eldest son. For my heir, when I originally came down from the North. I stand to return home, not with a bride for my eldest son, but still with a bride for my heir. I raise this glass to welcome you, Ashara, as a daughter of our pack of wolves. My Ned and you make each other happy, and I could not ask for more. Welcome, Ashara Dayne, soon to be Ashara Stark.”

There was a short polite lull after the announcement, as the nobility raised their own goblets to drink. Just as everyone’s wine was at their lips, someone broke the silence.

“BUGGER ME, BY THE OLD GODS! PAY UP, YOU BASTARDS, I WAS RIGHT.”

A bout of laughter followed from one of the guard tables closest to the nobility, a group of five Northmen in their midst. Garth Hightower, sitting beside his brother Baelor, spit out the wine in his mouth as he choked out a hacked cough mixed with stifled laughter. A laughter that only spread through the tables, taken up by the Northmen first along with Robert Baratheon, as Rickard’s face turned stony. Quiet followed the amusement, as Rickard stalked over to the table that started it all, looking at his offending guard.

“Harwen.” Rickard directly addressed the man that started it all, a man seemingly a little into his cups. “What were you right with, my good guard? Do tell what moved you to interrupt my announcement in such a way, please.”

The not-smile Rickard wore seemed to frighten a few men around. Harwen the guard certainly looked decidedly more sober suddenly as he rose.

“Lord Stark. That is to say. Well.” Harwen stopped, fidgeted on his spot for a second and almost seemed to stammer before he spoke up. “There was a betting pool, you see, Lord Stark. We weren’t sure what the feast was for. But, you see m’lord, us five, that’s me ‘n’ Harold ‘n’ Rod ‘n’ Erwin ‘n’ Bob, we each had our own answers. We bet a silver moon each on our own, so now I get four moons from the others. I bet the feast was to make Lady Stark into, well, Lady Stark. All official and like, m’lord.”

Rickard showed a controlled cracked smile in his façade. Harwen was doing good.

“Oh? Do tell, what were the other options? Harold? All of you? What did you think we were celebrating?”

The man beside Harwen rose next to him, slightly more drunk it seemed, as he almost shouted his bid for the five moons.

“To celebrate Lady Lyanna’s safe return home!”

Erwin and Bob stood up next, each yelling their reasons loud enough for all to hear.

“To celebrate our return home, old gods, me wife is waiting dammit!”

“To stick it to the damn trouts!”

The last line Bob screamed loud enough to leave an echo in the night, just before laughter erupted throughout the tables again. It took a little time to settle this time, as Rickard bellowed along and many a guest joined in in mirth.

“Rodrik.” Rickard addressed the last guard remaining. “What did you bet on, my man?”

“You know, Lord Stark… I just thought after all this mess the last month, m’lord, you just wanted to throw a party, you know. For party’s sake. For yourself and us.”

Rickard laughed again, harsh and loud and free like the wind on the Northern plains.

“All of you”, he said as in the end, “all of you five make good points. Why not should we celebrate for all of that? For party’s sake, for the return of my beloved daughter Lyanna, for my new daughter Ashara, for all our return, and to stick it to the fuckin’ trouts!”

At the last bit, his accent came through, and the Northmen laughed his cold harsh laugh with him. Robert Baratheon guffawed along.

“Men!”, Rickard Stark addressed the five guards before him, “All of you won your bet. Let me pay each of you a dragon, as should be a proper price for loyal men like you. Go out and seek yourself a wife, Erwin’s the only one that has one to return to after all!”

And his guards toasted him for all the lords to hear, a rough lord from a rough land that did not care about their southern finesse and games. Now, Harwin and Harold and Erwin and Rodrik and Bob all could start to drink in truth. Rickard Stark returned to his table amidst the laughter of all, loudest among them Robert Baratheon, Walder Frey and, a sight that warmed Rickard’s heart, his son Brandon. The boy laughed unrestrained like he had not in days. A little it pained Rickard though, as he knew he would not hear the laughter long tonight. Brandon had his part to play tonight, and it would hurt his son yet help his family.

The people were happy, the people mingled, the people drank. Brandon smiled at a woman of the smallfolk dressed in finery, who returned the same with a blush. A buxom woman approached Robert, Rickard saw, and he could not help overhear.

“Hello, handsome”, the woman cooed, almost pressing her impressive teats out of her low neckline and into the stag lord’s face as she looked at him with proper doe eyes, “what’s your name, hun?”

Robert struggled. Rickard saw Robert struggle, only to tear his eyes away from the wench's teats and look into her face.

“Sweetie”, he started, but the woman interrupted him huskily.

“Not sweetie, hun. I’m Bessie.”

“Bessie. Girl. Thanks. But, I am kind of taken. In fact, see the man over there that scared all the gruff guards of the North?”

Robert turned to Rickard, and their eyes met. After, Rickard’s eyes met Bessie’s, and while panic sat in for the young lass, Robert seemed almost amused as he spoke on.

“He’s going to be my father-in-law. Do you think it wise if we offended him?”

Rickard laughed internally at the cheek, though he showed the same cold smile he had earlier. As Bessie tried to stammer out an apology and leave, he beckoned the girl over. The slap Robert gave her behind as she walked away from him seemed more good natured and teasing than depraved, though, and Rickard shot him a wink as Bessie’s eyes seemed glued to the floor.

“Young lady”, Rickard addressed the woman of the smallfolk as she seemed to shrink into herself, “you seem to be taken with my future son-in-law.”

His tone was a little stern, though not biting.

“M-m-m’lord, I mean not offence. I meant no offence. M’lord.”

Gods, the lass was shaking. Ned had told him, Robert now only bedded whores. Not an admirable quality, but a common vice for bachelors and many a married man, but an image needed to be cultivated for all of them. So Rickard smiled at the comely girl in front of him that he was about to use.

“No fear. My future son-in-law makes his own decision. And I do understand your attraction to him.”

Robert looked, after all, a statue of the warrior come to life. His smile thawed slightly as the trembling girl looked at him and she slowly calmed down.

“And you yourself are a beauty, aren’t you?”

Rickard gave her behind a small slap of his own, as attentive nobles around looked on. Just as teasing as Robert. He beckoned her down to whisper in her ear, because the words did not matter to all who could see them, only the girl’s reaction.

“Do test him for me, though, would you? A dragon is yours if you manage to seduce him. I need to know who my daughter goes to, after all. Tell me of your success on the morrow.”

A smile bloomed on her face, and there was a trace of innocence left to it yet. Rickard did not feel bad though, as the girlie returned to continue her ministrations with Robert, who seemed rather perplexed at seeing her come back to him. Rickard shot him another wink as he himself rose to talk to his heir.

“Son, daughter.”

Both Ned and Ashara gifted him honest smiles as he spoke to them, though his son’s eyes flitted over to his brother in all but blood and the girl on his lap.

“About that”, Rickard addressed the issue immediately, “do tell Robert somehow I paid for his whore tonight, though I expect him to treat her as gently as a lady and that I will not be wroth with him. We all need to cultivate and maintain our image, though Robert does not need to know that last part.”

Understanding dawned in Ashara’s eyes first, before it lightened up in Ned’s. His son had blinders in regards to Robert Baratheon, though Rickard did not know how deep they ran. He turned to his new daughter, he had promised her after all.

“Get ready to dance, you two. I will have the dance floor cleared when they strike the first tone.”

A tear of appreciation shined in Ashara’s eyes as she understood. Rickard excused himself from his heir and daughter as he walked over to the den of the lions. Tygett noticed him approaching first, followed smoothly by Genna. Tywin probably knew, too, yet he did not give the acknowledgement away until his brother made room for the King of Winter.

“Lord Tywin”, Rickard gave a nod and received one in return as he seated himself, “I was looking forward to having another chance to speak with you.”

“Admirable performance, Lord Rickard”, the Great Lion answered, “I take it you are going for another big impression soon?”

“Indeed. Lord Tywin, I need to say this, I deeply admire 'The Rains of Castamere'. It is, I believe, the finest example of the threat of force I have ever seen.”

Tywin looked at him, then.

“It is. Thank you. It is the first of the lessons I will impart on my daughter for her education on rule. It will be even more necessary for her if it comes to take up my mantle. A woman, she will have to prove more than I did after my father. She does not understand, yet, that the promise of violent retribution is more important for ruling than the exercise of violence itself.”

“True. But the way a song spreads, that is ingenious.”

At a sign of his hand, a common chorus started. Rickard kept his eyes on Tywin, who looked just a little surprised. The Stark and Arryn guards grew quiet, excited. Rickard did not look, but he knew Brandon turned pale. For what it was worth, he was sorry it had to be done, at least in part.

The dance floor cleared, and a ring of people formed as the first melodies were only instrumental. Still, all would recognize it. The Northmen, though, along with the Valemen started chanting.

““Lady Stark! Lady Stark! Lady Stark! Lady Stark! Lady Stark!

"

LADY STARK! LADY STARK! LADY STARK! LADY STARK! LADY STARK!””

Ashara Dayne rose, her hand clasping Eddard’s, her eyes aglow with laughter. The Northmen all around looked upon her fearful, respectful, almost reverent as the Quiet Wolf and the Laughing Star took to the dance floor. The rest of the guests grew quiet as well, and confused.

And once again, Rickard saw his son dance with his love. Floating like on a cloud, a swirl of purple and white and silver grey turned round and round the laid out planks, as none could deny the spark in their eyes. They were a vision. Genna looked on in astonishment. His son moved as smoothly in dance as he did in the yard in leather. Ashara was passion and movement and the wind. After the instrumental first stanza finished, Brandon was pushed to the fore, and he had to sing to the melody of ‘The Dornishman’s Wife’ like he’d had to since Ned and his fiancé penned their own lyrics for it.

“The fair Dornish Maid shined as bright as a Star / And her hair flowed free as she danced
The Quiet Wolf saw her and they fell in love / And they danced through the night, both entranced”

Brandon was not the best singer. It did not matter. His heir loved his lady, and his eldest could never stand to inherit. A song to spread the tale. Tywin looked more sharp than controlled now, attentive and dangerous.

“As the Dornish Maid with her Quiet Wolf danced / The Wolf's Brother, a Wild one, observed
Jealous was he, and he wanted her, too / So he plotted to take what he craved”

Rickard left his eye to take in the other attendants for a second. Shella Whent and her daughter had fans up, hiding their faces. A few Reachmen hummed along, rather than sing along with old lyrics. Some Valemen had joined the Northern guards in their circle, as had the smallfolk and men of the Reach. Robert did not pay attention to Bessie on his lap, his eyes aglow in fondness and yearning as he looked at his foster brother. Alester Florent looked thoughtful, as did Baelor Hightower and Tytos Blackwood. They grasped the possible intend, what would happen if the new version of the song spread.

“He bade her to visit, to help with his brother / And when she came to his lair, he pounced
Tried to force her, to have her, but the maid escaped / To his brother by whom he was trounced”

The lyrics might not have been high literature, but they were easy and they had romance and crime and were just a little bit bawdy. The Cregan’s Men were already spreading it in the inns to the east. Ned and Ash did not think on all that, though, as Rickard saw them in their own world. As all saw them in their own world. The gossip would grow, but all saw the truth in the eyes of the Quiet Wolf and his Smiling Star.

“The Wild Wolf raged, lied on the Maid's honor / And tried to besmirch her for life.
But his brother saw through him and his vile lies / And now the Maid‘ll be the Quiet Wolf's wife”

And it all ended happily ever after. The Dornish would claim the lyrics with a vengeance, the original a thorn in their ears. On the last note, Ned lowered his Dornish Maid into a low dip, before pulling her up in a deep kiss. The women of the smallfolk around the pair seemed only infected by the pair’s happiness. Rickard heard Robert laughing again, all the while as Ned and Ashara returned to the table, and Bessie shared a beautiful smile. Brandon, Brandon slinked away. The girl he had smiled at earlier did not look at him any longer. Rickard would seek him out, later, and sit by him as he helped him drown in alcohol for the night.

“Impressive, a familiar tune, well liked and known everywhere. Less solemn, too, I believe you have taken measures to see the new lyrics spread.”

Tywin Lannister looked at him, and like always there was a mix of respect and ambition in the look they shared. And more.

“Of course, Lord Tywin. Can I leave the singers in the Westerlands for you to take care of? You have proven you know how to make them sing the proper tunes.”

“You can, Lord Rickard. We are to be kin soon, after all. Kin help each other. On that note. I have a warning for you, I will be making a move soon.”

“I will be expecting it, Lord Tywin. Any advice you care to share?”

There was the moment, the beat of the butterfly’s wings, and Rickard saw Tywin make a decision. The man picked up his golden cup of Dornish Red, his colors in his hands and sipped it before he spoke.

“What do you do, when you have finished the climb, and you find yourself at the peak, only to see there is only limited space, and everyone behind you trying to escape the pit as they ascend the ladder will try to take your place in the sun from you?”

Rickard looked at him, and thought his answer. Then his second answer, the one he and Tywin would both agree on, and so he spoke.

“You hold the peak. You destroy the ladder, and let all that seek to take the peak from you to fall back into the pit below. You deny them the climb.”

Tywin looked at him, calculating and controlled and just a little fond, before he spoke on.

“So one does. And we have agreed to hold the peak as kin, have we not? I would ask you to send my daughter’s betrothed for the Rock in, let’s say, 6 moons from now? You will hear of the first ripples by then of what I will have wrought by then.”

Rickard held his gaze. With the Lord of Casterly Rock, all moments were linchpin in a game of balances, trust and respect and ambition. For men like them, these usually stood in opposition. Sometimes, an offered hand was required.

“I will be sending Benjen in two moons’ time. I would ask you to let him visit shortly in about seven moons though, he will become an uncle.”

Not a dangerous admission at all, but a sign of limited trust. Young blood.

“And now the Maid‘ll be the Quiet Wolf's wife”, Tywin said a little dryly, though Rickard saw Genna smile a little.

“Agreed, my lord. My daughter will visit Winterfell with him, along with an honor guard then. My advice to you, Lord Rickard, is this: Hold on to your moons and stags.”

The Lion of the Rock inclined his head once, and did not offer more as they said their good byes. For once Rickard was not sure what to make of Tywin's words, though he would be a fool to dismiss a the Lannister’s warning. Especially as there seemed no drawbacks to him, the Manderlys would even thank him for it.

Rickard once more toured his guests, laughing with Robert, drinking with the Northmen, the Ironborn and the smallfolk, bumbling his etiquette along the Reachmen and sharing a few words with the Riverlords and Valemen, before retreating to search out his eldest.

Brandon had retreated to his room, three empty wine bottles already around him. Strong Dornish Red. A little was splattered on the floor, and it looked like blood. Rickard brought another two as he entered. They started drinking in silence first, before they started talking. They talked of Ned, and of Ashara. Of the North, of King’s Landing. Of the Dustins, and the Barrows. Of Lyarra and Barbrey. Of girls and women they’d sought out, before and after.

“You know, the girl earlier, with the shy smile”, Brandon all but slurred the words as he spoke, “she wouldn’t look at me no more. And I saw her beautiful, father. I saw her beautiful. I had lost that, before. When all girls flocked to me, I saw them pretty. She was the only one tonight, and she was beautiful. And then she looked at me no more.”

And despite a slight haze, despite the fact that Rickard almost did not think on his son’s words as he was just tipsy enough, Rickard sobered at the comment.

And Rickard felt fear.

Chapter Text

She met the Starry Septon himself, descending the very same steps she was walking up to speak with her father. The portly man walked with that grace practiced preachers had to them, the acquired kind, not the natural one. His dress consisted of the typical robes of cloth-of-gold and the crystalline circlet on his brow beautiful, delicate and elaborate. Completing his outfit was his ever-present kind, grandfatherly smile. The word humble could not be farther a descriptive word in her mind at the sight.

Still she curtsied politely as she made room for him and the man passed her. Malora looked after him for a second. The Starry Septon rarely sought out her father on his own, and if he did, he was received on the ground floor. All of Westeros did not follow convention anymore though, it seemed. Not just the people, Malora knew.

That was also the reason Malora entered Leyton Hightower’s quarters. Not matters of faith, or maybe they were. Malora did not care a whit for the Seven-Pointed Star ever since sweet Jeyne was the first to claim her lips, and her studies set her farther apart the more she learned. Still, it always served to know of the movements of the important septons.

Malora herself did not generally regard the septons’ assembly as nice bedfellows and knew the sentiment was returned in kind, largely due to her reputation. If the septon’s knew the truth of her Malora was quite certain the general disdain would turn particular. However, her house was deeply entrenched with both the Citadel and the Starry Sept, more so since Alicent’s reign. House Hightower would never be able to escape the shackles the Queen in Chains had fettered them in, forever to remain in their station after the folly of Otto Hightower and his daughter.

Standing quietly in the entrance Malora watched as her father kneaded his forehead in thought. She knew the Lord Hightower would impart important information as he saw fit. She was his favorite, and she knew how he valued her opinion. Still, she did not expect the words that finally came forth from her father’s lips. It seemed her own matter would have to wait.

“There is a new jape circulating in the Capital. ‘Queen Rhaella has turned most devout.’ The king’s court finds it laughable that the Queen makes the walk to the Great Sept daily to pray.”

Malora had only kept little abreast with information on the queen. Even before Duskendale she had little influence in Court. She knew her basic profile, of course. However, she did not understand the almost pained look creasing her father’s brow. When she answered Malora urged her father for more information, to see the bigger picture.

“It does seem curious, father. After all, it is widely known that the High Septon is one of the few people in Aerys’ inner circle of sycophants. Our king believes, after all, he has the man to thank for the birth of his favorite son. Queen Rhaella has not been known to be particularly pious since.”

Malora was old enough to remember the expectations people had of the queen before she retreated into the confines of the palace. Those used to belong more to the political part of Targaryen rule, not the clerical aspects. All ruined, within a few years of being Aerys’ sister-wife, relegated to a position of no import at court. Leyton Hightower looked at his daughter in contemplation before picking up where he left off.

“That is true, but nowadays one is not often in danger of meeting the High Septon in his rightful seat of power. A disconnect has developed between the Voice of the Seven on Earth and his followers in King’s Landing since the Queen has birthed a second son. The Shepherd of the Faithful has proven himself to be more sheep himself. Now the Queen marches into the Great Sept and prays with septons of power to the gods. She prays to all the Seven.”

Just a little did Malora feel herself tumble at the words.

“To all Seven?” She hated how haltingly the sound of her voice came out. “Even to the Stranger?”

“Even to the Stranger.”

Her father’s answer was most solemn. Prayers to the Stranger were either prayers for death or, for people in the know, secluded talks with the movers and shakers of the clergy. But Targaryens rarely bandied with septons that did not wear the crystal crown; they had taken too much care to neuter the political arm of the Faith to risk involving them again. Officially, of course.

“How do you know, father?”

“Septons at the Great Sept hail from all over the country. The high clergy in each of the centers of the Faith know roughly what happens in the sanctums of the other big septs. I do believe Olenna Tyrell will be approached by a septon herself, as will the Martells and the Arryns. Or Lady Waynwood, in case of the Eyrie. It is one of the few aspects of the game were the Great Lion cannot meddle, for he has alienated both players and pawns. Still, the Starry Sept has the deepest roots if a new fight for dominance of the Faith breaks out.”

“Does it really look that bleak?”

“The king is burning people, Malora, and the High Septon remains quiet. The Most Devout conspire with the queen in unseen corners of the sept no one dares to look; but nobody knows what about. You know Oldtown still resents Baelor for moving the seat of the High Septon to the capital. How he made the office itself more reliant on royal support, even if the idiot probably did not think thus in his delusions. The Starry Sept expects worse than a struggle for dominance, though, they expect the Faith to fracture into separate sects.

“The Starry Septon approached me today for support in case of this, to help reestablish Oldtown as the center of the Faith in the Reach over Highgarden. He knows Olenna will try for every advantage in her precarious position right now and use up her pet septon. However, the Starry Septon is a fool and he is grossly misjudging my priorities if he believes my starting gamble will be for dominance in a smaller splinter of the Faith. We need the Faith to remain united throughout Westeros.”

Malora looked at her father uncertain. Her own relationship with septons throughout her life left her with a lot of prejudice she knew, however, she was of the firm belief that a disunited Faith would be a boon to the nobles throughout the Seven Kingdoms. The Starry Sept would be more reliant on the High Tower and truthfully, Highgarden would not be able to usurp Oldtown as the center of the Faith in the Reach. But her father was worried. There was more to this than she knew. She only had to ask.

“Would we not come out ahead if the Faith fractured? The Starry Sept will probably become the dominant clerical center for the Reach, the Westerlands and a part of the Riverlands and the Stormlands all the while the clergy itself would be weakened against our influence due to their diminished prestige.”

Her father laughed, but it was a hollow thing. He poured himself a cup of Dornish strongwine, a vice he hid from his fellow Reachers, and drained the red in one go before rising his word again.

“It will take but two generations, I am sure, until at least the Arryns will refound the Swords and the Stars. Their line holds the most sway over the faithful through blood alone. Combine that with a more conservative mindset of their flock and the threat of heathen clans’ men and the Faith Militant will seem a sensible solution in the Vale. Sunspear will separate entirely from King’s Landing and Oldtown, their allegiance to the High Septon has been lip service even before Nymeria landed in Dorne. And then both King’s Landing and Oldtown will have to follow with their own chapters if we do not want to see ourselves outnumbered. There are no dragons to cow the septons into submission anymore.”

“What do you think the other big houses and septs will do?”

A blunt question, but her father liked those usually. Malora though did not like the answering sigh, and the words that followed even less.

“I do not know, Malora. There have been little birds, recently, that sang to me. It made me wary. The Spider has approached me and the Starry Sept, to warn us of an unpredictable Queen going rogue. Insinuations about the Faith Militant were made, even, and no one is certain where Rhaella’s loyalties lie now.”

Leyton Hightower breathed out again, long and flat before continuing.

“Of course it was all framed carefully and it included valuable information, but the eunuch’s motives are suspect. I do not think he has enough of an insight yet into the strings between the Faith and the Highborn. Still, the spider has never moved so sloppily before. Something has him frantic, and that in itself is worthy of concern.

“The Targaryens will lose the lords’ allegiance as soon as they allow a centralized religious order in Westeros to be reestablished. The North and the Iron Islands would secede from the crown immediately and Dorne would follow in short order. Afterwards rebellions would run rampant and at least Tywin Lannister would split as well. I do not understand why the spymaster of the king is telling such a bold lie that would set the lords against the crown. It does not make sense.”

“You know, father,” Malora started, “Olenna once cautioned me against ever underestimating Rhaella Targaryen just because she has retreated from the game herself. I have lapsed in that, but as you say there is no way in all of the seven hells that the reestablishment of the Faith Militant would ever be a considerable option for our Targaryen queen. Even our king would find his throat slit if he crossed that breaking point, and as you said, he’s burning people already. Varys is either compromised or we will finally see what his cards are in the game of thrones. That’s a positive, isn’t it?”

“In a matter of speaking, yes,” Leyton Hightower replied with half-closed eyes and a deep sat frown, “only that it is now to be suspected that Varys is the agent of an Essosi faction and is trying to intensify the coming war. During the Dance the Triarchy’s fleet was only defeated thanks to dragons. Those are gone, still no Essosi party would stand to extract gains from Westeros as long as it stands united.

“Varys is reacting to fast to all these developments. The Wedding that Never Was has only been two weeks ago yet spider is already stirring the pot. Either he has been working to destabilize the crown ever since he came into Aerys’ service to incite a maximum amount of chaos or he has been actively working towards a civil war. Either option is terrible. The only thing we know for sure is that the crown’s intelligence is severely compromised, both on Aerys’ and on Rhaegar’s side.”

Malora did not know how to reply to that. However, as horrible as all the news were, Malora knew her own message might prove to carry consequences reaching even farther.

“Father, I need to join the ships going east.”

Malora did not mince words with the Lord of the High Tower. She never did, not with her father nor anyone else. Leyton Hightower might have been startled by the sudden shift in topics, Malora could not tell. Quickly a small smile spread across his face,

“What has you so interested in Essos suddenly, daughter?”

Her father seemed bemused as ever at his daughter’s candidness even as it scared suitors away left and right. It did not matter to him, for he had enough other daughters to play as beautiful ladies and to marry lords and heirs dutifully.

“Academic curiosity.”

Malora knew there was a smile on her lips as well as she spoke, but Leyton Hightower was one of the few people she could truly be herself around. There were scant few of those. Her father did reward her with his rumbling chuckle. Even though Malora knew she was the favorite daughter, all of Leyton’s children had been spoiled by his kindness, all ten of them.

“Come now. Does Marwyn not manage to keep your attention anymore with the wonders he has here?”

“Actually,” Malora replied, “those wonders are the reason both he and I plan to travel east. You know the glass candles in the Citadel have shattered. A report from the Wall has us concerned. We believe we might find out more at the place where magic is still felt most keenly as to why that happened, and if it occurred across all of Planetos.”

It had happened over a fortnight ago and for the first time in years had brought attention again to the most discredited subject of study in the Citadel. The glass candles were the only tangible magical object the bulk of the students ever came in contact with, obviously it would create an uproar if the ancient workings just… imploded.

Her father observed Malora in thought for just a second before answering.

“Qarth… No, Asshai. You mean to go to Asshai-by-the-Shadow.”

She’d had her father’s attention the moment she’d entered, but now Malora was scrutinized intensely by Leyton Hightower.

“Yes, father. First to Qarth, then further to Asshai.”

“Why?”

The most difficult question, yet Malora did not believe her father would understand her answer in its entirety. Or its seriousness.

“You are aware of the theory Marwyn and I developed in our studies?”

Malora smiled at the fondly as she asked the question. Her father did indulge her in her masquerade as an acolyte of the higher mysteries. It was the only section of the citadel tolerant enough towards a student’s need for privacy that they even let the odd disguised girl in. They were really starved for students, after all. Still, for a noblewoman of the highest stock to mix in was a rarity.

“The theory that magic is not truly dead,” her father answered slowly, “merely dormant?”

“That’s the one.”

Malora had to gulp down the emptiness as she spoke on, the thought alone of her life’s work so far leaving her trembling a little. Her father did not answer, but his gaze sharpened. There were old records in hidden in the High Tower, usually only passed on from one lord to the next, but her father had given Malora the key to all of the old libraries. Alchemy and shadow binding, spells and necromancy, the aeromancy and prophecy.

The Hightowers of old were well versed in sorcery of all kinds. The High Tower itself was structurally unsound, there was no way to build something as tall as it should. It should have been impossible. Yet just like the Wall it stood, the foundation standing on unknown bedrock and unknown magic. Just another reason her next words scared Malora so.

“Marwyn and I fear that magic is either waking up now, or truly dying.”

The next day Mad Maid Malora and Marwyn the Mage stood on the prow of the earliest ship leaving for Essos.

It had taken two moons after that fateful meeting for Mellario to actually leave Sunspear. Oberyn had not been understanding of the procedure to let Mellario’s kin in Norvos know of her visit in a manner that Mellario knew the Bearded Priests to intercept and understand the message was meant for them just as well.

Then again, her brother-in-law had been rather outraged that all correspondence and communication into and out of her home city was vetted and copied by the clergy. He was a petulant child at times, and in Mellario’s eyes too indulgent a father by far. Doran had supported her way of doing things, though, so the matter was settled quickly.

Oberyn had left a soon after for Yronwood, to face Ormond Yronwood in a duel of honor and head further north after. Even the fight itself was already finished. Oberyn had disarmed his adversary and forced a surrender, his spear as clean as his sword had been in the fight against Ormond’s father. The Lord of Yronwood now believed the younger of the Martell brother’s proclamation of innocence. Especially seeing that the man’s sword itself had been dipped in poison. Yet he had only nicked a finger and cut a shallow wound into Oberyn’s leg. Her brother-in-law had cut of his own left pinky at the dueling site when he noticed the discoloration spreading. The other wound was inflicted in the maneuver that saw Oberyn win the fight, and Lord Yronwood did provide the antidote after he submitted.

More than a moon before Mellario’s departure a letter had reached Doran from Dragonstone where Oberyn met his sister before travelling on North for the wedding of Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne. Mellario remembered the pair from that ill-fated tourney. The last she knew of was the travesty the older Stark brother had committed, and she could not imagine herself returning to the family of such a man. All she knew of Eddard Stark now, though, left her with an ever-nagging curiosity.

Apparently Oberyn could not wait to meet Ashara and her husband-to-be either. A few letters in Elia’s possession from Eddard Stark’s hand had convinced her brother-in-law that the new heir to the North was the greatest word smith in Westeros alive. The poetry samples he had included even convinced Obara to take etiquette lessons in hopes of someday finding her own prince charming.

The text Doran read only to Mellario a fortnight ago spurred them to a night of sensual debauchery she would never forget. As a result, however, Mellario dreaded ever meeting Eddard Stark in person. Still now the memories left her blushing at times. Mellario knew the quiet wolf to be a seducer beyond compare.

She would have to watch out that Quentyn did not take after his uncle and husband of his aunt’s sister in all but blood. Her little boy looked up at her as she contemplated his future and nestled into her breast again.

Tyrosh was already in sight of them, a mere ten days after setting off from Sunspear. The ship they travelled on was to resemble a merchant vessel, they would part with the captain in Pentos and follow the roads to Norvos from there.

Their ship moored at the docks of the merchant’s harbor, separate from the slaver’s harbor that lay further out in squalor. One of the few things Mellario missed from Essos, though she despised the Tyroshi way of slavery.

In Norvos slaves were bred, not captured. They were not broken in the way of Slaver’s Bay nor were they ripped from their lands by Tyroshi or Dothraki. No, Norvosi slaves knew their station growing up and were not given a reason to fear or hate their masters. No, they loved the hand that fed them. Some of the servants in Sunspear would benefit from proper training.

Mellario fixed a wig of blue to her scalp. One of the few reasons she liked Tyrosh was the chance to indulge with her more uncommon hair pieces. Another reason was their honeyfingers. Dornish cuisine included some marvelous sweets of nuts and dough, yet the Tyroshi treat was one of the few luxuries Doran imported for Mellario.

Mellario of Norvos disembarked with her son in a sling at her breast and Areo Hotah in her wake. Her guard had taken to growing his beard in Westeros and apparently grown attached, telling her in confidence he would not shave before Norvos was a day’s ride away.

Doran would not understand the sense of freedom Mellario and Areo shared under his roof. She herself, while still keeping to her wigs, had let her natural hair grow unto her shoulder. She would miss it when she entered the city of her fore-fathers.

Soon enough Mellario found herself in a nice eatery at the waterfront with delighting in honeyfingers, allowing Areo to indulge with her while some of her household guards kept watch.

It was surprising, therefore, when one of her guards stepped up to Mellario to inform her there were two men that wanted to speak with her regarding her journey. Few people were supposed to know Mellario even left Dorne, for all intents and purposes she had retreated to the Water Gardens with her young son and Arianne.

The two strangers divested themselves of all weapons on her requests, even allowing for Areo to check for hidden weapons before taking a seat at her table. One seemed to be around five and twenty, the other looked no older than seven and ten. Both looked to be soldiers, though Tyrosh only kept sell swords.

The elder had a long mane of blond hair and a carefully groomed moustache, both oiled to perfection just for that extra shine. Mellario approved of the care that went into it, the man was projecting a commanding presence with his well sculpted body. His partner looked leaner and harder, less jovial, with cropped black hair and earthen eyes. The weapons they left behind was a monstrosity of a bow for the elder along with a quality sword and well maintained sword and shield for the younger.

“Greetings, my lady of Norvos and Dorne,” the elder spoke as his companion remained observant, “allow me to introduce myself and my companion. I am Ser Wendel Manderly and this is Robin Flint. We are the captain and deputy of the Wolf Pack chapter in Tyrosh. Our employer reached out to us about two moons back that you might be passing through these waters and that we were to give advice regarding your route to your home city.”

Mellario noticed Areo tense as the man spoke while she tried to connect the man’s house to its origin. She did not know of a noble house by the name Flint, yet she remembered Manderly after a second.

“You are a long way from White Harbor, Ser,” Mellario finally said, “yet I must apologize for I do not know either your company nor your friend’s noble house.”

A kind smile played on her lips as she waited for an answer. Robin Flint spoke first, his voice gruff with an accent more pronounced with harsh Northern tones.

“Few bother. I come from further north than White Harbor, though my father wants me to rule to the west,” he said.

Wendel Manderly shot him a look as that was apparently that, before Wendel started to speak himself.

“My good friend’s mother is a Flint from Widow’s Watch, while his father is a Flint from Flint’s Finger. Don’t bother my lady, there’s still more families named Flint in the North. Few to the south know Northern houses, and a little we like it that way.

“Still, more importantly, our employer advises you to travel via Myr if your destination is Norvos and avoid Pentos. Luckily more and more companies are following the call to Qohor, you can join one of them in Myr.”

Areo gripped his longaxe and only stilled as Mellario raised a hand before she took a second to take in the men before her.

“Forgive me, Ser, I once again must profess I do not know much of the Wolf Pack.”

The Manderly man was quick to pick up, luckily.

“A young company, in a manner of speaking, around 30 years older than the Golden Company. After the Dance of Dragons a band of Northmen started the Wolf Pack in Essos to avoid returning to a land in the throes of winter. Still, contacts were upheld with the families and many a Northman earned their spurs in our pack since. We have recruitment chapter in all the Three Daughters.”

Mellario left her hand raised and Areo kept his fingers on his longaxe still.”

“And your employer?”

“As I said my lady, family ties.”

The fake smile on Wendel Manderly’s face told her she was not going to get more out of him. Rickard Stark was a good bet and Mellario could not divine any other Northron with vested interest in Dorne’s quest for allies.

“And why do you advise avoiding Pentos, good ser?”

“All I was told, my lady,” Wendel answered slowly, “is that you will narrow the possibility of Illyrio Mopatis finding out about your movements should you travel from Myr.”

Mellario had never heard the name. So she left her hand up.

“Illyrio Mopatis is the man that funded Varys’ little birds in Westeros.” Robin Flint said after a second from Wendel Manderly’s side. He did not have an accent as he spoke this time. Wendel Manderly did not move a muscle in his face but still it looked like his fake smile grew.

Mellario lowered her hand slowly as she thought on the conversation thus far before turning to Robin Flint.

“Family ties, captain?”

There was a hard grin to his face as the dark haired man answered.

“My grandaunt, Arya Flint. The mother-in-law of Rickard Stark.”

Mellario inclined her head in thanks. So the Old Wolf anticipated Doran’s moves. She’d need to send a message. Areo relaxed at her side.

“Thank you, captain, Ser. Send my greetings to your employer and thank Rickard Stark from the Martells. But do tell, why are more and more companies heading for Qohor?”

Wendel Manderly jumped in again.

“There is a call going around for a punitive campaign against the Dothraki, and Qohor is paying in gold. Lots of gold.”

Madness. Rank Madness. What folly would lead the Qohori to battle the Dothraki once more?

Her thoughts must have shown on her face for Wendel Manderly spoke on.

“A Khal Zekko has been singling out Qohor and returns every few years to claim bounty. Already the Windblown, the Maiden’s Men and the Cats have arrived at the city. We know the Bright Banners have broken camp to once more face a khalasar for Qohor. Others like the Gallant Men and the Long Lances have also signed on.

“More companies take ships north. The Stormcrows and the Stormbreakers, the Free Company and the Ragged Standard, the Iron Shields and the Men of Valor and many more have taken off. It’s kept mostly quiet, but I can tell you some of them are headed for Saath.”

Mellario felt herself swallow, her throat dry. Saath. Sarnor. By the shrouded god. Doran needed to be told. The conflict was to grow beyond their wildest predictions. Central Essos was bound to erupt in chaos if this information was true. Where did Saath get the coin? Were they really in charge? Another thing gnawed on Mellario, she had to ask. No way around it. Please have them go east, too.

“What of the Golden Company?”

“Oh, they are camped at Myr. They are under contract already. Nobody knows who they are contracted to, though. Another friendly advice, Lady Mellario. Avoid their encampment as well. Their current leader had kin in the Kingswood brotherhood. Maybe he was able to combine business and personal matters. It would explain why he is not following the easy money right now.”

Wendel Manderly was almost jovial as he spoke of the Golden Company. The North had enmity with the crown, after all, and the Golden Company was founded on the tenants of bringing the Targaryens down. Manderly’s reply offered up another question, though, so Mellario turned to captain Flint.

“Is it the same for you, captain? You would be in the field already if the Wolf Pack was following the easy money, wouldn’t you? Are you combining business and pleasure? What has Rickard Stark offered you?”

The grin to Robin Flint’s face reached his eyes now, but it stayed just as hard.

“My lady, I’m afraid business is calling for me again. To answer your question: My business days are done, now it’s just pleasure and family obligations. We will see ourselves out.”

The chairs scraped over the floor with a discordant screech as Robin Flint and his deputy rose. At the door the razor-eyed captain turned once more to say his goodbyes.

“Lady Mellario, I wish you safe travels to Norvos. I will extend your greetings to my employer and send Rickard Stark your thanks. On that note, do you also want me to send your thanks to my employer and greetings to Rickard Stark?”

Mellario sat there staring, it took a moment to sink in. The two Northmen did not wait for her reply. Mellario remained stock-still a little longer, only when Quentyn woke did she focus again. She did not know if her journey’s start was fortunate or the opposite. However, Doran would need to be informed of the breadth of new information.

The sell sword companies. Qohor. Saath. The Dothraki. Rickard Stark and whoever his confidant in Essos was, their far reaching influence and intelligence. Illyrio Mopatis. The Golden Company. Her altered travel route. Bringing Norvos to their side had become just that more important.

Three days later Mellario set off for Myr as more and more questions plagued her. There was only one thing she knew now, though; Doran’s predictions were off. Way off. Everything was going to be worse.

Chapter Text

Grace sat contemplating the figures of the last moon, noting another windfall, another high increase in goods sold. Her vault had grown once more, as had her inventory. Not only did she earn almost another shipload of gold, she’d also been able to shore up on sharp steel again. The prize for good arms had been dropping for moons now.

It did not make any sense; most slave companies had made their way north to Qohor since the call went out for war on Khal Zekko six moons past. Yet there were more weapons and new slaves available for cheap now, despite the steep demands for both of them. Everyone was buying in bulk, what with the prizes so low. Three goods had been flooding the market recently, so Grace had taken notice.

More slaves had been dropped with the high tide today again. Few Unsullied came in for purchase, of course, but if Grace remembered the numbers correctly from her training in Yunkai, the cities in Slaver’s Bay should start running low on common pit slaves in another three moons, as well as slaves of other stock. The Masters would need the Dothraki to win in Qohor and return south quickly for their supplies to stabilize again. It was distasteful, the woman who was once named Blossom knew. She felt her cheeks ache again, the tear-shaped scars burning.

But it helped. Fresh slaves, cheap arms. Many companies on their way north were chasing the easy money, taking many tested and broken slave soldiers with them. The newer ones tended to be unrulier now since the last full moon, showing they’d only been freshly caught.

It was all a little suspect. The slaves were too cheap. The prize for penned people had dropped too low. Volantis looked to soon have seven slaves per free man, not just five anymore. And yet the Old Blood was richer than before. The merchants, too. And not just a little richer, Grace had seen her gold more than double in the last six moons. She’d managed to buy a lot of people, and set them free the last week again.

Sales went incredibly well, too. The Old Blood was selling off property in bulk. Most shipyards had sold all their vessels, and a group of foreigners were paying premium for produce and luxury. The luxury goods were shipped off, but it had become obvious that someone was stocking up food in the warehouses by the harbor. It was usually a difficult market to break into, but by the amount these people were spending they were likely in control of almost two thirds of all the food in Volantis already. Already they must be running terrible losses.

The strangest part was they were giving it out in large amounts as alms for the poor daily. They had taken the charity away from the Red Temple, distributing cheap meals from their ware houses whereas the priests of R’hllor had not given out free food for two moons now. The red priests had been silent since their visions ceased seven moons ago, too.

A shame, seeing as the people were now turning away from R’hllor slowly. And the new High Priest, Benerro, had been so promising since he rose to his office a decade ago now. The man was a gifted speaker and had been receptive to her cause. Maybe their revolution could have started already with the new influx in slaves and arms and with the departure of most Volantene slave soldiers beholden to the Old Blood. If only her husband was still alive…

Regardless, she was to meet with the Light of Wisdom today. Grace was of the opinion Flame of Truth was not an apt title for Benerro now, seeing that R’hllor did not guide his flock through darkness and terror anymore. Of course that knowledge was kept from the majority of the followers, though Grace did notice the rumor spreading for some time now even amongst the lowest slaves. The bald, almost sickly thin man came by an hour before she was done with her inventory, a mistake he had never done when he still saw visions in his flames.

“High Priest,” she greeted him as he was led into her parlor, “I was most surprised when I received your missive yesterday asking for a meeting. It indicated there was an internal problem in your church…? Why are you here to bother me with cleaning your house?”

The man stared at her, zealotry burning in his eyes like the flame tattoos covering his face, before he made to speak. Benerro obviously did not like to be left standing as Grace finished business before deigning to talk to him. He disliked her brusque confrontation even more. Too bad he did not have the clout anymore to demand her immediate attention.

“Yes, Lady Grace. We need your help. Two score of the Fiery Hand have disappeared in the last week. It is most disturbing, since we know neither the followers of the Goat nor the heretics of the Stars are responsible. Nobody knows where they disappeared to, they simply did not return from their patrols. All of them went missing somewhere in the slums, and you have the best eyes and ears in those quarters.”

Blossom’s old skills helped put a masking smile on Grace’s face, even as she seethed internally in fury. Counting cattle. A slave he may be himself, but Benerro saw himself above others shackled. He did not see them as his sworn brothers, bound to the same masters. Grace doubted the man ever saw the shadow of the leash or heard the echo of the whip. He would not count his brothers and sisters by score if he had.

It was a problem with temple slaves, they did not know despair. They knew purpose and certainty and faith. Grace could not think of more broken slaves, except the pleasure slaves living in the Shade. But at least blue lips were not an infection, not the way dogma was. It was not a point to fight over, as Benerro knew she would help. Grace had to. The Fiery Hand was bound like she had been, and if slaves disappeared in her back yard, Grace would get her answers and find the culprit.

“Do you know who else has a motive to seek quarrel with you? You might not feed the bellies of the poor anymore, but they still remember you fondly. Most would help you in your search. Forty men is not a small number, and the Fiery Hand is too recognizable to miss.”

Benerro almost scowled at Grace’s question. The loss of prestige in the slums had hurt the Red Priests deeply, the bulk of their followers came from there. Benerro should count himself lucky that it was only a band of merchants giving out free food. If it was another church there’d be open fighting in the streets, and wars of the faiths did not tend to end. They only lost the people’s stomachs, not the people’s souls.

“A few crime lords have disagreements with us, but they would not risk antagonizing us in such a way. The flames are still silent. It cannot be a major problem, else R’hllor would guide us.”

He spoke with such conviction. The mob probably ate every mouth from his lips, breathed it. But Grace knew. There were stirrings to the east, in Qarth the balance of the powers had been broken. The House of the Undying had stopped receiving visitors and the healers of the Lazareen saw more people die than live nowadays. She knew it would incense the man across from her, but when her brothers and sisters were in danger, Grace did not have a care for Benerro’s sensibilities.

“The power of your magic has been ebbing recently, or has it already dried out? Do not take your lack of answers for an isolated problem. The Warlocks have been silent as of late, and the few news I have of Asshai have me shivering, Benerro. Tell me which crime lords you’ve had disagreements with.”

“I will not stand here and listen to you blaspheme the One True God by comparing his miracles to the parlor tricks of charlatans!” Benerro’s voice was thunderous as he raged. “I should not have come to you, for I thought you a believer in our cause. It is sad to see you are truly nothing more than Vogarro’s whore, clinging to the last vestiges of his wealth.”

Grace had to take a deep breath, closing her eyes at the appellation. Her guards, Luzon and Cebu entered immediately as they heard the screams. They looked as angry as Grace felt. The Widow of the Waterfront did not stop the two as they grabbed the High Priest and pushed him from the chair to his knees, though she gave them halt when Cebu made to pull his scimitar.

“Listen here, you little cur.” Grace had few triggers left, but you better not touched those with even a feather. “I have entertained you because our cause aligned in so far as giving the people freedom from their earthly master. But that is where we part. I want to see every slave a free man. I do not care if they style themselves as Slaves of R’hllor after, but I mean to give them a choice first. Even your priests, even your servants, even your guards in the Fiery Hand, as far as the lowliest temple prostitute you keep in the Temple of the Lord of Light.

“I do not care for your sympathy. I do not care for your respect. I do not care for you, Benerro, and as fellow slaves you could not be lower in my eyes. You will NEVER AGAIN take the name of my husband onto your tongue or I will see it torn out. Your own priests will tear you apart if you cannot be the R’hllor’s Voice to the people anymore. So you should better care for what you say in the future, for it may be your last words.

“Now. Do tell. Which of my competitors has quarrels with the priests of the Lord of Light?”

Benerro seemed to want to interrupt her in the middle, but the grip of Luzon on his shoulder kept him quiet. He was not stupid, after all, only frenzied in his faith. When he spoke again, his voice was back under his control.

“The Fourth Yearling. The Father of Orphans. The Slum Dog Keeper. The Prince of Knives. Except for these four, no crime lord has any major conflicts of interest with the Red Temple.”

Grace, the Widow of the Waterfront, thought about which of her four competitors was the most likely to strike out into burning coals after only a few moons of weakness. She owned the Slum Dog Keeper and had him taking out slavers that were going to sell their shackled to the different faiths. She had given him orders not to mess with established religious militias. Either he followed her orders or he’d need to be replaced.

The Father of Orphans was on friendly terms with her, with most anyone in Volantis’ underbelly actually, dealing only in information, pickpocketing and beggary. He did right by the strays he collected, and some of those strays he freed from their former chains, but he did not have the men that could make patrols of the Fiery Hand disappear.

The Fourth Yearling did little business in the poorer districts of Volantis. Even if Grace did not know his name, she was sure he was a freeborn of noble blood. His territory was the Old City and none of his agents could take out guard patrols in the slums unobserved. Grace knew his racketeering schemes had recently lessened for an unknown cause, but whatever he was hired for was definitely not an operation on this side of the Long Bridge.

The Prince of Knives was the most likely subject. His assassination squads had at times been thwarted in their hits by prophecies from the flames. However, he was too much of a professional to hunt for members of the Fiery Hand without compensation. And the Prince would not be forthcoming with information if his client paid him enough to risk operating on her turf.

Grace dismissed Benerro without a word as she set to having patrols of the Fiery Hand shadowed by her own thugs. Not three days later they ran afoul a squad binding a patrol of five men with flame tattoos on their faces. Though they managed to kill two of the Prince’s men, the rest was able to escape with their captives.

It came as a surprise when Batanes the Bloody Blade, the Prince’s right hand man came with an offer for parley the next day. Benerro was in bad luck, it seemed. The Prince offered her a tithe to the price of six slaves for every member of the Fiery Hand he captured in the slums. His employer was definitely paying him enough to operate on Grace’s turf. Six new free brothers and sisters was a price Grace was willing to accept for the infringement on her area and the kidnapping of the church guards. It was even enough to buy her silence against Benerro.

A few days later the kidnapping spree was over, as Batanes delivered a last payment to ensure another 30 chains were broken forever. It became yesterday’s news the next week over, as the Fourth Yearling started what he was apparently paid to do. Allegedly, of course, for Grace believed there were less than five people in all of Volantis to know him as the perpetrator.

On Monday, Tiger candidate Arrezo Saegon was killed campaigning in the Braavosi Bazaar with a crossbow-bolt to the heart. The man was of middling importance, to be truthful, and his prospects to be elected were slim. The killer escaped unseen, leaving only behind a crossbow of Myrish make that was most commonly used by sell sword from the city of its origin, though this specific model had been sold to foreign collectors as well.

On Tuesday, Tiger candidate Aqqorran Aegyal was found stabbed to death in his bed by his servants, pinned above his head a note proclaiming sorrow. However, the note was written in High Valyrian instead of Qartheen, making for a poor imitation of the modus operandi of the Sorrowful Men. As Aqqorran was known to propose closer alliance with Qarth to pressure Slaver’s Bay for prices, it was apparent that it was not in the interest of Qarth’s nobles to kill the man.

On Wednesday, Tiger candidate Verraqrux Ryelaryo, the only female Tiger running for office, was abducted in along with her carriage. Later the same day the carriage was found, Lady Verraqrux inside with a head that had been flayed, though in an amateurish manner. The woman had been decently popular for her connections to several Elephants and was seen as a preeminent head of a more moderate Tiger faction. By the time this news broke, the Tigers were baying for blood. Even the Elephants condemned the attacks and promised military retribution should the culprit be found.

On Thursday, General Brevanno Tagaros was poisoned with a strong dose of the Tears of Lys. He died painfully the same day. The man was a heavyweight within the radical Tiger faction calling for a reconquest of the Three Daughters. His family had lost a lot of prestige since the Century of Blood, but the name Tagaros still demanded respect. Especially grievous to the nobles of Valyria was the fact that the direct line of the Tagaros’ blood stood to die out with the next generation, as Brevanno only yet had a daughter of seven and ten. He had been the last of the male line and the loss of an ancient family of dating back to Valyria threatened to his compatriots to bring the Volantene army down on the city to enforce martial law.

On Friday, Enezzio Lavayto, the governor of the Selhorys, the northernmost tributary city of Volantis, was set to arrive. There were rumors of problems in the Sorrows. However, Enezzio's carriage was found with the man dead inside, branded black with an iron in the shape of a goat’s head. The man had been feuding with the governor of Aqob, the southernmost tributary city of Qohor. He had received ample support from wealthy Tigers with an eye for expansion.

On Saturday, Merriano Fraetor, the last Tiger candidate except for the incumbent triarch, was found drowned in blue dye in his bed, the sticky substance dried to his corpse. Afterwards, the Long Bridge was closed and all gates into the Old City were barred. The whole assembly of the old blood was crying for the murderers.

On Sunday, the spark that set the tinder alight was the assassination attempt on the incumbent Tiger Triarch for ten years, Malaquo Maegyr. The wily man of fifty had been visiting the grieving daughter Orianna Tagaros when a group of thirty assassins were slain by his guard. Discovered among the dead was the head guard of Doniphos Paenymion, making it impossible for the man to be reelected despite his discernably truthful proclamations of innocence.

Malaquo, in a singular political master stroke, went on to betroth his nephew to Orianna Tagaros with the allowance for the young man to take on his bride’s name. His only condition was gladly met by Orianna Tagaros and she announced her intent to run for the office of triarch herself the next day, making her a clear favorite for the position. It became almost a certainty that, for the first time since the Century of Blood, the Tigers would be the ones ruling Volantis. Only two moons were left until the next election, but already the old cats in the city were sharpening their claws and gearing up for war.

Whatever madness had gripped the world; Grace was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it d did. Both the Prince of Knives and the Fourth Yearling were discovered dead not a week after. The upper echelons of their organizations were wiped out, too. And the world drowned in chaos when most of the warehouses of the merchants buying out the food stores of Volantis were burned down in a coordinated strike the next night.

After the fires died down, only ashes could be recovered. Along with the corpses of the guards of the larders, seemingly locked in combat with soldiers of the Fiery Hand. News of similar attacks in Volantis’ subsidiary cities trickled in over the next days. In a single night, more than 70% of the entire harvest and food reserves of Greater Volantis were destroyed.

The army was still in the city to ward against more assassinations that never came, keeping the Old City secure. On the other side of the Rhoyne the poor people in the slums felt hungry after a few days, and thousands left the faith of the Lord of Light. The priests were unable to prove their innocence and found itself in a street war against the angry mob of Volantis. Small riots were starting to appear all around as people tried to plunder any food still available.

Grace knew the despair of her people. However, she also saw the opportunity present for her cause. The poor soon realized the only way out as well. The old blood in the Old City still stocked enough supplies for some, though not enough for all of Volantis. But even for the poorest man living on the wrong side of the Long bridge, a sword had suddenly become cheaper than a week’s worth of food.

Xaro Xhoan Daxos awoke to the welcome sight of Nuuigi sleeping beside him. His most recent pleasure boy had revealed himself a worthwhile investment, Nuuigi had shown the flexibility of a contortionist. Xaro rose from his silken bedding as the sun broke through his curtains, the sun playing an enticing game with Nuuigi’s shining lean muscles. Xaro was almost tempted to remain a while longer, yet he knew good business waited for no man. And for a few moons now business had been great.

Recently, trade in ships had become the most profitable business. Xaro had divested himself of the majority of his fleet. The amount of gold he had been paid were worth thrice the flotilla he’d sold. Out of formerly 42 ships in his possession, only five remained now. Trade to the west had become chaotic since the slave uprising in Volantis three moons ago, yet it had lead to more ships bringing in goods from as far as Westeros in greater quantity.

It seemed those selfsame merchants from another continent came to recognize Qarth for what it was, the greatest city that ever was or ever will be. More and more they purchased holdings in the city. And they were rich. Filthily so. Yet for their great wealth they were poor merchants, with little ability to drive a good bargain.

The Westerosi were picking the city clean of spices, luxury goods, ships and real estate, but the profits Qartheen merchants achieved with the influx of gold might even see them rich enough to employ an YiTish warlord against the Dothraki and reclaim the glory days of the Qaathi.

The one commodity that would come into demand in the near future was not even contested by the new blood from the west. The Westerosi did not trade in slaves, not even now where Slaver’s Bay could only sell their wares in Qarth. The waters around Volantis had become too dangerous to risk.

Travelling further upriver than where the Lhorulu met the Rhoyne had become an impossibility, and Vogarro’s whore controlled the western city of Volantis still and captured every slaving vessel to brave those waters.

Xaro knew the Tigers now controlling the city would call the rabble to heel, but the old blood was heavily outnumbered and it would take time until order was restored to Valyria’s oldest daughter. Consequently, the price for slaves had dropped yet further in Qarth even as the Masters of Slaver’s Bay were starting to run out of fresh meat. The only question was when the Unsullied would finally be sold in greater numbers.

To the north a Saathi host of sell swords had decimated Khal Zekko’s khalasar in a pincer attack with the Qohori conscripts. Their combined forces were now pushing east along the Sarne, likely to reach the ruins of Sarnath within the next two moons. The dosh khaleen had called for peace between all khalasars to combat this challenge to their dominance of the Great Grass Sea.

War was all around, with only Qarth a pool of tranquility within, with only Qarth to profit. By now it was almost safer to circle around all of southern Essos via Sothoryos and the Summer Isles. Tyrosh had recently even pacified most of the Stepstones after a new pirate had grown increasingly bold for a short time. The pirate had not even lasted half a year, yet Tyrosh was reluctant to claim Stepstones as the situation to the west was falling into the deepest chasm of chaos since Valyria’s downfall. It seemed all of Essos west of the Bone Mountains and Westeros were simultaneously descending into civil war. Xaro had to cry a little, thinking of the business booming all around.

He was a little surprised when one of his former captains asked for an audience. The man had been a good sailor, but Xaro knew him to have struck out on his own after he had sold his house in Qarth to buy his own ship to trade in the troubled waters to the west. They had parted in good terms, yet the man had left only a little over two moons ago and was not supposed to return for another six.

Captain Akhab was a lean and mean Qartheen, though mixed with the coppery hues of his rapist Dothraki father. His twice broken nose gave him a rough edge, and Xaro as always yearned for Akhab to push Xaro down and take him roughly without care. Nuuigi gave him pleasure as he asked, but Xaro wanted to experience pleasure being taken from him. Alas, the man had a wife and the sea and whores to keep him. He probably did not even realize Xaro’s attraction.

“Prince Xhoan Daxos,” Akhab addressed him quickly, an expression of uncertainty on his face, “I need your advice on a discovery of mine off Gorosh that led me to cut my voyage short. You have recently sold the Vermillion Kiss along with many other boats of your fleet, have you not?”

“Indeed, captain Akhab,” Xaro knew his face to carry a wan smile and a trace of tears, “it was great business all in all. I stand to rebuild my fleet within the next decade through YiTish shipwrights and have doubled my wealth in the last year alone. The flood of sunset landers have brought me great fortune. You have profited from this yourself, have you not?”

Akhab seemed to weigh each of his words as he spoke, an unfamiliar habit for the gruff sailor.

“Aye, prince. The Westerosi seemed foolish or spendrift at the time, yet what I’ve seen breaks the realm of foolishness and has left me in doubt to their purpose.”

“It cannot be too bad now, can it Akhab? Qarth is unassailable from without and they swelled the coffers of the Thirteen, the Tourmaline Brotherhood and the Ancient Guild of Spicers all. Us merchants need not even compete for them, they pay us all. Only the purebloods see their influence wither further, but is that not to be welcomed?”

Xaro could not imagine a better year for trade. Qarth stood to rise higher and higher.

“Yes, my prince, and yet… I have seen the Vermillion Kiss scrapped near the coast of Sothoryos. Not because of an outside attack, the damage must have been inflicted by the ships own crew. It was wrecked along with most of the boats of your former fleet with more than a thousand other boats in the same spot. I cannot make heads or tails of it. Why did the Westerosis buy all those boats, just to destroy them?”

Akhab looked at Xaro in askance, yet the merchant prince could not supply an answer. Why would anyone ever destroy their own wealth? That was as good as sending their gold directly to the ocean floor. Why, if you have to be foolish, trade your gold for goods beforehand and not simply throw it over boat? Why even overpay on those boats? The Westerosi might have just as well gifted all the gold to the merchants of Qarth.

Oh.

Oh no. Was that even possible?

“Captain Akhab,” the man looked wary as Xaro spoke up, distress evident in the merchant prince’s voice, “can you tell me if all the ships were Qartheen?”

The captain seemed confused at the question, yet answered none the less.

“No, prince Xhoan, it was a pretty even split of Volantene and Qartheen ships, with the odd vessel of different make in between. All thoroughly trashed, none salvageable.”

No no no no no!

“Do you know if anyone else has made the discovery of this… of this graveyard of ships, captain?”

“No, my prince. It was not along the normal trading routes. A storm had blown me off course and the rocks beneath the sea are treacherous in the area. Good captains tend to avoid the area. Bad captains die there.”

“Captain Akhab, let me give you an advice and a warning. Spend your gold as soon as possible. Buy goods, trade it for silver, just get rid of it. Before it is too late. And do not tell anyone else of what you have found!”

The good captain looked scared at Xaro’s words, as scared as Xaro felt. All thoughts of Akhab’s deliciously sculpted muscles had left Xaro, and the merchant prince was feeling anxious and elated. Xaro knew this feeling, it had the smell of peppers and cinnamon, of fortunes to be won. Xaro had just been given the best chance to increase his wealth yet again, but chaos loomed that Xaro could not even imagine.

As soon as captain Akhab had left, Xaro left to consult the warlocks at the House of the Undying. A score of his guard came along, and he brought enough gold to bribe Pyat Pree thrice over. The magic might have left the warlocks dry, yet they still commanded the knowledge of ages. And none had dared approach their halls since they closed their doors almost a year ago now. Why should anyone, really? Business had been booming, fortunes ever on the rise.

At the House of the Undying, not even an acolyte came out to receive Xaro. But the merchant prince needed answers, so he let himself in. It was the first time in his life that he dared not to wait for one of the warlocks, fear of something almost greater driving him. Maybe not greater, but something infinitely more corporeal than the sorcerers of Qarth had been in the last year.

There was no one to offer him any shade of the evening to see and the truths of the unknown, yet Xaro pushed on. Through the serpent’s mouth, the wandering the innards of the grey ruin of old, Xaro did not stop, Xaro was never stopped. For the first time ever, Xaro arrived at the center of the snake’s coil. But when he entered the inner sanctum of the warlocks, Xaro realized this old bastion was not the House of the Undying anymore. Only the House of Dust was left.

Blue lipped corpses welcomed him. Acolytes at the entrance, warlocks further in, the mummified Undying Ones at the center. Whatever had happened in these haunted halls, Xaro did not care to find out. He fled, along with his guard, and never dared to look back. Qarth was not safe from the chaos of the west. Xaro knew it now.

He started buying ships again. He did not make losses, no, he had earned too much gold beforehand, and he did not discern for quality like he used to. A moon later, Xaro had gotten rid of almost all the gold he had received from the Westerosi. He knew he should have left when he heard of the first Pureblood dead. The first of many.

Xaro knew it to be the Westerosi that had left the open contract with the Sorrowful Men, the one with a ridiculous bounty for each Pureblood killed, yet he had no proof. There was no motive. And the only other people to have enough gold to buy the assassins’ services in bulk were the many times over enriched merchants, the ones that had been pushing for a new distribution of power in Qarth for a few moons now.

Yet for all the merchants’ gold, the Pureblood still had influence with the city guard. The members of the Ancient Guild of Spicers were the first to be hunted by the troops of the nobles. Yet the open contract for pureblooded heads did not stop. And soon enough the Thirteen, the Spicers and the Brotherhood started buying the services of sell swords to meet the city guards in the streets.

Only to see these prices for the sell swords’ services rise by the day when the cut throats realized that the merchants of Qarth had no ships to leave Qarth with their wealth and an overabundance of gold. A few companies just tried taking the gold over time, without any services. But for all that mercenaries like to get paid for doing nothing, they like to spend their pay more still. And when the gold reached the larger populace of Qarth in large quantities, Xaro for the first time in his life saw the value of gold dropping.

Xaro boarded his ships soon after, loading all the goods and valuables they could carry as the fighting in Qarth grew more and more chaotic. In hindsight it turned out to be the smartest decision of any individual west of the Bone Mountains in what came to be known as the Second Century of Blood. Xaro Xhoan Daxos was the only merchant from Qarth or elsewhere to escape to Yi Ti with most of his wealth intact. Xaro’s life regained a semblance of normalcy as he established himself in Yi Ti. As ever, business was booming for Xaro Xhoan Daxos.

Not soon after the now former Merchant Prince left the city, Qarth closed the Jade Gates for all seafaring vessels going east or west. It was a measure taken to protect Qarth against foreign attacks as it clawed itself apart, anarchy reigning throughout its streets. The conflict between the purebloods and the merchants would see Qarth devastated for years to come, not to recover its prestige and status for more than three decades after the dust of the fighting settled.

Even as an old man Xaro Xhoan Daxos knew it had been his greatest stroke of fortune to leave for Yi Ti when he did. He never returned for Qarth, nor for any other place to the west of the Bone Mountains as the carnage of the Second Century of Blood ran its course. Instead Xaro Xhoan Daxos rose to be the wealthiest exile in Yi Ti with the goods and the gold he took with him from his last days in the greatest city that ever was.

Bonus:
So I had this idea for a fun snippet. That just ballooned into the 500+ words semi-chapter below. Enjoy.

Hello dairy diary,

We have returned from the Stark-Tully-Wedding. Well, actually we have not returned. That is, we have returned, just not from the wedding. There was no wedding. So our trip was just like a little family vocation vacation. That we did not return from, I notice now that I write about it. At least not all of us. Bal’s gone. But that it ok, because Bal turned out to be a fucking cunt. He even called me fucking cunt!

Bal returned before us because dad did not like his raving reaving. On second thought, dad also did not like Bal’s raving. So Bal’s gone now, to rave and reave in the Septstones Stepsons Stepstones. Are there any septs in the Stepstones? Deftly definitely not after Bal’s done reaving. Though I do not think Bal will manage to reave much, he’s only got eight longboats. That is not even a proper raid team. And those eight boats are half-empty.

Though, Bal’s taken Rodrik and Maron. But it’s ok, they’re 14 and 13 now, proper time for a first reave. Makes me nosa- nostla- nostagl- remember my first reaving. And Bal says he’ll become King of the Stepstones. Father says Bal will die before he accomplices accomplishes that, though. Euron says the same. Most people that Euron says will die usually die. And Bal would have become King anyways because dad is now king. Except that Bal will not become king because dad said so because Bal wanted to reave.

I don’t really get it but we’re now all royalty royalty except Bal -(I wrote royalty right the first time! I just wasn’t sure.)- because dad is now the Salt King of the Iron Islands. But there’s like a king above dad. Not the crazy dude on the Iron Throne, Aerys. The king above dad is Rickard Stark. Does that make Rickard Stark royal royalty? Super-royalty? Uber-royalty? Royaltity? … heh, tity! Readless regardless, Rickard Stark is like a king king. That sounds right. So now we Greyjoys are kings and the Starks are our king kings.

I also met my new crown prince prince, Eddard Stark. Ned. We’re friends now. He’s cool, he gets me. Won’t go whoring with me, but if I was him I wouldn’t either. Ned’s got, like, the most rashing ravishing wife. She’s beautiful. And nice. More importantly, beautiful. I don’t know how Ned ever manages to leave his bed. No, wait, not his wife yet, in like a moon they’ll wed. I’ve been invited to Winterfell for their wedding. Because Ned’s my friend. And Bobby. Bobby is my friend now, too. Sadly, Bobby wouldn’t go whoring with me either. I understand Bobby, too, though. Because he is spoused supposed to marry Rickard Stark’s daughter. And Rickard is scary and a king king besides, and it would be stupid to offend a king king.

And that’s all that’s happened since we left for Riverrun. Now dad is sending some boats to help the Lannisters with something and people North to live there. And build ships. Lots of ships. I am now mostly playing with Urrigon and Aeron and Robin and Asha and Theon. Alannys can’t care for them because she’s missing Rodrik and Maron and crying all the time. She is not missing crying all the time, she is crying all the time. Anyway, Asha, Theon and Alannys leave for Castle Casterly Rock soon. So now I play only with Urrigon and Aeron and Robin because I don’t have much else to do before the wedding. Where Ashara becomes my crown prince prince’s princess princess. That sounds wrong, but I counted and it’s right.

Goodbye dairy diary,

Vic

Chapter Text

The old man rose from his cot to the beat of raven wings. It turned out to be another letter from his great-grandnephew. Even if the old man was not yet totally blind he did not care to read it. Rhaegar Targaryen’s conduct fell far short of the standards Maester Aemon held his friendly associates to. If his brother Egg still sat on the Iron Throne, Prince Rhaegar would have been shipped North already to keep Aemon company forevermore. His brother should have named sweet Rhaelle his heir. Then, at least, the kings would know of duty.

How the mighty had fallen. It was a rare day that Aemon wished for another Bloodraven to rise to power; to set the Seven Kingdoms right again, by any means necessary. Aemon looked to the other letter again, the one he had received almost a sennight ago now. It still sat on his bedside table, the paper worn from the many times Aemon had read it. Dear cousin Aemon. She was kin, too…

It did not do to dwell on these thoughts again as Aemon had again and again over the last week. He had made the trip to Shadow Tower for business, he needed to be focused. Twenty days ago the skinchanger Haggon had sought refuge with the Watch, grievously injured and half mad according to Maester Mullin. A patrol had picked him up at the Bridge of Skulls after recognizing him from Westwatch-by-the-Bridge.

The old wildling could count himself lucky he had been a friend of the Watch for decades and was well known to most brothers. Maester Mullin knew he was incapable of curing the man of his wounds and asked for aid from Castle Black. Aemon had asked Commander Qorgyle directly to be sent over. Mullin had written that Haggon seemed to have been attacked by his own bonded wolves. All that Aemon knew of skinchanger, which was admittedly very little, left him with a gut feeling that something had gone terribly wrong for Haggon.

Only inexperienced or weak skinchangers tended to lose control of their beasts like that, and Haggon was neither. Haggon’s wolves had been his family, their warg bond should have pacified the animals even if the man was not in direct control of his wolves. The most plausible conclusion - a quite terrifying one – was that a more powerful skinchanger had wrested Haggon’s control of his animals from him and used Haggon’s own pack to devour him. Neither a powerful skinchanger that was openly opposed to a declared friend of the Watch was a good option, nor was a skinchanger that did not observe the tenet not to consume human flesh while wearing the skin of an animal a good alternative.

Yet it was another event that drove Aemon to ride to the Shadow Tower in haste. Around a moon past it had happened, out of nowhere. His last keepsake from his life as a Targaryen prince, his cream and silver dragon egg had suddenly combusted in a spitfire. Qorgyle had been incensed at the event, yet Aemon could not bring himself to care for his commander’s wrath. All that Aemon knew of dragons, which was probably more than any other person alive in the whole world, did not help him find an explanation for his egg’s destruction. For his dragon’s death.

Then Mullin’s letter arrived, and Aemon deduced that Haggon must have been wounded around the same time his egg went up in flames. It left him with a shadow of a doubt, yet even the possibility was worse than a rogue skinchanger. A dragon was fire made flesh. Living, breathing magic. And a skinchanger’s bond with his animal was the only working of magic that Aemon could observe in all of Westeros, aside maybe from concoctions of wildfire. What if something had changed with magic itself?

Today Aemon would finally receive his answers. Haggon had awoken yesterday, yet the man had been to weak and frightened to hold a proper conversation with. Not so this time as Aemon entered his patient’s chamber. Now Haggon only looked catatonic. He looked at Aemon blankly when he was addressed.

“Haggon. I am glad you are awake. Can you tell me what happened to you?”

Aemon only got an empty stare in return, so he continued asking.

“My brothers found you injured at the Bridge of Skulls, barely clinging on to your life. They say your own wolf pack was stalking you.”

There were tears in Haggon’s eyes now, the vacant void was being replaced by deep despair. Haggon turned to look at his left leg. Or rather, to look at where his left leg used to be.

“I am sorry, Haggon,” Aemon spoke quietly, “we could not save it. The lacerations cut down to the bone, we had to –”

“Greyskin attacked me there. He bit into my ankle and sliced into my knee with his claws.”

Haggon words came out like a whisper, yet his voice still cut through Aemon’s.

“We had been together as long as I remember. I fed him by hand. Greyskin was the first animal whose skin I ever wore. I lost something greater than a mere leg that day, crow!”

When Haggon looked up again and met Aemon’s eyes, all the Maester saw was rage for a second before the emotion seemed to collapse in itself again.

“Did your brothers find Lump, too?”

“What is Lump?” Aemon knew only Haggon had been found. Not even his beasts of burden were found, the ones to carry his goods.

A desolate chuckle escaped Haggon before he answered.

“Not what is Lump, Maester, who was Lump. Lump was a young skinchanger I recently took under my wing, kicked out by his family. I was guiding him on how to break an animal, and he had slipped into his first rabbit when I… When I lost my gift.

“It was... My bonds, my partners, they are just… gone. Can you believe I was the lucky one between Lump and I? My pack turned on me and the boy, yet Lump did not even return to his body as the wolves tore into his flesh. We use pain to bring back skinchangers to their bodies as they learn, you see. But Lump didn’t return. Couldn’t return, I fear. He lost his gift while he was wearing the skin of a rabbit. I doubt the critter survived the wolves’ carnage either, though.”

Aemon did not know what to say to that and a lonely silence settled on the two of them. After a fashion Aemon checked on Haggon’s health again before leaving. Aemon almost did not dare ask when the attack occurred. In the end he did, leading to Haggon’s question how long he had been asleep for. Aemon saw the man’s heart break again when Haggon realized that, even in his dreams, Haggon would never run with his wolves anymore. The broken wildling did not say another word after, just staring into the emptiness, lost to his thoughts.

Left to his own ruminations after his conversation with Haggon, Aemon went on to write a letter addressed to Maester Marwyn of the Citadel. The man had approached Aemon already when he was but an acolyte. At first Aemon had felt bemused to be treated as something between an idol and a research subject at the same time. After engaging with Marwyn on dragon lore, however, they had started a friendly correspondence on many things Valyrian and all things magic. Maybe the Department of Higher Mysteries had observed other phenomena relating to magic recently.

Over the next three days Aemon tried to get Haggon to open up more about the disappearance of his powers but the wildling seemed a husk of man now, alive and awake but barely responsive. He did try to get out of his bed often, though, and Aemon decided the man was healthy enough to not need any of his attentions anymore. On the fourth day he set out to ride for Castle Black on the Wall’s crown.

He did not expect to meet Haggon standing on the top of the Wall, though, looking south. Haggon spoke to him then, though it did not seem he was wanting for Aemon to respond.

“I have always wondered what the promised lands look like, Maester. Us skinchangers make poor raiders, our abilities lie elsewhere. Laid elsewhere. Did you know a skinchanger could not cross the Wall wearing the skin of a bird? I tried. I slipped into Whitewing many a time, yet it almost seemed like the Wall repelled me.”

Haggon’s profile looked most somber, an air of melancholy about him.

“I loved flying. I always wavered between Greyskin and Whitewing for my second life. There is nothing freer than soaring over the Whitecaps or seeing the infinity of the Haunted Forest beneath you. Standing up here on the Wall reminds me of those times. I am glad I came up here for the sun rise.”

Finally, Haggon turned to look at Aemon before finishing his soliloquy.

“I am a little disappointed though, to be honest. The south side of the Wall looks just the same as the north from up high. All of this –”, Haggon said as he made a sweeping gesture encompassing both the North and the True North, “– is just the same. Why do you hunt and kill us with impunity when there is no difference between our sides, crow?”

Aemon could not answer in that moment, and neither could his guard. The silence between all of them was deafening. Haggon merely looked resigned as no reply came forth before crossing the walkway to look north into the over the Haunted Forest.

“And what fools we all are, for dreaming it is greener on the other side. It is all just the same. Will you do me a favor, crow?”

Haggon’s words were barely understandable before he spoke up at the end, his eyes transfixed on the land of his birth. He did not stop to look at Aemon for confirmation.

“Scatter my ashes beneath a heart tree in the True North, will you?”

There was a look of infinite yearning as Haggon said his last words and fell forward, falling down the Wall into the lands many wildlings desperately wanted to leave. Aemon did not even hear a sound as Haggon the skinchanger met his end in the home that he loved.

The ride east after passed Aemon and his companions like a blur. None of them were in the mood for talking and they made good time, arriving at Icemark by nightfall. Before dawn the next morning they broke camp, intend on reaching Castle Black before the sun set again. 49 years on the Wall had left Aemon an able horseman on icy ground. Neither he nor his companions wanted to spend another night in one of the abandoned castles, even if they had stocked enough fire wood for the patrols.

The sun rose before they reached the Nightfort. On the snowy field between the Haunted Forest and the Wall stood a lone rider, only flanked by a beast of burden. Next to it a pole of weirwood had been rammed into the ground, and knew a face to be carved into the stake. It was a First Man custom, a way to establish a peaceful negotiation ground for talks between warring parties.

Of course, Aemon could not see the weeping face from the top of the Wall, nor the rider next to it. However, he had brought his Myrish far eye along for his astronomical observations. It came in handy to discern the situation in front of them. After all, the free folk knew that the Nightfort had been abandoned for more than 200 years now.

However, what Aemon did manage to see through the far eye made him feel as if the blood in his veins froze over. The rider was not mounted on a horse. The creature that came for parley sat on a giant spider, bluish-white like snow on a frozen river. Before them stood a myth in the flesh. And even though it should be impossible to discern movement on the Wall from the bottom, the Other’s head was turned towards their galloping horses above him and the rider stepped down from his abominable mount, preparing to receive them at the weirwood stake.

Aemon was left with a difficult choice. By right he should ride on to Castle Black to inform Lord Commander Qorgyle of the situation. But it would take two days before the commander could meet with the Other if they left now, and who was to say the creature below the Wall would wait that long. Could they risk the possibility of obtaining information on the mount and its rider? Would the Dornish commander even believe them? Aemon’s worries were further compounded by the conviction that - despite his experience in his position – the commander was a rather conventional general that would probably be at least a little overwhelmed by the situation and reveal himself a bad spokesman for this situation.

The Maester of Castle Black knew he could force the issue with his companions; he was in command of their riding group after. He could decide that it would be him that went down to talk with this creature waiting for them. Yet he did not. All his guards were experienced rangers; so he put the matter to the vote, presented his position on their options and left them all to confirm his words with his far eye. After an hour of talks with grim faces, the 13 men voted ten to three that Aemon should speak with the Other accompanied by two guards. Four brothers were immediately send ahead to Castle Black to inform Commander Qorgyle of the situation.

Deaf Dick Follard and Qhorin Strongarm flanked Aemon as they approached the Other after the three of them were let down from the Wall with the stocked pulleys and rope kept in a secure compartment at the Nightfort. The first thought Aemon had as he finally stood face to face with the Other was that it was gracefully fair and frighteningly foreign. Almost transparent skin stretched like corporeal fog over a web of blue veins and a skeleton of crystalline bones, looking sturdy and fragile at the same time. It was disconcerting. Impossibly blue eyes seemed to uncover all secrets in Aemon’s soul.

Aemon almost greeted the man – at least it appeared to be male - in the Common Tongue. He was about to offer up greetings in the Old Tongue instead, yet he hesitated again for a second. Would this language be understood by his opposite? For all he knew the Other’s had not been seen for eight millennia. Who knew what language they spoke? The Old Tongue was still his best bet to establish communication, so Aemon started speaking.

“Greetings, stranger. I am Aemon Targaryen, the Shield that guards the Realms of Men. Who are you, and why have you come to parley with the Night’s Watch?”

“Greetings, Aemon Targaryen. I am   ҉ðϗϡÞЖ؈Ǯא₪₰҉,” the being spoke. Its name sounded like black ice cracking on a lake and hail pelting the Wall in a snowstorm. Aemon almost thought the being looked at him differently after hearing his name. “In your tongue it means He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow. But please, call me Snow. I have come to negotiate peace terms on behalf of He-who-Rules-the-Winds-of-Winter, god-king of the Lands of Always Winter and the King in the North whose name is Stark.”

Aemon had not known what to expect, but definitely not this. Aemon tried to consider all the information contained in that introduction. One, the Others were unified in a nation under a ruler that claimed dominion over the most inhospitable place in Westeros.

Two, this nation was to the Other’s knowledge either at war with the old Kingdom of Winter or had an armistice agreement in place. In other words, a kind of diplomatic rapport existed between the Kingdom of Winter and the Others. A relation the Iron Throne had not inherited when it absorbed the Kingdom of Winter into the Seven Kingdoms. At that Aemon almost thought in expletives.

Three, the Other’s intelligence was a horribly outdated. Well. That last was a welcome surprise. It made sense, though, considering the Others had not been heard of for 8.000 years and, apparently, the Wall blocked magic. All in all, two pieces of bad news and one piece of good news. Dear cousin Aemon. Two pieces of good news.

Aemon decided two things in that moment. He would accept the wedding invitation his second cousin thrice removed had extended him. After all, the Starks seemed to have held their greatest cards in the game of thrones close to their chest for millennia and now seemed finally ready to flip the whole board, so a visit would at least be interesting. And Ashara Dayne, great-great-great-grandniece of his mother Dyanna Dayne, had promised Aemon the protection of his great-great-grandniblings Rhaenys and Aegon to the best of her ability without condition attached.

And he would bring the most information about the Others he could squeeze from this one meeting as a wedding gift. In one moon’s time the Stark’s would become Aemon’s kin by marriage. Besides, he owed the Starks a debt for not seeing his great-grandnephew Rhaegar’s descent into madness, nor did he try to discourage the crown prince’s foolish notions. House Stark could have been almost extinct by the fits of a mad man on the Iron Throne.

… besides, Aemon doubted any of the lords south of the Neck would even believe his report of White Walkers, and with the imminent civil war ahead, the united North was the best chance for the whole world to combat whatever was in store for them. Monsters from the age of heroes reappearing was bad enough. If they descended on the south in the worst throes of the civil war, Aemon could not even imagine what chaos and destruction they could bring. So Aemon smiled, and made merry, and lied to He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow.

“He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow, I am most surprised by your visit. King Stark will be, too, when I go to report to him. What has happened that has left god-king He-who-Rules-the-Winds-of-Winter dissatisfied with the current arrangement? We have noticed a disturbance within the realms of magic, could that have been the cause?”

Aemon was spinning his yarn from thin air and flimsy conjectures but it did not seem to confuse Snow. At least, Aemon thought so. Far be it from Aemon to claim that he could read the face of an Other for lies. Yet the Other in front of him simply answered.

“You are mistaken, Aemon Targaryen, the disturbance in magic is not the cause. Rather, it was He-who-Ruled-the-Winds-of-Winter who has caused the disturbance, together with the-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest. It is most curious, Aemon Targaryen, that it is you I meet. It must have been the last thing he has seen. King Stark must hold you in high regard. The-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest asked as his last request to bring you a gift and a message. The one thing a Raven needs less than teeth is a tongue. He did not say more. I hope it tells you everything you need to know.”

Aemon had to swallow at hearing his uncle’s favorite phrase. The one thing a Raven needs less than teeth is a tongue. A raven only needs ears to hear a secret, and wings to carry it quickly. His uncle’s tenets for his spies, from the time that Bloodraven was still the Master of Whisperers of the Seven Kingdoms. Aemon was sure his voice was wavering slightly as he addressed Snow again.

“Is the gift my uncle has asked you to bring to me perchance a sword of grey and black?”

“Aye,” Snow replied before walking over to the massive elk that stood behind him. He returned with a bundle wrapped in oiled furs and the elk in tow. Aemon felt his hands trembling as he unwrapped Dark Sister from the furs and beheld the Valyrian sword in its splendor. Afterwards Aemon bound the sword in its furs again and handed it to Qhorin for safekeeping. Yet before Aemon could address his opposite, the Other spoke first.

“I bring another gift, this one is for your king.”

At that Snow pulled back the cover of the other bundle on the elk’s back, this one a lot bigger. Aemon found himself face to face with a dead man, thin and gaunt with skin as cold as ice and as black as night, and broken eyes of the same color. The corpse was clutching weapons of translucent blue ice to his chest, weapons of the same make as Snow the Other carried. Aemon merely stared at the dead man, uncomprehending.

“This is the body of Brandon ‘the Broken’ Stark, twin brother of Brandon ‘the Breaker’ Stark. He has done his penance in death, upholding the oath he broke in his life. This is the body of Brandon ‘the Broken’ Stark, 13th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, King-on-the-Wall, the Night’s King and thief and death of She-who-Danced-with-Snowflakes-in-the-Storm. And now, his Watch has ended.”

Aemon drew a sharp breath and heard Qhorin behind him do the same. Qhorin Strongarm almost pulled his sword, and would have if Aemon had not turned around fast enough and grabbed Qhorin’s hand on his pommel, keeping it down.

“Don’t, Qhorin! We are under a banner of truce!”

Aemon knew he did not have the strength to prevent Qhorin from breaking parley, but luckily, his brother obeyed. As Aemon turned around he found Snow watching him with an unreadable expression. A little rattled, Aemon spoke to break the tension, the first thing to come to his mind that did not concern the most infamous villain of the Watch, whose body Aemon now found himself in possession of.

“Can you tell me of my uncle, of Brynden Bloodraven? I haven’t seen him for almost 30 years now, ever since he went north of the Wall.”

Aemon did not know the connection between Brynden Bloodraven and the king of the Others, nor the meaning of the-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest. Maybe Snow would expose even more information. After all, Snow suddenly looked shocked as Aemon asked his question.

“You mean to tell me the-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest has taken on the incarnation of Brynden Bloodraven for over two decades? But that is… You mean to tell me the Man had enough willpower left to overpower the Crow and the Forest after such a long time?”

Well, the tense situation of the Night’s King’s body was seemingly defused. Sadly, Aemon had no idea what Snow was asking of him.

“I’m sorry, can you explain what you mean? I fear I do not understand what being the-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest meant for my uncle.” Aemon saw suspicion cross the Other’s face. Was he supposed to know what the name meant? Aemon almost seamlessly continued talking. “King Stark has not told me of my uncle’s fate. I do not know whether the information was too sensitive for me to know or whether my king wanted to spare me the pain such knowledge would bring.”

At that, He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow looked at Aemon almost with pity before answering.

“It is a great sacrifice to take on the mantle of the-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest. It is – was – a being of great magic. It was the champion of the gods of the forest, yet also not. You see, the gods of the forest do not let their champion fight in their name, they possess him and take his will away so they may take action in the world themselves. The one-eyed man you knew as Brynden Bloodraven was also the three-eyed crow and the forest of infinite red eyes.

“To find their champions the gods of the forest look through their eyes of blood for a greenseer, to lure him into their embrace and bind him with their grasping white hands. However, the gods’ actions contain great risks for them beside many advantages.

“The first weakness lies in the greenseer’s body, for it needs to remain connected to the weirwood network at all times. But the trees found a way around the dilemma of having to keep their champion confined. While the champion is bound to one place, he can see through the eyes of the weirwoods that are everywhere and the eyes of the three-eyed crow, who can go anywhere. Still, the body of the-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest becomes weaker and weaker. After some time only the trees keep the body alive, until even they cannot prevent inevitable death anymore.

“The second weakness lies in the greenseer’s spirit. For while the trees control what the greenseer sees, the greenseer can withstand the corruption of his mind with a strong will. Yet men are not made to see through uncountable eyes, see uncountable things. It breaks their spirit, and the gods of the forest simply wear the husk that remains. Brynden Bloodraven is truly remarkable, to withstand the gods’ assault on his mind for decades. I have not heard of another Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest that ever retained his will beyond five years.”

“Yes, Uncle Brynden was, for all his faults, a man of iron will”, Aemon spoke almost softly, “yet you are wrong about him. He hasn’t seen the world through one eye for a long time. Brynden Bloodraven had a thousand eyes, and one. They even sing a song about it.”

Snow was quiet as he listened, and solemn.

“He was a man worthy of songs.”

The Other did not fill the silence that followed his words, and Aemon left it to linger as he remembered the great things his uncle had wrought, and the few good memories that remained between Aemon and his uncle.

“How did he die?”

Aemon only noticed it was him that asked the question after the words had rung between him and Snow.

“He sacrificed himself to bring an end to the Crow and the Forest. To bring an end to Those-who-Sing-the-Songs-of-the-Earth. To bring an end to Those-who-Lurk-in-the-Deep. To bring an end to Those-who-Saunter-in-the-Shadows. To bring an end to Those-who-Linger-in-the-Light. To bring an end to Those-who-Fly-with-Fire. To bring an end to It-that-Feasts. To bring an end to us, to Those-who-Come-with-the-Cold. And to bring an end to all the magic in the world.”

Aemon thought of his dragon egg, then. Of his dragon egg that had burst into flames. When Aemon was young he had sometimes dreamt he flew his dragon Skyscraper through all the Known World and beyond. He had dreamt of raining fire on those that were evil.

Yet as Aemon grew older he saw that all that remained of the dragons of old was not the destruction of evil. Only destruction remained. His uncle Brynden had once more prevented possible calamity from striking the Seven Kingdoms, just as he had when he killed Aenys Blackfyre to stop the Blackfyre cause from retaining supporters. Just as he always had, uncompromising in his conviction and without mercy for anyone. Not even for himself.

This time He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow did fill the silence as it persisted.

“Around a moon ago our king He-who-Rules-the-Winds-of-Winter, for the first time in 8.000 years, felt the stirrings of prophecy. Of the prince who was promised to come into being, of Azor Ahai being reborn, of the last hero rising again, of the Second War for the Night to start. Yet something… happened. The strings of fate snapped, a moon, a sennight, a day away from setting it all into motion once more. And our king grew tired of waiting, of all the strings to align once more. It was not living, what he did, the last of us that remained awake.

“But our king also grew fearful. As you know, magic has been waning in the world for 384 years now, and more so for 129 years. If this continued, our king feared we would be too weak to even mount up a proper fight in the Second War. That we would have no chance at victory or that what people remembered of us would be a shadow of who we are, not Those-who-Come-with-the-Cold at the height of our power. That we would be a footnote in the annals of men, or be forgotten entirely, with not even songs remaining.

“To prevent such a fate, He-who-Rules-the-Winds-of-Winter sought out the-Man-who-is-a-Crow-who-is-the-Forest to strike a bargain, to once more let you humans know of our power, so you may never forget us.”

“And what bargain was struck?”

This was it. This was the lynch pin, the information Aemon needed to prepare for what was to come. Yet He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow did not answer Aemon’s question. Snow merely smiled, and in that smile Aemon only saw hunger, and winter, and death.

And when He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow spoke once more, Aemon shivered.

“My king will tell the terms of the bargain he struck to your king himself. Here, once in five moons and once in ten moons time, He-who-Rules-the-Winds-of-Winter will be present to welcome the King in the North whose name is Stark. After they have talked they will find themselves either at war, or at peace. Only know this:

“We, Those-who-Come-with-the-Cold, hereby break from the armistice agreement we made with the Kingdom of Winter 8.000 years ago, when the Long Night ended and Brandon the Builder helped us build the border wall to separate the domains of Winter and Ice Eternal.”

As the last words left the Other’s mouth, the wind suddenly picked up, blowing up the snow around, shrouding Aemon and Snow in a veil of flakes. When it settled not ten seconds after the Other had disappeared from the parley ground, blown away by the breeze along with his spider of ice. Left behind were only Aemon, his two guards, the elk and the corpse of the Night’s King, shivering from something that was not the cold.

Riding hard they reached Castle Black at the hour of the wolf, and yet shivering still, Aemon and Qhorin left for Winterfell at the next dawn.

Chapter Text

It had only been a week now that her father had come back from the Wedding that Never Was, yet Cersei had never seen him move about so much before. Tywin Lannister had always been the lord that sat behind his goldenwood desk and stared at the men in front of it until they moved to do his bidding unsaid. Which happened very quickly, as it usually went. If it did not, well, there were always people looking to work for the richest family in Westeros.

Now, though, now Tywin Lannister was spending his time in discussion with Lannister merchants and Lannister miners and Lannister relatives every second of the day in a frantic rush, almost, to do… something. Cersei did not ask what, her father had made his opinion abundantly clear on what a woman’s position was supposed to be when he banned her from the training yard, what her position was supposed to be. A queen, but a woman still.

However, it wasn’t like Cersei was oblivious. Aunt Genna talked to her, as did Uncle Tygett and Uncle Gerion, and many a maid knew not to cross her. The private docks of the Rock had seen unprecedented activity, though nobody could tell her what happened there. In fact, no one but her father and his closest confidantes got in or out of there. Uncle Gerion’s smile had grown strained, and that was always a reason to worry. He’d been barred from the cellars, too, much to his displeasure. Something was up.

The presence of their new guests told her that the Ironborn were involved. Euron, Theon and Asha Greyjoy were treated more like valued friends instead of the imprisoned hostages that they were. Treating the squids like people was already a concession in Cersei’s opinion, but her father had even instructed her to be courteous. It did not help that the only adult Greyjoy seemed to know next to nothing either and was weirding Cersei out besides. Alannys Harlaw, the mother of the two squidlings, seemed not entirely there regardless, so conversation with her was an exercise in futility.

Cersei craved information to make sense of it all. Her last life plan burnt to nothingness like wildfire, now that her silver prince had revealed himself to be poisonous mercury instead. Elia Martell had been the prince’s father’s folly, but Lyanna Stark opened Cersei’s eyes to the faults of the Targaryen heir himself. If only she’d seen it before Harrenhal, Jaime would still be with her. Now it was all too late. What was she to do?

Tywin Lannister was clearly on the war path, there could only be one goal that remained for him. The crown. Her father had tasted blood in Riverrun, Cersei was sure of it. The lions were on the prowl. Cersei needed to claim her own place in the pride. Genna had managed it, her mother had, so why did her father not even try to notice his own daughter’s capabilities?

Cersei thought about praying to the Stranger for a demise worthy of song for the Targaryens, but knew her father cared little for the Seven and their septons. One of the few things Cersei remembered vividly about her mother were walks in the Sept under the Rock. They did not pray much, but had many a talk with the septons. After her death Cersei’s father rarely visited the building, and Cersei followed his example.

Still, there were some maidens there she paid a visit at times. Maybe she’d ask Rohanne and Cyrelle to join her in another prayer, those two knew to keep quiet after all. Maybe Elia Martell would join their Silent Circle after the dragon’s fall. Cersei felt herself smile at the thought. She’d love to see the Dornish whore join her father’s guard Ser Ilyn and her two favorite Sisters in their own silent circle.

A knock at the door interrupted her musing, and her uncle Kevan did not wait for her to bid him enter. He looked restless, as far as Cersei could see. Tywin was running him into the ground in his frenzy. The last Cersei had seen her father this frantic was in the hours leading up to her mother’s murder and after. But then he’d been distraught, too, and now he definitely wasn’t. He seemed driven, and dare Cersei say it, happier. But she could not know for sure, for Cersei could scarcely remember what Tywin looked like in his happier moods.

“Cersei,” her uncle Kevan said, “your father demands your presence. Follow me.”

They went down into the bowels of the rock, deeper and deeper. Kevan took Cersei along paths usually barred to everyone in the castle, past a multitude of old guards at numerous checkpoints. The rooms they passed looked like the vault they used to display their gold for guests, all of them. Hallway after hallway, floor after floor, Kevan and Cersei went down and down and down.

At long last Kevan finally stopped in front of one of the many doors, this one made of solid gold by the looks of it, before turning towards his niece.

“Cersei,” Kevan said, “Tywin is inside. I believe the next hours will be… challenging for you to grasp. They were for me, when your grandmother took me down here the first time. What Tywin tells you inside, never speak a word of it to outsiders. You will learn to understand of Lannister power, and that is dangerous knowledge.”

After he finished speaking Kevan abruptly turned around and left. Unsure what to expect Cersei gave the golden door a push. It opened seamlessly. Stepping through Cersei was met by golden prison bars with an elaborate gate made of gold, open and inviting. Cersei went on through. The sight beyond defied all her expectations.

Cersei came upon a chamber made of solid gold. It had a golden walls, a golden bed with a pillow and blanket of spun gold and a golden table with four golden chairs. On the golden table stood replicas of food made of gold on golden plates, four cups of gold and a golden carafe, filled with water. Cersei's father Tywin Lannister sat on a golden chair, clad in their colors of crimson and gold, waiting for her. Next to him on the second golden chair there sat a skeleton, pale and sad. Its eyes seemed fixed on something behind Cersei's back, somewhere beyond the bars of solid gold that kept it locked in its golden grave.

Tywin looked at Cersei, and once again Cersei wished she could just know her father’s thoughts, wished to understand Tywin Lannister. Wished that Tywin Lannister understood her.

“Take a seat, Cersei,” Cersei's father addressed her, startling her, “do you remember the cautionary tale of King Corlos X., my daughter?”

Cersei took her seat across from her father, but internally she scoffed at the question. Was that why had her father summoned her to this golden prison in their ancestral vault, to ask her about the bedtime stories of her childhood? Cersei could not tell whether this was a joke she did not understand, or a lesson she was supposed to learn. Seeing her father as serious as ever, she gave her answer.

“Of course, father. Mother used to tell it to us seventh day, no matter how sick we'd gotten of it. It did not matter that Jaime wanted to hear of Florian and Jonquil or that I wanted to hear of Lann the Clever. Mother would just smile at me and recount the story of the king with the golden touch.”

Tywin had that glitter to his eyes, the one thing his children remembered a constant fixture on Tywin’s face when his wife had still been alive.

“Indeed, daughter, I can imagine Joanna smiling at your request. But please, indulge me. Can you tell me the story, like your mother told it to you?”

Cersei thought of her mother Joanna sitting on her bedside, with bright eyes and a kind smile, and Cersei retold the story she’d heard hundreds of times from her mother’s lips.

“Once upon a time, when heroes roamed the world, there was a king named Corlos, son of Corlos, the tenth of his name, whose wealth exceeded that of even the gods. Corlos lived on a mountain of gold, an everyday he brought more of it to the surface, for he loved nothing more than the sight of gold. But with his wealth grew his hubris and so one day he built a statue of himself made entirely of gold, the greatest statue to ever grace the face of Planetos.

“And when the statue was complete, he looked at it and said: «Behold! There is no finer sight, no greater creation on this world than this golden statue. Not even the gods can rival it in its glory.»

“However, his words angered the gods of the forest, the rivers and the earth, the very same gods who had blessed King Corlos’ line with all their wealth. With all their wrath they descended on Corlos in a dream and they cursed him with the golden touch, that everything he ever touched would turn into solid gold, and that his gold would be his downfall. And when Corlos woke, he woke in a bed of gold, and he laughed.

“Unable to contain his joy, King Corlos ran out of his room in his silken robes of cloth-of-gold and, foregoing breakfast and his daily bath, became lost in touching everything he came upon. Corlos touched chairs and tables, knives and spoons, trees and bushes, and all he touched turned to gold. Corlos only returned to his castle when the sun had reached its zenith and he had run around and had touched all the things he could see. By now he was exhausted from all his excitement, so he asked his servants to draw him his bath.

“Yet when Corlos stepped into his golden bath tub, he did not sink into comfortable warm water, rather, he found himself smothered in golden powder. He asked his servants to pour more water into his bath. But as soon as the water touched his skin it turned to gold. Still, Corlos loved the golden shine, so he was content even without his bath. Instead, Corlos asked his servants to set his table so he could break his fast.

“Yet when Corlos sat on his golden chair at his golden table and grabbed a loaf of bread to eat, the bread turned into solid gold in his hand, and his stomach rumbled. So Corlos ordered his servant to bring his silken gloves, and as soon as he wore his gloves of spun gold, he picked another piece of bread. Biting into his food with a relish, Corlos found the bread turned into gold the moment his teeth came into contact with it. A little angry now, Corlos grabbed a golden cup and tried to drink some water, yet the water turned to powdered gold in his mouth and he had to spit it all out. Growing more and more desperate, Corlos tried to eat one piece of food after another, but they all turned to gold the second his body came into contact with them.

“Corlos in his rage grabbed his servant by the wrist as he was brought a fresh platter of meat and to Corlos’ horror, his servant started turning into gold. After a few seconds the servant’s face was forever locked in a golden scream. Corlos looked at his hands and at what he had wrought and he fled to his chambers and locked himself in, hiding under a blanket of gold. So shocked was Corlos that he did not notice his beloved wife entering his room to see what was wrong with him.

“Corlos only came to when his wife took Corlos’ face into her hands to ask Corlos why he was so frightened. Corlos could not avert his eyes as his wife started turning into gold. Corlos sobbed and begged at the gods to lift his curse, yet the gods remained silent. All of the king’s servants fled his castle the same day as they learned of the queen’s and the servant’s fate, and only Corlos and his daughter remained in the great golden castle.

“After Corlos had cried himself to sleep his daughter beseeched the gods of the forest of the forest, the rivers and the earth to take their curse from their father, yet the gods remained silent. So Corlos’ daughter offered her own life in exchange, as long as her father was spared. This time the gods heard her prayer and once more returned to visit Corlos in his dream. The gods lifted the curse and told Corlos of his daughter’s sacrifice.

“But gods are a vengeful lot. All the things Corlos had turned into gold would remain frozen that way in eternity. And instead of just taking Corlos’ golden touch away, the god made it so that all the gold that Corlos came to touch henceforth would turn into dust. And Corlos’ woke in a bed of dust and found his daughter lost to him, and Corlos cried.

“After looking everywhere for his daughter Corlos went around his golden castle and touched every piece of gold he found, turning it into dust as he could stand its shine no longer. The last thing Corlos touched and turned to dust was the giant golden statue he had built of himself. The only two things Corlos did not dare touch were his wife and his servant turned to gold, forever screaming in golden silence of Corlos’ folly. Now Corlos was truly left with merely his life. King Corlos X. disappeared from his kingdom that day, never to be reunited with his daughter.”

There was a moment of silence after Cersei finished the tale. Tywin looked at her as if transfixed before speaking after a second.

“Just now you truly reminded me of your mother, Cersei. You have even used her exact words. Will you do me the favor of telling your children this story in exactly this way to your children when they are old enough to hear it?”

Cersei could feel the tears stinging in eyes at her father’s words. Tywin almost looked vulnerable as Cersei nodded in promise to his request, finding herself unable to answer with words.

“Can you tell me, daughter, what you think the story means, and why it has been told to all the children of the main Lannister branch for more than 6.000 years, ever since Lann the Clever took this Rock away from the Casterlys?”

Cersei startled at the revelation about something she had merely regarded as cautionary tale, before pondering the story through the eyes of a Lannister.

“Is it a metaphor for a bad famine? Does it mean that besides gold, we Lannisters need to watch out for our food stores, so in time of need our smallfolk don’t abandon us and we lose our hold of our power despite our wealth?”

“No, it is not a metaphor for a famine,” Tywin said, not unkindly, “though the story is framed in such a way that it is a conclusion people can draw from it. Let me tell you a truth and a story, so you may understand what significance the story of King Corlos X. holds for us Lannisters.

“First, the truth: Gold is not special, it is simply a good like any other. Its value is ultimately determined by its rarity, as gold in itself has no intrinsic use like produce or cloth. And now let me tell you a story. Do not interrupt me, even when my story surprises you. And it will. It is the story of Lord Corlos X. Casterly, the last of the Casterlys:

“Back in the age of heroes, when there were no roads through Westeros and 100 kings ruled the lands, the Casterlys found the mountain with the biggest gold deposits in the entire world. Their family grew wealthy and plentiful because many kings came to their home to exchange their wares for gold, for kings and lords all loved the gold’s luster. So great was the influence of the Casterlys that they never had to leave their unassailable Rock or keep up relations with any petty kings, as all kings clamored to remain in the Casterlys favor.

“It came the reign of Lord Corlos X. By then, the Casterlys had grown complacent in their position of power and left the administration of their lands and their wealth to their branch families, the Casters, the Terlys and the Calys. But there was a second son of one of their branch families, Lann Caster, who wanted more out of his life than just being the steward for another’s wealth. He became a powerful and rich merchant, the first man from Westeros to trade all around the continent and even as far as Essos. And he fell in love with the only daughter

“Lann was already rich and powerful by the time he was twenty and the Casterlys saw him for what he was, the most skilled in the land in handling wealth. So Corlos X. convinced Lann to become his steward by promising Lann the hand of his daughter. Lann toiled for in the position of steward for five years, greatly increasing the Casterlys coffers. When he approached Corlos again ask again about the wedding between Corlos’ daughter and Lann himself, Corlos…”

Cersei looked up at Tywin as her father’s voice seemed to break of for a second, surprised to see unbridled fury in his eyes. The moment passed in a heartbeat as Tywin continued.

“When Lann approached Corlos so that the Casterly would complete his side of their Corlos said to him: «You are a mere Caster, Lann. A servant. You are not fit to marry my daughter.»”

Cersei almost forgot to breathe as she Corlos’ words. They were almost an exact fit to the insult Aerys had delivered upon her father when Tywin had asked the king to betroth Cersei and Rhaegar. Yet Tywin just spoke on, his jaw set in controlled rage.

“Lann was incensed, as is only natural at such an insult. He left the service of Corlos the same day and struck out on his own. He knew the other petty lords, Banefords, Crakehalls, Westerlings all had their own mines. So with his great wealth Lann bought an army and started his own mines. He had a stroke of fortune and stumbled upon the second best mines in the Westerlands. That is where Lann build his castle, and he named it Castermere, named for the insult that Corlos had thrown at his feet; the fact that he was a mere Caster.

“Many people wondered why he did not give his castle a grander name, but there was a lot of wisdom in his choice. He was a lowborn son in a world ruled by lords. You, Cersei, will have to fight for your place in this world even harder than Lann had to. Just because you are a woman.

“Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.

“And you are more than just any woman, Cersei, you are my daughter. I will see you triumph in this world of men, for you and Jaime are my legacy. And you alone, Cersei, can take on Joanna’s legacy. So from now on I will teach you personally all that the Lannister legacy entails, and how you defend and increase it best.

“But let us return to our story first. In Castermere Lann found a great abundance of gold and silver. Of course, the gold vein wasn’t nearly as big as the one below Casterly Rock but on the other hand, there is nothing else but gold below Casterly Rock. Still, the resources Lann found in Castermere were instrumental in the plan that earned Lann his moniker.

“You see, as Casterly Rock’s steward, Lann was in charge of welcoming trade envoys from all over Westeros. He knew all the passes envoys used to cross the mountains. So Lann posted men along all the ways leading towards Casterly Rock that would exchange gold to the incoming envoys against whatever they brought, and at better rates than the Casterlys. Lann also went on to spread a huge amount of gold amongst the smallfolk under the direct rule of the Lannisters. So much that all the farmers and craftsmen around Casterly Rock had more gold than they ever needed.

“And so, through Lann’s clever schemes, in the lands around Casterly Rock, gold ceased to be a rarity even amongst the poorest beggars. But as the value of a good is in determined by its necessity and its rarity, the smallfolk soon realized that to them gold was practically worthless. Yes, the gold was pretty, but everyone had pretty golden nuggets, and none of the smallfolk wanted to exchange their products of labor for gold anymore, be the product the food a farmer brings in or the sword a blacksmith made. There just wasn’t anyone around that would take the gold of their hands again, as everyone had it in abundance.

“Something like that had never happened before, and has not happened since. In a short period of time, Lann managed to make gold practically worthless in a small area. And all the gold that Corlos X. had could not buy him a loaf of bread or a piece of clothing, while Lann happily loaned the smallfolk more gold to pay their taxes to the Casterlys. At the same time, Lann introduced silver as the replacement currency for gold. After all, he had an abundance of both metals in Castermere, whereas the Casterlys sat on their pile of gold, starving and threadbare.

“It took less than a year. Less than a year, for Lann Caster to outright buy Casterly Rock from Corlos X. Casterly in exchange for Castermere with its silver mines. The other thing Lann demanded from Corlos was the hand of Corlos’ daughter which the last Lord Casterly could not refuse anymore.

“It took two decades for Lann to reclaim all the gold he had given away to the smallfolk, but his taxes were overall more generous than those of the Casterlys had been. In his lifetime Lann laid the foundation of Lannisport to actively dominate and control the gold trade in Westeros so no one could ever use the same trick against Lann that he had used to swindle the Casterlys out of their castle.

“Already five years after Lann had taken the Rock he bribed a contingent of Casterly servants in Castermere to poison Lord Corlos and his army before his own troops took over and eradicated every trace that was left of the Casterlys on this world, aside from his wife. At the end of his life Lann changed the name of his family to Lannister to sever the last connection that could remind anyone of his former status as a servant to another. With the years Castermere became the Castamere of the Reynes and subsequent generations of Lannisters shrouded Lann’s actual taking of the Rock in legend and tall tales for children. Ever since Lann took the Rock for us have the Lannisters reigned supreme in the Westerlands.

“Today the Lannisters have mined Casterly Rock for around seven millennia, amassing the greatest quantity of gold in all of Planetos. At a conservative estimate, by weight alone, we Lannisters store at least seven tenths of all the gold ever mined in the Known World in the vaults beneath the Rock and we store another twentieth in banks from Oldtown to Asshai. It is our foremost interest as a dynasty to forever keep the world supply of gold at a level that leaves it the most precious metal for currencies everywhere. This will allow us to retain the ability to control any economy anywhere in the world at our convenience.”

By the time Tywin finished talking Cersei had been shocked into silence for several minutes already. It took a little longer still to find her voice again and ask her father the all-important question on her mind, even if the words came out shaky and trembling.

“But why are you telling me all this now, father?”

“Because, daughter, instead of merely marrying you to a mad tyrant to secure a crown, I have struck bargain with the Starks, the Arryns, the Greyjoys, the Baratheons and possibly the Martells to destroy the dragons on the Iron Throne and again redraw the borders of Westeros, leaving us to once again rule as Kings of the Rock over the Westerlands and large parts of the Reach and the Riverlands.

“And seeing that Jaime is either a hostage of our enemies or compromised through his developing relationship with the queen, you may consider yourself heiress presumptive of the Lion Crown, to assume the mantle of queenship after I have passed and rule as my successor. For that reason, I will assume the role of your teacher in matters of rule, power and finance. I will see you become worthy of the legacy you will take on. And I will see the Rock ruled by a true Lannister, not a dragon knight in disguise.”

Cersei did not know what to think. It took her a second to realize she was gaping at her father, an affliction she quickly remedied. Gaping! Horrible. She had not done that since before her mother had died. And now she was rambling in her head, just great.

Then euphoria hit, as Cersei understood. Before, she’d been a pawn. Truly. She had been supposed to marry well and secure an alliance, and leave her family and her name behind. Now she had become more. The pawn had turned into a queen had turned into a player herself. She would not have to leave the Rock upon marriage, but rule it supreme in her own right!

“Has aunt Genna ever seen this room?” Cersei asked, breathless. Her father shook his head in denial.

“Has Jaime?” Another shake in answer, and a flash of a grimace on Tywin’s face. Cersei was not sure if she felt elation or despondency.

“Why is there a skeleton next to you?” It had seemed so inconsequential from all these revelations; Cersei almost had not cared. But she knew, Tywin always had a purpose for the things he kept around him.

“That”, her father answered her, “is Erol Honeytongue.”

The name sounded familiar, yet it took Cersei a second to place it.

“The singer?”, she asked, “the one, you know father, the one who…” Cersei faltered before she finished her sentence.

“Yes”, Tywin finished for her, “the singer who started the saying us Lannisters shit gold. I was going to let it slide after banning him from the Red Keep and the Westerland, yet he kept walking around spreading the tale. The joke was gaining too much traction with the smallfolk, so I had him taken.”

Tywin looked at the pile of bones next to him, disdain clear on his face before he continued talking.

“He would have lived if he had simply shut up. But he did not, so I took him down here and left him to starve in this golden cage. The only thing he was given was cow manure. He died when he grew hungry enough to eat it and died over days from the diseases the shit contained. For all the gold around Erol, I had made cow shit more valuable to him than all the gold combined, only because it allowed him to live longer than if he ate nothing. This is lesson one for you, Cersei. For us, gold is practically worthless.

“The second lesson relates to your grandfather. My father Tytos understood the first lesson well enough. However, it was the only thing he retained about gold: That it was worthless to him. He had more than almost the rest of the world combined, after all. That is why he always forgave our bannermen when they defaulted on their loans. Why he left the Tarbeck whore and the Reyne brothers to run roughshod throughout his reign. After all, even if they mocked him, he could do the same. All his lords were fools for something as worthless as gold. This is lesson two for you, Cersei. For everyone beside us, there is nothing of greater worth than gold. Use this knowledge, and you will always have an angle with which to control them.”

And as Tywin saw his daughter soak up his teachings like a sponge, he felt something akin to pride. He knew now was the time for practical education. Well, the lesson he was going to teach Cersei was actually a theoretical thought exercise by his forefathers, but Tywin was now going to make it a reality.

“Cersei, when do you think civil war will erupt in Westeros?”

Cersei looked at her father, pondering, before she answered.

“Skirmishes might happen earlier, as opposing patrols chance upon another, but I doubt open warfare will start soon. The lords of the realm are in the unique position that they know war is unavoidable and coming soon, so everyone will stockpile arms and train their men to increase their chances to come out on top of the chaos to come.”

Tywin’s eyes smirked at Cersei, even as his face did not.

“You’ve been listening to Tygett, haven’t you, daughter?”

“I did”, Cersei smiled back, with just the right amount of practiced cheek, “you did tell me he is better than you in manners of tactical warfare, so his opinion seemed the most sensible.”

“He knows better how to lead men in battle, it is true”, Tywin stated without an ounce of envy, simply assessing the fact, “Which is why I tend to leave him in command of my men when we fight, but Tygett is not as proficient in reading the strategic layout. The first uncertainty you must always remember is that the war may break out any day. Aerys is mad enough to just push us over the brink any second, so every prediction for a timeframe has to include our king as an uncertain fallacy. Bar the possibility that Aerys does something stupid, war will not break out for a year, but then it will happen quickly. Think Battle of the Gullet.”

Cersei looked at her father for a second, before her memory kicked in. Where Jaime had read tales of knights of valor, Cersei had read battle reports before her father had forbidden the librarian from giving her the relevant books.

The Battle of the Gullet, the most devastating naval battle in recorded history, fought in the Dance of the Dragons. Important because it marked the entry of foreign powers into the domestic affairs of the Seven Kingdoms, when the Three Daughters razed Spicetown and broke the power of the Velaryons.

“You think”, Cersei slowly spoke as she answered, “powers across the Narrow Sea will meddle, either to push their own interests or at the invitation of one of the sides in the war.”

“I do not think so”, Tywin said in a mirthless tone that yet contained mirth a plenty, “I know so. For I myself already have set into motion the hiring of sellsword companies in Essos. I have been given intelligence on some of the movements of our allies. Rickard Stark has been preparing masterfully for a war of secession for over a decade.”

Rickard Stark. Both aunt Genna and uncle Tygett had already talked of him. Tygett had spoken well of his skill and that of his men, yet he had been hesitant of the man’s cunning and intent. Genna on the other hand had praised his cunning. She’d also given plenty comments on the good looks the Starks seemed to breed, from their imposing builds to their stalking gait to their impeccable beards.

A lot. Genna had talked a lot of the Starks’ looks. Cersei could understand Genna’s roving eye with a husband like Emmon Frey, but why did her aunt have to share her saucy fantasies with Cersei? Cersei did remember Brandon Stark well enough from Harrenhal. Probably every maid at the tourney did. The man was a vision. And that accent, a burr to break hearts.

The highest family of the North definitely left deep impressions back then. And lasting ones, especially the now disgraced heir. A minor Lannisport Lannister had birthed a grey eyed girl nine months after the prince first showed his inclination towards Lyanna Stark, and Cersei knew of at least one noblewoman from the Reach that had caught the same affliction. A Fossoway. Yes, green appled. Brandon Stark had not been shy with his attentions.

That was not important now, though. Rebellion had been in the making for over a decade. Of course most people had seen the bloc forming between the North, the Riverlands and the Vale, along with the Stormlands, yet those four regions could not have hoped to beat the other five united. The goal must always have been for the Vale and the North to splinter off the Seven Kingdoms, seeing how they could close the ways into their domains perfectly.

“What has Rickard Stark done in preparation for the war?” Cersei could not help ask.

“A lot, daughter. He will be a good ally. Yet I need you to be wary of the Starks. Rickard has given us a great opportunity, and the North will back you if you come to take power over the kingdom we will build ourselves. After all, his youngest son is to be your prince consort.”

Cersei froze. She tried to remember the youngest Stark, Beren Stark. Brynden Stark? Something with B, and a name that was not Brandon, despite the apparent obsession the Starks had with that name. Seven, Cersei knew the boy had been at the tourney, yet all she could recall was faceless boy soaked in wine.

“Bernhard Stark?” Well, it might be the name. Hopefully.

“Benjen Stark. He’s a year younger than you. Raised in Rickard’s house, not fostered out. Apparently wicked with a bow. And he will take on the Lannister name, when you two wed. Your children will be Lannisters, kings to rule for eternity come.

“A daughter of you and Benjen will have to marry a Northman and she will be given stewardship of Moat Cailin in the Starks’ name. If she marries a cousin, a son of Prince Eddard, she’ll even become lady of the keep, with her sons to assume the mantle of the lord. Either way, our houses will be bound firmly for two generations.”

Cersei tried to picture herself and her husband. She saw herself beside a younger Brandon Stark, younger but just as boisterous. She saw herself beside Rhaegar Targaryen, plucking his lute for her. She saw herself beside others, Robert Baratheon, Elbert Arryn, Addam Marbrand. She saw herself beside Jaime, her Jaime, her mirror in this world. There was only one thing that never changed, no matter who she saw as her husband.

Cersei herself, resplendent on her throne of gold, her husband on a lower step beside her. Cersei always saw herself rule in her own, as a Lannister, and Cersei felt glorious. It did not matter, she recognized, who the man beside her was.

“A good match”, was all Cersei said, “thank you, father.”

Tywin gave the nod of a man who never entertained the possibility of refusal, and who had never been proven wrong in that regard. Cersei knew she would master the same certainty herself.

“Good. We will talk of Rickard Stark’s plans later. Let me first explain how we will channel Essosi influence away from the war in Westeros. Tell me, Cersei, which forces in Essos do you believe could have an impact on the Westerosi war theater, and which do you believe could not?”

Cersei took a second to think before answering.

“Any of the Three Daughters, probably. Yet their might has diminished since the time of the Triarchy. Separate as they are they can will not have any lasting gains. Slaving raids might increase. Pentos cannot employ an army. Braavos will have financial interest, yet their anti-slavery stance has them isolated in Essos so fights across the Narrow Sea would be too much of a drain on their forces. Qohor and Norvos are landlocked, so their armies cannot move as easily. Lorath does not have the power. Lastly, Qarth and Ibb are too far and the Dothraki will never cross the waters. Volantis. Volantis will be the threat to stability.”

Tywin looked at her, a little astonished. Cersei knew her father had discouraged Cersei’s interest in unladylike topics and interests, yet now her defiance must’ve been a welcome surprise for Tywin. Cersei allowed herself a small smile.

“That is an accurate evaluation”, Tywin said, and Cersei felt her heart soar, “at least, it would be if Essosi conducted themselves in war just as we do. Which they do not. War is more… of a mercurial nature across the Narrow Sea. It is not motivated by dynastic interests in power and dominion, but by mercantile notions of potential gains and losses. Every city state may send insurgents or armies in their employ. Except Lorath or Pentos, you are right in your assessment of the two of them.

“Yet Pentosi magisters may employ private armies, as may the nobles of Volantis or of any of the Daughters. The true threat, however, are the readily available sellsword companies and the purchasable slaves. Therefore, I have undertaken measures that will see Essos west of the Bone Mountains sink into chaos, bind the majority of all mercenary companies to the different warring parties and see the slave trade in shambles.

“Already in Riverrun I set into motion a flood of blood and a storm of steel that will drown Essos for generations. They will never know who wrought it, but believe me when I tell you, I bought the war that will define the fault lines for the web of alliances and enmity dominating Essos for the next five centuries.”

Cersei could only look at her father as he spoke calmly of the death of millions like it was a discussion of the dinner menu, and she felt fear and awe and anticipation. One day. One day, it would be Cersei who could decide the fate of the world. She’d always felt it her destiny. Now it had become certainty, for Tywin had never lied to his children. His truths always served her father more.

“How are you going to break Essos, father?”

“What did you learn today, about the nature of gold, daughter?”

“It is worthless to us, but there is nothing of more worth in the world to everyone else.”

Tywin remained silent, not disapproving, but looking at her to bring up something else. So Cersei did.

“Gold is a good, just like everything else that is being traded.”

“Correct, daughter. Now, what determines the value of a good.”

“Rarity and necessity.”

“You’ve listened well, but there as a more apt term for it in the context of all goods. Supply and demand, Cersei. In Essos, the value of a person is determined not by blood, but by supply and demand. And because most of the supply of slaves comes from Slaver’s Bay, I have flooded Qarth and Volantis with gold as my first order, to empty Meereen, Astapor and Yunkai of all their… produce.”

Cersei heard the words, but she did not understand. Her father looked at her and continued, seeing the question in Cersei’s eyes.

“In Slaver’s Bay there is the greatest supply of slaves on the market, making the price of a slave purchased there cheaper than anywhere else. Yet all clients that go Slaver’s Bay to purchase their slaves have to pass through either Volantis or Qarth. Slaves are available in those places, too, yet they are naturally more expensive than in the cities of the harpy. This is because the slave merchants incur costs in bringing slaves over to either Qarth or Volantis, and those merchants want to drive a profit.

“I will pay gold well above the market price for ships, for spices, for luxury goods and for real estate in both cities. Those goods I will bring here in part, but the majority will simply be destroyed. The goal is not the exchange of gold for other objects of value, but the devaluation of gold. Therefore, the corresponding objects of value will have to disappear, because it means an increase in the amount of gold entering the markets without while trade goods of corresponding value simply cease to be a factor. Now, this process will take time, and in this time the market price for slaves in both cities will fall. Let me explain.

“Without their ships, less people will make the journey from Volantis or Qarth on to Slaver’s Bay. As a consequence, the markets there will suffer, forcing the slavers themselves to ship their slaves out of Slaver’s Bay if they want to make a profit. And as the slavers reach either Volantis or Qarth, they will find many people a lot richer in gold than usual, in both of those cities. Additionally, the slavers will be able to demand a higher price and earn more money than in Slaver’s Bay, just because the standard market price in both of those cities is higher than in any of the cities of Slaver’s Bay. And the Volantene and Qartheen that have suddenly found themselves in the possession of large amounts of gold will be very willing to buy the slaves the merchants bring.

“This is because because there is now a greater amount of slaves in Volantis and Qarth and their prices will fall from the perspective of the clients. Not down to the level of Slaver’s Bay, of course. But the supply of slaves in Volantis and Qarth will increase, naturally decreasing the amount a Volantene or Qartheen pays for a slave. This will drive up demand, leading the slavers to continue supplying slaves to Qarth and Volantis at an increased rate. The demand for slaves will not decrease, but I will get to that point later. Are you following my explanation thus far, Cersei?”

Cersei simply nodded, so Tywin continued talking.

“So, Slaver’s Bay is slowly being emptied of slaves, to be sold in either Qarth or Volantis. Qarth will continue trading with the far east, Yi Ti and beyond, but that is a topic I will again go further into later. First, the second part of my plan. I will set the Free Cities on the war path against the Dothraki. Why? Because they are a scourge that is universally despised. They only survive because it is generally cheaper to pay them off, than to fight them. We do not have that problem.

“A call will be sent out, from Qohor. For years now Qohor has been hounded by a Khal Zekko, who returns again and again to demand a tithe from the city. Again, I will pay above the usual amount of money for sellsword companies and slave legions to give battle to the Dothraki outside Qohor. While the Dothraki are feared, they pose more of a threat towards loose populations on open field. They are vulnerable against armored infantry because their blade of choice is designed to hunt down fleeing men on foot. They are vulnerable against bowman and heavy cavalry because they are too stupid to wear armor. The biggest danger the Dothraki pose lies in their archers on horseback. Again, heavy cavalry, longbowmen and armored infantry. Too expensive for most people, but…”

“… gold is irrelevant to us”, Cersei jumped in as Tywin trailed off. Her father looked his grim way of content and continued.

“Exactly. Now, slave legions will continue joining the fight from Volantis, because slaves there have become cheap. Meanwhile, a second host will set of from Saath. The last Sarnori city carries the worst grudge against the Dothraki because they are responsible for the death of their empire. Together, I do not doubt that the Qohori and Saathi host will have a problem destroying Khal Zekko’s host. With some of the ships we purchase we will organize for logistical support along the Sarne, so that the combined Saath-Qohor host continues to push for Vaes Dothrak.

“The Saathi will be easy to convince, and at least the slave companies will go along. Yet Vaes Dothrak is too important to the Dothraki as a people to allow such a challenge. I predict the Dosh Khaleen to pressure all remaining khals to meet the Saath-Qohor host on the field. That is exactly what we want. Because while the Saathi carry the heaviest grudge against the Dothraki, their revenge is entirely irrelevant to us. There is another empire with a grudge against the horselords, yet their empire still stands.

“The Ibbenese will prove far more potent a knife against the Dothraki. Their holdings on the Essosi mainland have been destroyed time and time again by different khals. Yet the distance between the Forest of Ifeqevron to the Womb of the World is a lot shorter. So when a large portion or all of the Dothraki ride to meet the Saath-Qohor host in the field, a third group comprised of sellsword will sail down from Ib Sar to descend on Vaes Dothrak. There they will raze the Dothraki capital to the ground, salt the earth and scatter the ashes.

“It will not matter that the host from Saath and Qohor will be destroyed by the horselords. When Vaes Dothrak is sundered, the Dothraki will go to war against all that participated in the fight against them. And with our gold we have ensured that people from all the Free Cities will take part in the Qohori host. In their impotent rage the Dothraki will strike out against all the Free Cities, for they will never reach Ib across the water. And after years of paying off the Dothraki, all nine Free Cities will find that this time, they will have to fight. And for that purpose they will once again bind the scattered sellsword companies, leaving our enemies in Westeros without purchase among them. The sellsword companies follow the gold because, in difference to us…”

“… gold is of more worth than anything else to everyone in the world.” Cersei whispered the answer as Tywin once more slowed in his talks, awed and scared at the scope of Tywin’s actions to come. Cersei’s father nodded approvingly, before he continued talking.

“Now, there is one more step to my plan of sinking Essos into chaos, and another of limiting the spread of the caarnage: I will get the Tigers elected in Volantis and set them on a warpath, and I will get Qarth to close the Jade Gates, keeping the nations of the far east out of the thick of the fighting. First, the Tigers. Nothing, Cersei, nothing is surer of getting all the Free Cities up in arms and making alliances with each other than the First Daughter hungry for Conquest once again.

“There are two more goods we will trade in Volantis: We will sell arms for cheap, and we will buy food for all prices. The arms will be welcome in arming the slave companies, yet not all of the weapons will leave the cities. As won’t the slaves, for Yunkai and Meereen trade mainly in slaves that make… less than adequate fighters. So the amount of slaves will rise, as will the amount of slaves per freedman. I can guarantee that a slave rebellion will already be in the works in Volantis. We just have to remove the limiting factors and provide the means and incentives to fight for the poor and destitute.

“It will take some time, but Volantis will be swamped in slaves and arms in time. Plus, we will control the majority of the food supply. We simply have to destroy that food supply ourselves and find ourselves a scapegoat. It doesn’t matter who that scapegoat is. What matters is that Volantis will be full of people that are poor, angry and, most importantly, hungry. They will take up arms themselves, and existing forces will take over to direct the storm of violence in the right direction. The only place where there is food left in the city, the larders of their masters in the old city.

“There will be anarchy in the street. And quite coincidentally the old blood’s blood will be boiling from a series of assassinations targeting prominent Tigers. Some flimsy veiled connections between the assassinations and the major cities nearby will leave the Tigers with the nice opportunity to declare war on any of the other powers in Essos, provided they manage to win against both the slaves and the Dothraki without major losses.

“However, even if the Old Blood loses a few pounds of flesh, the other powers that be in Essos will see a Volantis on the brink of collapse, but still under the rule of the expansionists. I reckon Braavos or Tyrosh will be the ones to launch a preemptive strike in that case, to prevent Volantis from recovering under the Tigers. Whatever happens, we will help war come along.

“Finally, Qarth. In Qarth I will try a blueprint for the destabilization of a city state that will work similarely if applied in, say, Braavos or Ib, if the need ever arises. I will set the merchants and the nobility against each other by strengthening one faction and starting a ruthless assassination campaign against the other.

“This time I intend to kill the purebloods that control the guard forces in the city, with the merchants as the obvious beneficiaries. It only takes one pureblood stupid or angry enough to lash out at the obvious targets to bring the whole house tumbling down. If it all works out there will be open fighting in the streets, and Qarth will close itself off from the world, as they are virtually unassailable from without. That will provide the added benefit of keeping any ambitious god emperors from Yi Ti on the other side of the very much closed Jade Gate.

“To ever achieve a similar effect in Braavos, I’d probably kill the Keyholders. In Ib it’d be the members of the Shadow Council. I am not even sure who I would set against the Shadow Council. Maybe the Whaler Guild? Something to ponder if it ever becomes an issue. I don’t believe we’ll be needed to stir the pot anymore after Volantis anyways. Now, do you have any questions, Cersei?”

Cersei just sat there, trying to comprehend all that she had been told. It all made sense, in a logical sense, yet at the same time, it was so… unreal. So much chaos, so much power. It was difficult to think of a question when such a vivid vision of the future was laid out before her, and yet…

“Father”, Cersei finally asked, a little hesitant, “won’t the decrease in the value of gold hurt the rest of our stores? And what do we do if the events in Essos don’t develop as you predict?”

“Good questions, daughter”, Tywin said, nodding approvingly, “but easy to answer. Yes, the value of gold will decrease, but we almost won’t notice it here. The two key steps in pumping money into the two cities are the speed of the influx of gold and the restriction of travel for the populace.

“We want there to be too much gold concentrated in one place, leading to economic collapse. When the dust has settled and the gold spreads out from Volantis and Qarth, the value of gold will balance out again. It is likely that the Qartheen will take their gold further east, as Yi Ti will still value gold highly and on the other side of Qarth is, well, Volantis. As the Volantene spend their new gold on sellsword companies and the war, the gold will be disseminated all over Essos. The loss in value we will feel here in Westeros will be negligible. And, after all, gold to us…”

“… is irrelevant”, Cersei finished once more.

“Exactly”, Tywin said, “as for your second question, things won’t develop the way I tell you. There are smart players in Essos just as there are here in Westeros. Some will reveal themselves that I don’t even know existed. I have no insight into the dealings of Norvos, and the religious aspects of the war in Essos are impossible for me to predict. I am not even certain what will happen here in Westeros, and that is just accounting for the Church of the Seven. I will have to talk with Genna about that, and I expect you to come with me then.”

Elation. Satisfaction. Pride. There was no other feeling Cersei had ever felt as pronounced. Yet one question remained stuck in Cersei’s head. Something that almost left her feeling a little empty.

“Father. Does all our power come from our money?”

“No, Cersei. Power has many facets. Money is power. Knowledge is power. A name carries power. Sometimes, power is just… power. It’s where men believe it lies. And it’s where men are confronted with it.”

Tywin almost wore a grin as he continued on, his face taking on sardonic lines.

“Just do not make the mistake of projecting illusions onto power. It isn’t good, or bad. It does not provide opportunity, only a divide between the strong and the weak. Opportunity only exists when power is uncertain. When there is chaos. Which is why Essos will really tear itself apart:

“Because they will see the chaos around them as power for the taking. They will fight for it. They will die for it. For some chaos will be a pit they fall into. For others chaos will be a ladder to climb. But for most, chaos is like power. Simple. Chaos is chaos.”

Chapter Text

The sun shone brightly on Brandon's face, and it felt like centipedes were chewing through his brain. The rank, rancid smell of vomit hit Brandon like a punch in the lung. It was the smell of his own vomit Brandon realized.

Someone had propped Brandon's back up against the frame of his bed. He must have fallen out of it sometime in the night, for Brandon hazily remembered his father tucking him in like a child. It had felt good, the drinking and the crying. Cathartic. It had been a long time since he had last cried like that.

Someone knocked, the sound of bone on wood sending jolts of pain through Brandon's head. His eyes felt as if they might burst and all the colors around looked more muted and more vibrant at the same time.

"Gods, you look like shit, brother!", said Ned from the doorway.

Great, of course it had to be Ned that came to Brandon in the morning. Brandon did not have the patience to listen to his lucky little brother, not today.

"Piss of, will ya? Go fuck your Dornish cunt and leave me be."

Brandon realized he should not have said that when he felt his headache exploding, courtesy of Eddard's fist. Brandon’s brother did not even say anything, but his eyes turned hard as steel. Eddard simply stepped up to the curtains and yanked them open. The sun was blinding.

Gods, give me a cloud, Brandon wanted to shout.

"Sorry."

The apology came from himself, Brandon noticed. It sounded hollow. Eddard did not look very accepting, though he did settle on a chair across from Brandon.

"You're even drunker than that day at Harrenhal. At least you were coherent enough to speak and put up a fight back then. Do not go cussing Shara again, ever. Next time it will not end for you with just a broken nose and a dislocated jaw. Am I clear, Brandon?"

Eddard's threat was again spoken in that factual, almost bored tone. It sounded like an oft-repeated platitude from Eddard's mouth, not like the promise of violence that it was. Brandon's brother could be terrifying.

"I understand", was all that Brandon could answer.

"Great that we're clear on that. Don't bother coming for breakfast, I think it better you wait until I'm done. I don’t think I can stand the sight of you right now, Brandon."

Emotionless, that was what Eddard sounded like. Brandon hated it. This Eddard did not seem like the Ned Brandon had built snow forts with and who used to go looking with Brandon for direwolf pups in the Wolfswood. And Brandon knew there was only one thing he could do that might set them straight again. Or it might catch him another fist. You never knew with the truth.

"Wait, Ned. I'm not…”

Brandon faltered as he spoke; but Ned did stop on the doorstep. This was the only way they would ever be brothers again.

“I am not as drunk as that day at Harrenhal. The truth is I cannot even remember most of the tourney, and the day Ashara came to my tent I had drunken way more than I could handle and –“

“Don’t”, Ned growled, no, Ned snarled, “do not make excuses for that day. And especially no excuse as pathetic as a drunken mistake. If you do, I think I will start to hate you, Brandon.”

There was fire now in Eddard's eyes, burning with cold purpose and a wolf's rage. His brother had it, Brandon saw. Eddard had the wolf's blood, and it had been forged into a weapon.

“I have never been more low than during that blasted tourney. That day I assaulted Ashara because I was jealous of you, and the drink had robbed me of sense.”

Eddard looked at him, and Brandon saw a lord paramount that someday would make Boltons and Umbers cower. But Ned did not leave.

"Explain!"

"When our party left Winterfell for Harrenhal, we collected my foster-brother Willem outside Barrowton. I'd never seen Willem happier, Ned. Willem told me his father had arranged Willem’s marriage to Barbrey Ryswell.”

Brandon swallowed, yet his throat remained parched.

“And I have loved Barbrey as long as I can remember.

“Did you know, Ned, I once begged father to break my betrothal with Catelyn Tully? I fell to my knees in front of father and I cried my eyes out when he denied me. When we made it to Harrenhal, to the tourney of all tourneys, I drank and fought and fucked to forget it all. And sometimes it worked.”

Brandon looked up into Ned’s eyes again, still as unrelenting as steel. And Brandon could not censor the scorn his look carried himself.

“That’s where we met you again, Ned, and from the second day you were so happy - so disgustingly happy - in love with the beautiful Ashara Dayne, and she was in love with you. Gods, I despised you then.”

The steel turned to fog, and all that stared down at Brandon was pity. Brandon hated it, and he hated himself.

“I was drunk when I went up to ask the lady to dance with you. I did not turn sober once during that entire tourney. Have you ever been so wasted that you felt a spectator in your own body? When you seem sober outside, but the truth is that someone else has taken your body? Someone else that’s still you, just without inhibitions and guided only by emotions and whims?”

Ned snorted at that.

“Robert Baratheon is my foster-brother. I do not overindulge, but I’ve seen every type of drunk there is.”

Brandon felt a sardonic smile tugging his lips, but he squashed it before it became visible. He would make Ned angry enough in a second. He’d make Eddard very, very angry.

“Well, that was me the majority of the tournament, Ned. I fucked more than twenty women in the ten days we were at Harrenhal. Twenty-three, to be exact. Then Ashara came looking for you, a day after I’d dropped out from the joust. I was drunk, I was that somebody else, and I was angry… So-. Fucking-. Angry!

“Did Ashara ever tell you what happened in that tent?”

Eddard’s jaw tensed and his gaze was cutting, but Brandon braced himself and recounted the day, losing himself in the memory.

Brandon had taken a woman from a minor Fossoway branch to bed the day earlier. He didn’t quite remember whether the wench was a red apple or a green apple Fossoway, but when she left, her apple bottom had turned a scarlet red.

Brandon had barely chased the woman out an hour ago when Ashara Dayne cautiously entered his tent, asking after his brother Ned.

“Lord Brandon”, he’d heard his name from outside, “Ashara Dayne here. Do you know where Ned is?”

“At the Arryn camp. His friend Robert is terribly hungover after out drinking first Richard Lonmouth and Kyle Royce after. You know him, Ned cares. He’ll be back here soon, why don’t you wait with me?”

The tent flap opened, and the stunner Ned had wooed at the opening banquet entered. Ashara Dayne had a serene look to her, she was obviously overjoyed. Her smile wasn’t all that big, showing only the barest hint of pearl-white teeth, yet her dimples were more pronounced for it than if she had worn a huge grin.

The girl looked half-dreaming, and her movements had an unconscious flow to them. ‘Laughing purple eyes’ Ned had waxed about her, and Brandon could see it well. Her eyes matched her dress, a silken gown with batik swirls of lilac, purple and lavender.

Brandon had to admit the Dornish lady his brother fancied did not simply have beauty and grace, she also displayed good taste. Ashara Dayne’s layered dress accentuated her figure in a way that was seductive without being sultry, a fine balance to strike.

Brandon gestured for one of the fur-covered hassocks that lined his tent and grabbed two cups and a pitcher of ale. The last of the wine he’d drunken two days ago, and now Brandon usually nursed his cup with a mixture of ale and grain brandy. It kept Brandon from thinking, so Brandon kept drinking.

‘Thank you’, Brandon’s guest said as she took her ale, though she pulled a slight grimace as she sipped from her cup. Brandon lifted his own cup to hide a grin. Ashara Dayne’s drink was pure Northern ale, but the taste was to be acquired.

“Ned’s been talking of nothing but you the last few days, Lady Ashara, I hope you’re not just stringing him along for his good looks”, Brandon jested, more to fill the silence than for the need of conversation.

Still, Ashara giggled at the jape. It did not sound melodious as some girls tried for, and a little deeper than the usual tone of her voice, but Ashara’s laughter rang true.

While Brandon had to admit that Ned did have a striking look when he put on his stern face and his lean frame drew just as many gazes as Brandon’s muscular one, Ashara Dayne just looked above anyone’s league at the entire tourney.

“I really am thankful for pushing Ned into my arms at the opening day, Lord Brandon, I had not thought it possible to become so fond of another so easily”, Ashara said while unsuccessfully trying to stifle her laugh, “but fear not, I appreciate your brother for more than just his outward beauty.”

The confidence Ashara held while speaking showed she was aware of her own captivating charm, yet she did not appear arrogant. Brandon thought there’d probably been scores of bards singing to her beauty at the capital.

And Brandon understood well, the easy comfort one could slide into with that one person. Barbrey. – Barbrey Dustin. Brandon quickly took a deep pull from his cup, and the burn in his throat chased the thought away. Still, the bitterness lingered.

“I believe you, it’s something-. Something real. So effortless, and more precious for it.”

Brandon heard himself speak the words, and he meant them. Yet, he had not meant to say them. Barbrey and Willem.

Ashara must have only noticed Brandon’s speaking, for Brandon was sure his face did not match the light wistfulness of his words.

“Yes!”

Ashara almost shouted her agreement.

“That’s it, that’s exactly it! You Starks seem to know how to say what you mean!”

Brandon was glad at the distraction, and happy for his brother. Ashara Dayne seemed to feel the same for Ned as Ned felt for Ashara Dayne. A chuckle escaped Brandon as Ashara’s eyes found his face again.

“Well thank you, my lady. And please, do call me Brandon. It feels wrong, you calling me Lord Brandon when you are that close with my brother, Lady Ashara.”

“Gladly, Brandon. But only if you call me Ashara in return.”

Ashara gifted Brandon a smile then, and it was warm and with almost sisterly fondness. It struck Brandon wrong, to get such a smile from her. To be liked because of Brandon’s relation with Ned.

Brandon could not help but wonder, shouldn’t he be happier? Lyanna always had basked in Barbrey’s sisterly affection. If Catelyn would ever show such a smile to Brandon’s siblings?

“Ashara, then”, he said, feeling hollow. Still, anything to keep talking, anything to keep from thinking. A short burn was on his throat, then Brandon remembered he had to refill his cup.

“Ned is definitely the more gifted with words between us two, everything he says sounds profound. But maybe that is because he talks so little.”

Ned. Ned was a good topic to remain on, so Brandon continued.

“Our father always used to say: ‘You can reach everything, as long as you can bridge the gulf between intention and articulation.’

“Well, from then on Ned only spoke in the profound. As for me? I don’t think father wanted to give me advice on how to sweet talk girls, but he did.”

Ashara laughed again, that slightly deeper laugh of hers. Brandon heard another, a throaty chuckle that was almost a rasp, but it was only a bittersweet memory he realized.

Brandon’s drink wasn’t so bitter anymore, and his cup was empty again. A little more grain brandy in the next cup, and the ghost of a laugh disappeared.

“Oh, Ned can be quite the sweet talker, Brandon. And away from the crowds he isn’t that quiet a wolf anymore. I’ll even suffer that hateful tree in Harrenhal’s godswood just to hear him talking of the stars or his dreams or of us.”

At the last admission Brandon almost thought he saw Ashara blush, but surely Ned wasn’t that sappy. Was he? Brandon just kept his eyes on the Dornishwomen, his own smirk stretching a little.

Ashara Dayne was definitely blushing.

“Well,” the woman said hastily, as if embarrassed, “do you fall into the same effortless fondness with your betrothed, Brandon?”

Brandon’s face fell, at least from the reaction he saw on Ashara’s face. Brandon did not particularly feel fondness for Catelyn Tully, and the feelings toward Catelyn Brandon felt effortlessly were anything but fond.

“Tell me, Ashara,” Brandon felt himself answer, or rather, felt his mouth move as he heard his own words, “do you believe it possible to feel such fondness for your betrothed when that very betrothal keeps you from a beloved?”

Ashara Dayne seemed reluctant to answer, Brandon noticed between sips, or at least weighing her words very carefully.

“I hope you can, with time.”

The words came hesitatingly when Ashara finally spoke, yet she did not stop there.

“And I hope never to find myself in such a position. Yet-”

There was a flash of pity in Ashara Dayne’s eyes as her words halted for a second.

“Yet I hope you know that women have less of a choice in their betrothals than men, Brandon. Would it not be worse to keep yourself from possibly growing fond of your betrothed because you blame her for something she has no control over?”

Brandon could not remember ever having felt more devoid of emotion. Ashara broke eye contact first, but still Brandon saw that damnable pity in her gaze. Brandon found his cup empty, as he found his flagon. As Brandon stood to get another, he slowly felt his feelings return, and stronger than ever.

There was a restlessness to Brandon as he refilled his cup, and he noticed that it was almost pure brandy as he drank. Pity. How Dare she pity him? How dare she pity Him?!

Brandon turned around, yet he could not sit. Ashara Dayne did not look comfortable sitting on the hassock anymore, yet she did not stand.

Standing, Brandon was not comfortable doing that either. He walked a little, and that was better. Not good, but better.

The liquid in his cup sloshed a little and spilled over, so Brandon drank to keep that from repeating. Brandon thought of Catelyn, and then of Barbrey. Of Ashara and Ned, and of fondness, and Brandon walked and drank, and Ashara sat silent.

“Ashara,” Brandon said as Ashara flinched, Brandon’s voice hoarse, “your… effortless fondness for Ned…”

The Lady Dayne seemed to relax, and Brandon was not sure he liked that. What was he asking again? Brandon did not remember, but a question came to him.

“Have you ever felt it for another?”

“No.”

Ashara Dayne sat calmer as she answered, contemplating. There was a tender air about her, and again Brandon felt a discordant dissonance. Why was Ashara happy right then, sitting there?

“I’ve not felt the way I feel about Ned with anyone before. It’s…- it’s new.”

There was a sense of wonder to Ashara’s words. Brandon understood her. He yearned for that. Why wasn’t Brandon feeling that type of wonder anymore?

“Do you think you could ever feel the same with someone else?”

Brandon did not know where this question had come from, but he saw that Ashara seemed uncomfortable with the question again. Somehow, that did not feel wrong, so he did not mind where the question had come from.

“I-. I do not know. Actually. I do not know if I wanted to, Brandon…”

Ashara faltered, and from that alone Brandon had to smile a little. It wasn’t a nice smile, and Brandon had smiled nicely for many girls the last few days.

“I do not like my parents or my siblings the same way, yet I like them as much as each other. If Ned and I cannot-. I hope to take a liking to important people in my life.”

Ashara’s words were as much an answer as they were not. Some part of Brandon agreed with Ashara. Another part of Brandon simply screamed. Brandon took another sip, yet the screaming got louder in his head, instead.

“What about me?”

Ashara looked at him a little spooked, like a deer that had caught a wolf’s scent.

“I do not understand-. Brandon, what about you? Yes, you can like someone else differently?”

Brandon did not know what answer he wanted, but this answer was not it.

“No, Ashara.”

What did Brandon want?

“Could you like me as much as Ned?”

That was not really what Brandon wanted to ask, but then again, Brandon did not know what he wanted to ask. At least, Ashara looked anxious now, and Brandon liked that.

“Could you?”, Brandon asked as he stepped closer to Ashara, and the Dornishwoman trembled a little. Brandon had to smile at that.

Brandon lifted his cup once more, but it was empty. He turned to set the cup on the table. He had to, because Ashara was before him now, and the table behind him.

When he looked back Ashara seemed smaller.

“Please-“

“Please what?”, Brandon said as Ashara shivered beneath him.

Hadn’t Brandon been in this position often, these days?

A woman beneath him, looking up, saying please?

“Please don’t…”

That was new, but maybe Ashara did not know better.

My, Brandon had to say, she was beautiful. That dress so layered, so enticing.

Why did Ashara not kiss him back? Why was Brandon kissing Ashara?

The first layer came of from Ashara’s dress, so that was why they were kissing. But she was not kissing back.

Brandon’s hand felt a shoulder strap, so he pulled it as he pressed down from above.

Brandon’s other hand found Ashara’s breast, but she was not reacting to him.

He grabbed a little tighter, and that drew a reaction. A whimper?

The layers were getting in the way, Brandon gripped into the fabric and pulled, ripped…

The dress tore, and Brandon felt Ashara flinch again beneath him.

Brandon grabbed a teat again, harder. Did he leave a mark? He was not sure. Why was he…

There was a rip in Ashara’s dress, and a tear in her eye, so Brandon lifted a hand to wipe it away. Ashara sniffled, cried, and turned her head away from his hand. Why did she turn away from Brandon’s hand? Brandon felt angry.

He tried to press down, but somehow Brandon did not feel to steady all of a sudden. Ashara seemed to notice, for she suddenly pushed him. Why did Ashara push him?

Brandon stumbled backwards.

Pain! All there was, was agonizing pain.

Brandon crumbled down, the pain still there, Ashara had kneed him in the groin. Why had she…?

Ashara was gone, and the light from the tent flap was bright, and Brandon was on the floor and laughing and crying and screaming and…

Ned entered the tent as in a rage, Brandon felt punches to his face, kicks to his body, and a last punch to his face. His nose broke, and first everything was blinding white from the pain before everything was suddenly –

Brandon looked up at his brother as Brandon's gaze focused again. Ned was watching him through foggy grey eyes, through steel grey eyes, through foggy grey eyes...

Ned remained quiet, but after a second, he came over from his chair and helped Brandon up onto the bed. Ned stayed quiet.

“I am sorry”, Brandon said. Brandon felt small, then, but he meant what he said.

“Why did you not say anything, Brandon?”

“Would it have helped anything?” Brandon chuckled mirthlessly.

“If you’d told me at the tourney? About Barbrey? I’d have helped you. You’re my big brother.”

A small sting returned, a sting of scorn. Yet Brandon kept from scoffing. Ned seemed to notice none the less.

“I know grief, brother. I helped Robert when his parents died. Well, I, drinks and women helped. So, at the tourney you would have had me, Robert, drinks and women. I also would not have been as disgusted with you for over a year, Bran.”

Brandon felt the tears in his eyes. Why now? Had it really been that long? Ned had not called him Bran since the tourney.

"I am your brother. You can tell me everything. You know, I'd probably grow into a catatonic chunk of ice if Shara was lost to me. Family is there to catch us when we fall. I'll need you and father and Lya and Ben to keep me going if my Shara is ever gone from my life."

Ned plopped down on the bed next to Brandon, Ned's eyes lost somewhere in the distance on the wall not three meters away from the two brothers.

“What are you talking about, Ned? The two of you are getting wed, you will rule Winterfell together and grow old together. Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not”, Ned said, and Brandon turned to find his brother looking vulnerable in a way Brandon had not seen Ned before, “Shara is pregnant. I am terrified, Bran.

“What if she dies in childbirth?”

Brandon did not know what to say to that. Ashara was pregnant. Wait-

“I’ll be an uncle?”

Brandon only noticed how incredulous he must have sounded by the way Ned started laughing. It did not seem like Ned could stop, and after a second Brandon started snorting, before the both of them laughed until their sides hurt.

“You’ll be a great father, Ned.”

Brandon could not say more. Women died in their own battles. Their own mother Lyarra had birthed Brandon and all his siblings healthily, only to die to a wasting sickness when Benjen was just four years old.

Still Brandon knew enough of enough women that died in the birthing bed. His friend Willem Dustin never knew his mother, for example.

Ned gave Brandon one of his kind smiles, the ones that warmed you like a hearth. Brandon had not received that smile for a long time. There was hope for their relationship to mend.

“Where do we stand, Ned?”

Without any specification Ned knew what Brandon was asking for.

“I cannot”, Ned said softly, “and it is not my forgiveness to give, Bran. But I feel for you. Convince Shara of your sincerity, and you will be welcome in Winterfell when it is my time to rule.

“But do not worry, big brother. I have already been talking with father about your future. You will never have to fear the winter, you are part of the pack.”

There was an earnestness to Ned’s words that almost had Brandon shedding tears. Brandon did not look at his brother, for he knew his eyes were swimming.

“How do I go about earning Ashara’s forgiveness, Ned?” Brandon asked quietly.

“You will have to ask Shara yourself, Bran. It is her you hurt the most”

Ned’s answer did not inspire confidence in Brandon. His little brother apparently saw Brandon’s despondency, for Brandon thought he could hear his brother grinning.

“And I do not think yours to be a hopeless case, Brandon. After all, Shara was the one that sent me to check on you today.”

Brandon must have looked ridiculous as he snapped around to look at Ned. The loud grin that Ned had worn turned into a deep-belly chuckle that made the bed move a little.

"It's true, Bran. Last night Shara and I found you tumbled off the bed when we turned in. You were mumbling and crying in your sleep, though we could not discern what came out of your lips. Aside from a steady stream of vomit, that is.

“I had to turn you on your side, just so you wouldn't suffocate. Bran. You are lucky father was tipsy enough to forget to lock your door behind him when he brought you to bed. After I had propped you up, I had a guard posted by your door so you would not choke on your own bile.

“Yet Shara saw how anxious I was about you, so she sent me to check on you myself this morning."

Ned's face seemed warped by fondness then, and his eyes turned almost liquid silver.

"I cannot bring myself to request anything of Shara if it concerns you. Yet even as Shara hates you, she knows I love you, Bran. So, she sent me out on her own."

At that, Brandon’s brother got up from the bed and left the room. Brandon remained for a long time, even though his hangover had cleared up during the talk already.

Just three days past Ashara’s betrothal had been announced, and already they were breaking camp to venture North. To Winterfell.

It still felt unreal at times, becoming the Lady of Winterfell. Becoming the Queen of Winter. She, a Dornishwoman. Ashara had not imagined that kind of life for her, bound by duty to one place. But Ned would be with her, that part of had not changed.

Ashara still remembered lying under the stars at the God’s Eye with Ned, dreaming of wonders far away. Vaes Dothrak. The Bells of Norvos and the Mazes of Lorath. The Godking’s palace of Ib and the Shadow City of Nefer. Ashara would never see those places now. Well, maybe Lorath and Norvos, but a journey to Ibben or N’ghai would take Ashara and Ned too far from their demesne.

Not that Ashara wanted to go travelling right now. For a few days already she had spent every morning in the privy, with Ned holding her hair as Ashara vomited. Ashara might have disliked the taste of ale before, but now she downright loathed even the smell of it. And Ashara had never thought she could miss lemon cakes as much as she did now.

The idea to spend almost four weeks in a carriage was revolting. Just the thought of movement was nauseating, if Ashara was honest. At least Ashara had managed to convince her new betrothed and her new father that she was fit to ride as far as the Twins. Seven’s sake, Dothraki women rode their horses until they went into labor!

Also, taking a wheelhouse from Riverrun would have necessitated following first the Riverroad and then the Kingsroad. That would not do, they had business to attend to at the Twins after all.

But, best of all, their party would finally split from him. Ashara could not wait for Brandon Stark to finally leave for the south, for Starfall.

Oh, how wroth Ashara had been when Ned had finally cracked yesterday. Her beloved had been a little lost in thought the morning after the feast, just after Ned had returned from his visit to Brandon.

The two days since it had always seemed as if Ned kept an eye on their door, at all times. Waiting. Expecting. Ned had confessed yesterday, waiting for Brandon. Waiting for Brandon to beg Ashara’s forgiveness.

Never before had Ashara felt as angry with Ned. She had shouted and raged and scratched at Ned. How dare he, how dare Ned accept this?

At first, Ashara had thought that Brandon already had Ned’s forgiveness. Ned had taken her slap without comment. Only when Ashara had voiced her fear, that all was good again between Ned and Brandon, did Ned look shocked. And then Ned had fallen to his knees, clutching to Ashara’s legs. He had sworn her, Ned had sworn he had not forgiven Brandon. That Ned would stand behind Ashara in this, against Brandon, always.

And Ned had talked, talked like he did so well. Of hope. Of family. Of healing. Ashara had flinched at that, but Ned knew her. It was not gone. It never was. Because even though Ashara had thought nothing of that day anymore, Ned had told Ashara that she still cried in her sleep at times.

Cried, just as she did while screaming at Ned yesterday. Cried, while Ned held her tight until she fell asleep.

Ashara had woken in Ned’s embrace earlier, and for all she knew Ned was still asleep.

Ned had talked truths, yesterday. Not sense, but truths. Brandon would be in their lives a long time, and it would be difficult for Ashara to ignore Brandon forever. To ever move past her trauma, if Ashara ignored Brandon forever.

And Ned was truthful when he said he believed Brandon when Brandon had told Ned that Brandon was sorry. Sorry! As if that was it, as if Ashara had been waiting for Brandon Stark to feel sorry for assaulting her, for trying to rape her!

It only had made Ashara hate Brandon Stark again, and that after she had managed to stop remembering Brandon for so long.

Oh, Ashara was incensed, and there was only one person she was willing to take it out on.

Ashara had approached Rickard right after dawn, and after a fruitful talk Rickard had agreed to lend Ashara his most trusted guards. And now there Ashara stood, outside Brandon Stark’s door.

Her hand trembled, and Ashara hated it. She did not knock, she decided against it. No, Ashara barged right in, Roland and Garth in her wake. The two guards took their position by the door. As Brandon’s eyes fell on Ashara he looked pale like he had seen a ghost instead.

“You fucking coward!” Growled Ashara silently, and she was happy to detect steel in her own voice.

“Wha-“

“Shut up! I did not come here to talk with you, Brandon Stark, I came to talk to you! How dare you?! How dare you say you are sorry? You think that is it, you are sorry, and everything is alright again?!”

“No, Asha-“

“That’s Lady Dayne to you, you do not have my permission to call me as if we were familiar!”

Ashara was already fuming, and crying, she noticed. Even as she had sworn just yesterday, promised herself, that Brandon Stark would never bring her to tears again.

“Lady Ashara, please, I know what I did was horrible, and I never-. With anyone-. That is, never before or after have I ever tried to-“

A shrill, cutting laugh escaped Ashara’s throat, and Brandon flinched at that. Good. It was clear to Ashara what he wanted to say, but did he really believe – did he have the gall to believe – that it would in any way lessen his crime?

“What, Brandon Stark”, Ashara bit out, “should I consider it an honor that I alone was able to drive you to use force to try and get into my skirts? Do you think I should care I would be the only one you almost raped?”

Brandon Stark crumbled at that, his eyes wide and his neck frozen in a shake.

“No, not at all, please, listen, I didn’t-“

“No, Brandon, you don’t! You do not think, you do not care! You are sorry, you were wrong, you know that, and you have forgiven yourself; is that it? You recognize your mistake, and so everyone else should recognize that is what you did? A mere mistake?”

Ashara was blazing, and for the first time she had seen it, Brandon looked chastised. It galled, and Ashara had to scream on.

“That’s it, isn’t it? That’s exactly it! You have forgiven yourself! That’s easy, right? It wasn’t so difficult. After all, it’s just sex. Everyone does it. You have definitely done it enough, right?

“‘I don’t think father wanted to give me advice on how to sweet talk girls, but he did. ’ Remember? You get around enough, so doing it once should not be of consequence to anyone, should it? You disgust me, Brandon!”

At least Brandon remained silent at that. Ashara heard the guards shuffle behind her, but she did not care. Gods, Ashara had not imagined this confrontation to feel good.

“I wasn’t scared just the once, Brandon, I was scared for months! If someone touched me from behind, I flinched. If a man so much as smiled at me, I felt sick. I could not sleep! I could not eat! I was scared of men I’ve known all my life, just because of you!

“And that’s not even mentioning the thoughts that haunted me! What if? What if I had not managed to escape? What if you had managed to rape me? What if I had fallen pregnant, just because you raped me? What if? ”

Brandon looked scared now, even. Timid. This? This man had scared her?

“But-. But I-. But you didn’t-“

“No! Don’t you dare, Brandon, don’t you fucking dare! Did you ever think of that? How many Snows do you have running around? How many bastards elsewhere? Do you care to know? Twenty-three women at Harrenhal, that’s how many you fucked before I kneed you in the groin, right?

“My mother died in childbed. Two sister I had, two sisters, that died in the womb. I asked Rickard, you know. I asked your father. Sarra. Donnor, Lonnel. Do you even know?”

Brandon only gaped like fish. Sevens was Brandon Stark pathetic. And ignorant.

“Sarra Stark. Stillborn. Your elder sister. Donnor and Lonnel Stark. Your twin brothers, a year younger than Ned. Born four moons early, one stillborn, the other dead within the hour. Rickard even told me where their unmarked graves in the godswood are located.”

Stricken, that was what Brandon looked like. This was what Ashara had wanted to see. She kept her eyes on Brandon, not even blinking.

“How?” Brandon asked, after what seemed like an eternity. “How can I ever bring you to forgive me?”

There were tears swimming in his eyes now, but it was not in Ashara to ever feel remorse for Brandon Stark.

“You cannot.”

It came out as a hiss. Poison and vitriol kept inside for more than a year.

“You cannot ever make me forgive you, Brandon. But for a start? See to it that you never forgive yourself! Maybe some day, then, I can see you as anything else but a rapist.”

At that Ashara turned on her heel, not bothering to spare Ned’s brother another glance. The two guards by the door recoiled at the thunder in Ashara’s eyes, but they quickly fell in line behind her. Ashara felt all tension leave her body as the door fell shut behind her.

Ashara Dayne did not see Brandon Stark again even as he split from their party and headed south, and she was glad for it. As she broke for the Twins, high on her horse and straight-backed like never before, Ashara felt like a queen.

Chapter Text

Factions in Westeros

Stark-Lannister-Arryn-Greyjoy faction

Leaders:

Rickard Stark, Jon Arryn, Tywin Lannister

Other known people of interest:

Quellon Greyjoy, Rodrik Stark, Kevan Lannister, Genna Lannister Frey, Tygett Lannister, Shella Whent, Stevron Frey, Brynden Tully, Eddard Stark, Ashara Dayne, Elbert Arryn, Cersei Lannister, Grandmaester Pycelle, ?

Objectives:

• Overthrowing the Targaryen dynasty

• Dissolution of the Seven Kingdoms into constituent nations

• Expansion of influence in other regions of Westeros

• ?

Forces:

• The armies of the North, the Westerlands and the Vale

• The Iron Fleet

• Allied forces in the Riverlands (Whent, Mallister, Blackwood, Frey, ?)

• The Company of the Rose and the Wolf Pack

• ?

Further assets:

• The custody of Rhaenys Targaryen, allowing for possible alliance with the Dornish faction

• The marriage of Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne, possibly splitting the cohesion of the Dornish faction

• Betrothal between Robert Baratheon and Lyanna Stark and foster-brotherhood between Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark, making an alliance with Stormland forces possible

• The gold of the Lannisters

• Unofficial neutrality agreement between Lannister and Florent forces

• Various spy networks in Westeros and Essos, headed by different PoIs of the faction

• Loyalty of Grandmaester Pycelle to Tywin Lannister

• ?

Group cohesion:

Good, to be cemented 4 months after the Wedding that Never Was at the latest, through engagement of Cersei Lannister and Benjen Stark and the settling of Ironborn on the Stony Shore.

Threats:

• Targaryen loyalist factions within, most likely in the Vale

• Targaryen custody of Jaime Lannister

• Known dissident forces in the constituent regions, e.g. forces of Balon Greyjoy, mountain clans in the Vale, conflict between Houses Stark and Ryswell, the Sistermen

• Alliance-internal points of conflict, e.g. Stark support of dissident forces in the Vale

• Unknown value of Robert Baratheon as possible ally as his support in the Stormlands is unclear

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Good. Probably.

Aerys II Targaryen's faction

Leader:

Aerys II Targaryen

Other people of interest:

Owen Merryweather, Qarlton Chelsted, Symond Staunton, the High Septon, Grandmaester Pycelle (in theory), Varys the Spider (in theory), Lucerys Velaryon (in theory), Rhaella Targaryen (in theory), ?

Objectives:

• Keeping Aerys II on the Iron Throne

• Disinheriting the pesky crown prince and installing Viserys Targaryen as heir

• … burn stuff?

• ?

Forces:

• The loyalist armies throughout the Seven Kingdoms, particularly in the Crownlands, the Riverlands, the Vale, the Stormlands, and the Reach

• The Dornish army, as long as it is not pointed against Rickard Stark

• The Royal Fleet and the Redwyne Fleet

• The Kingsguard

• The Gold Cloaks

• ?

Further assets:

• The custody of Elia Martell and Aegon Targaryen, binding the Dornish forces to the throne

• The custody of Jaime Lannister, forcing Tywin to support Aerys (in theory)

• The most legitimate claim to the Iron Throne at present

• The pyromancers' guild

• A liaison of the institution that is the Iron Throne has been sent to the Sistermen

• ?

Group cohesion:

Poor. Just… poor.

Threats:

• Aerys II Targaryen

• Aerys II Targaryen's lack of support amongst the nobility and the smallfolk (a problem in its own, and in comparison to Rhaegar Targaryen's support amongst both nobility and smallfolk)

• A split in the loyalist faction in support for Aerys and Rhaegar

• Unclear loyalty of Aerys' inner circle, including the Small Council, the Kingsguard and his wife

• There is a not so small possibility that Aerys might just say fuck it and 'Burn them all!'

• Tywin Lannister might just decide Jaime is a lost cause and fight against Aerys anyways

• Did I mention Aerys Targaryen? Like, in general

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Reasonably well regarding Aerys. He is not complicated. Regarding his allies? Proceed with caution.

Rhaegar Targaryen's faction

Leader:

Rhaegar Targaryen

Other people of interest:

Jon Connington, Myles Mooton, Richard Lonmouth, Arthur Dayne, Elia Martell (in theory), Rhaella Targaryen (in theory), ?

Objectives:

• Getting Aerys II off the Iron Throne and putting Rhaegar there

• Preparing the Seven Kingdoms against prophesized threats

• Breeding a third head for the dragon, preferably with Lyanna Stark

• NOT burn stuff. I think this deserves a mention

• ?

• Founding Westerosi Idol and dominate the competition with dreamy voice and kick-ass harp skills (#fansubmission)

Forces:

• Household troops of Dragonstone

• Loyalist forces that do not like Aerys anymore

• Loyalist forces that do not like other loyalist forces anymore

• Some non-loyalist forces that like neither Aerys nor any other factions

• ?

Further assets:

• Marriage to Elia Martell and father to Aegon Targaryen, lending possibility to garner Dornish support

• More liked than Aerys due to NOT burning stuff

• Second best claim to the Iron Throne at present

• VERY open to negotiating with other factions

• Connington is garnering support in the Stormlands

• A liaison of the institution that is the Iron Throne has been sent to the Sistermen

• Rhaegar might not have a problem with polygamy and can, therefore, bind more houses through marriage

• ?

Group cohesion:

Used to be good, pre-Tourney at Harrenhal. Used to be ok, pre-Lyanna Stark's disappearance. Now? Questionable…

Threats:

• Aerys II Targaryen

• Rickard Stark

• The lords and smallfolk are disillusioned with Rhaegar’s conduct regarding Lyanna Stark

• Rhaegar's Dornish allies (?) are probably unhappy. Including his wife

• Rhaegar's wife, who is a captive of his father. Whoopsie

• Rhaegar's allies in the Kingsguard are definitely unhappy

• The Starks have Rhaegar’s daughter and his best friend's sister

• Rhaegar might be disinherited in favor of his little brother

• Rhaegar‘s prophecies might just be wrong, or they might not apply

• Rhaegar might just be mad because of incest (but at least he does not burn stuff. Yet.)

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Definitely not complete. Expect the unexpected.

Aegon VI Targaryen’s faction

Leaders:

Rhaella Targaryen, Elia Martell

Other people of interest:

Aegon VI Targaryen, Lucerys Velaryon, Jaime Lannister, the Most Devout, ?

Objectives:

• Maintaining Targaryen rule in Westeros

• Getting Aerys II off the Iron Throne, preventing Rhaegar from taking said throne and securing it for baby Aegon

• Reestablishing credibility in the Targaryen dynasty

• Ensuring Rhaenys Targaryen's safety and maybe getting her back

• Occupation of prominent positions during Aegon's regency

• Pacify the North, the Vale, the Westerlands, the Stormlands and Dorne again after Aerys' and Rhaegar’s many fuck-ups

• Survive

• ?

Forces:

• The Royal Fleet

• Loyalist forces looking for a better alternative than either Aerys or Rhaegar

• Jaime Lannister

• ?

Further assets:

• Almost no one knows that there actually IS an Aegon VI Targaryen faction, leaving Aegon VI Targaryen without explicit enemies

• Rhaella is cutting deals with the Most Devout. What kind of deals? Good question

• No one knows that the Royal Fleet's loyalty lies with Rhaella

• Loans from the Iron Bank of undisclosed amounts

• If Aegon gets a Regency Council, positions are up to be bartered

• Aegon has the third best claim to the Iron Throne at present

• Dornish support for Aegon’s claim is all but ensured

• Both Rhaella's and Elia's hand might be available for further alliances

• Jaime Lannister might sway Tywin Lannister to their side

• Lysa Tully might become lady-in-waiting for Elia Martell

• ?

Group cohesion:

Tentative. Depending on the decisions of Doran Martell, Elia might split. Otherwise good.

Threats:

• Almost no one knows that there actually IS an Aegon VI Targaryen faction, leaving Aegon VI Targaryen without explicit allies

• Both Aerys Targaryen and Rhaegar Targaryen

• All the leaders of this faction are currently hostages

• Possibly Starks, Lannisters and Arryns

• Leaving the loyalist forces too splintered, or the Faith

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Spotty. Hearsay and speculation. Maybe Rhaella just rediscovered her faith?

Tarth faction

Leader:

Selwyn Tarth

Other people of interest:

Galladon Tarth, Septa Roelle a.k.a. Wenda the White Fawn, ?

Objectives:

• Net gain of influence and wealth for House Tarth

• Eradication of House Cafferen, or at least the Lord and his heir

• ?

Forces:

• The army of House Tarth

• The remnants of the Kingswood brotherhood

• ?

Further assets:

• Links to the leadership of the Golden Company

• Allied with House Swann

• Very mercenary in attitude, can choose the winning side

• Geographically easily defensible on an island in Shipbreaker's Bay

• ?

Group cohesion:

Great. I mean, does it count as a group if it is basically just one dude as of yet?

Threats:

• Golden Company might have better offers or different loyalties

• The other factions might just take issue with the Golden Company coming to Westeros AGAIN

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Lackluster. We only know the barest of the bare bones of the Tarths. As of now.

Dornish faction

Leader:

Doran Martell

Other people of interest:

Oberyn Martell, Mellario of Norvos, Ormond Yronwood, Areo Hotah, ?

Objectives:

• The safety of Elia Martell, Rhaenys Targaryen and Aegon Targaryen

• Securing the birthright of Aegon VI Targaryen to the Iron Throne

• The expansion of Dornish influence

• ?

Forces:

• The army of Dorne

• ?

Further assets:

• Diplomatic ties with Norvos and the Bearded Priests

• Possible alliance with the Stark-Lannister-Arryn faction

• Possible alliance with the Aegon VI Targaryen faction

• Connections with the Second Sons

• ?

Group cohesion:

Tight. Keeping it all in the family. Mostly.

Threats:

• Aerys Targaryen has custody of both Elia Martell and Aegon Targaryen

• Rickard Stark has custody of Rhaenys Targaryen

• The situation in Essos is becoming… difficult

• House Dayne’s loyalty may be to another faction, possibly Rhaegar Targaryen's or Rickard Stark's

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Unclear. We only have the lens of a non-native to go by. Though, she does have a better grasp on the Essosi situation.

Florent-Tully faction

Leader:

Alester Florent

Other people of interest:

Hoster Tully, Randyll Tarly, Jonos Bracken, ?

Objectives:

• Taking the paramountcy of the Reach away from the Tyrells

• Maintaining the paramountcy of the Riverlands in the hands of House Tully

• Keeping a Targaryen king on the Iron Throne for stability

• ?

Forces:

• The army of House Florent and its allies, including House Tarly and House Crane

• The army of the Riverlands loyal to House Tully

• ?

Further assets:

• Unofficial agreement of neutrality with House Lannister in return for land concessions in the Reach

• Presumably, the element of surprise regarding the Tully-Florent coalition when attacking House Tyrell on different fronts

• Probably the neutrality of House Hightower, as Oldtown is sandwiched between Horn Hill and Brightwater Keep and as Leyton Hightower is married to Rhea Florent

• The nominal leader of their primary enemy faction is Mace Tyrell

• ?

Group cohesion:

Probably very good. Everyone’s family or about to be family. And the Tullys (specifically Hoster) were given a chance to keep a hold of power through this alliance. Necessity builds trust.

Threats:

• House Tyrell commands more men than House Florent. Right now

• The Redwynes are linked to the Tyrells twice in as many generations

• The neutrality agreement with Tywin Lannister is unofficial

• Horn Hill borders Dorne

• The Hightowers might break their neutral stance

• Both the Reach and the Riverlands are politically very fractured

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Unknown. All available information is based on the testimony of third people.

Tyrell faction

Leaders:

Mace Tyrell (nominally), Olenna Tyrell (actually)

Other people of interest:

Paxter Redwyne, Mathis Rowan, Arwyn Oakheart, Mina Tyrell, ?

Objectives:

• Maintaining the Tyrell's paramountcy in the Reach

• Maintaining the Targaryen dynasty's hegemony in the Seven kingdoms

• Protecting the Reach's territory from infringements from other kingdoms

• Quelling the expected Florent revolt

• ?

Forces:

• The armies of the Tyrells, the Rowans and the Oakhearts as well as other sworn banners

• The Redwyne fleet

• ?

Further assets:

• Mina Tyrell is heading towards Essos to procure sellsword companies and slave soldiers

• Vast funds in the Bank of Oldtown

• Mace's three sons are available for betrothal contracts

• Mutual support with a Targaryen faction, probably Aerys', maybe additionally with Aegon's

• ?

Group cohesion:

A tight core exists, primarily between those Houses bound by marriage: Tyrell and Redwyne primarily, Rowan to a lesser degree. The prioritization of the objectives of Houses Rowan and Oakheart is likely to differ from that of the Tyrells.

Threats:

• The Florents

• Dorne and the Westerlands

• Maybe the Riverlands and Stormlands

• At least one of the Targaryen factions

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

The basic information is probably solid, but much else might be based on speculation.

Hightower faction

Leader:

Leyton Hightower

Other people of interest:

The Starry Septon, Malora Hightower, Maester Marwyn, the Seneshal and the Conclave(maybe), ?

Objectives:

• Continued prosperity of House Hightower

• Continued unity of the Faith

• Neutrality in the coming war

• Ideally a Tyrell victory in the Reach

• Ideally a power shift in the Faith from King's Landing to Oldtown

• Ascertaining the current state of magic and the inherent dangers of it

• ?

Forces:

• The army of House Hightower

• The Oldtown city guard

• ?

Further assets:

• Familial ties to both the Tyrell and the Florent-Tully faction

• Large amounts of influence with the Faith in the Reach and beyond

• Large amounts of influence with the Citadel and the assignment of Maesters

• Ownership of the Bank of Oldtown

• ?

Group cohesion:

Difficult. The objectives of House Hightower may differ from the objectives of the Starry Sept and the Citadel. Little is known.

Threats:

• A protracted civil war in the Reach, forcing the Hightowers to pick a side

• A fracturing of the Faith

• Varys being up to stuff

• Known status as former Blackfyre supporters

• Whatever is happening to magic, though, that may be a threat to everyone

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Obtuse. Anything dealing with magic is. The stance of the Citadel in general is unclear.

Sistermen faction

Leader:

Triston Sunderland (nominally), Grendl Borrell (actually)

Other people of interest:

Godric Borrell, ?

Objectives:

• To be left to their own devices

• To continue as a safe harbor for smugglers

• For House Borrell to usurp House Sunderland

• ?

Forces:

• Armies and fleets of the Sisters

• Smugglers?

• ?

Further assets:

• Offer to be installed as fleet harbor from the Iron Throne

• Control of the Bite

• Geographic defensibility (and manipulation of guiding lights)

• Diplomatic mission with the Starks

• ?

Group cohesion:

Hard to guess. Probably no fondness between Borrells and Sunderlands. Information may be faulty.

Threats:

• Any type of law enforcement

• Tax collectors

• Victims of piracy

• Potentially the Vale, the North, or the Iron Throne

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

False information is a pet peeve of Sistermen. They use fake guiding lights to sink ships! Therefore, never trust information from a Sisterman!

The Night’s Watch

Leader:

Lord Commander Qorgyle

Other people of interest:

Maester Aemon Targaryen, Denys Mallister, Maester Mullin, ?

Objectives:

• To hold the Wall

• To guard the realms of men

• ?

Forces:

• ~1.000 brothers of the Night’s Watch

• Some ships off Eastwatch-by-the-Sea

• ?

Further assets:

• Not involved in internal conflicts of the Seven Kingdoms

• Probably halfway decent relationship with several noble houses of the North

• Familial ties to the Targaryen dynasty

• Probably the support of Rhaegar Targaryen against vague threats of prophecy

• ?

Group cohesion:

Unknown. A penal colony of murderers, rapists, and thieves with the odd volunteer. Does not seem to be a promising mix.

Threats:

• Those-who-Come-with-the-Cold

• The wildlings, or free folk

• Decline of the order over a time of ~280 years

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Terrible. We have not seen the brothers of the Night’s Watch interact with each other a lot.

Faction of Those-who-Come-with-the-Cold

Leader:

He-who-Rules-the-Winds-of-Winter

Other people of interest:

He-who-Buries-Mountains-in-Snow, ?

Objectives:

?

Forces:

• An unknown number of White Walkers and ice spiders

• ?

Further assets:

• A treaty with House Stark

• Magic(?)

• ?

Group cohesion:

Unknown. Leader known as god-king, though. Might have different connotation within the Other race.

Threats:

• The Night’s Watch (probably)

• Humanity (maybe)

• The Children of the Forest (likely)

• Fire and obsidian (they know)

• Valyrian steel (they do not know)

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Lackluster. Most information is dated, around 8.000 years old. Much is lost. Do not trust anything.

Miscellaneous factions in Westeros

Diverse factions we have not seen much of, but which are (probably) there (somewhere in Westeros), of which we know little to nothing in terms of leaders, people of interest, objectives, forces, assets, group cohesion or threats

• Former Blackfyre supporters, amongst others House Peake, House Butterwell, House Osgrey

• The regional centers of the Faith in King's Landing and Oldtown and beyond, presumably in Sunspear, White Harbor, Highgarden, and the Eyrie

• The mountain clansmen of the Vale

• The Green Men on the Isle of Faces

• The Orphans of the Greenblood

• The different free folk tribes beyond the Wall

• The Citadel

• Pirate kings in the Stepstones (debatable whether that counts as Westeros or Essos)

• ?

Factions in Essos

Blackfyre faction

Leader:

Serra Blackfyre

Other people of interest:

Varys Blackfyre, Illyrio Mopatis, ?

Objectives:

• Usurpation of the Iron Throne and overthrowing of the Targaryen dynasty

• Reestablishing House Blackfyre in Westeros

• ?

Forces:

• ?

Further assets:

• Varys Blackfyre, sitting on the Small Council as Master of Whispers, supports House Blackfyre

• The Blackfyres command a vast spy network in Westeros and Essos

• House Blackfyre possesses known connections to the Golden Company

• House Blackfyre possesses known connections to many noble houses in Westeros

• Illyrio Mopatis is rich, filthy rich

• … slaves?

• ?

Group cohesion:

Tight. Serra has her co-conspirators by the balls. Literally.

Threats:

• Many connections to houses in Westeros are defunct

• Myles Toyne, leader of the Golden Company, might prioritize other things above Blackfyre supremacy

• There is no eligible male claimant to the Iron Throne of the Blackfyre line

• The Blackfyres are not exactly the most popular family in Westeros

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Difficult to evaluate. Varys might be running a counterintelligence campaign.

The Golden Company

Leader:

Myles Toyne

Other people of interest:

Harry Strickland, Black Balaq, ?

Objectives:

• Money

• Restauration of exiled Westerosi houses

• Maybe replacing the Targaryen dynasty with House Blackfyre(?)

• ?

Forces:

• 10.000 fighting men, including 500 knights and 1000 bowmen

• 25 war elephants

• ?

Further assets:

• Ties to the Tarth faction

• Ties to the Blackfyre faction

• Ties to numerous houses in Westeros

• Maybe possession of the Valyrian steel sword Blackfyre

• Stellar reputation among all Free Cities and other forces in Essos

• ?

Group cohesion:

Unknown.

Threats:

• Mistrusted in Westeros due to support of Blackfyre rebellions

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Uncertain. Proceed with caution.

Braavosi factions

Leader:

Sealord (disputed)

Other people of interest:

Syrio Forel, Keyholder, Magister, Faceless Men, ?

Objectives (varied, but include):

• Continued Braavosi hegemony at sea

• Suppression and control of Pentos and Lorath

• Abundant trade

• Economic interests of the Iron Bank

• The abolishment of slavery

• That Volantis remains ruled by the Elephants

• ?

Forces:

• Fleet of Braavos

• Army of Braavos (?)

• Contracted sellsword companies (?)

• ?

Further assets:

• Fighting Bravos in the city, possible to conscript

• The Faceless Men

• The elite guard of the Sealord, including the First Sword of Braavos

• The economic power of the Iron Bank

• Pentos and Lorath remain under Braavosi influence

• ?

Group cohesion:

Cordial between some forces within, not so much with others. Difficult to estimate.

Threats:

• Volantis, if it comes to be ruled by Tigers

• Dothraki

• Norvos

• Revolts in Pentos and/or Lorath

• Possibly Ibben

• Possibly Myr, Tyrosh and/or Lys

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Mostly speculative.

Pentoshi factions

Leader:

Prince of Pentos (largely ceremonial)

Other people of interest:

Magister, Illyrio Mopatis, Serra Blackfyre, ?

Objectives:

• Independence from Braavosi influence and repeal of concessions

• Independent pursuit of wealth by the various Magister

• ?

Forces:

• 20 warships

• ?

Further assets:

• Great wealth of the many magisters

• Relatively good rapport with the Dothraki

• ?

Group cohesion:

Probably pathetic.

Threats:

• Braavos

• Volantis, if it comes to be ruled by the Tigers

• Dothraki

• Possibly Myr, Tyrosh, Lys, Norvos and/or Qohor

• The Windblown sellsword company

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Terrible. Seriously.

Myrish factions

Leader:

?

Other people of interest:

Magister, ?

Objectives:

• Maintaining their technological advantage in manufacturing

• Conquest of Disputed Lands and the Stepstones

• ?

Forces:

• Myrish fleet

• Crossbow companies

• ?

Further assets:

• Great wealth of the many magisters

• Relatively good rapport with the Dothraki

• Technological advantage

• ?

Group cohesion:

Also probably pathetic. Better than Pentos, though.

Threats:

• Tyrosh and Lys

• Volantis, if it comes to be ruled by the Tigers

• Dothraki

• Possibly Braavos, Norvos and/or Qohor

• Pirate kings of the Stepstones

• Summer Islander slave liberators

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Terrible. Seriously.

Tyroshi factions

Leader:

Archon of Tyrosh

Other people of interest:

Magister, ?

Objectives:

• Control of the dye market

• Conquest of Disputed Lands and the Stepstones

• ?

Forces:

• Tyroshi fleet

• ?

Further assets:

• Great wealth of the many magisters

• Relatively good rapport with the Dothraki

• ?

Group cohesion:

Also probably pathetic. Better than Pentos, though.

Threats:

• Lys and Myr

• Volantis, if it comes to be ruled by the Tigers

• Dothraki

• Possibly Braavos, Norvos and/or Qohor

• Pirate kings of the Stepstones

• Summer Islander slave liberators

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Terrible. Seriously.

Lyseni factions

Leader:

First Magister of Lys

Other people of interest:

Gonfaloniere, Magister, ?

Objectives:

• Hegemony in the trades of flesh and poisons

• Conquest of Disputed Lands and the Stepstones

• ?

Forces:

• Lyseni fleet

• ?

Further assets:

• Great wealth of the many magisters

• Relatively good rapport with the Dothraki

• ?

Group cohesion:

Also probably pathetic. Better than Pentos, though.

Threats:

• Tyrosh and Myr

• Volantis, if it comes to be ruled by the Tigers

• Dothraki

• Possibly Braavos, Norvos and/or Qohor

• Pirate kings of the Stepstones

• Summer Islander slave liberators

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Terrible. Seriously.

Norvoshi faction

Leader:

Head of the church of the Bearded Priests ( unknown)

Other people of interest:

Bearded Priests, Magister, Mellario of Norvos, ?

Objectives:

• Continued dominance of the Bearded Priests in Norvos and the expansion of their influence

• Pulling Lorath into its sphere of influence (replacing Braavos) and gaining control of their port on the Shivering Sea

• Eradication of the church of the Black Goat of Qohor

• ?

Forces:

• Holy Guard

• ?

Further assets:

• Diplomatic ties with Dorne and House Martell

• Relatively good rapport with the Dothraki

• Historical alliances with Qohor against expansionist Volantene ambitions

• Fanatical zealots

• ?

Group cohesion:

Monolithic. Bearded brother is watching you.

Threats:

• Braavos

• Volantis, if it comes to be ruled by the Tigers

• Dothraki

• Historical enmity with Qohor (in particular the church of the Black Goat of Qohor)

• Possibly Myr, Tyrosh, Lys

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Reasonably solid. Horribly incomplete, though.

Qohori faction

Leader:

- (fractured)

Other people of interest:

Priests of the Black Goat, sorcerers, ?

Objectives:

• Continued dominion over the Forest of Qohor

• Continued control of trading routes to Vaes Dothrak

• Maintaining their advantage in smithing technologies

• Freedom from roaming Dothraki khals (especially khal Zekko at the moment)

• ?

Forces:

• Small city watch

• Unsullied contingents

• ?

Further assets:

• Well-established hunters’ guild

• Superior weapons and armor

• Historical alliances with Norvos against expansionist Volantene ambitions

• Fanatical zealots

• ?

Group cohesion:

Generally terrible, but united against foreign threats.

Threats:

• Dothraki

• Volantis, if it comes to be ruled by the Tigers

• Historical enmity with Norvos (in particular between the church of the Black Goat and the Bearded Priests)

• Possibly Myr, Tyrosh, Lys

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Uncertain and largely incomplete.

Volantene factions

Leaders:

• Elephants: Doniphos Paenymion, 2nd Triarch of the Elephants

• Tigers: Malaquo Maegyr

• Slave insurgency: The Widow of the Waterfront (Grace)

• Church of R’hllor: Highpriest Benerro

• Criminal Gangs: The Fourth Yearling, the Father of Orphans, the Slum Dog Keeper, the Prince of Knives, the Widow of the Waterfront, ?

• ?

Other people of interest:

General Brevanno Tagaros (Tigers), Batanes the Bloody Blade (2nd in command to the Prince of Knives), ?

Objectives:

• Elephants: Proliferation of trade, ?

• Tigers: Military expansion, ?

• Slave insurgency: Freedom for the enslaved and the abolition of slavery, ?

• Church of R’hllor: Defeating the Great Other, ?

• Criminal gangs: Proliferation of wealth, increase in influence, ?

• ?

Forces:

• Elephants and Tigers: The armies of Volantis, slave companies, sellswords, the city guard, ?

• Slave insurgency: The enslaved proletariat, ?

• Church of R’hllor: The Fiery Hand, zealots, ?

• Criminal gangs: Enforcers, murderers, thieves, fences, pick-pockets, informants, etc., ?

• ?

Further assets:

• Unity of Tigers and Elephants, overall leadership subject to yearly election of Triarchs

• Accord reached between criminal gangs about division of the city and specialization of work

• Slave insurgency and Church of R’hllor speak to the same people, partially aligning interests

• ?

Group cohesion:

Varied. To many groups to go into detail. Dependent on external threats.

Threats:

• Something is wrong with magic. Does the Lord of Light have the answer? Will he tell his followers?

• The Slave insurgency does not really get along with members of the Old Blood, be they Elephants or Tigers. Not surprising, considering they have to be slaves to someone before they are freed

• The Tigers coming into power would probably see the entirety of the rest of the Free Cities find common ground against them. Whoopsie

• Dothraki

• Braavos, Qohor and Norvos, the Three Daughters

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Sketchy. While the political forces are well established and the Church of R’hllor a known quantity, the other forces are operating in the underground. Maybe there isn’t even a Slave insurgency?

Lorathi faction

Leaders:

Harvest Prince, Fisher Prince and Prince of the Streets (nominally); Council of Magisters (publically); Braavosi ambassador (hush hush behind the scenes)

Other people of interest:

magister, textile merchants, ?

Objectives:

• Continued protection of Braavos against Ibbenese and Norvoshi incursions

• Greater autonomy beneath Braavos’ boot

• Maintaining their significant stake in the textile trade

• Continued control of Morosh and its further colonial development

• Control and acknowledgement thereof of the Bay of Lorath and its fishing grounds

• Continued survival in relative isolation

• ?

Forces:

• 1000 contracted sellswords under the banner of the Second Sons

• …

• ?

Further assets:

• Nobody really considers Lorath a threat to their own interest (they really aren’t)

• Lorath status as a Braavosi protectorate (preferred euphemism in Lorath for puppet state)

• It is unlikely that even an expansionist Volantis under Tiger rule would grow powerful enough to bother threatening Lorath’s meagre objectives

• Lorath itself is comprised of islands. Dothraki don’t bother them, because water

• I just have to repeat this: Dothraki don’t bother Lorath, because water

• ?

Group cohesion:

Like… I don’t know? Seriously, it took me several read throughs to realize I forgot writing a Lorathi faction. They’re, like, really insignificant. Nobody cares to know how well they stick together, for even united Lorath isn’t really a threat to anyone.

Threats:

• Braavos increasing their protection fee and their raiding of Lorathi fishing grounds

• Ibben increasing their raiding of Lorathi fishing grounds, or straight up seizing Morosh as their own colony

• Norvos gaining an interest in acquiring a Shivering Sea port

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

There is a Lorath. That much is certain. Aside from that, everyone agrees Lorath is to insignificant to bother gathering in-depth intelligence on.

Qartheen factions:

Leader:

• Pureborn: Sitters of a Thousand Thrones

• The Thirteen: The Thirteen (duh!), among them Xaro Xhoan Daxos

• Tourmaline Brotherhood: The Tourmaline Father

• Ancient Guild of Spicers: The Most Ancient Guildmaster

• Sorrowful Men: The Man of Sorrows

• House of the Undying: Undying Ones

• ?

Other people of interest:

Keeper of the Long List, Opener of the Door, ?

Objectives:

• Pureborn: Power and influence, ?

• Thirteen, Tourmaline Brotherhood, Ancient Guild of Spicers: Proliferation of trade and wealth, ?

• Sorrowful Men: Proliferation of wealth, assignments, ?

• House of the Undying: immortality, the Philisopher's Stone, the One Ring, ?

• ?

Forces:

• Pureborn: Civic Guard, camelry, Qartheen fleet, ?

• Thirteen, Tourmaline Brotherhood, Ancient Guild of Spicers: Merchant fleets, sellswords, ?

• Sorrowful Men: themselves, ?

• House of the Undying: warlocks, ?

• ?

Further assets:

• The Pureborn control the Jade Gates, giving them the possibility to disrupt mercantile trade.

• The 3 merchant organizations are wealthy. Very wealthy.

• The Sorrowful Men serve the highest bidder, their contracts are not personal.

• Who even knows what tricks the warlocks have hidden?

• ?

Group cohesion:

Depending on the faction atrocious to great.

Threats:

• Dothraki

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Qarth is a place far away, so information may be exaggerated, outdated and sometimes simply wrong. Scratch that. Information exaggerated, outdated and sometimes simply wrong.

Dothraki factions

Leader:

Dosh khaleen, khals (e.g. khal Zekko)

Other people of interest:

?

Objectives:

• Fight

• Fuck

• Feast

• ?

Forces:

• Hordes of light cavalry

• ?

Further assets:

• Support of Slaver’s Bay

• Wealth in gifts from the Free Cities and Qarth

• Fearsome reputation, Free Cities and Qarth bribe them rather than fight them

• ?

Group cohesion:

Inside Vaes Dothrak? Good. Outside Vaes Dothrak? Bad.

Threats:

• Kingdom of the Ifeqevron (do they even still exist?)

• Literally every city in Essos west of the Bone Mountains, but they would rather bribe the Dothraki

• Ibben is pissed because their colonies are gone (a few times over)

• Every Dothraki in Vaes Dothrak is unarmed

• … dunno, dragons?

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

As Dothraki do not have a written language and their knowledge is passed on orally, the truth contained in this report may have changed on the way.

Slaver‘s Bay factions

Leaders:

• Meereen: Great Masters

• Yunkai: Wise Masters

• Astapor: Good Masters

• New Ghis: ?

• Temple of the Graces: Green Graces (Meereenese Green Grace: Galazza Galare)

• ?

Other people of interest:

?

Objectives:

• Proliferation of wealth by trading in slaves

• ?

Forces:

• Meereen: City guard, pit slaves, slave swordsmen, ?

• Yunkai: around 5.000 slave soldiers, ?

• Astapor: Unsullied, pit slaves, mounted Astapori guards, ?

• New Ghis: Iron legions, ?

• ?

Further assets:

• Good relations with the Dothraki

• Wealthy slavers

• Good business relations with all Essosi cities except Braavos

• ?

Group cohesion:

Unknown.

Threats:

• Dothraki

• Braavos

• Summer Islanders

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Non-existent.

Saathi faction

Leader:

?

Other people of interest:

?

Objectives:

• Reestablishing the Kingdom of Sarnor

• Reconquest of the area of the Kingdom of Sarnor

• Killing Dothraki

• ?

Forces:

• ?

Further assets:

• Ibben’s got their back (probably)

• ?

Group cohesion:

No idea.

Threats:

• Dothraki

• Braavos

• Ibben withdrawing their protection

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

No. Just, no.

Ibbenese faction

Leaders:

Sitters on the Shadow Council

Other people of interest:

The Thousand, ?

Objectives:

• Hegemony in the Shivering Sea

• Monopoly on the whale trade

• Reestablishment of Ibbenese colonies in Northern Essos

• ?

Forces:

• Large fleets

• Penal colony soldiers from Ib Sar

• ?

Further assets:

• Great Wealth

• Great defensibility

• Good trade relations with pretty much every seafaring nation

• ?

Group cohesion:

Unknown.

Threats:

• Dothraki

• Braavosi fleets (?)

• Slavers

• ?

Quality and accuracy of information in this report:

Scratching the bottom of the barrel.

Miscellaneous factions in Essos and the rest of the Known World

Diverse factions we have not seen much of, but which are (probably) there (somewhere in Essos, Ulthos, Sothoryos or in between) of which we know little to nothing about people of interest, objectives, forces, assets, group cohesion or threats

• Diverse sellsword companies in Essos (e.g. Second Sons, Windblown)

• Summer Islander factions (divers)

• Naath

• Pirates of the Basilisk Isles

• Lhazareen (Hesh, Lhazosh, Kosrak)

• Mantarys, Elyria, Tolos

• Port Yhos, Qarkash (under Qarthi influence)

• Cities on the Cinnamon Straits (Faros, Vahar, Port Moraq, Zabhad)

• Jogos Nhai

• Kingdom of N’ghai (Nefer)

• Yi Ti

• Leng

• Church of Starry Wisdom

• Factions of Asshai-by-the-Shadow:

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ Shadowbinders

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ Spellsinger

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ Aeromancers

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ Warlocks

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ?

• ?

Chapter Text

Walder Frey was an irascible man, and despite his long live he had never learned how to forgive a slight.

That said, if you were not the target of Walder’s ire yourself, the man was highly amusing. Rickard was almost sorry that he was going to kill Walder at the Twins. But Rickard would not suffer a liability to live if it did not have its uses. Until the time came that Rickard to cross that bridge, though, Rickard was going to spend a grand time with Walder Frey.

The old sot that Walder was, he had a long life with a treasure trove of stories to tell. Sure, the majority of Walder’s life experiences was ‘fucked that wench’, ‘knocked up this looker’ or ‘the tits on the one hooker that gave me this nasty pox, you wouldn’t believe it’.

But then there were just a few short tidbits in between - a few diamonds in the filth that was Walder Frey’s existence - that were not just entertaining but also highly informative. Rickard had never known that House Butterwell had plans to start an uprising at the same time as House Peake in 233.

If Walder Frey had not stopped Ambrose Butterwell’s eldest son and Walder’s own sister from their folly, the old House Butterwell would probably not have existed anymore.

Of course, that information was just a side note in a story about Walder’s sister fucking the young Lord Butterwell instead of her husband the old Lord Butterwell. Apparently, depravity ran in the family.

A few years later after the Peake Uprising had died its inglorious death, the young Lord Butterwell had then gifted Walder a treasure trove in old Butterwell vintages as thanks. Well, Rickard did prefer his grain brandy, but he had to admit it was a shame the Riverlands lost their best vineyard after the Second Blackfyre Rebellion.

As for the now remaining stocks, well, it seemed old Walder was determined not to leave any of the ‘good wine’ behind for his descendants. He was drinking the good stuff at least twice a week, and apparently the wine paired perfectly with luce, Walder’s favorite.

By the amount that Walder told that he imbibed the stuff Rickard doubted the man would survive another decade. But then again, Walder looked like he should have kicked the bucked a decade ago. More disturbing a revelation was that Brynden Rivers had used the Twins as a cornerstone for his spy network in the Riverlands from 212 until 233, and that the Raven’s Eyes had been dispersed along the Trident in the same manner the Cregan’s Men were.

Aegon V had truly been a fool to sentence Bloodraven to the Wall. In one move the Unlikely had blinded and declawed the Iron Throne.

True, Bloodraven had been heavy handed as the force behind the crown. However, his Raven’s Teeth had been the deterrent and his Raven’s Eyes the insurance that forced the realm’s lords to comply through three Blackfyre Rebellions instead of defecting or remaining neutral. Such a tool begged to be used.

Well, Rickard was glad his own forefathers never relinquished control of either their eyes or their stick, and Rickard would not fail his ancestors in that regard. Neither would Ned, after some thorough teaching.

And Gods, did Ned need teaching on how to rule. Jon Arryn had forged Ned into a formidable soldier and battle commander, however, the Lord Paramount of the Vale had mostly neglected teaching Ned politics, cunning and intrigue. Ned’s straight-forwardness would have to be bent. And Ned would have to learn that honor only flew as high as necessity allowed

For this purpose, Rickard had been riding out with Ned daily since they met off Darry, to discuss matters of ruling. During these daily jaunts Rickard had also been slowly whittling away Ned’s aversion to using spies. A truly foolish notion, that.

They had met two other regional leaders besides Tom of Riverrun since Rickard and his party had broken for the North. Two women named Jeyne, one who had been tilling a field close to Fairmarket and the other who had sold fish near Oldstones where Rickard and company had crossed the Blue Fork.

The Jeyne at Oldstones had left Ned thinking on the use of spies by informing them that the second son of Lord Nayland of Hag’s Mire was getting away with raping a woman of the smallfolk because nobody dared speaking up. Of course, Ned saw it as a question of justice, a problem to set right. Rickard would need to instruct Ned on the worth of leverage instead.

Today they were going to meet another informant. This one was acting a ferryman across the Green Fork a day’s ride south of the Twins.

The Cregan’s Man at this junction was likely rather high in the hierarchy of the Cregan’s Men, seeing that he controlled an independent crossing of the river the Freys claimed dominion of. A lot of intelligence on the way North was bound to flow through this man’s hands.

Rickard would not have known he was to meet this Cregan’s Man if a rider had not come down from the Twins with a letter from Old Man Robard. The letter had been rather short. Just a missive, actually, that Lyanna had crossed the Neck and entered the North proper.

But hidden in code, and only visible when heated over a candle, the paper revealed a set of coordinates and a time. Old Man Robard never simply sent a letter.

Of course, aside from the reigning Lord of Winterfell, almost nobody in the North or the rest of the world knew that it was always a member of House Cerwyn that headed the entirely intelligence available to the Starks.

It rarely was the Lord of Castle Cerwyn that took up these duties. The duty had only fallen to Lord Robard because he had been an only child, and because Robard had been married to Argella Stark besides.

The last time a Lord Cerwyn headed the office of Commander of Intelligence before Robard it had been the best friend of Cregan Stark. That Lord Cerwyn had forged the Cregan’s Men out of Cregan’s unbloodied host and the ashes that had remained of the Torrhen’s Men.

Well, that had been a necessity, considering Aemond One-Eye and Vhagar had scorched the Riverlands so thoroughly that barely a tenth of the Torrhen’s Men had survived.

Still, never before had the Northern spy network permeated so thoroughly through all societal layers south of the Neck then in the time Cregan’s dearest friend had woven the network anew himself.

By now, the Cregan’s Men were even making headway into the lower rungs of the Faith. Hopefully, Old Man Robard’s second son could lead the office as well as his father when his time came.

Gods beware Cai Cerwyn never managed to train an heir for the position of spymaster. Robard had to keep his lordly heir Medger from the family business due to Medger’s… lacking mental faculties, to be delicate.

Now Rickard and Ned were out on their daily ride, and coincidentally they were making a stop along Green Fork. Just after the sun had passed its zenith for the day, just as planned.

Ahead of them a nondescript-looking ferryman was offloading a huckster and a tinker, it looked like. Rickard briefly wondered if the two travelling salesmen were Cregan’s Men as well, but already the peddlers were gone in a blink. Instead, the ferryman hailed Rickard and Ned when they came into view.

“I greet Cregan’s get.”

There was a kindly smile to the ferryman as he welcomed Rickard and Ned.

“I’m Tom.”

“Cregan’s get greets you, Tom.”

Rickard returned Tom’s smile just as kindly, and Rickard had to bite down a true smile as Ned startled beside him.

Well, the name Jeyne was common enough that Ned did not need to question it when the two women of the Cregan’s Men shared the name. Two time’s a pattern, though, and Rickard was happy Ned caught on quick. Now Rickard’s heir would just need to learn to mask his surprise.

“What news have you for us, Tom?”

“News, my lord, and a package from the North. Won’t you step onto my barge for our talk? I’ve kept your box beneath my seat, and I will be glad to be rid of it.”

This Tom had been made aware of the contents of the box? Surprising, that. The ferryman must have been one of the highest officers beneath Old Man Robard.

The ferry started out onto the river, and after Tom had punted the barge a little further up the stream the ferryman dropped the anchor in the middle of the river.

Tom passed Rickard a wooden chest of polished sentinel pine, closed by a delicate seal of beeswax with thistles emblazoned. Rickard cracked the seal and carefully opened the lid to check the contents.

Everything Rickard needed was inside. The box was separated into five compartments and held the necessary tools. Two pairs of castle-forged tongs. A fine brush. Gloves made of treated dog skin. A single gold dragon in a bed of velvet. A crystalline phial containing a transparent liquid with a light metal shine to it.

“Thank you”, Rickard said softly as he carefully closed the box again.

Tom looked well rid of it, and Rickard did not begrudge it the man. Ned looked a little confused by it all, but Rickard would not tell Ned about one of House Stark most well-guarded secrets in the presence of another. After all, Rickard did not know how much Tom was aware of.

“You have news for me, Tom?”, Rickard asked, after the most important part of their meeting was done.

“Yes, my lord, plenty. News from the North were given to me along with the box. There were some false trails, of course, but with the right key I was able to decipher five messages meant for you, Lord Rickard.”

False trails. It never got hold. Rickard suppressed a chuckle and left Tom to transmit the messages.

“I have received your orders, and I am now hosting the lady and her son in my guest wing.

“Congratulations. Every friend has been invited. The kids are coming to dinner. Turf has been restocked. I did not leave a stone untouched.

“As you have bidden, the cavalry will greet you at the gate in force. You were right, the fillies have shown themselves temperamental.

“A new visitor has arrived. He has old burns on his hands, and he is asking for help. He has been given shelter, yet I did not dare treat him.

“The troubadours are coming, uninvited. Many are already here. They sing of peace.”

Well.

Fuck.

Those news ranged from wonderful to disastrous. At least the second code layer kept Tom from knowing the meaning of the words Robard had sent.

“These are your answers, Tom. Use the same channels.”

Rickard turned the words and phrases over in his head before he spoke on. Five answers and one report. Robard would know what to do.

“Give them shelter. The father will ride with me from the gate.

“Unity and force. Fix the sieve.

“Divide and conquer. Test options.

“Do not. Keep sheltered. Await further instructions.

“Send the gaolers and stoke the flames. Alert the kids. Peace is the domain of gods.

“The first bachelor remains as is. Keep watch but keep calm.”

Tom took out a piece of twine and started making knots. True stories and false trails. Rickard did not know how to read the knots himself; the code was almost unbreakable. The second layer was only a precaution in case one of Rickard’s spies ever sang.

Ned was keeping a good façade through it all, but Rickard remembered the time when his own father Edwyle had taken Rickard to meet Old Man Robard. Rickard himself had been 20 years old then. Through five meetings Rickard had tried to get a grasp of the code on his own, but it had been impossible.

Well. Rickard understood now that his father first had needed to teach Rickard to rule before Rickard could have been allowed access to their intelligence. Now some education was in order for Ned. Or better, a little history. It was never wrong to know the men behind the myths.

But that would have to wait until Rickard and Ned were alone again.

“Tom”, Rickard simply said, “please bring us back to our horses.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Tom raised the anchor again and left the barge to drift back towards their starting location. The man looked relieved to be rid of his burden. Still, in his position the ferryman must have been more aware of the general state the Riverlands than both Jeynes Ned and Rickard met, and more than the Tom at Riverrun.

Therefore, the ferryman was probably even more interested in credible news from nobility. Well, it always helped to reward one’s own men. And Toms tended to know the true worth of information.

“Tell me, Tom, do you have family around here?”

“Yes, my lord, I do. My second son just got his first child, you see. I hope he won’t see no fighting too soon. He’d probably serve you better as my successor here than swinging a sword at your enemies. Me Henrik is a smart lad, my lord.”

Rickard had to raise an eyebrow at that. At least, after a second Tom seemed to notice his mistake. The Riverlander seemed flustered for the first time.

“Sorry, my lord, I did not mean to imply-”, Tom started with a nervous look towards Ned, “my second son Henrik really is becoming a father. I would not dare threaten-”

Rickard raised a hand, and he let a small smile show on his face. Ned did look a little red as Tom continued to fidget. But it did not do to leave Tom frightened. Or worried for the future.

“Tom”, Rickard said, and the man stilled.

“I am also looking forward towards my grandchildren. I do hope though your son did wed your good-daughter before begetting her with child; right, Tom?

“And worry not, Tom. Us Starks look after our loyal people. Your son won’t see war here.”

Rickard drummed his fingers shortly on the box of sentinel pine, drawing Tom’s eyes from a reddening Ned towards the little chest. As Tom looked up again Rickard continued speaking with a wolfish grin.

“Welcome to the North, Tom.”

They hit the shore as Rickard said the words, and Tom looked to be gulping for air for a second.

Rickard and Ned quickly disembarked.

“Cregan’s get thanks you for your service.”

Rickard dismissed the Tom before him, for all of import had been said.

“I thank Cregan’s get for the fire in my hearth in winter.”

Tom the ferryman still looked somewhere between relieved and frightened as he answered, and soon after Tom had disappeared behind the next river bend with his barge. As soon as the Cregan’s Man was out of sight, Ned turned to Rickard for answers.

“Father. What was all that about?”

“That”, Rickard said as he levelled his stare onto his son, “was a message from my spymaster telling me to hurry home. You will need to know the whole code in time, but we will take it step by step. But for now, walk with me, Ned.

“I do not have the time right now to indict you into all that comes with being the Lord of Winterfell, Ned. You will learn our codes after your wedding. For now, tell me, who do you think was the worst king the North ever had?”

Eddard did not think on the question for a long a time. Rickard’s heir had become accustomed to the apparent non-sequitur questions Rickard asked in their discussions. As Ned fell into a trot keeping pace with Rickard, Ned gave the answer Rickard had expected. After all, Rickard had given his father the same answer once.

“Brandon the Burner. He burned the Northern fleets and shipyards and left our House vulnerable to the Ironborn. He left us without the capability to reestablish our presence at sea. Since Brandon’s death the North has not had a navy.”

It was the obvious answer to Rickard’s question. It was also the wrong answer. Brandon the Burner was rarely talked about because he had to make ugly decisions out of necessity. Tywin Lannister would have liked the man. Rickard spoke to set Ned’s mistake right.

“One would think so, right? But sadly, our worst king is known in the North as one of its greatest defender.

“Brandon the Burner brought peace to the North for nigh on three generations after his death and allowed the North to recuperate from the most devastating string of conflicts it had suffered. If Brandon had not burned our coasts, the North would likely have splintered from within and fractured from without.

“Instead, the worst king to ever rule the North was Theon the Hungry Wolf.”

Ned snapped around to Rickard so quickly that Ned almost stumbled over his feet in the middle of a step. Rickard did not let it deter him.

“Theon started out a promising king, fending of Argos Sevenstar at the Weeping Water when he was just a young man. In fact, Theon was probably the best tactician the North ever produced. As far as I recall, the Hungry Wolf never lost a battle.”

Every child in the North had at least heard of Theon Stark, and many a child elsewhere in the world. For all that Rickard knew, the last Andals of Andalos still feared Theon’s specter.

“It does not matter that Theon won every battle he fought. The Hungry Wolf had grown gluttonous from his successes. After the Sundering of Andalos, Theon allied with the mountain clans of the Vale and made plans to strip the Kingdom of Mountain and Vale from the Andal invaders.

“To expediate the war efforts and shorten his supply lines, Theon invaded the Sisters. He had recently returned from Andalos, so Theon employed the same tactics that brought him victory in Essos. However, Theon soon learned that a protracted foreign campaign required better logistics than a mere raid.

“By the time Theon learned that lesson the Sistermen were already so embittered with the Starks that they chose to bend the knee to the Arryns and convert to the Faith of the Seven, just to get their revenge on the Hungry Wolf. Theon Stark alone is responsible is the reason why we lost safety of the Bite, to not even speak of controlling it.

“But it got worse. With Theon’s eyes in the east, the Ironborn started reaving our western coast in greater numbers. Theon did beat them back quickly, true, but right after Theon wheeled around and continued his Worthless War.

“The next invaders to seize their chance when they saw an understaffed frontier were the wildlings, falling over the North in great numbers. Again, Theon pulled off a resounding victory, decimating the wildlings in battle. Only to once more return to fight for the Sisters.

“It had become an obsession. Theon Stark wanted to cement a legacy like Brandon IX., the last Stark king to expand the dominion of the North. At the start, the Vale was his goal. But whenever Theon turned to deal with another threat to the North, the Arryns reconquered the Sisters.

“You know the rebellion in Rills that Theon is famed for quelling. The truth is, the strain that the North’s constant state of war caused the economy lead to poverty so great that the smallfolk in the entire North was on the verge of rebellion. The Rills were just the first place the dam broke.

“Theon’s smartest act during his time as king was beating down that initial rebellion with a brutality never seen before, deterring any other threatening uprisings from starting. The mountains of Northern corpses Theon left in that one rebellion dwarfed the dead foes of all his foreign wars combined with a parity of more than ten to one.”

Rickard quieted a second at that. While the Hungry Wolf was feared and hated in the rest of the world, none actually knew the extent of Theon Stark’s butchery. It had taken centuries after the reign of Brandon the Burner for the respective Northern information campaign to take root and reverse the image of Theon Stark amongst the smallfolk.

The tale of Theon Stark’s life and reign was an interesting subject if one wanted to study what mistakes to avoid ruling the North. But Theon Stark was not what Rickard wanted to talk of, Brandon the Burner was. So, Rickard raised his voice once more.

“The Worthless War simmered down a little after the Rebellion of the Rills. However, the thing that Theon did not anticipate was that while the Bite is of vital importance to the North, its coastline in the Vale is sparsely populated and difficult to attack from the water. The Sisters true significance is that it is the best place to mount an attack on the North from.

“The White Knife has always been the most important waterway in the North. And from the Sisters, one can command the White Knife’s delta and the rest of the Bite. The Arryns only recognized this fact, too, after they had been handed sovereignty over the Sisters by Theon’s stupidity and cruelty.

“The loss of the Sisters to the Vale has been the biggest strategic defeat the North has ever suffered, period. Especially considering that an independent Kingdom of the Sisters was more beneficial to the North than the Vale. The Sistermen themselves were always a nuisance at most, never a threat. With the backing of the entire Vale? That is another problem entirely.

“Furthermore, Andal expansionism at the time of the Hungry Wolf was still in full swing. The Arryns or some other Andal warlord would have tried to conquer the Sisters sooner or later. That would have likely brought the Sisters into our fold voluntarily. Without local support, the Arryns would have never dared clashing with Theon in neutral territory.

“Considering all that, abandoning the Sisters and the Worthless War was still better than the alternative. Every Stark king after Theon had to deal with Arryn raiders attempting to conquer the North from the Sisters. So, for a millennium after Theon died, Stark kings tried to conquer the Sisters permanently to put a stop to Vale incursions in the North.

“The last in that long line of kings was Brandon the Shipwright. His plan had been decently sound. Brandon the Shipwright did build the greatest fleet the North had ever seen, and he kept it out of sight in the Bay of Ice. Brandon’s intention was to sail around all of Westeros to attack Gulltown, then use his Narrow Sea fleet to take the Sisters.

“This time, the plan was to put the entire population of the Sisters to the sword. Brandon the Shipwright did not plan conquest, he planned annihilation. Afterwards, the isles were to be repopulated with Northman. However, the entire Western fleet was lost to a storm and all of Brandon the Shipwright’s plans were for naught.

“Additionally, the Ironborn, weary of Brandon the Shipwrights navy, had been unable to raid the Western coast during his reign. They were the only people to know of the North’s Western fleet, but then, interaction of any kingdom in Westeros with the Ironborn has always been as little as possible.

“After Brandon and his fleet were lost, the Ironborn started raiding the Western Shore to Sea Dragon Point, the Bay of Ice and the Saltspear with a vengeance.

“That was the situation when Brandon the Burner took the Winter Throne. And despite all the external threats he was facing, the Burner noticed that the worst consequence the Worthless War had had on the North was an internal one.

“Small folk numbers were in decline. The people were dying too quickly, and smallfolk numbers had seen a slight but steady drop for generations. The Northmen had adapted to the state of constant war, but the smallfolk could not breed fast enough.

“We do not know at what point the smallfolk numbers started going down, but the process must have been ongoing for centuries. The truth is, the North can easily support a greater number of people than it does now. Has supported a greater number of people.

“Furthermore, the populace that lived in the North at the end of the Worthless War was less healthy than before, too, as the men to till the fields were off fighting and dying. If that trend were not stopped the Kingdom of Winter could have faced depopulation and collapse at some point.

“But the fields had lain fallow too long, and nature reclaimed much of the farmland. The men were needed in the fields. However, even if the Northern army stopped attacking the Sisters, it was unlikely for the Valemen to stop attacking the North from the Sisters.

“So, Brandon devised a way to end the Worthless War, and make it as costly for the Arryns as possible. Thanks to his father’s legacy, the Burner had an abundance of ships on the eastern cost left as well. Old men were crewing the entire navy left for a last attack on the Sisters. Instead of soldiers, however, the ships carried pitch and turf and alcohol-soaked linens and barrels of brandy.

“The Arryns sent their own navy in its entirety to meet our forces close off Little Sister. It seemed advantageous to them; I think. Fighting it out in waters under Arryn control, close to a harbor under Arryn control… The last fleet of the North took down almost all the ships of the Vale with them. A few burning hulls crashed into Sisterton, setting the town ablaze.

“The Arryns never dared publicize their exact casualty count, but the Burner suspected that for every Northman dead, three to four Valemen left their lives. That is not even considering the cost of the lost ships or the devastation of Sisterton. It took the Arryns decades to rebuild. And still, the Sistermen hated the yoke they now live under.

“Of course, a few leftover ships of the Arryns attacked the White Knife. But Brandon only had to set a few docks aflame the first few times and burn the ships as they made land for that folly to cease. After achieving peace in the east, the Burner took the same measures on the Western Coast. But he took it even further.

“Brandon the Burner is the reason we do not call the western coast the Western Coast anymore, but the Stony Shore instead. The coast was cleared of people, and when Ironborn came to reave, their ships were burned along with entire forests. The pirates in the west learned the same way the Arryns did.

“After, when peace was achieved, Brandon put all the people to work on the fields. Tons of fishermen had been uprooted from their homes, so, Brandon put them to task in tilling the fields and making the land yield crops in greater numbers again.

“And whenever an Andal warlord or a reaving Ironborn party got too cocky again, they were either burned or drawn into the heartlands and killed in the snow fall. Brandon the Burner used fire again to burn any shelter against the weather or supplies he could not carry to deny invading armies purchase in our lands. More than any other king before him, Brandon the Burner understood our house words.

“Winter is coming is not a warning, it is a threat to our enemies. For us Starks ruled as Kings of Winter, and winter is not an opponent you can win against.

“This is the most important lesson you may ever learn, Ned, if it ever comes that you are on the verge of losing a war. Retreat to the North. Burn the supplies you cannot carry. Burn any places that might offer your foes shelter. Let winter kill the enemies you could not kill yourself. Winter will never fail you, Ned, and you will stand, triumphant.”

Ned mulled over the tale of Brandon the Burner in silence for a while. Rickard saw understanding in his son’s eyes, but also questions. Good.

“Ask, son.”

“Why did King Torrhen go to fight Aegon the Conqueror in the Riverlands?”

“Torrhen heard of the dragons. He was afraid that if fighting took place in the North, a scorched earth retreat would lead to Aegon burning keeps. So, he went south to ascertain the truth of the matter.

“At the time, bending the knee was the right call. Dorne might have kept its independence, but the North could never survive if dragons burned the farmland off the roads where our small folk would have retreated to.

“However, the groundwork for an independent Kingdom of the North was never lost. Many steps were taken the year Torrhen knelt to support renewed independence should the Targaryens fail us.

“Losing the New Gift was a hard blow to our agricultural output, but we’ve managed to cope. In turn, it united our lords in purpose behind us, and since then we have been able to prepare for a secession more thoroughly. Aerys was just the last in a long list of insults.”

This time, Ned did not wait long with the next question.

“Why tell me the Burner’s story now?”

“It relates to a message Tom relayed to us. He has old burns on his hands, and he is asking for help. He has been given shelter, yet I did not dare treat him.

“Sistermen have the uncommon trait of webbed fingers. Brandon burned the Sisters first. That is where our visitor is from. The Sisterman is neither a guest nor an uninvited guest, but a visitor. The man is not friend or foe but has a chance to be either. He is new, meaning he came in through White Harbor where the Manderlys sit in the New Castle.

“He has been given shelter, meaning the Sisterman was hidden away somewhere so people do not know he’s in the North. He is asking for help, meaning a diplomatically sensitive problem. My spymaster did not dare treat with him. Seeing as the Sisters are subject to the Vale and Jon Arryn is our ally, I forbade my spymaster from handling the matter at his discretion.

“In short, we need to talk to your foster father, Ned. There’s trouble brewing in the Bite, enough that the Sunderlands or more likely the Borrells saw Winterfell as a safer alternative than the Eyrie for protection. Let’s ride back to our party.”

Rickard and Ned arrived at the place his horse was bound and quickly mounted it. Ned did likewise, though Rickard could see there were still questions on his son’s mind. Rickard was proven wrong in his assumption that Ned was going to ask about the other messages, or the box.

“Brandon the Burner ruled a long time ago, father. Why have we not rebuilt a fleet since?”

“Who says we haven’t?”

Rickard answered with a smirk as he put the spurs to his horse and broke into gallop back to the camp.

Chapter Text

“- and it did not take long until that little milk maid could milk her own tits!” Walder’s spit flew in a high arc as he laughed at his own youthful escapade. Well. Escapades. That bastard’s mother had gotten Walder’s gift not two years ago, and already there was a second child on the way.

Rickard threw his head back in wild laughter despite the jape’s lack of taste, joining in with the cackling Lord of the Crossing. Old man Walder had taken a shine to the Stark contingent of their party, especially Rickard and Ashara. And while the old man was not antagonistic to Ned, Ned was definitely antagonistic to Walder Frey.

Which was understandable, but even Ashara managed to fake her smiles at the raunchy jokes that Walder made at her expense. Still, Rickard’s future daughter-in-law gave as good as she got. Oh, Rickard had truly laughed at the bit where Ashara had dared any man brave enough to eat more Dornish peppers than she did.

While Walder himself had stomached more than his other Frey contestants Hosteen and Ryman, the Frey patriarch only managed to down three peppers in comparison to Ashara’s ten. Even though Walder was beaten in that regard by his son Luceon with four and his daughter-in-law Betharios with seven peppers, the whole affair had the whole camp roaring and howling. A dark horse had been Perianne Frey Haigh who had eaten second-most of the spicy little things at eight and a half.

The other thing to endear the Starks to the cranky old lord was Rickard’s declaration that he wanted the leftovers of the ale from the betrothal feast finished before crossing the Blue Fork and shared the drink liberally with the Freys and Mallisters in their party.

Merrett Frey had even sworn eternal friendship with Ned on one of his drunken binges, and once more Rickard could only marvel at the way his son seemed to attract idiots, lackwits and drunks everywhere. Old Gods, Rickard was still wrestling with the revelation that his son Ned and Quellon’s get Victarion were now pen pals!

The world had become truly strange.

Gossip had flown north, of unrest at the Citadel and another duel between the Red Viper and another Yronwood. The most worrisome rumor, though, came in the guise of a poor man’s jape. ‘Queen Rhaella has turned most devout.’ It became ever more urgent that Rickard made a stop at Castle Cerwyn.

Still, it would not do to slight Walder Frey in hastening their journey to the North too much, and so Rickard now sat in the place of honor in the Great Hall of the Twins. Tomorrow, the Starks would cross the Green Fork early in the morning. But tonight, they would feast.

“And, Rickard, how many Snows do you have running around up at Winterfell? I mean, you do have to keep warm during your cold winters, eh?”

Walder’s question and lecherous grin had Rickard focusing on the conversation again.

“The wet nurse that already fed my father still lives at Winterfell, and even now I am too fearful of her spoon to go around knocking up scullery maids”, Rickard said, leaving a pregnant pause before he continued, “so I keep all the ingredients necessary for moon tea by my bed side!”

Walder started roaring, and even though Rickard took care that few people could hear his words, the laughter soon rippled through the entire hall. None of the guests wanted to appear anything but jolly while the fossil in the highchair was having a great time.

And while Rickard spoke the truth of the matter that he did not have any bastards, he did not keep the habit of sleeping with the help in Winterfell. Doing so not only bred bastards but also discontent. Rickard knew how easy it was to bribe unhappy servants, so he took care there were none at his castle.

Of course, that did not mean that Rickard had stayed celibate in the decade since Lyarra’s death, but bastards born after the birth of any legitimate children could lead to difficulties when procuring a second marriage for Rickard. That was too valuable a tool to endanger even in the slightest.

“Got any grand-bastards, though? I know enough of my children take after me, so there are enough of those filling my halls. And your former heir did have a fitting reputation to question whether Brandon sowed some oats.”

“Well,” Rickard drawled the words a little to match his salacious grin, “that is definitely a possibility, Walder. Though, I may have to worry for Ned as well. From all I have heard so far, my new heir is the one with the wicked tongue.”

That remark set loose another avalanche of cackling, and Rickard used that reprieve to ponder Brandon’s proclivities once more. The matter of bastards was actually something that Rickard would have to talk with someone about. At least Brandon had not gotten a Northern noblewoman with child, of that Rickard was fairly certain. No, if that were the case Robard would have contacted Rickard directly.

But if Brandon had children with a woman of the smallfolk? Letters concerning something with that little political relevance would not have been encrypted or brought to Rickard directly. No, if Brandon had left a smallfolk Snow behind somewhere, only an unmarked letter addressed to Rickard would have arrived at Winterfell.

And those letters would have passed through Walys’ hands, along with any correspondence detailing Brandon’s other disgraceful behavior. Yet none such letters had ever made it into Rickard’s hands. It seemed Walys Flowers was due a lection on obedience. After all, Rickard by now knew there must have been at least a few unmarked letters concerning Brandon’s conduct.

“Talking of bastards,” Walder once more got Rickard’s attention, talking quietly in-between sips of Butterwell wine and bites of luce, “I have noticed your lovely Dornish daughter-in-law to be has not once touched the good wine I shared with you today, Rickard. How does that come about?”

Rickard did not sit straighter, yet he did let the corners of his mouth drop a little to show displeasure.

“I believe, my friend Walder, that Lady Ashara is not overly fond of any wine besides Dornish red. And let us not even talk of ale. She will acquire the taste for it in the North, with time, and I see no need to pressure her in that regard.”

“Oh, I did notice that the Lady Ashara never once drank with us as we were finishing your leftover ale, Rickard. Yet, I cannot have a guest leave my halls thinking they had been hosted to anything less than the best of my ability. Let me send for a cask of the best Dornish red in my cellar.”

Walder was goading Rickard. So, Rickard put his smile back on, yet it was lacking even a trace of warmth this time.

“Walder. I like you. But not too long ago there was another Riverlord that tried to push me on matters that concerned my heir’s consort.”

Rickard gave Walder a hard stare over the rim of his own cup as he drank from the old Butterwell wine himself. If Rickard was honest with himself, the white wine was a little too sweet for his taste. As he put the cup down again, it seemed to break a bubble of silence just between the two lords at the place of honor.

“So, Walder. Won’t you remind me just how it came to be that we travelled north from Riverrun together?”

Walder Frey held Rickard’s gaze for a total of maybe three seconds. Then, the old man faltered. His point made; Rickard decided to throw the old man a line.

“The wine truly is the perfect companion to go with luce, Walder. You just have to sell me some so I can have them brought to Winterfell.”

The old pike was not properly boned but that did not stop Rickard from eating heartily as he resumed with his fish after saying his piece. Walder just stayed quiet, even when Rickard had finished with his dish. The old man was less jolly for the next three courses.

After having left Walder alone to stew during the meal Rickard did reapproach the Lord of the Crossing after dinner had finished.

“Walder, old friend,” Rickard started, joviality back in his voice, “let us not part tonight on a bad note.”

“I was not aware there was a bad note between us, Rickard,” Walder said, his face pinched as his voice the tone of only bad notes.

“Old gods, you can be as cranky as they say,” Rickard just talked on, knowing no one had ever dared say the same to Walder’s face, “let me help you with that. Your second youngest with your Crakehall wife; Geremy was it? I hear he has been betrothed to a Waynwood chit?”

The last word drew a crude smile from Walder, the ice broken once more.

“True.”

“Well, what is the name of his unbetrothed brother again? Ramon?”

“Raymund, Rickard.”

“Right, that one,” Rickard barreled on as Walder seemed stuck between insulted and intrigued, “Lord Karstark is always looking to pawn of his cousins on any respectable bachelor. Pays a good dowry, too.”

Now Walder was definitely intrigued, and best friends with Rickard once more. Stevron had told Rickard that inquiries for Raymond’s hand from House Beesbury in the Reach had been made. Rickard had advised the old heir that any connection to the Reach was a fool’s investment right now. And to Rickard, any link the Frey’s had to the fight for the Reach was a liability. Their famed family loyalty was the Freys’ greatest asset.

The Freys were most valuable to Rickard for that famed loyalty and their myriad family ties with Houses in the whole Riverlands. And except Walder’s own late wife Bethany Rosby, all of the ties House Frey under Walder’s rule had made in the Riverlands, the Vale and the Westerlands. The Freys were the house most important for any transition of power in the Riverlands after the war.

Therefore, binding the Freys to the North through family was of paramount importance. And Rickard Karstark would be praising Rickard Stark to the old gods for thinning Arnolf Karstark’s brood in Karhold.

Walder himself once more gifted Rickard his honest, sleazy grin.

“Rickard, my friend, let me gift your house three barrels of Butterwell vintage for your heir’s upcoming nuptials.”

The two lords continued talking for another hour on the minutiae of a union between Karstark and Frey before they split and retired for the night.

The Stark host was set to depart from the Twins an hour after dawn the next day. They were going to reunite with Jon Arryn and his men, who had taken the detour along the Riverroad, at entrance to the Neck on the Kingsroad. The old falcon had insisted he be there for Ned’s wedding, so Elbert had been entrusted with ruling the Vale in his absence. Under the guidance of Lady Anya Waynwood, of course.

Walder Frey was seeing of Rickard in person, the two man having reached a sort of rapport with one another. Later in the day a raven would be sent towards Karhold from the Twins.

“This is it, you old cunt,” Rickard said, and there was a sort of fondness to his voice as he spoke, “try not to die before your next wife comes to warm your bed.”

“Heh, I plan to make it to number ten at least before I croak.”

Rickard joined Walder as the old man chuckled after his response. Oh, the tragedy.

Fishing a purse from his saddle, Rickard threw the jiggling pouch towards the weaselly old man. Greedily, Walder grasped for the money.

“I fear my time as your guest is over, Walder. There is your toll, Lord of the Crossing. A stag for every man in my host, a dragon for every lord.”

The going rate was usually two stags for every man. Three, if the Lord of the Crossing did not like you. In other words, the going rate was three stags every man.

“Fucking miser,” Walder grumbled in response as he sifted through the coins, pulling out the single gold dragon within, “you’re even cheating me still. The whoring warrior is a Lord. Where is my second dragon?”

“I did not know that the Lord of Storm’s End was one of my subjects,” Rickard replied, almost serene, “in other words, go fleece him yourself.”

Walder shared an almost impish smile with Rickard, and Rickard was surprised to see that it fit the old man.

“That is an old mint,” Walder said, turning the profile of Aegon the Conqueror to reflect the sun, “never seen a coin from the First’s reign.”

“Lucky you,” was all that Rickard replied as he mounted his horse, “do send that barrel soon, Walder. See you the next time I come south.”

We will not, Rickard thought, contrary to his words, because you will not live to see spring return, Walder.”

“See you next time, Rickard” Walder replied, oblivious, “and try not to make such a mess of the south again.”

With those words of parting Rickard spurred his horse on to take the lead of their group, riding with Ned alone to the forefront. Rickard’s son stayed quiet by his side, noticing Rickard’s somber mood. Rickard only started talking when they were out of sight of the Twins.

“Did you know the Mormonts once held sole dominion of the whale trade in the Sunset Sea, Ned? It only stopped after the onset of the Worthless War, when we took their sailors east to fight the Arryns. The whaling ships on the Western Coast just rotted away over the millennium that followed.”

“Is this a continuation of Brandon the Burner’s story, father?”

Ned seemed almost eager at the thought. But no, this time Rickard was going to speak of bleaker subjects than war.

“It is not. Walder Frey will fall into a coma in a few months. He will never wake again.”

While Rickard did not check Ned’s reaction to the dispassionate statement, the question that fallowed was not unexpected.

“What does that have to do with Mormonts and whaling?”

“With Mormonts? Nothing. But in 8.000 years us Starks have accumulated dangerous knowledge that even the Citadel is unaware of. And the Maesters never will, because by now the Ibbenese control the whale trade in the Shivering Sea and the Ironborn have kept the Sunset Sea free of any Westerosi business of the same. Yet we know, Ned. Whalers and miners die the same deaths.”

“I… do not follow, father.” Ned said.

“There is gold in the Northern Mountains, Ned, but only small veins of the metal have been found, and Northern gold is tainted. Who are the seven greatest amongst the mountain clans under our rule, Ned? And what are their sigils?”

It took a little time until the answer came forth, but it did.

“House Wull, three brown buckets on blue with a grey white rim. House Flint of the Mountains, a broken grey tower on black with three stars above. House Norrey, six green thistles on yellow. House Burley, a white knife on a blue triangle on a white shield. House Harclay, the three stages of the moon in blue on a white shield. House Liddle, three pinecones and firtrees on white. House Knott, bronze fretwork on a white shield.”

“House Harclay’s three moons are on a white stripe on a blue shield, but otherwise you are correct, Ned,” Rickard said, “or at least you are in theory. You see, House Norrey’s sigil is actually six thistles on gold. The color is just too expensive to use. And the six thistles symbolize the poisonous nature of the Norrey’s gold.

“As our new allies to the west could tell you, normal miners die by the time they reach forty because of the grueling work they do. Yet Norrey gold miners in the first millennium under Stark rule died by the time they reached twenty-five, and all of the same cause.

“First, the men complained of abdominal pain. Then they lost weight. Soon after they tended to lose balance at times, or their speech started slurring. Their response to stimuli lapsed entirely and some developed fits. If they did not die due to accidents, all fell into a coma and died within a year of the first pains in their abdomen. Only when they stopped working in the mines right at the onset of that pain did they have a chance to survive. And that chance was often slim.”

Rickard looked back at Ned as he finished, and the younger man looked stricken.

“How is it that the Lannister rule over anyone except corpses, then, father?”

The question was a whisper, but it was not asked timidly.

“It was not the gold, you see Ned, it was poison silver. It streaks the gold veins in the Northern mountains, and it turns viscous at surface temperature. We do not know if other gold veins have the same problems, but there is a reason that Northern currency was minted from the silver mines around the White Knife. I guess the Westermen just got… lucky.”

“Father, you said whalers and miners die the same deaths. But how is that possible? Where would whalers get into contact with this poisonous silver?”

“We do not know how, Ned, but whalers stuck at sea that do not succumb to scurvy tend to show the same symptoms as miners. Tests by Brandon the Bad have shown that regular consumption of fish hastens the onset of symptoms when one has been poisoned. The older and higher in the food chain the fish is, the stronger the amplification.

“The Bad thought that all fish are poisonous. However, the amount of poison they carry might be to miniscule to matter. Only predatory fish, like whales, are dangerous to consume in high quantity as they also contain the poison from the fish they themselves have eaten.”

Brandon the Bad was a touchy subject in the Stark family history. The only Stark king that had ever been fostered with the Boltons, the Bad had shown a penchant for torture and cruelty during his reign. However, he had also kept meticulous notes of the effects of poisons and other instruments he used. It was a grim read. Ned understood Rickard’s implication, after a second.

“The luce!”

“Indeed, Ned. Yesterday I coated a gold dragon in a naturally refined form of poisoned silver, and today Walder collected his toll from me. Oh, the dragon alone was potent enough that he will succumb in time. And yet, every time that Walder eats his favorite fish, he will die just a little quicker.”

The conversation stalled a little after that. Just as Rickard had known it would. Yet soon after, Ned returned with more questions. Just as Rickard had known he would.

“Father. There is something I do not understand.”

“Ask me, then, Ned.”

“When we were camped at Riverrun, you had Shara insinuate to the Whents that she would be the one to poison Lord Walder. Why?”

“It served more than one purpose, Ned.”

Rickard actually wanted to say more, but a harsh laughter from Ned interrupted him.

“Doesn’t it always, father?”

Rickard stopped his horse. Ned had sounded too bitter to simply let the comment go. Ned actually passed Rickard for a second before quickly pulling his charger to order.

“Son.”

Ned seemed stiffen at Rickard’s calling.

“Is there something that displeases you?”

Ned did not answer immediately. So, Rickard just sat there, astride on his horse, waiting for their host to catch up.

“The things you are doing,” Ned started, “and the way you go about doing them, father.

“They go against everything Jon has taught me growing up. As high lords, should we not lead by example? What about honor and justice? What you talk about, all that leverage… Honestly, it disgusts me.”

This required a delicate touch, Rickard knew. The things that Jon had taught Ned were not wrong per se. A code of ethics, as it were, is difficult to fault in any case. Still, at times high notions such as honor, mercy, justice, were not applicable if one did not have the power to enforce ones will on the unrepentant.

“How,” Rickard started, spurring his horse onwards again, “would you say we should have dealt with Lord Nayland’s second, what’s the name of the git again?”

“Raynald,” Ned replied, “Raynald Nayland.”

“Right, Raynald Nayland,” Rickard simply replied.

Gods, what a fucking cunt. Despite the subject Rickard could not suppress a smirk, and despite himself Ned could not suppress one either. What a family of gits.

“Well, out with it, Ned. What should we have done to see justice served to Raynald Nayland and the poor subject of his affections?”

“The Wall.” Ned’s answer was immediate. “The Wall and a proper gelding.”

At least the North was not lost on the boy. Still, the answer… lacked.

“Ok. So, the second son of Lord Nayland is sent to the Wall. What does that mean for Lord Nayland’s succession? What about his opinion of us? What are the consequences of that opinion changing? Do keep in mind, we are looking to wrest power in the Riverlands from the Tully’s. Finally. What happens to the woman that Raynald Nayland mistreated?”

Progressively, Ned looked less and less sure. It was a beautiful thing, really, noblesse oblige. A beautiful thought. But how to punish someone who deviates from a moral standard when they have the power to prevent lawful prosecution?

“Let me tell you what’d probably have happened if we did it your way, Ned. Raynald Nayland would have been convicted, gelded, and shipped off to the Wall. As soon as that happens, House Nayland stands to lose a good amount of reputation. Lord Nayland also loses his spare. All because of us. Of House Stark.

“So, Lord Nayland will not be happy with us. Luckily for him, we have just recently made a rather important enemy in the Riverlands. Rather publicly as well, I might add. Every House that supports House Tully instead of us is an enemy. Every House that does so because we were wasteful and pissed away leverage to bind them to us instead is a mistake on our part, and incredibly wasteful. We are Northmen. We do not have the luxury to be wasteful when winter comes.

“Now let us look at all that from a strategic perspective. I do not give a shit who rules Hag’s Mire, and its land. Generally, of course. It is an insignificant village with pretty much no economic relevance. However, just looking at distance, it lies on the shortest route from the North to Riverrun. If we ever are to launch a quick invasion there, we do again not have the luxury to face opposition at every insignificant village we pass. Am I clear so far?”

Despite Ned’s nod of approval, there was defiance in his eyes. Of course, the consequences Rickard laid bare so far did nothing to address Ned’s noble concerns regarding the mistreated smallfolk woman.

“Now, the last consequence of all that is that the poor woman Raynald Nayland mistreated will either end up dead or in a brothel before the year is out.”

“What?! No! Why?”

Ned sputtered. Fucking sputtered. Rickard could not even suppress a sneer.

“What did you think would have happened? Cruel as it is, being the favorite plaything of a noble ensures that the woman has not been thrown out of her house yet. She’s used goods. Who would want to marry her now that she’s been soiled so publicly? Everyone in her village knows. But the same fear that prevents the townsfolk from reporting Raynald Nayland to his father prevents them from harming the woman as well.”

Ned was not stupid. He understood what Rickard was talking about immediately, even if he did not like it. Still, Ned was not satisfied with Rickard’s explanation.

“How does not interfering improve the situation, then, father?”

“Well,” Rickard started, knowing he wore a wolfish smile, “I never said we would not interfere, did I? I told the Jeyne not to interfere until the poor girl is showing. A bastard, Ned, can always be a powerful piece. The poor woman will find shelter in the North once she is pregnant, she will be cared for, and the good Lord Nayland will be informed of the… consequences of his son’s transgressions. As will his heir.”

Rickard let that information sink in. A bastard can always be a powerful piece. Be it the father’s sentimentality or the wife’s jealousy, both could be used as tools. Rickard saw Ned look back towards their party. Towards Robert and little Mya. A worried look, but the right instincts were there.

“Why both of them, father? Why the lord and heir both?”

Ned did not even look back at Rickard as he asked.

“You love your siblings, Ned,” Rickard answered, pulling up beside his son, “and while a father loves all his children, many young people in Westeros tend to see their siblings as rivals as well. Not as enemies, but at least as people they need to compete for an inheritance with if their family is not the richest. Like House Nayland. Lord Nayland will recognize the leverage we have against him. His heir, on the other hand, will recognize the leverage we have for him.

“Now, while we can force good Lord Nayland to fall in line with the leverage we hold and the restraint we have shown by not shipping his son off to the Wall, his son — who might one day become your bannerman — is likely to be more positively disposed towards House Stark because we helped him, and because we recognized his relative importance early enough.

“Lastly, if Lord Nayland possesses a modicum of intelligence, he will find a way to curb young Raynald’s enthusiasm to prevent having to serve two masters. I might send him a pointed letter encouraging to do exactly that if he fails to act in that manner on his own.”

That, at least, brought a bittersweet smile onto Ned’s face. Rickard’s next sentence brought Ned out of his reverie.

“But enough of House Nayland. Let me get back to insinuating Ashara before Lady Whent. The most important thing Ashara ever told Shella Whent was that she’s good friends with the Martells, especially including Oberyn Martell. A known user of poison. As long as people have an obvious answer to the origins of poisons we might come to employ in the future, they will not suspect more obscure possibilities. Hence, we are more open to use more efficient ways of conducting warfare more openly in the future. And here is the most important part:

“As men, we are frowned upon when using poison. As you said, it is dishonorable. For women, it is par of the course. And amongst women, it is even a matter of building prestige. I have just helped good Ashara with establishing a reputation amongst certain circles in the South that may prove useful in the future, I have warded of suspicion from one of our most closely kept secrets, I have taken out a likely obstacle for our march south while binding an ally, and I did not even need to break guest right to do all that at the prize of a single dragon.

“Now, do you still think it is more noble to kill ten thousand men in battle rather than one awful old man with poison? Because the only thing I see in that line of thinking is an undue amount of waste.”

Ned was not convinced by Rickard’s words. Ned did not like Rickard’s words. But Ned obeyed Rickard’s words, and that was enough for the old wolf. In time, his son would come around. The war would see to that, he knew.

For Rickard, that concluded the matter of Walder Frey. Regardless, they had more important things to discuss than the long overdue death of an old fossil.

“As you have bidden, the cavalry will greet you at the gate in force. You were right, the fillies have shown themselves temperamental.”

It was a whisper, yet Rickard had Ned’s attention in less than a second.

“At Moat Cailin we will find Lord Ryswell along with his sons and daughters, and the Houses bound to House Ryswell by marriage or betrothal, represented by Lord Roose Bolton and Willem Dustin. That entire coalition is a loaded crossbow we need to disarm or make use of. Now, how do we solve the mess Brandon left us, Ned?

“Remember my orders, Ned. Remember the words.”

Rickard was prepared to give his son time, or the answer straight out if Ned took to long. Yet, Ned did not disappoint.
“Give them shelter. The father will ride with me from the gate.

“You have a bastard hidden away somewhere, either Willem’s or Roose Bolton’s, and you are looking to strike at their alliance through Lord Ryswell’s daughters, the fillies. Who have you gotten by the balls?”

Rickard knew he looked a predator, and he could swear Ned looked just a bit wolfish then, too.

“On my way south, I had gotten news that a miller’s wife had asked for shelter, bringing her son with her. I was only able to send news to my spy master after that sorry business in the capital. Gods know what the woman would have done if she had not heard from me, but now we have custody of one Ramsay Snow, bastard of Roose Bolton, conceived through rape when he illegally claimed the right to the first night from a miller and subsequently killed him.

“A bastard, Ned, can always be a powerful piece.”

Bonus:
Vic and Ned are now pen pals! To commemorate that giant leap forward in their relationship, here you go with another instance of Vic's dairy diary.

Hello dairy diary,

Today I got my first letter from my friend Ned. I am so happy that I asked him to be my people pen pal at Riverrun.

This is the first letter I have gotten that is not from Rodrik. Rodrik the Reader, of course, not Balon’s son. Balon’s son Rodrik is stupid. I doublet doubt Rodrik knows how to read. Balon’s son, of course, not Rodrik the Reader. It would be stupid if Rodrik the Reader could not read. Stupid like Balon’s son Rodrik.

Wait, that is all too confuss- diffik- hard. Again, Rodrik the son of Balon cannot read. I think. Rodrik, the son of-. Ok, I do not remember who the father of Rodrik the Reader is. Point binge being, Rodrik the Reader can read.

Howew- But, the letters I get from Rodrik (the Reader) are convusi- diwicu- hard. Ned’s letter is better. I mean, I asked a question to both Ned and Rodrik (the Reader). And Ned’s answer was better. As was Ned’s letter. Better.

Ok, the question. It was very impotent important to me. Thing is, Father finally gave me come and command of my own ship. I am now off fiscally officially a capped tin captain. But, my boat had no name. That is, the boat had a name, but it was a bad name. Like, Kraken. Every second boat at Pyke is named Kraken. So, it’s a bad name.

Anyways, I am bad with names, so I asked Ned and Rodrik (the Reader) to help me think of a good name. Because, Ned and Rodrik (the Reader) are both good with names. And thoughts.

So, my question was for both of Ned and Rodrik (the Reader) to think of an embossing imposing name for my ship. I wanted the name to show I am a hard fuck. Er. A hard fucker. I wanted the name to show I am a hard fucker. Something masked urin massed kulling manly.

And then, Rodrik (the Reader) suges- at wise- says I should call my boat ‘Phallic Wavepiercer’! What the fuck is ‘Phallic’? Sounds femme- feminn- womanly. Bitchy. A bitchy sounding word like ‘Phallic’ just is not manly. So, I am not calling my boat ‘Phallic’ anything. Because ‘Phallic’ is girly.

But Ned! Ned gets me! Ned is a true friend; he can think of a name that shows I am a hard fuck. Er. A hard fucker. And he did. Think of a name that shows I am a hard fucker. Ned did. Because Ned is good with names. And thoughts.

Anyways, the name has everything! It has a word that is watery, and I am a capped tin captain now, so, water. It has got a fuckery word, that shows I am a hard fucker. (Wait, is fuckery a word? It now is!) And it is a course cuss word! Perfection!

So, since toady today I am the capped tin captain of the ‘Sunken Cunt’!

Now that’s hard fuckery!

Because fuckery is a word!

Yeah!

Goodbye dairy diary,

Vic