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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Tywin Lannister looked over the ramparts of the Golden Tooth to the camped army below. For two weeks now they had waited here without orders, the men were growing restless. Tywin had always believed in decisive action, but this… he looked the other direction at the plains that should have been the Riverlands, the nation that was apparently called “Gondor.” Tywin had never heard of such a realm, not even from the most far traveled traders of Lannisport. Ravens from Crakehall and Silverhall had arrived saying that the Reach had disappeared as well, leaving only ocean. In spite of himself Tywin let a shiver creep down his spine, they were not in Westeros.

“Something troubles you father?” his son Jaime asked. Tywin turned to see his children, Jaime, the tall handsome swordsman of renown, and a little behind him the imp who had taken Joanna, Tyrion. Somehow the two of them had ended up here on that day… he let himself drift back a moment. They had been in the Riverlands to punish the Tully’s for their lack of respect. Jaime and his host had just joined them and word had reached him that his grandson had executed Lord Stark in King’s Landing… war with the North had become a certainty. Then the trumpets had sounded, Tywin had at first thought they announced some hidden charge and had drawn his sword, preparing to rally his men… but then he saw the sky. Though it had been day suddenly the stars shone brightly and stretched as though they were cut from cloth and pulled asunder. The trumpets softened into a grand melody, Tywin’s sword had fallen from his hand, and distantly he could hear many other men weeping for the music was so beautiful… he could almost see Joanna in that moment. When his senses had returned he saw that the army was before the gates of the Golden Tooth, a castle Tywin knew well. This alarmed him, the Tooth was supposed to be several days march to their West, how could- and then he’d turned and taken his first glance at the plains of Gondor.

“Well we do have some good news,” Tyrion said, interrupting his fathers thoughts, “it seems our dear sister is back at the Rock with her children, including our King. Whatever brought me to you seems to have brought her home as well.” Tywin noted the disappointment in his son’s tone and frowned, but inwardly felt a sudden sense of relief. When they had first appeared here men quickly brought him word that Tyrion and a band of savages had appeared on the host’s edge. Only the quick intervention of his son and a sellsword he’d brought had prevented the two confused groups from attacking each other. Since then Tywin had wondered about Cersei’s fate, now his suspicions were confirmed, everyone from the Westerlands had been brought home. “In addition it seems all of the merchants of Lannisport have found themselves brought back too, some from as far away as Asshai,” Tyrion continued.

Jaime looked momentarily uncomfortable, “Tyrion perhaps I should tell him-“

“They’ve also found the wreck of the “Laughing Lion” washed up on a beach outside the city… there is a body in it believed to be uncle Gerion.” Tyrion’s face was downcast, Tywin recalled his fool brother had always taken a liking to his runt of a son. The news didn’t particularly phase Tywin, he’d long believed his brother dead, the result of treasure hunting for the family sword in the ruins of Valyria, and the confirmation was merely that, confirmation.

Tywin was silent a moment, as was proper, at news of his brothers passing. He then looked to his sons. “We cannot keep this army under arms indefinitely, I sent a few men west under Ser Robert Brax to find the lord of these Gondorians and determine whether it will be necessary to do so. I sent them with a raven so we should expect some manner of reply or warning soon.”

Tyrion nodded, “A good choice, coolheaded enough not to start a fight or rape a farmer’s daughter but still expendable. I was half worried you would send Clegane or Lorch.”

Tywin stared unblinking at his son, “As the smith’s tools each serve a different purpose so do our vassals.” He turned to Jaime, “take note of this, unless we find a way to bring the Westerlands back to Westeros I believe we can consider you released from your vows.”

Sensing the implication Jaime quickly spoke, “but father the King is still with us, surely he will need-“

“Joffrey is now king of nothing but the Westerlands and you will serve him better as it’s future lord paramount than you would as his Kingsguard.” The edges of his mouth curled into a slight smile, if he was to be thrown into a strange new world he would at least have his son back, “in any case it seems most of our enemies are gone, though the farmers we’ve talked to have told us there are mighty cities and citadels in Gondor they are also committed to war already against some foe in the far East, this “Mordor,” and by all accounts it is not going well for them.”

Tyrion seemed troubled and spoke suddenly, “I’ve talked to one of the farmers our scouts brought in, he claims that this Lord Sauron of Mordor leads armies of beasts, that the people of Mordor aren’t men at all but monsters who seek not to conquer, but to destroy.”

Tywin chuckled, they were all shaken by the sudden appearance of this new world, but it was still silly to imagine an army of Grumpkins and Snarks like his son suggested, “Tyrion with all the reading you do I would hope you would be more educated on these matters, this Sauron and his people are no more beasts than Robb Stark was, and you remember the tales the men were telling about him?”

Tyrion nodded impatiently, “yes father that was… amusing, and obviously for all his flaws Robb Stark likely doesn’t become a wolf at night, but this seemed different. These people genuinely fear this Lord Sauron, they speak of him like men in Westeros speak of the Stranger. I don’t think this is a mere hate between rival nations.”

Tywin’s amusement was running thin now, “Tyrion men tell lies, terrible lies, about those they hate. Do you know what kinds of things Stannis Baratheon was saying about your brother and sister?” He was angry now, “if anything this Sauron will prove vital to us if Gondor is hostile, the mere threat of an alliance with him would be enough of a deterrence. I’ll hear no more of this, Tyrion you are possessed of a certain low cunning, but you need to learn to apply it more carefully. Don’t believe every legend and rumor you hear, it will not serve you well.”

The family gathering was interrupted by a man coming up the stairs from the lower keep, “my lords,” he said bowing quickly. “The raven sent with Ser Brax has returned.” The man handed Tywin a letter with a seal in the shape of a tree on it.

“Leave us,” Tywin commanded. He waited until the man left before turning his gaze to the letter, he sighed with some trepidation. The contents of this letter could spell war for the Westerlands, suddenly feeling bold he ripped the seal off and began reading.

To Lord Tywin Lannister of the Westerlands
Greetings on behalf of the Throne of Gondor, I Denethor, Son of Ecthelion and steward of the Throne of Gondor do hereby accept your offer. My son Faramir, chief of the Rangers of Ithilien, is following your man Brax to your Westerlands to treat with you. He is in the company of 20 of his men and rides with the Wizard Gandalf the Grey, called Mithrandir in Gondor and Grayhame elsewhere. Gondor desires no war, but you are on land sworn to the Throne of Gondor and this must be taken into account. Long has Gondor stood against the shadows in the East, if need be we can raise our shield to the West as well. Please treat my son with all the courtesy that is his due. As with yourself I hope this relationship will be one of friends and not of enemies.

Tywin handed the letter to his son Jaime, “it seems we will have guests soon. The son of this Denethor rides for the Tooth to treat with us.”

Jaime read the letter quickly and smirked, “Tyrion they’re bringing a wizard, maybe you can ask him about the grumpkins and snarks in Mordor.”

Tyrion didn’t appreciate being mocked, “surely they wouldn’t call this man a wizard, especially in an official correspondence, if he hadn’t earned the title?”

Tywin shrugged, “perhaps he is their equivalent of a maester, all we can do is wait and see. We must first determine who will ride out and greet these men.”

Jaime stepped forward, “Father I would gladly-“

“No,” Tywin cut him off, "you are certainly of high enough birth, but these men may be skilled warriors or assassins. This could be some attempt to strike at you or I as leaders of the Westerlands. We need someone more…” he was about to say expendable, but his eyes landed on Tyrion and he thought better of it, “diplomatic.”

Tyrion seemed to sense his intent, both spoken and unspoken, and his eyes narrowed. “Father are you suggesting I should serve as your envoy?”

Tywin allowed himself a smile, “indeed, you have surpassed my expectations in winning over those mountain savages of the Vale, and I’m sure you can determine for us if these men of Gondor have any ill intent towards our family.”

“By taking the first dagger no doubt,” Tyrion replied tersely.

Tywin feigned offense, “I try my best to put you in positions of honor and at every turn you spite me, will you do this thing or not?”

Tyrion sighed and said what he always said when confronted with one of Tywin’s demands, “yes father.”

Chapter Text

 Faramir looked to the mountains that rose before the party, mountains that were far taller than those he remembered in this part of Gondor from his youth. Nestled on a foothill overlooking the entrance to a pass was their destination, the castle known as the Golden Tooth. It had been two weeks since they had left from Minas Tirith, and though he was pleased to speak with Gandalf on the journey the knight from the Westerlands, Ser Brax, was not talkative and only responded to questions about his home with short terse answers. The few men who had come with him seemed unnerved by the Gondorian party and were standoffish as well. Faramir reflected that if the rest of the Westermen were as skittish as this group there would be little to talk about.

“So this Tywin Lannister can command a host of fifty thousand men?” Gandalf prodded the Westerosi man at arms again, he had been more insistent on conversation than Faramir had.

“Yes, the Westerlands has the finest army in the Seven Kingdoms, our cavalry cannot be matched,” Ser Brax replied, “and Jaime Lannister, our lord Tywin’s son, is the finest swordsman in the world.”

Just as Faramir was about to question this claim one of his rangers sent to scout ahead blew a horn. Looking to the road ahead of them Faramir saw another small column of men bearing the lion banner he now knew was the crest of the Lannister family.

As they rode closer Faramir began to make out the members of the column. Once they were in speaking distance one of them, who Faramir had initially thought to be a child or perhaps a Halfling of some sort rode from the center of the group. Alongside him rode a man wearing different armor and regalia from the rest of them. While the knights on horseback wore lacquered red armor this man wore simple chainmail and brown leathers. From the way he carried himself Faramir recognized a trained killer, not a knight such as the other men riding with him or those of Dol Amroth who Faramir knew well. This was a man who prided himself on surviving, not grand cavalry charges or unfurling standards. A bodyguard for the little man perhaps? Their equivalent of a ranger?

Faramir could see now the small man had small twisted limbs, a deformity then, not one of the Shirefolk or a Dwarf. He found it odd that a man such as this would be sent to treat with them. The halfman spoke, “Greetings to Faramir, son of Denethor, and the men of Gondor, I am Tyrion Lannister, son of Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. On his behalf I have come to escort you the rest of the way to the Golden Tooth where we have prepared a feast to welcome you!”

Looking to Gandalf he spoke quietly, “evidently the Westerlands are indeed a true realm and not a flight of fancy,” turning to Tyrion he spoke, “Well met, Tyrion son of Tywin. We will gladly accompany you if you give your word that we shall have safe passage.

Tyrion seemed surprised and then amused, as if he weren’t used to people taking him seriously, “Well if my word is worth so much it is yours, I promise you safe passage.” The little man looked over the group, his eyes lingered on Gandalf taking in the grey robes and pointed hat. “Well if that is Faramir and those are the rangers of Ithilien you must be the Wizard, Gandalf the Grey I presume?”

Gandalf laughed, “am I so obvious? I am Gandalf the Grey, and yes I am a wizard.”

Tyrion seemed suspicious, “forgive me if I am being untoward, but could we perhaps see some…” here he hesitated, embarrassed, “magic? We’ve no Wizards in the Westerlands and I’ve never seen any.”

Gandalf smiled, “well magic is a wild thing, like a warrior’s sword it is not for amusement but to serve specific purposes, it’s use reserved for grand occasions and very special meetings.”

Tyrion seemed disappointed, “I’ve heard such from Maesters and Septons before, I understand comple-“ his words were cut off by a crackling sound which spooked a few of the horses. Looking up quickly Tyrion saw a shower of red sparks swirl away from the wizard’s staff before disappearing into the air.

“Special meetings such as this, Tyrion son of Tywin,” Gandalf continued.

Faramir smiled, he and his rangers had seen some of Gandalf’s fireworks before, but the men of the Westerlands were astounded, a few who were close edged away from the elderly wizard. Tyrion in particular was smiling with wonder. Faramir took some comfort in the fact that at least this first meeting was going well. He looked at the sun which was beginning to set now, “As amusing as Mithrandir’s fireworks are perhaps we should ride to meet your lord father now?”

The little man seemed to regain his composure, “certainly, simply follow us.” He turned and the horse began trotting back up the road toward the mountains and the Golden Tooth. Faramir spurred his horse forward to the front of the column, he wished to speak with the son of this Lord Paramount.

“So I have heard that you are the second son of Lord Tywin Lannister, why is this Jaime the golden knight absent?”

Tyrion laughed, “Oh the Golden Knight, he’ll love that one, be sure to tell him that’s what your people are calling him.” His laugh became a low chuckle and then he continued, “I am here so that if you and your rangers were blackhearts and killers my father will have lost little,” He spat the word.

Faramir was troubled by this remark, “Is your father not kind to his children?”

Tyrion shrugged, “whatever love he might have for me is out of obligation, I’d say no more to a stranger, no offense.”

“None taken,” the ranger responded, “if it consoles you any I am also here because my father did not wish to risk my older brother, lest this be an ambush by our enemies.”

This made the dwarf laugh, he unclipped a wineskin from his belt and handed it to Faramir, who took it not wanting to seem rude. From somewhere the little man produced yet another flask of wine and lifted it in Boromir’s direction, “to great men and their unwanted second sons.”

The man in chainmail rode closer, “mind if I join this toast?” he said producing his own drink, “I couldn’t tell you where my father is, that good enough for this?” he asked.

Tyrion shrugged, “by all means, any excuse to drink is a good one.” He seemed to notice Faramir again, “oh where are my manners, Faramir of Gondor, this is Bronn.”

Faramir waited a moment before asking, “Bronn… of?”

“Just Bronn friend, now shall we drink?” the sellsword raised his own cup to his lips, as did Tyrion. Feeling it was the right thing to do in the moment Faramir also drank.

He noted right away that it was a stronger wine than anything in Gondor, then remembered that Tyrion had apparently been carrying multiple containers of it with him. Eru preserve me how much do these people drink? He thought. His musings were interrupted by the sellsword.

“So, you another fancy lord living in a grand castle somewhere?” The question was friendly but there was a barb underneath it. Faramir sensed this and instantly realized what the man really wanted to know.

“the White City of Minas Tirith is the grandest castle in the world, and I have a grand chamber on the highest level. Unfortunately due to my duties as head ranger I have only slept there a few dozen times in the last year if that, I find the ground more comfortable now.”

Bronn grunted with approval, “you should see the inns in Westeros, every time I pay for a room I wish I was using a rock for a pillow, less fleas you see.” He took another swig, “problem is you can’t take a girl back to a pile of boulders in the woods!” Tyrion laughed uproariously at this, and not wanting to feel left out Faramir gave a light chuckle.

“So what did you do to make your father send you to monsters like us?” Tyrion gestured at Bronn. “My father would love to have a son like you, tall, strong, and a warrior too, if not quite as handsome as me.”

Faramir thought for a moment, “I suppose I’m not my brother, I don’t love the sword, only those it protects.” He sighed, “my true calling is song and sonnet, but I owe it to the people of Gondor to protect them from the shadow of Mordor.”

Bronn snorted, “mate if you’re a man who hates the sword then I’m a silent sister.”

Tyrion was more sympathetic, “well perhaps you should perform a song of Gondor at the banquet.” They were approaching the walls of the Tooth now, “we have all manner of instrument if you desire…”

Faramir sighed, “perhaps another time, I’m charged with official representation of Gondor and performing in such a manner might not be appropriate.”

Tyrion shrugged, “whatever you feel is best, speaking of songs…” The party was within earshot of the castle by now, and Faramir could make out the beginnings of a song coming from the ramparts. As they drew closer Faramir could see many men gathered on the walls, some with lit torches and some holding banners bearing the golden lion of house Lannister.

And who are you, the proud lord said,
that I must bow so low?
Only a cat of a different coat,
that's all the truth I know.
In a coat of gold or a coat of red,
a lion still has claws,
And mine are long and sharp, my lord,
as long and sharp as yours.
And so he spoke, and so he spoke,
that Lord of Castamere,
But now the rains weep o'er his hall,
with no one there to hear.
Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,
and not a soul to hear.

Faramir was a bit taken aback by the somber lyrics, “I take it I won’t be meeting this Lord of Castamere?” he asked Tyrion

Tyrion’s face was strange, as though many emotions were going through him at once. “No you won’t, and I hope you like the song because you’re likely to hear it a lot while you’re here.”

Faramir pondered this for a moment, “this is a statement from your father? To impress upon us your family's strength no doubt.”

Now Tyrion just pointed to one of the taller towers on the castle, “perhaps you can ask him the meaning yourself, he’s up there leading the song.” True to Tyrion’s word a bald wiry man in red armor stood far above the rest, even from this distance Faramir guessed the smile on his face was a rare occurrence.


Perhaps I should repay him with a song after all, Faramir thought grimly.

Chapter Text

Mithrandir was gone with Faramir’s party, he could now act as he pleased. He took the rag off the Palantir. Though he was it’s rightful master he always feared to use it when the Wizard was in the city. Gandalf would not approve, but he merely saw Gondor as the shield of middle earth, a tool and little else. Denethor, son of Ecthelion would be the true guardian of the West even as the Wizard smoked pipe weed with the halflings. He collected himself and placed his hand over the glass orb…

The world of the Palantir was… odd to say the least. It was almost like flying as a bird, but with no limits on the strength of one’s wings. A single thought sent one to the far edges of a kingdom, perhaps farther.

I see you…

The eye, Denethor had long known him here. For years it had shown him nothing but fear and loathing… but today Denethor would surprise it, "Look to the West, men are yet strong and free of your influence."

The view, which he knew the Dark Lord shared, shifted to what had been Anfalas. Great mountains rose up, and beyond them a new realm of men, proud and strong. He forced the eye to see their strongholds, Casterly Rock, the fisheries of Faircastle, The Golden tooth, all great, populated, and with no fear of the so called Dark Lord. Feeling mirthful Denethor sought out strength in these new lands, their view settled on a place known as Cleganes Keep. There a man as large as any Troll walked in armor too heavy even for that damned race to wear. Confidently he spoke, “men such as he kill where they wish and none dare resist, be they Orc or Nazgul, the Westermen are both brave and strong”.

For a moment the view turned to blackness, the night skies themselves perhaps? A distraction only, Denethor told himself. Suddenly they were over Mordor, armies of orcs, tens, no hundreds of thousands strong marched. The view flew further east where hundreds of thousands of the men of Rhun and Harad gathered.


So another nation has appeared to the many I already own, brave and strong though they may be Denethor they are but men, and men I know well. Shall we see what spoils the Lion will leave for thee?

A great fire appeared before Denethor son of Ecthelion, a fire he realized was Minas Tirith. A great golden Lion covered in flames and bearing the long terrible pupils of the Great Eye stood above the city, with a swipe of it’s paw the White Tree fell. A low chorus sung in the smoke, with horror Denethor realized the Dark Lord himself was singing too, a terrible voice to make men tremble and flee now echoed with the singing of the men burning Minas Tirith

And who are you, Denethor said,
that I must bow so low?
Only a man of a different coat,
that's all the truth I know.
In a coat of gold or a coat of white,
a lion still has claws,
And mine are long and sharp, my lord,
as long and sharp as yours.

A lovely song isn’t it Denethor? But that is not the only great work of your new friends, let us look into them further…

Denethor gasped, he saw men bearing the Lion banner slaughtering mere babes in a city he didn’t recognize, he saw a wedding become a killing field as that same song played while crossbows cut into the groomsmen. He saw the man the size of a troll raping a farmer’s daughters for no other reason than that he could.

No… no… Despair gripped him, “men free of your foul influence would never-“

A soft chuckle, Denethor second of his name, these men have ever been free of me… perhaps you should look within thine own heart. Would greed and villainy vanish with me from this world? These men never knew me and still do not, and yet they commit such atrocities as to put orcs to shame.

Denethor sunk further into darkness, had this new nation of men been the work of the dark lord all along? His heart shrunk to embers… but there was still a certain courage in him, the spirit of the men of the West… Suddenly he felt something, a wind beneath his wings, and as Sauron’s was terrible Denethor’s for that brief moment became great in equal measure, “As you say they are but men... men who do not know tomorrow nor do they know eternity as you and the Firstborn do, but we have long lived without such luxuries, we are prone to error but that is not all there is to be said of us...”

Suddenly a new scene appeared, a small man of Halfling stature defended a city from invasion with green fire, a one handed knight fought a bear in a pit to save his love, a man in a dog shaped helm snarled as a girl was beaten by a king and leapt forth to save her.

Denethor sensed something new from the Dark Lord for the first time, confusion, and then the sweet taste of fear, "They come “great” Eye, together we will be a scythe in a field of briars!, The Valar have sent them to end your foul reign forevermore."

They will be your end before mine Steward! The voice screeched. Their songs will echo as the white tree burns!!!

Denethor felt hope for the first time in years, “Perhaps the Rains of Castamere will echo over the ruins of the Barad-Dur, Sauron.” He dared to use his enemy’s true name for the first time in all his years of using the Palantir.

Their dark souls shall serve Mordor, the Eye whispered, calm again, though Denethor sensed an unnerved feeling underneath it, the Eye wasn’t used to hearing it’s name uttered here.

For his part Denethor felt something he had never felt in the Palantir before, annoyance, and then anger. Go then, send your silver tongued envoys to these men, my son Faramir already knows them and will see your tricks, these Westermen will see through them as well. With a sudden shudder Denethor lifted his hand off the Palantir. He looked at his outstretched palm for a moment before smiling and clenching his fist. For the first time in ages he felt strong.

................................................

Saruman the White stared at the Palantir, shocked at what Denethor of Ecthelion had revealed. A new nation of men had appeared in Middle Earth, true, but would they tend towards the Easterlings and serve Morgoth or the men of the West in their opposition to Sauron and his servants? Saruman had witnessed the interchange between the Steward and the eye, these men of the Westerlands were capable of great evil and great good… but what would their impact be in Arda?

Saruman walked to the balcony of the Tower of Orthanc… he could feel the One Ring somewhere, calling to him. He put it out of his mind for now, he thought of what envoys could be sent to these Westermen… Mithrandir was already there among them, and an Orc bearing the white hand would give away his plans. His mind turned to the men who served him, mostly Dunlendings and a few corrupted Rohirrim. Grima would be needed in Edoras for the foreseeable future, at least until the death of Theoden, and the savages would be poor representatives. With a sigh Saruman reached the only logical conclusion, for the first time since Dol Guldur he would set forth and meet with men to determine what role they had to play in the war to come.

Chapter Text

The Tooth would not have been Tywin’s first choice to host a banquet, especially for a foreign dignitary such as this, but Casterly Rock was far and this would have to do. As it was he was pleased with the selection of wine and meats that would be available. His thoughts were interrupted by Jaime, who entered the banquet hall unannounced. Though wearing his dress clothes Tywin noted he was still wearing that godsforsaken white cloak.

“Father there is a matter that requires your judgement-“

“First you will remove that cloak, you are not kingsguard any longer and I will not have you presenting yourself as such to our guests.”

Jaime’s hands brushed the fine white cloth and sighed, “very well I will leave it in my chambers, but as I was saying you are needed at the front gates immediately.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, “why? Faramir and his men have been settled in their rooms and there is no one else near the Tooth for at least a days ride according to our scouts.”

“No father, they came on the road to the West. They claim to be another group of envoys from the nation of Mordor.”

Tywin thought a moment, “they must have arrived in one of the southern ports and traveled up the River Road… from what I have heard it is unlikely that they could come by way of Gondor.” He walked past Jaime and made his way through the castle courtyard to the entrance. There outside the gate was a group of five men wearing black robes, one bore a banner with a bright flaming eye emblazoned on it.

One of them removed his hood. He had pale white skin and a pleasing face that contrasted well with his jet black hair. “Greetings to Lord Paramount Tywin Lannister! I am Herumor of Umbar, chosen emissary of Sauron the Great, lord of Mordor.” With a flourish the man produced a small chest, “As a token of our esteem we bring you gifts, a sample of the things that await friends of the great eye!” he opened it and Tywin could see the glow of gold coins and gems.

Tywin cared little for the gold, he had enough of his own, but he gave the orders to let the men in anyways. “Well met Herumor of Umbar, I must tell you that I have under my roof men from Gondor who have also been sent to treat with me. I will allow you and your men to attend our grand banquet tonight if you promise to keep the peace under my roof.”

Herumor sneered, “we will keep your peace honored host, but the men of Gondor are not to be trusted! They are warmongers who seek to conquer all they survey, slaves to the whim of the Wizards and their terrible arts.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow, though his son Tyrion had spoken highly of the wizard Gandalf it hadn’t seemed like anything more than his usual flights of fancy. If these Wizards had some way of clouding men’s minds… He would keep an eye on Tyrion.

His thoughts returned to the emissaries of Mordor, “The men of Gondor have so far been polite guests, if you wish I can arrange lodgings for you here or at an inn in town and then I can treat with you at a separate-“

“Who are these men?” Tywin turned and saw Gandalf the Grey had approached them, his tone harsh.

Tywin spoke quickly, “these men claim to be emissaries of Mordor here to treat with us, the same as you and your party.”

Gandalf huffed, “There is no “claim” about it, they are the genuine article… I could smell the stench from the tower.”

“So Old Greybeard is here to talk another group of men into marching to their doom? Spreading more slander against the great one?” Herumor sneered, “I warn you exalted Lord Tywin, this fool will bring nothing but ruin to you and your house! Lathspell I name him, an ill name for an ill guest!”

Tywin sighed and rubbed his temples, “ENOUGH!” he bellowed, “speak peaceably to one another or bicker in someone else’s hall.”

Gandalf glowered at the black Numenorean before tapping his staff to the ground once in affirmation, “I will keep your peace, but I would warn you Lord Tywin, don’t let these men carry their fel weapons in here.”

Tywin nodded, “indeed, I believe I must ask both parties to leave all weapons in their quarters tonight” he said, looking at Gandalf.

Gandalf stroked his beard, “a wise move… you wouldn’t begrudge an old man his walking stick would you?”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, “I will have my son Tyrion bring you one before the banquet, leave that one in your room.”

Herumor laughed, “a wise move,” he mocked Gandalf, “now if you would be so kind as to point us to our chambers, the road has been long and my men need to don appropriate attire for the night’s festivities.”

Tywin nodded and turned to the guard, “see that these men are given chambers,” he thought a moment, “make sure they are in a different tower from the Gondorians.” The man nodded and gestured for the party to follow him. Tywin turned back to Gandalf, “I must finish preparations for the banquet, if you’ll excuse me.” He walked back into the main hall where Jaime waited.

“I heard some shouting, is everything all right?” His son asked.

Tywin sighed, “I’d hoped to entertain men from Mordor another time, tonight will be a balancing act between them now.”

Jaime laughed, “well it can’t be any worse than dining with the Starks.”

The rest of the evenings preparations went smoothly and before long Tywin was seated at the head of a grand table alongside his sons. Seated with them was the young captain from Gondor, Faramir, and on the other side next to Jaime the emissary of Mordor. The remaining members of the two parties were spread about the room, at a table close to them the Wizard sat with Tyrion’s sellsword Bronn.

Tywin knew a toast would be expected once the food and wine had been served to everyone, but until then he decided to ask the man from Gondor a few questions that had been troubling him. “Lord Faramir, your men say Gondor has no king, yet your father seems to rule the nation in all but name. Explain this to me.”

Faramir turned away from whatever conversation he had been having with Tyrion, “well Lord Tywin the last king of Gondor died in battle against Mordor nearly a thousand years go, since then the Stewards have ruled Gondor awaiting the return of the king.”

Tywin leaned in now, interested, “are there members of this dynasty surviving still?”

Faramir shrugged, “there are rumors that survivors of the House of Elessar might live in the wilderness to the North, if it is true no such man has appeared to us making that claim yet.”

Tywin stroked his chin, “so in effect your father Denethor is king in all but name…”

Faramir seemed unsure of how to respond to that, “I suppose if you wish to think of it like that.”

“Father it seems these Stewards are closer to the Hand of the King than they are to kings themselves,” Tyrion cut in.

Tywin glared at his son a moment, “but the Hand is not a hereditary office nor does the Hand command armies and make law as these Stewards do.” He looked for a moment at Gandalf, he felt his next few questions shouldn’t be heard by the Wizard, but luckily he appeared to be teaching the Mercenary Bronn to use a pipe.

“I also hear that you and your brother, Boromir was it?” Faramir nodded and Tywin continued, “are the only sons of Steward Denethor, surely you both have many children to continue this noble line, going so long without a king it would be cruelty to deny the people of Gondor their stewards too.”

Faramir sighed, “I’m afraid not, Mordor grows more aggressive every day and we are both needed on the battlefield.”

Herumor heard and interjected, “lies upon lies, the rangers led by this man are little more than bandits who harass our traders and citizens.”
This enraged Faramir, “you putrid-“

“Herumor, what of your Lord Sauron, has he a family?” Tywin quickly interjected, cutting off the argument.

At first Herumor seemed confused, and then amused, “No, lord Sauron is beyond mere man and the pleasures of the flesh, he has no need for heirs as he is beyond our mortal coil.”

“So the answer is no I suppose,” Tywin said skeptically.

“He speaks truth,” Faramir said grimly, “Sauron is ageless and deathless, long has he harassed Gondor since she sprouted from the ashes of Numenor thousands of years ago.”

Now Tywin was unsure of what to think, he had initially believed Faramir to be a capable and serious young man, did he truly believe this… this mummer’s farce?

Herumor grinned smugly at Faramir, “indeed it is truth, and Sauron commands hundreds of thousands of soldiers, far more than the so called “rangers” of Ithilien or all of Gondor.”

Tywin looked to Faramir, “and does he speak truth son of Denethor? Does this Sauron assail your people with armies in the hundreds of thousands?”

Faramir looked down at his plate where a server had placed a fresh turkey leg and some bread, “yes, they are endless.”

Tyrion frowned, “father perhaps this is inappropriate-“

“so this Gondor with it’s depleted armies holds off hundreds of thousands of men? For decades on end?” Jaime cut in, Tywin had expected the talk of war to excite his older son, “either Mordor’s soldiers are of poor quality or the men of Gondor are great warriors and tacticians.”

Herumor sputtered at this, in spite of himself Tywin found he enjoyed the envoy’s discomfort, “Well Herumor which is it? Is Faramir there a great captain of renown or are your soldiers simply incapable?”

Herumor was quiet a moment, but then, “t-the Wizard he fills them with terrible-“

“So the men of Gondor must be a ferocious foe on the battlefield then,” Tywin said. He turned back to Faramir, “and your brother leads Gondor’s armies while you lead these rangers, yes?”

Faramir was cautious now, he had seen Tywin humiliate the envoy of the Dark Lord and he had no wish to embarrass himself so, “yes, Boromir has been fighting and leading men since he was a boy.”

Tywin nodded and took a moment to think to himself, this Faramir is impressive, and his brother sounds even moreso. A great warrior, a leader of men, and an unmarried heir to a crown in all but name, he would send for Cersei immediately he decided. He had already planned to send Jaime to Minas Tirith to see the size and scope of the Kingdom of Gondor. If it was a worthy enough realm perhaps Cersei would be going there as well. His thoughts turned to Herumor and this “Lord Sauron.” That would be another factor to consider, he would have to instruct Jaime to determine the course of this war and the true extent of Mordor’s armies… surely if they commanded as many men as the two envoys claimed this war would have ended long ago. He grimaced, it would be a shame if Mordor truly was that strong and it forced him to abandon his budding plan…

“Father? The toast…” Jaime interrupted his thoughts.

Tywin looked and saw everyone looking at him. He smiled and stood up, “Well now that everyone is served allow me to propose a toast.” He raised his glass and the rest of the room did as well, “To our new friends, the Kingdoms of Gondor and Mordor, may we ever have peace and friendship between our peoples” he tipped his glass back and heard cheers erupt throughout the room. Music started and Tywin sat down to enjoy his meal, perhaps our people’s will be getting MUCH closer in the near future, he thought.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The wizard awoke with a pounding headache, though a Wizard had a more formidable constitution than mere men these Westermen brewed the strongest wine he’d had since a blurry night in Thranduil’s caverns a century ago. He took a deep breath and began to will the pain away, as an Istari was wont to do. He thought back to the night before…

Gandalf had been trying to teach the man Bronn the proper way to smoke a pipe, but he’d kept coughing. “This may be something for fancy lords and ladies and not for me,” he’d remarked.

After the toast various minstrels and performers had filled the room and sang songs of the Westerlands. There was The Rains of Castamere of course, thankfully at a much more upbeat tempo this time, and a song Gandalf had particularly liked involving a bear, He would have to ask one of the Westermen the proper name so he could request it during his eventual travels here. Then a song about the wife of a man from Dorne, Gandalf had found it amusing but Faramir’s face had turned red, the other rangers in the party had laughed uproariously at this and teased him mercilessly. As the evening had wound down and after every man there had taken at least a few flasks of wine one of the men of Herumor’s party offered to sing a song of Middle Earth. Gandalf was skeptical at first until one of them had returned from a chamber with a lute.

Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sing;
the last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea.

His sword was long, his lance was keen.
His shining helm afar was seen;
the countless stars of heaven's field
were mirrored in his silver shield.

But long ago he rode away,
and where he dwelleth none can say;
for into darkness fell his star
in Mordor where the shadows are.

Where the song of Gil Galad was sung in a mournful manner in the lands of the elves the men from the east played it as a tavern song, triumphant. At the climax of the song they had raised their glasses and Gandalf was dismayed to see many of the Westermen did with them. He’d looked to the head table to see Tyrion Lannister whispering something to Faramir, who had then stood, “Lord Tywin you and your men greeted us with a song of your house, allow me to repay it with a song of the West.”

Tywin had raised an eyebrow but waved him forward, “by all means, do you require an instrument? I’m sure one can be loaned to-” At that point a servant had appeared with a harp with gold trim, handing it to Faramir.

Faramir then looked to Tyrion and smiled, “it seems one has been provided.” Faramir had strung the harp slowly, checking it’s tune before nodding. “This is song of Durin’s folk, far to the North, they who dwell in the Lonely Mountain…” He sang,

Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away ere break of day
To find our long-forgotten gold.

The pines were roaring on the height,
The winds were moaning in the night.
The fire was red, it flaming spread;
The trees like torches blazed with light.

Faramir’s voice carried well in the hall, and as the song continued the men began singing along with the chorus. Even the men from Umbar sang along by the end of it, though they did not join in the cheer that erupted at the conclusion. Embarassed, Faramir had grinned and bowed. Gandalf himself had taken a puff from his pipe and smiled in approval.

Lord Tywin had then requested a song of Gondor, this time the Umbari men simply glowered at the singer,
Gondor! Gondor, between the Mountains and the Sea!
West Wind blew there; the light upon the Silver Tree
Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Kings of old.
O proud walls! White towers! O winged crown and throne of gold!
O Gondor, Gondor! Shall Men behold the Silver Tree,
Or West Wind blow again between the Mountains and the Sea?

Gandalf frowned, that was the last thing he’d remembered before the strength of the Westermen’s drink had begun to blur the evening. He was disturbed by a frantic knock at the door which irritated his headache further. He opened the door and was surprised to see Faramir, who was panicked and had redshot eyes to match the Wizard’s.

“Gandalf, you must help me, I don’t know what to do! I have…,” he sobbed on the verge of tears, “I have failed in my mission!”

This shook Gandalf out of his hangover, and he felt the headache recede. “Faramir, what have you done?”

Faramir sighed and seemed to steel himself, “This morning I awoke with a woman in my chambers… I fear I have lain with her... I swear Gandalf I do not remember what happened!”

This shocked Gandalf, sullying a maiden was a terrible dishonor in Gondor, especially for one raised as high as Faramir. This could jeopardize the entire mission, “What were you thinking?!” Gandalf sputtered, “fool of a ranger! The Westermen will think the men of Gondor to be lechers and louts!”

“What’s all the shouting about, don’t you know it’s rude to be loud after a night of drinking?” The sellsword Bronn, in the company of the small lord Tyrion had come to the hallway.

Gandalf met Faramir’s eyes and the message between them was clear, speak not of this. He turned to the little man, “Lord Tyrion, Master Bronn, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

Now Tyrion and Bronn looked at each other and seemed to pass a message unheard. Tyrion spoke first, “my friends I have some…” he sighed, “troubling news, you see the girl you took to your chambers last night Faramir… she is with child.”

“What?!” The wizard roared, shocked, meanwhile Faramir’s face paled and went white. Suddenly as if they could hold it no longer, the dwarf and the sellsword burst into laughter.

“Y-you should have seen your faces,” the dwarf sputtered, barely able to take a breath.

Bronn grinned, “indeed, I talked him into it coming up the stairs, a little joke between friends eh?”

“So… she is not with child?” Faramir asked slowly, then he sighed with relief, “thank the Valar for that I suppose…”

Tyrion’s chuckling finally slowed but he still grinned, “Indeed, it’s hard to get a woman pregnant with naught but songs and poems.”

The wizard furrowed his brow, “What do you mean? What did Faramir do last night after the banquet?”

Tyrion shrugged, “Well I snuck in three girls from a lovely little whorehouse just West of here. Bronn took one as is only fair,”

Bronn grinned, “only fair” he repeated.

Tyrion continued, “and I was going to take two but then Bronn remarked that a good host shares with his guests, so I sent a lovely redheaded girl to your room as an act of diplomacy.” He seemed quite pleased with himself.

“Did your lord father know of this?” Gandalf asked, torn between shock and disgust.

“Oh no of course not, and it would be wise not to tell him, after all we’re among friends right?” Tyrion winked at Faramir.

Faramir seemed horrified again, “a whore, a son of the Steward has lain with a whore!” he nearly wailed.

Now Tyrion seemed a little embarrassed, “Oh calm down, I passed her on the stairs coming up here and she told me you did nothing but sing to her and recite poetry until you passed out. I will say she seems quite enamored with you, but you did not lay with one another.”

Gandalf glowered at the little man, “You are a strange and lecherous imp, do you know that Tyrion Lannister?”

Now Tyrion was defensive, “surely a leader of men who has spent years on the campaign has-“

“No,” Faramir spoke, collecting his wits and seeming relieved he had not shamed his family. “Ithilien has few still living in it due to the enemy's raids, women or men, and it would be improper for a captain of Gondor to… to conduct himself as you are suggesting.”

Tyrion’s eyebrows raised, “and the Wizard calls me strange… in any case my true purpose was to invite you down to the courtyard, my brother has had the master-at-arms set up a practice field and he’s taking all challengers, be they from Gondor, Umbar, Mordor, or anywhere else… I thought you might be interested.”

Faramir sighed and rubbed his head, “surely, allow me some time to… prepare.”

Some time later they gathered around the practice yard where the young lion was sparring against Herumor and another of the black Numenoreans with a pair of tournament swords.

Tyrion was seated on a cushion atop a stool watching with interest, Bronn was there with him and Gandalf noted a sharp black bruise on the sellsword’s arm, which was exposed by his rolled up sleeve. “Well Master Bronn, have you been wounded in battle already?”

The mercenary rubbed his arm, “indeed, that one there,” he gestured to Herumor, “is much stronger than he looks. Beat me in two of three matches, I was about to challenge him to three of five when Ser Jaime demanded the next match.”

Gandalf studied the emissary of Mordor, “the blood of Numenor is still strong even in such a place as Umbar, I sense this Herumor probably has some in his veins, though not as strong the steward’s bloodline or the Dunedain of the north.”

Jaime and Herumor were now agreeing upon rules in the center of the ring, Tyrion turned to Gandalf, “do wizards perchance enjoy a wager?”

Gandalf was confused, he’d heard many requests in his travels but nobody had tried to wager with him, “I’m afraid I’ve no gold to spare if that’s what you’re after.”

Tyrion shrugged, “Well I’ve too much, which is why I so kindly share it with my friend here.” He gestured to Bronn, who half-grunted and half chuckled in response. “Perhaps your hat? I like the look of it”

The Wizard laughed, “surely you jest? It’s nearly as wide as you are tall! It would look absurd.”

Tyrion grinned, “well as you noted I’m something of an absurd little man, if not the hat what then?”

Gandalf withdrew a small pouch from his robe, “I’ve a good amount of pipe weed with me, and I suppose I could include the spare pipe in my quarters.”

Tyrion looked at the tobacco curiously and then inhaled the scent of it, “very well, I’ll place a gold dragon against this. I will take my brother Jaime and you can take Herumor, agreed?”

Gandalf grimaced at the pale faced man, who in spite of his imminent tournament bout returned the hate filled gaze. “No, our wager shall be on Faramir and your brother.”

Tyrion nodded, “very well, but do you think Faramir will be up to it? He didn’t seem a man used to hangovers like that.”

Gandalf smiled now, “the blood of Numenor flows in him, the men of the West recover from illness and poisons quicker than most, including the self inflicted.”

Tyrion laughed, “I suppose we shall see, if they’re famous for walking off their wine perhaps I carry their blood too!”

They were interrupted by the first clang of the tournament swords, while they’d talked Herumor had rushed forward and attempted to strike at Jaime who had deflected the blow upwards and heaved his shoulder into his opponent, knocking the wind out of him. Herumor stumbled back and Jaime slashed low. This would have ended the fight for most men but even as he sputtered Herumor managed a quick leap backwards out of reach. Drawing a deep breath he attempted another quick rush at Jaime’s now open torso, but Jaime quickly sidestepped and tripped him. As Herumor tumbled to the earth Jaime quickly tapped his back, which made a loud clang as the dulled practice blade made contact with the man’s cuirass. A cheer came from the Westermen watching as Jaime helped his opponent to his feet.

“Your brother fights well Lord Tyrion, such a swordsman would quickly rise to become a captain of Gondor,” Faramir remarked. Gandalf and Tyrion turned to see him standing there looking renewed and refreshed.

“Perhaps you should have bet he would make it here, I would have lost that one,” Tyrion quietly remarked to Gandalf.

Jaime had noticed Faramir by now, “Care to join us for a bit of sport Lord Faramir?” Jaime asked grinning. “The men Mordor sent are skilled, I’ve yet to fight any of Gondor though, the few who would speak to me said I should challenge you.”

Faramir gave a thin smile, Gandalf knew that Faramir cared little for glory or swordplay, skilled as he was, but the rangers of Ithilien thought highly of their captain. Gandalf could see several of them appearing around the arena now, hoping to see him in action.

Faramir sighed and then smiled, “Yes, it is agreed then. Longswords?”

Jaime returned the smile, “of course, what other weapon is worthy of a knight?”

And so Gandalf watched as the blades of Gondor crossed the blades of the Westerlands for the first time.

Chapter Text

Jaime was having a good day, the crisp autumn air was perfect for swordplay and he’d been told his father was summoning Cersei and what was left of the royal party to further their diplomatic outreach. So good was his mood that he’d had a small melee grounds erected in the courtyard of the Tooth, and he’d spent the morning besting any of the bannermen who felt up to it. He loved the clang of metal on metal as the tourney swords made contact. The only thing that he’d been disappointed with was the practice armor sets in the Tooth’s armory. He’d almost gone to retrieve his golden armor but thought better of it, truthfully the armor was only gold thinly plated over steel and usually needed to be reworked after each tournament to repair the scratches in the gold that resulted from taking a lance or a tournament sword blow. He didn’t know if the Tooth had a smith capable of repairing it and he didn’t know when he’d next need it, so he’d erred on the safe side.

Of the visitors Herumor had been a pleasant surprise, initially he’d hoped to fight his brother’s man Bronn, but after watching the emissary of Mordor defeat the sellsword in the ring Jaime had decided he would test the Umbari’s steel instead. He was quick and Jaime had felt more strength than he’d expected when he’d tried to press his attack, but Jaime was quicker.

As he’d helped Herumor up the man had remarked, “good sport yes, but things would be different if I had a curved corsair blade.”

Jaime had laughed politely, magnanimous in victory, “certainly, as they would if you met my lance on the pitch.” He turned and saw that Faramir was now on the grounds, wearing his light leather armor. Grinning he called, “Care to join us for a bit of sport Lord Faramir? The men Mordor sent are skilled, I’ve yet to fight any of Gondor though. The few who would speak to me said I should challenge you.” It was true, Jaime had challenged a few of the rangers who’d passed by to enter the ring with him, but they’d all deferred to Faramir, assuring him that eventually the captain would appear.

Faramir sighed and then smiled, “Yes, it is agreed then. Longswords?”

Jaime returned the smile, “of course, what other weapon is worthy of a knight?”

Faramir took the blunted tournament sword that Jaime offered and assumed a stance in the other corner of the ring, Jaime could immediately tell he was more skilled with longswords than Herumor had been.

The master at arms who was serving as a referee looked to Faramir and bellowed, “Standard tournament melee rules, you’re out at the first blow to the torso or if you step out of the ring.” Faramir nodded and they started.

Jaime stalked confidently forward, hoping to pen Faramir in a corner of the arena, this would give him more room to maneuver and hopefully throw the Gondorian off balance. Faramir saw this and met him in the middle of the ring, the two began circling one another.

Jaime struck first, a wide powerful blow designed to force the ranger to lean into the force of the hit in order to stay balanced. Jaime was shocked when Faramir took the brunt of the blow without so much as swaying. Taking advantage of his surprise Faramir darted forward with a series of quick stabbing motions.

Strong, Jaime thought, stronger than a man of that size ought to be, fast too… faster than… he put the notion out of his head. Faramir’s press had extended his arms too far and he was at the edge his reach, his ability to maneuver was now limited. Jaime quickly pushed Faramir’s sword to one side and closed the distance, now inside Faramir’s defenses. All over now, he gloated to himself. Faramir then turned on his feet, fool, now he’s even more open. The open palmed strike to his sternum took Jaime completely by surprise, he staggered back a bit, but completed his strike with a loud *clang*, ending the match.

“Faramir wins!” the Master at arms shouted.

What? “Are you blind?” Jaime shouted at him.

The master at arms just sighed and pointed to Jaime’s left foot, looking down Jaime saw that it was just barely outside the chalk dust barrier he’d had the servants erect that morning. In his haste to move inside Faramir’s reach he hadn’t noticed that the Gondorian Captain’s offensive had brought the fight so near the edge of the ring. “Gods damn it,” Jaime swore angrily.

Faramir grinned, “a technicality wouldn’t have saved my life on the battlefield Ser Jaime, you’re one of the best swordsmen I’ve ever seen.” He thought a moment, “you might find better swordplay in my brother, I’ve become more accustomed to the bow.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said tersely, “now we’ll have another round,” a command not a request.

“I’m afraid it will have to wait, unfortunately business comes before pleasure” Jaime turned to see his father watching with several of the other men present, stern as ever. “Make yourselves presentable and meet me in the East tower, we must discuss several pressing matters,” the easy and condescending manner with which his father ordered him and the emissaries about made Jaime feel something like a child caught with his finger in the baker’s pie. He looked at Faramir who had a sheepish expression on his face as well, and even Herumor seemed embarrassed to be seen in practice armor by the Lord of Casterly Rock.

Some time later Jaime climbed the stairs to the tower in question where a small meeting room had been set up. Not quite up to the standards of the tower of the hand, but as Kingsguard to Aerys and then Robert Jaime hadn’t spent much time in it anyway.

Waiting there was Faramir, now in finery bearing that white tree stamped in silver trim on both of his shoulders, his brother Tyrion, sitting atop a tall stool with a cushion on it, the wizard Gandalf, and of course Father, who simply gestured him towards a seat at the table.

“Will Herumor be joining us?” Jaime asked.

Tywin scowled, “No, due to the… situation between Gondor and Mordor we will be meeting with each group of envoys separately.”

Gandalf harrumphed, “I’ll save you the trouble, they will promise you the moon and everything under it if you will only join cause with Sauron.”

Tywin’s face was blank but Jaime could tell he was already annoyed by the Wizard, “Be that as it may I would hear it from them… Though I must ask what rank a man such as you holds in Gondor to come here on official diplomacy.”

Faramir quickly spoke, “Gandalf the Grey’s counsel is well known among the people of the West, he has traveled the length and breadth of Middle Earth aiding us in our fight against the enemy!”

Tywin raised an eyebrow, “indeed, but from where does he hail?”

Now Gandalf responded, “I go where I am needed, Lord Tywin, if you seek to know what estates I own or what servants I command you will be disappointed for I have nothing of value but the many friendships I have cultivated over the years.” He paused a moment, then smiled, “as for where I hail from it has been so long I don’t know if anyone remembers, I certainly don’t.”

Odd, Jaime thought, perhaps a spymaster of some sort then? Looking askance at his brother he could see a certain confusion on his face as well, or perhaps deep thought… he could never quite tell with Tyrion.

As if in answer the dwarf asked, “On what authority then do you come to treat with us?” he paused stroking his chin, “can any agreement made with you be guaranteed?”

Again Faramir interjected, “I am Gondor’s representative and as a Captain of Gondor I can assure you of the good faith of any treaties or agreements made,” he pointed to Gandalf, “Mirthrandir-“ he stopped suddenly, “My apologies, Mithrandir is another name by which Gandalf is known among my people,” he continued, “is here to provide the good counsel that in time you too may come to know him for.”

Even stranger, a man going by many names? Jaime thought to himself, nicknames and effigies were not uncommon in Westeros, Kingslayer, he thought venomously, but he took the impression that this was not the nature of the Mithrandir-Gandalf split. He looked to his father to see what he made of this.

Tywin’s face was skeptical but he nodded, “that seems fair, I have known many otherwise lowborn men who have provided sage advice beyond what was expected.” Jaime could see Gandalf raise an eyebrow at the “lowborn” comment but the Wizard said nothing. Tywin continued, “the first matter is the coming winter, I wish to make arrangements with Gondor to purchase any excess grains and cattle that can be spared.”

Jaime nodded to himself, though the Westerlands had many fertile fields crops from the Reach kept food stocks comfortably high during the winters. While he had no idea how much grain was imported he was sure his father did, and if he thought it was necessary to purchase some the imports from the Tyrell lands must have been significant.

Faramir seemed open to the idea, “I will speak to my father about this, harvests are now ongoing throughout Gondor and we will soon have an idea of what excess grain is available.” He shifted in his seat a moment, “I warn you due to the demands of the war we do not have quite so much as we might otherwise.”

Tywin gave a slight nod, “We will buy what you can spare and we will pay in gold or silver as you wish. We have enough grain on hand for a three year winter as it stands and by the end of the current harvest I believe we can last through four, anything beyond that will strain our resources.”

The emissaries from Gondor seemed momentarily confused, Gandalf spoke first, “I’m sorry Lord Tywin, but did you say you have enough grain on hand for a three year winter?”

Tywin nodded, “indeed, we may have had more but we were making war preparations ourselves when this…” he seemed at a loss for words, “when we were brought here,” he said finally.

Gandalf and Faramir were looking at each other uncomfortably, and Jaime wondered what they were thinking. Are winters here severe? Is even four years of grain not enough?

Suddenly Faramir spoke, “Lord Tywin, if you have grain to last you for years, why do you need to purchase more? I’m certain many farmers would love the chance to make some gold but… this makes no sense to me.”

Now Tywin’s raised an eyebrow, “Oh? How severe are winters in this part of the world? You must forgive me, I forget sometimes that we are not in Westeros.”

Tyrion smiled and twirled a wine glass a little, “yes we would look quite the fools if we purchased grain for a four year winter if we’re in this world’s Dorne and it lasts only two, so how about it Faramir, what can we expect?”

Now Faramir was just looking at all of them as though they were mad, “You must forgive me my lords but… the harshest winter I have ever heard of is that of Erebor and Dale to the far north, they say the snow coats the ground as late as May in some years… but no more.”

Now Jaime leaned in, suddenly interested, “what are you saying exactly?”

looking around the room he could see Tywin and Tyrion were thinking the same thing, but it was Gandalf who answered, “A winter in Middle Earth may last as little as a month or as long as six depending on where you are, when these lands were empty winters here lasted three to four months, from November through February.” The wizard stroked his beard, “truthfully I cannot imagine a winter lasting for years in any land where men and elves dwell, though in my travels I have seen lands where it is always winter they are all very far from here.”

There was a stunned silence, Jaime saw Tyrion take a long drink draining his cup of whine while Tywin’s face was simply blank, finally he asked, “and… and the Summers?”

Gandalf shrugged, “the same I suppose, each season is perhaps a quarter of the year here, about three months each, though they ebb and flow being shorter some years and longer others.”

This changes… truthfully Jaime didn’t know exactly what it changed, he was a swordsman not a penny counter or a ruler like father, but he knew that something had changed.

“This will take some… getting used to,” Tywin said. He seemed to think a moment before speaking again, “In any case we will seek to confirm this, but we must move on to other business.”

Faramir nodded, “yes, I believe that the letter you sent my Father mentioned you wished to send a formal envoy to Minas Tirith as well? One of your sons?”

Now Tywin almost smiled, almost, but Jaime could still tell his mood was brightened. “If you would have him my son Jaime and a few others will accompany you back to Minas Tirith to meet with your father the Steward and see for himself the beauty of this “White City” a pause, “My daughter has also expressed interest in visiting it, she is a lover of the cosmopolitan and things of beauty, would she be welcome?”

Cersei? Jaime felt a stirring in his loins, he hadn’t seen her since he’d been forced to flee Kings Landing by Ned Stark, and now it seemed they would be in this city of Minas Tirith together. He felt anger boil inside him momentarily, Ned Stark, at least that’s one face I’ll never have to see again.

“Oh she would be welcome,” Faramir said, “the war is not yet at our doorstep and the lands between here and Minas Tirith are quite safe.” He turned to Jaime, “You will greatly enjoy the city I think, it is a wonder beyond anything else in the world, and my brother will be eager to meet you. He might finally find a challenger to his swordplay!” the ranger said grinning.

Yes, Jaime thought to himself, I think I will enjoy my visit to Minas Tirith. He grinned to himself and turned to Faramir, “Very well, when shall we leave?”

Chapter Text

After concluding the meeting with the emissary of Gondor Tywin had sent for Herumor. While waiting for the man from Umbar to arrive the three of them talked excitedly of the implications of a world without the long seasons the knew

“It seems the Starks were wrong, winter isn’t coming” Tyrion chuckled

Although Jaime shared his smile Tywin was unamused, “this will have consequences, armies can now move at any time, we will plant fewer crops but we have a much narrower window in which to harvest them.” He leaned back, “it will be some time before the full ramifications of these short seasons are felt.”

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Mordor’s emissary. Herumor had changed into a fine black robe bearing eye of Sauron on his breast in a fine stitched cloth that seemed to reflect the light slightly. Tyrion also noted a red snake coiled underneath the eye that was made of a more faded fabric.

As Herumor sat Tyrion suddenly had a thought, “Herumor, how are winters in Umbar? Do they last long?”

He seemed caught off guard by the question, thinking a moment he responded, “I suppose they are mild compared to what men in these lands might know, a month or two of heavier rains and cold temperatures and little else. Umbar hasn’t seen snow since my father’s time.”

Tyrion nodded, so this isn’t some grand ruse then, he thought to himself.

Tywin cleared his throat drawing their attention back to him. “Lord Herumor, has Mordor any diplomatic matters which need to be settled with us?”

Herumor nodded, “yes, first of all we request free and fair use of all ports in the Westerlands by ships from Umbar, there are lands to the north that we have long been denied passage to by the men of Gondor.”

Tyrion interrupted, “and what is the purpose of your voyages?”

“Trade and exploration I assure you,” Herumor quickly responded, “Gondor and her allies simply wish to secure these valuable routes for themselves, many our ships have been sunk on false grounds of piracy.” Herumor sighed, “many honest men have left families unprovided for in Umbar due to the greed of the men of the West.”

Tyrion barely kept his eyes from rolling, regardless of the truth of the Umbari’s words anyone hoping to appeal to Tywin Lannister’s pity for widows and orphans wasn’t likely to get very far, gods knew he’d made enough in his time.

True to Tyrion’s thoughts Tywin spoke, “Of course the men of Umbar shall have fair use of our ports, but free use is simply too much to ask in light of our responsibilities to our own traders.”

“Surely at least ships on official business-“

“I am afraid that if these trade routes to the north are as profitable as you suggest we will need to charge Umbari ships going there a fair toll for use of our ports and passage in our waters, even if they travel on official business.” Tywin Lannister took a drink of his own wine, “As you understand if it were merely between friends I would of course allow you free passage, but a lord must look out for his subjects as I’m sure Sauron will understand.”

Herumor seemed unhappy with this result but nodded, “indeed, for he is a just and generous ruler.” He thought a minute, “and surely you would agree to a fair toll to all those who sail in Umbar’s waters?”

Tywin shrugged, “your lands, and waters, are your own. So long as our ships are unmolested you may charge them tolls as needed.”

Herumor grinned, “very well, and we must also speak of ships in the ports of Gondor such as Dol Amroth or Pelagir, as war exists between our two peoples you must understand that we cannot allow ships to reach-“

“No ships bearing a lion banner will be touched,” Tywin said forcefully, “as a sovereign kingdom we will not allow our trade policy to be dictated to us.” Tyrion could see his father’s fist clench, “There will be reparations… or reprisals, for any ships of the Westerlands accosted, regardless of the standard their attacker bears, be it the Eye or the White Tree.”

Herumor’s eyes narrowed, “very well I shall convey this to Lord Sauron and the men of Umbar, but know that the great eye does not lightly suffer aggression either… but there are ways this could be avoided Lord Tywin.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, “and what are you suggesting exactly?”

Herumor smiled, for once one that didn’t make Tyrion suspicious of it’s motive, and began explaining, “What I suggest is that House Lannister and the Westerlands make common cause with Lord Sauron and Mordor.” He withdrew a parchment from a satchel at his side and unfurled it across the table revealing it to be a finely detailed map.

Tyrion examined it, noting that it already appeared to have part of the Westerlands charted down to Silverhall, though the West coast was still blank. “A fine map, does Umbar have many cartographers?”

Herumor nodded, “as a seafaring people we have long had use for them. My man Kilerog of Khand served as my navigator on the journey here and he draws many such maps when we provide him with parchment and ink.”

Jaime studied the map intently. Tyrion could tell he was noting mountains, roads, and other things that could affect the campaign trail of an army. For his part Tyrion looked for cities, noting the several that appeared more prominent on the Bay of Belfalas.

Cutting into the brothers examination of the map Tywin spoke, “Perhaps if you can spare him House Lannister could take this Kilerog into our employ, we would pay him well and surely all would benefit from accurate and detailed maps of where our kingdom now lays."

Herumor waved his hand, “if he desires he is yours, we shall not need him on our return voyage and truthfully I tire of him, many times he delayed our arrival by insisting on the exploration of some ruin or village that struck his fancy.” Herumor pointed to the map, “As you can see Gondor has many cities and holdings here in the lands near your domains.”

Tywin stroked his chin, “indeed, fruitful trade opportunities perhaps,” though Tyrion could tell from his tone that he probably already knew where the Umbari was going.

“Sauron will soon have victory over the mobs of Gondor. The Dark Lord will need stewards for these lands, men who can perhaps tame them and put their wealth to good use.” Herumor pointed to an area south of Gondor, “for our own fealty Sauron has promised us the whole of the lands through which the Harad road passes, it is a bountiful place and our vassals the Haradrim will find it’s grazing quite suitable to their herds.” He pointed to areas to the far north, a small mountain was drawn with a dragon circling it, “the men and dwarves of Erebor and Dale have shunned Sauron’s offers of friendship for the last time, their lands shall be given to the Kings and Queens of Rhun.”

Tyrion looked at him curiously, “how many Dwarves are there in this Erebor exactly?”

Sensing his confusion Herumor clarified, “not merely small men as you Lord Tyrion, meaning no offense meant.”

“None taken,” replied Tyrion.

“They are of Durin’s folk, born small and stout, though quite strong. The Dwarves of Erebor have long troubled Sauron and his friends and allies, though never have they openly defied him until quite recently.” He smiled, “though soon this will not matter, the false promises of the Wizards and their stubbornness will not save them.” He looked back to Tywin, “will the lion not take his rightful share of the meat?”

Tywin seemed to consider it and then responded, “I am afraid that I cannot agree to this proposal at this time. House Lannister does not seek war, especially with those we have only just met. From all that has reached us your victory seems far from certain, and indeed you have warred with Gondor for decades without forcing a breakthrough.”

Herumor seethed, “the final push is coming very soon, I can promise that much Lord Tywin. It would be better to be the mover and not the moved would it not?”

If Tywin heard the implied threat he took no notice of it. He looked at the map before speaking, “I would know more of the situation before committing to any course of action. My son Jaime,” Jaime looked up from the map upon hearing his name, “is going to be visiting the city of Minas Tirith, capital of Gondor with the Ranger and his party.”

Herumor nodded, “understandable… though I should warn him to be careful where he treads, not all of Gondor will be safe in the coming days.”

Tywin frowned, but continued, “I would send my second son Tyrion with you to Mordor to see it’s lands and peoples for himself and report back to me.”

Herumor looked surprised, “T-to Mordor my Lord?” he looked at Tyrion, “It could be arranged…” for some reason Tyrion had the impression Herumor was searching for sweet words, “Mordor is a land of productivity and industry, it is not often visited for beauty.”

So it’s either terribly hot or terribly cold there, fantastic, Tyrion thought.

Herumor continued, “Though the volcanoes bless the land with fertility and the smiths with materials the light of the sun shines only dimly.”

Volcanoes? Blessing the land? I wonder how many Valyrians said that before the Doom, he thought. “Herumor,” Tyrion paused uncertain of how to frame the question, “what of the people? Are they fair and… industrious?” the women, what do they look like.

“Why they are sturdy and strong workers, skilled smiths, and fierce warriors, is there not beauty in utility?” Herumor exclaimed.

He sighed inwardly, “Ugly as sin then… well they couldn’t be nearly as bad as those Florent bastards I had the “pleasure” of meeting in the Reach.”

He looked to his father who judging from the amused look on his face shared his guess about the quality of Mordor’s women, “Indeed, Tyrion of all people knows well the power of function over appearance, isn’t that right Tyrion?”

Tyrion raised his glass sourly, “right you are Father… I look forward to our journey together Herumor… though pray tell will I see the fair city of Umbar on the way?”

Herumor smiled again, “why of course, she’s the finest port in all the world!”

“I’m sure!” Tyrion said smiling, he raised a glass in Herumor’s direction, “To Umbar, the finest port in the world!” He made eye contact with his father, he knows same as I do, Tyrion thought smugly, a port means whores in any kingdom of Westeros or Middle Earth. He downed his wine, perhaps the trip wouldn’t be so terrible after all.

Chapter Text

Saruman had rarely traveled in the latter days of his time in Middle Earth. After the first thousand years he had seen enough of the great cities and enough of the great men that they no longer interested him except as tools and puppets. Even the first born, those elven Kings and their magical realms, were pale imitations of what Saruman knew lay over the sea, and they grew paler with each passing year. He had often scoffed at Olórin, called Gandalf in most parts of the West and Mithrandir in others, who never tired of their small struggles, what was there left in Middle Earth that could surprise a wizard?

This had been before a new race of men, no, not just a new race an entire new kingdom, had appeared seemingly out of nowhere… a sudden disruption and a new verse he’d never heard before. He’d clothed himself in simple robes, white still, though somewhat ragged, and set forth on foot through Rohan and towards these new lands. Few took notice of a solitary old man save for a few men of Dunland who were warded off by his voice and the white hand sigil… plans had already been made with the chieftains of Dunland, and though they were secret his reputation was such that they had offered him food and camp with them for a night before parting ways. In this manner he’d quickly reached Enedwaith.

He remembered a time when Middle Earth was new to him and these lands were populated by farmers and even a few towns, but after the plagues and the wars with the Dark Lord and his servants it was now empty save for a few stone piles that might’ve been buildings at one time. He’d found a faded outline in the grasses that might’ve been a road at one point and followed it south.

On the fifth day as the sun began to draw low he encountered one of Middle Earth’s few remaining surprises, a pair of travelers heading North out of the wastes of Enedwaith. The first was a big man, at least as big as a man of Gondor, wearing black armor. As he drew closer Saruman could see half of his face was twisted and terrible, burns perhaps? The second he could see now was just a boy, with fair blonde hair like the Rohirrim. From the way he carried himself Saruman could tell he was not accustomed to the plain leathers he now wore, nor the dirt that covered his face and hands. In spite of this the crossbow slung across the boys back looked polished and well maintained.

Once the pair reached him they all slowly stopped. Saruman could see the calculation in the big man’s eyes, and something close to contempt in the boy’s. Tired of the silence Saruman decided to speak first, “well met travelers, the sun sets soon and men are scarce in these lands. Would you suffer to keep camp with an old man like me for one night?”

“We’ve little food, or anything else for that matter,” the boy spoke sharply.

The wizard raised an eyebrow looking at the big man who sighed and responded, “I’m afraid my… squire is correct, our supplies are low and there is little game here even though there’s not a damned soul for miles.”

Saruman smiled and withdrew a skinned and salted rabbit from his travel sack, the Dunlendings had generously given him a satchel of dried meats after their encounter, “Perhaps it is fortunate that we have met then.” Seeing the rabbit the big man’s eyes lit up and his hand quickly went to his sword pommel. Before he could draw his weapon the Wizard spoke again and allowed a little of the Voice to enter his tone, “now now friend, surely there is enough for all of us?”

The boy seemed to feel the effects more than the man, “Yes, yes I think there is.” The man growled in response, but moved his hand away from the blade.

“Squire, gather firewood,” the scarred man pointed to a copse of small trees a few hundred feet from the ruined road.

The boy looked indignant and started to say something but the big man slapped the back of his head, “When a knight gives a squire orders the squire obeys without question.” The man had an amused smile on his face and the Wizard thought it odd that he enjoyed ordering the young man about so. The boy glowered at him and dismounted to walk towards the trees in question.

For his part the big man dropped off his horse and began gathering stones for the fire ring. Saruman moved towards the horse to examine the pair’s gear, seeing this the man warned him, “Stranger bites, I’d stay away unless you don’t mind giving him a finger.”

Saruman nodded, “A war beast then, the men of Rohan breed many such fine animals… is your business perhaps with them?”

The man seemed to think for a moment, “Our business is our own, what’s an old man doing alone in a place like this anyways?”

Saruman shrugged, “I had heard that a new land had appeared south of here with a great kingdom of men populating it. I’m an old man with few years left, I thought that perhaps I would see this wonder before I pass on.” He pretended to stumble a bit feebly as he sat on a nearby log, “perhaps you could tell me if you have come from these… Westerlands?”

The man stopped gathering stones and stood up, towering over Saruman. He could see the burns clearer now, cracked and black skin oozed a watery red liquid as the man’s lips curled into a sneer, “less questions would be better old man.”

Saruman frowned, this man held a secret… was it worth his time to dig it out?

His voice became soothing and yet powerful at the same time, “Surely you can at least tell me from whence you came?”

“We came from the Westerlands, along the coast past the Banefort,” the boy said, Saruman turned his head and saw the blond youth drop a scarce gathering of twigs and small branches.

The combination of this revelation and the boy’s poor attempt at gathering wood seemed to shake the man free of any hold Saruman’s voice had, “Yes… I’m a hedge knight… Ser Jacob Hill, this is my squire… Jonas.” He paused a moment, “if you must know there is no work for men such as us in the Westerlands at this time and we decided to seek out work in the new lands to the North.” Now he tried to make a friendly smile which just made his scarred face more hideous, “Perhaps you have heard of a place called the Shool?

“The Shire you oaf!” the boy cut in.

Saruman raised an eyebrow, Gandalf had often been interested in the Shire… and two travelers from the new land searching for it? Too much of a coincidence. He decided to make his play, “You two are holding a secret from me, it is fair for I hold a secret from you as well…”

This annoyed the boy, “unless it’s that you know where to find the Shire we don’t care.”

Saruman chuckled, “I propose an agreement, I shall reveal my secret, and if you judge it worthy you will reveal yours in turn.”

The big man chuckled and uncapped a wineskin, “The old man’s gone soft, it could be good for a laugh if nothing else.”

The boy crossed his arms and nodded his head, “Very well, what secret is this?”

Saruman smiled warmly and stood up, grasping his staff in hand and walking towards the small ring of stones the man had prepared. “My secret is my true identity, I am the wizard Saruman the White, guardian of Orthanc and head of the Council of the Wise.” He tapped his staff down inside the stones and a blue flame erupted creating a roaring fire.

The boy gasped and the big man fell backwards in shock before quickly drawing his sword, “sorcery! You grace get behind me!”

The boy was quicker to recover, “of course it’s sorcery dog, he said himself he’s a wizard!” He suddenly smiled, “A true man of magic, not a maester with a few tricks.”

Saruman bowed his head slightly, “you flatter me, but perhaps you could honor our bargain?”

“Your grace I don’t think we should-“ the big man started

“Silence dog,” the boy cut him off, “I am King Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the seven Kingdoms, including the Westerlands.” He gestured to the scarred man, who had reluctantly sheathed his blade, “This is Ser Sandor Clegane, a member of the Kingsguard and my bodyguard for this journey.”

Saruman thought this over, he could tell that the boy was telling the truth… or at least he thought he was, and the man’s subservience seemed to indicate it wasn’t a delusion. “And what brings such a great lord so far outside of his kingdom?”

The boy grinned, something about it unnerved even one such as Saruman, “I have been shown a pathway to glory and power in a vision, I need only complete a quest.”

Alarm bells went off in Saruman’s head, “I see… and what quest would that be?”

Now suddenly the boy’s eyes narrowed, “I must return something to one who lost it”

Saruman suddenly let all of his power into his voice, “What Joffrey Baratheon? What must you return?”

Against such an onslaught the boy spoke without hesitation, “a ring, the ring… it will bring me all I desire.”

It would bring one such as you an early grave the Wizard thought, “Ahhh, yes… I know of this ring, I too have sought it so that it may be… returned to it’s rightful owner.” I shall be it’s rightful owner. He pushed the thought from his mind for a moment, If Sauron truly guides the boy he will know my presence…“Perhaps we could be of use to one another?”

Joffrey nodded, “Yes a Wizard would be a fine addition to my court, perhaps you shall serve on my small council.”

The wizard started to speak and then stopped a moment, Small council? Is this fool attempting to offer me… employment? The concept was simply too much, he allowed himself a chuckle. “I am afraid my duties are likely too great to properly serve your grace at this time,” he said, “I refer to the matter of this ring.”

Joffrey was puzzled, “What matter? Clegane and I shall find this Shire and once we have the ring we shall return it. We have had little trouble so far…”

The boy truly is an idiot, he thought, “Oh there are far more peopled lands awaiting you, your journey shall not be so easy from here on out your grace.” He smiled, “I would gladly outfit you with supplies and accompany you on your journey East.”

The boy nodded, “this seems agreeable and I shall reward you greatly, Saruman the White. Where can we find you?”

Saruman smiled, Perhaps Olorin has concealed something from me there… if Isildur’s bane does reside in the Shire perhaps these two shall bring it to me… I shall soon have more reliable pawns in the Shire in any case. “Find me at the Tower of Orthanc, in Isenguard, east near the Gap of Rohan. I shall tell my servants to watch for your arrival.”

Joffrey grinned, the fire now burning low and causing obscene shadows to race across his face, “Providence, this is providence that we should meet here.” He paused looking more serious and a little wistful, “The world shall behold me and tremble…”

Saruman nodded and smiled with false warmth, “yes your grace…” he stared into the flames, thinking of things to come.

Chapter Text

It hadn’t taken Faramir long to decide he much preferred the company of the younger Lannister brother. In spite of the little man’s sometimes… unsavory tastes Faramir had come to appreciate his wit and informal attitude for one born so high. Once word had reached him that Tyrion was supposed to travel to Mordor with the Umbari party he and Gandalf had beseeched Lord Tywin to send Tyrion with them instead and perhaps send a lesser servant to Mordor, but the Old Lion had refused. “I cannot honor Gondor with the presence of the Lannister family while dishonoring Mordor with it’s absence” he’d said. Faramir sighed, instead he now traveled with Jaime Lannister, a man who reminded him of Boromir without the bits of wisdom and modesty that made his brother bearable on his worst days.

They were traveling together now through the rolling green hills of Western Gondor. Gandalf had raced ahead on his own steed, apologizing but saying he had “urgent business.” Jaime’s father had sent twenty of the Redcloaks, the personal guards of House Lannister, led by a knight named Adam Marbrand. Faramir had not spoken with him at length but found him and most of the Lannister men agreeable enough.

“Perhaps once we’ve arrived in Minas Tirith Marbrand and I will show you how to properly joust,” the object of his thoughts said, “I find it shocking that a captain in the army of a nation like Gondor cannot fight from horseback like a true knight,”

Faramir shrugged, “we rarely fight the armies of Mordor on open plains in Ithilien. Imrahil, prince of Dol Amroth, is said to be skilled with the lance, as are his knights.”

Jaime suddenly was intrigued, he knew enough of the route to know they would be passing by Dol Amroth soon enough, “I see, and does this prince Imrahil joust?”

“I have never heard such,” Faramir responded, “the knights of Gondor have been at war for some years now and there are few with the time and wealth to host grand tournaments like this King Robert you speak of.” His thoughts darkened suddenly, “In any case our enemies rarely come against us on horseback so we focus our efforts on countering other threats.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow, “Surely any force that comes against mounted men with none of their own will be cut to pieces… what does Mordor bring to counter your knights?”

Faramir thought a moment, how to explain a troll or an Oliphaunt to one who had never seen them? He decided to start with what the Westerman would understand, “Forgive me for misrepresenting our foes… they do sometimes come mounted, though without the skill that the Rohirrim or your Westermen display. The Wainriders of old came in chariots, and today the Variags know the stirrup.”

Jaime seemed to consider this, “and the lance? Do these Variags practice it?”

“No” Faramir said, “they normally fight as horse archers, striking at us and then falling back. My rangers have greater reach than they, though they seldom come so far west anymore.”

Jaime smiled, “so my father spoke true, your men are superior warriors to Mordor’s.”

Faramir nodded but did not return the smile, “indeed we are, but the enemy outnumbers us greatly, and more than men serve him.”

Now Jaime laughed, “I suppose the Grumpkins and Snarks are in his employ too?”

Faramir did not return the laugh, “I know nothing of Grumpkins and Snarks, but the Orcs are quite real, they are a horrid deformed race, nearly animals in their demeanor and more savage than such on the battlefield.”

Jamie frowned, “surely you exaggerate…”

Faramir shook his head, “no, they are not men in any sense, they are said to be long lived… but I have rarely encountered the same one twice.”

Jaime was interested now, “and in the art of war, how do they fare against your men?”

Faramir’s teeth bared, for he hated the Orc and all it stood for, “If you must know Jaime Lannister the orc is not a threat except for it’s numbers. They are a foul and wretched race. Orcs are small to start with, greedy and cruel. The Uruks, their officers, are bigger, nearly as tall as men, but still cowardly.” He smiled viciously, and he could tell that it put the Lannister envoy off guard, “the only good I will say of them is that they break easier than men do.”

Jaime was taken aback by the hatred in Faramir’s voice, but still he asked, “and what about these trolls I've heard so much of? What role do they play?”

Faramir’s grin faded, “they are large creatures, perhaps twice as tall as even the tallest man.”

“surely you’ve met Gregor Clegane-“ Jaime interrupted

“Aye, even him.” Faramir cut Jaime off, “A troll is a fel creature of the enemy… I have spoken with your brother, the imp-”

“He doesn’t like that name,” Jaime protested.

Faramir chuckled, “fair enough, I’ve come to appreciate your brother’s thoughts and wit, but from what he tells me the men of the Westerlands have never faced a troll. They are great creatures in the shape of men, with stony hides fit to bend lances. They must be slain with swords or arrows.”

Jaime was taking him seriously now, “I see… and how many of them have you slain?”

Faramir thought for a moment, “Three, two cave trolls who were smaller than most and one of the Hill Trolls of the far north, those who do not fear the sun.”

Suddenly Jaime’s mirth returned, “They fear the sun? Like the- ”

“Yes,” Faramir replied, deadly serious. “They feel pain in the sunlight, the lesser ones will outright turn to stone. For this reason they mostly come at night... mostly”

Jaime was shocked, “You’re serious, you’ve truly fought these things.”

Faramir was grim, “they are more common in the Misty Mountains and to the North, but I fear the enemy may be breeding them for war.”

The conversation was interrupted by a horn blown from one of the rangers that had ridden ahead, Faramir’s blood froze, an attack? Here? How? The horn continued to blow more panicked now, then it was suddenly cut off.

Jaime was looking at him quizzically, “what was that-“

“There is a force approaching, their intentions are hostile,” Faramir replied

Suddenly Jaime was serious, “How many?”

The question was answered by the approach of Adam Marbrand, who had his sword drawn already and was barking orders as he rode towards them. “Ser Jaime, Lord Faramir, the rangers indicate there is a force of over one hundred men bearing on us from the South.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance it’s a welcoming party from Dol Amroth?” Jaime asked, “it would be simply rude to greet them with an arrow volley.”

Marbrand shook his head, “they are all armed and armored, we’ll form up on that hill” he gestured to a large grassy knoll that surged slightly higher than the rest, “we’ll be able to see them from there.”

As they rode to the top Jaime remarked, “bandits most likely, they’ll take one look at our party and find a softer mark.” One of the men rode past them bearing the golden lion on a red field, “Raise the standard high” Jaime yelled, “Let these highwaymen know who they’re dealing with.”

They reached the top of the hill in short order and Faramir could see the approaching group now, he paled. They were no bandits, the group was a mixture of mostly orcs and what looked to be a few men of Umbar. Impossible, he thought, there are no orcs in this part of Middle Earth… Then suddenly it hit him, They come from the south… the sea, they have been delivered here by the Corsairs.

“They’re after you,” he said turning to Jaime, “if we act quickly my rangers can draw them into battle while you escape.”

Jaime was fastening a helm to his golden armor now, “After me?” he looked at the host descending upon them, they had been seen and he could hear a terrible half roar and half cheer go up amongst the rabble. “Surely they know that we will respond to this-“

“No, you misunderstand, they would have fallen upon us and butchered us to the last man. To your father it would appear as though you simply went missing in Gondor with no witnesses to tell of this. You must escape!”

Jaime realized the implication and snarled, “Oh I will ride out of here today, but not without you.” He unsheathed his sword, “Form up on me, men of house Lannister!” a cheer went up from the men at arms as they gathered in formation. Jaime turned again to Faramir, “you and your rangers hit them with a few volleys, once they’re disoriented we’ll charge them and you can follow us in.”

Lances were being distributed now from the supply wagon that had followed them. Faramir looked at the men and nodded, “rangers of Ithilien!” he shouted, “prepare to volley!” a cheer went up from his own men to rival that of Jaime’s and soon arrows were knocked and pointed skyward. “Loose!” Faramir cried and with a *whoosh* the first volley found it’s mark.

Many in the enemy host fell and a roar of anger came from them, here and there black crusted arrows flew their way, the closest one glancing off of Jaime’s shoulder revealing plain steel underneath the gold. He looked at the scratch and sighed angrily, “Faramir, give them another and then we’ll do this.”

He nodded, they were drawing close now and would soon be at an ideal distance for the charge. “LOOSE!” he shouted again.

Watching the arrows arc into the foe Jaime shouted, “FOR HOUSE LANNISTER! CHARGE!” the men shouted with him and a chant went up as the horses galloped down the hill

Jaime
Jaime
JAIME!

Faramir slung his bow across his back and drew his sword, “For Gondor! After them!” The rangers drew their own swords and followed him. As the charge sped towards the orcs a more organized volley of arrows fired at the approaching knights, with dismay Faramir saw two of the Westermen fall, though Jaime in his golden armor still led them.

With a great crashing noise of splintering bone and clanging metal the horses thundered into the first rank of orcs. Whatever semblance of a formation they’d had was now broken. The horses continued through and came around for another pass, one of the men began shouting in the black speech and spears and other long implements were gathered in one part of the mob to counter this.

By now Faramir and his rangers had reached the horde and in tight formation they fought together, not allowing any of their number to be surrounded. Suddenly some of the orcs, frenzied with fright, broke away from the main group. If they go free they’ll murder some poor farmer’s family, he thought. “Jaime!” he shouted, even above the din of battle the golden armored Lannister turned his head towards the call. He pointed to the fleeing orcs, “don’t let any of them escape!” The golden knight nodded and led his cavalry to run down the fleeing orcs.

By now the remaining men driving the orcs forward had led them to a point where they were close to overwhelming the rangers. Faramir was almost completely on the defensive, blocking blows left and right without having a chance to attack at all. The snarling orcs dragged one ranger into the mob and Faramir heard a scream.

One large Uruk, with black skin and a stench somehow worse than the others, lept into Faramir with a roar and unleashed a series of blows with the mace he carried. Another orc rushed at him from his right with a cruel curved blade. Just when he thought there was no way to counter them both a blade appeared severing the Uruk’s arm at the elbow, the creature looked down dumfounded and then in another flash of the blade the beast’s head was gone too.

Faramir quickly stabbed the other onrushing orc through the heart and turned to see Jaime Lannister standing there, on foot now, and ten of the redcloaks dismounted with him.

“Seven hells Faramir, what are these fucking things?” He said with disgust, looking at the black blood on his blade.

“Orcs,” Faramir replied, wiping some of the foul muck from his own clothing. Looking at the field he could see the redcloaks were supporting his rangers now, who were falling behind the more armored men. One of the Westerosi screamed as another Uruk rushed at him and bit at an exposed part of his neck. Jaime Lannister slammed his helm down and waded back into the fight.

“Come on men, they’re wild to be sure, but they die like any man does,” Jaime shouted.

Faramir followed him, by now there were perhaps two dozen orcs left, sensing their imminent defeat they began to break entirely. With a shout the assembled men of Gondor and the Westerlands surged forward, cutting them down left and right. Faramir made as if to join them but Jaime put a hand on his shoulder, “don’t bother, Marbrand and some of the men stayed mounted to pick off the stragglers.” True to his words six knights rode forth and cut down the few who managed to flee from the footmen.

Faramir looked around doing a quick headcount, “we’ve lost six men, what of your knights?”

Jaime looked at his own men, “four dead, and one man who might not survive, he took a spear through the shoulder.”

Faramir frowned, “have one of my men treat the wound, the orcs often poison their weapons but we have many remedies for it.”

Jaime nodded, “I’ll see to it then…” he looked around surveying the battlefield and smiled suddenly, “well I don’t think we’ve done too bad for ourselves, more than twice our number attacked and we’ve slain them to the man… or the orc I suppose, with less than a dozen casualties.”

Faramir didn’t share his optimism, “Sauron always has more orcs, and one hundred to forty is not the worst odds the men of Gondor have seen.”

Jaime’s smile faded, “Truly? How in the seven hells have you survived?”

“I do not know myself Jaime Lannister,” he replied. If things don’t change soon we won’t for much longer, Faramir thought to himself.

Chapter Text

Tywin rode with his party of Redcloaks on the road to Casterly Rock. With the envoys departed there was little reason to remain there, and so he’d begun the return journey. The fall chill was beginning in earnest now, with leaves falling from the trees. He eyed them curiously and wondered if they would really bloom again in just a few short months.

He rode near the front of the column, in spite of himself he’d been looking forward to seeing his brother on the road, and his daughter as well. His thoughts went to Cersei and the royal children… he still was unsure of what role the king would have in this new world, would there be need of a king and a Lord Paramount? Though they were his grandchildren the idea of the Baratheon’s as lords of Casterly Rock didn’t sit well with him. Looking ahead he saw riders approaching and decided to think on it later.

Kevan led the party, Tywin had asked him to escort Cersei because of her… willfulness when dealing with men outside of the family. When he rode forth Tywin could immediately tell from his face that he was looking for a way to break bad news, he pre-emptively asked, “What is it Kevan, what has happened?”

“It’s King Joffrey your grace, he’s… he’s run off to parts unknown.”

Tywin stared at him a moment, then sighed, collecting himself, “do we have any idea where he may have gone? Surely the boy couldn’t get far on his-“

“Clegane is with him,” Kevan replied. “Your daughter is… she is not taking things well.”

Tywin’s worry subsided a bit, if Clegane was with the boy at least he had some measure of protection… though words would be had with the Hound when he returned. “Has anyone been sent to search for him?”

Kevan nodded, “I’ve sent Daven and a small company of men in pursuit… they are pretending to be after a fugitive and his son.”

Tywin nodded, “good, does anyone else know of this?”

Kevan shook his head, “We’ve been keeping it as secret as possible, as it stands only Daven’s party, the boy’s mother, Genna, and the two of us know. I have been telling everyone the King is ill and cannot leave his chambers at the Rock. Genna has ordered servants to bring meals to the room each day and slide them through a slot in the door… I do not know how long the charade can be maintained given the situation.”

Tywin frowned, “what situation?”

Kevan sighed, “the people are restless, we’ve been thrown into this new world and everyone searches for meaning. The septs are filled to overflowing, the Faith is in a state of chaos. Septon Raynard of the Most Devout was the only of their number to have come with us and he was killed shortly after we arrived.”

“Killed?” Tywin exclaimed, “what happened?”

“In the day following the Arrival, for that is what the people are calling it you see, he was found in the arms of a whore near the docks of Lannisport… an angry mob tore him to pieces.” Judging from Kevan’s face Tywin realized he’d seen this firsthand.

Tywin thought on this for a moment, “Are the people truly so frightened?”

Kevan pursed his lips, “I do not know if I would call it frightened brother, they have their friends, family, and loved ones… and even their lords and masters, but strange tales come from all corners of the Westerlands. The skies at night are strange, none of the Wanderers can be spotted and the constellations are different.” He closed his eyes a moment, thinking. “I suppose that people are less willing to put up with the old hypocrisies, womanizing septons or ignorant maesters… it is hard to argue the gods do not watch over us when they have seen fit to throw us to an entirely new world.”

Tywin nodded, he could see the logic in his brother’s thoughts. He would need to return to Casterly Rock and take control of the situation as soon as possible.

The two of them soon came to his daughter’s wheelhouse, “Cersei, come out of there this instant,” he’d commanded.

Cersei reluctantly appeared from the carriage, her hair, normally perfectly styled and maintained was today somewhat oily, and loose strands and split ends marred her mane. “Father, y-you must find Joff, he’s gone somewhere… It’s my fault, all my fault… she let out a small sob”

Tywin sighed, there was no point in rebuking his daughter in this state, “Cersei, I promise you your uncle Kevan and I shall find Joffrey and return him to you safe and sound.”

This seemed to assuage her, and with a sniff she collected herself, “Yes, that would be for the best. Joff’s just a boy and he doesn’t know what he’s doing…” She turned back towards the interior of the wheelhouse, Tywin could see Tommen and Myrcella inside, nestled with a pile of blankets. Cersei rummaged a bit before producing a letter, which Tywin could see was written in a poor and scratchy script. “He left this,” she said.

Scowling Tywin took the letter and read it silently,

Dear Mother
I have received a prophecy of my coming greatness. I leave now to the north to complete a great quest, in preparation of my return have grandfather prepare our bannermen for war! Soon a conquest to rival Aegon’s will begin as we reforge the seven kingdoms in this new world.

Tywin felt a mixture of confusion and cold anger building within him. He crumpled the note and turned back to his daughter, any semblance of pity now gone. “Cersei, the manner in which you and the late King Robert chose to raise your children has long been of some concern to me, and it seems this concern was justified.”

Cersei made a noise in protest but he cut her off. “When the King is recovered he shall serve as a squire to one of my more trusted knights, perhaps the company of good men can shape him into a man and not a fool boy.”

“Good men,” Cersei spat, “Robert beat Joffrey half to death, was he a good enough man father?”

Tywin stared at her coldly, “Harsh lessons are sometimes needed to correct errant children,” he thought of Tyrion and frowned again, “I will take Tommen back to the Rock with me where he will begin instruction in the use of arms.”

Kevan nodded, “quite right, Joffrey’s too old to be a great swordsman now, but Tommen may yet take after his uncle Jaime.”

Cersei’s mouth dropped open in shock, “father you can’t, h-he is so scared without Joff”

“Enough,” Tywin silenced her, “he will return with me while princess Myrcella will continue on with you to the city of Minas Tirith in Gondor. Your brother will await you there and the two of you shall do your best to charm and win the hearts of the people of Gondor on behalf of House Lannister.”

Cersei sulked, “very well father, but the gods curse those who take children from their mothers!”

Tywin sighed, “Tommen, why don’t you come out of there and join your Uncle and I?” He turned to one of the guards, “Have Tommen’s things added to our wagon train.”

“At once Lord Tywin” the guard nodded and motioning to another one of the men to help began moving a large Trunk from the rear of the wheelhouse.

He looked back to Cersei, “The gods are doing much these days, I’m sure they’ll find time to forgive me.”

They’d parted ways with little ceremony, Tommen had needed a fur coat since he’d forgone one while riding in the wheelhouse, and soon the boy was riding astride Tywin on the road to Casterly Rock. Tywin noted sourly that even for a boy his age he rode poorly.

“G-Grandfather, are you angry at mother?” the boy asked suddenly.

Tywin looked to him and thought a moment, “yes, she has not taught Joffrey as well as she should have, now men will need to risk their lives searching for him.”

Tommen gripped his reins tightly as the horses stepped across a scattering of small potholes in the road, “I don’t care if they bring Joffy back or not, he would throw stones at the cats and he said cruel things to us.”

“Now Tommen, your brother is a king, and kings sometimes behave… erratically,” Tywin responded, though he wondered to himself if he wanted Joffrey back either.

The rest of the journey to Casterly Rock was uneventful save for the slowly chilling temperatures. There had been little fanfare to their entering the city of Lannisport, and the mood seemed to have calmed slightly compared to the turbulence that Kevan had described.

He’d immediately sent for Genna to meet with him in one of the Rock’s towers, hoping to get a more complete report on the incidents Kevan had described. As he entered the meeting room he could see that her husband was with her, Odd, Tywin thought, it seems as though Emmon Frey was enough a man of the Westerlands to come with us. His sister wore a red silk dress with a white fur trim and a golden necklace bearing a medallion in the shape of a roaring lion draped over her breasts. Emmon by contrast wore only plain blue cloth with a small steel pin on his jacket bearing the twin towers of House Frey. He could immediately tell that for the second time in as many weeks one of his siblings was looking for a way to break bad news to him.

“Jaime’s party has been attacked on the road to Minas Tirith,” she said, “he is fine but a few of the men you sent with him are dead, as are some of their guides from Gondor.”

Tywin’s face flushed with anger, “Who did this?” he said in a low tone, “who dares attack my son?”

Genna was a bit taken aback, and Emmon seemed to be fighting the urge to hide behind his wife, still she spoke, “It was a small party of men leading a horde of… well Jaime’s letter is strange, he says they are called orcs, more beasts than men. There are apparently a few of the corpses being taken to the Golden Tooth for preservation and then he has ordered they be brought here to you.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow, “indeed? I suppose we will find the truth of that soon enough. What more did he say?”

Genna shrugged, “the man from Gondor, this Faramir, claims that the men leading them were from Umbar. Jaime claims to have found several strange coins on them that are not minted in the Westerlands nor in Gondor.”

Tywin fumed, could this have been what the emissary Herumor spoke of when he mentioned the dangers in Gondor? He attempted to calm himself and think rationally. Perhaps this was a ploy by the Gondorians themselves? No, he thought, If these orcs are truly enemies of Gondor it seems unlikely they would be able to employ any. He thought of the ranger Faramir again, deciding that he did not seem like the scheming type.

“What should our response be?” Genna inquired.

Tywin stroked his chin, “we cannot outright attack Umbari ships while Tyrion yet travels with them.” He thought of Cersei, “I will send a raven to the Tooth telling them to double Cersei’s guards once she enters Gondor.” He clenched his fist a moment before relaxing again, “if it were the Tyrells, the Starks, or the Tullys retaliation would be easy… we simply do not yet know enough about Umbar or Mordor to do what needs to be done… but they will find that a Lannister always pays his debts.”

Genna nodded, “indeed they shall… there is one other matter you may wish to attend to.”

Tywin looked at her curiously, “oh? And what might that be?”

“A man calling himself Saruman the White arrived just yesterday, he claims to be a wizard who seeks to introduce himself to the Lord of the Westerlands.”

Tywin shrugged, “I have met one wizard already, I suppose it would do no harm to meet another.” He sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of the journey, “Tell him I will meet with him tomorrow morning if it suits him.”

Genna nodded, “I shall, I will say he seems like an interesting man in any case, though I don’t know if he’s impressive enough to warrant the title of ‘wizard.’”

Tywin nodded, “That was my impression of the one I met as well, a wise and well traveled man to be sure. One who perhaps knew a few tricks, but little else.” Saruman the White, he thought, if Gondor has a wizard perhaps the Westerlands needs one of it’s own.

Chapter Text

Saruman’s trip through the Westerlands had been uneventful at first. The Banefort was impressive enough he supposed, but he’d seen much in Middle Earth and another castle wasn’t what he’d left Isengard to see. The next settlement he’d found on the road had been the Crag, where the Banefort had been unimpressive the seat of House Westerling had been an outright disappointment. It was a castle built halfway out into the sea, but it was now crumbling and Saruman had wondered how it withstood the tides each day. He hadn’t bothered to spend even a night there.

It was another day on the road before Saruman finally came across something that caught his interest. At first the ramshackle collection of buildings looked something like garbage strewn across the hillside. He’d heard that the Westerlands was a wealthy realm so it puzzled him to see a village in such poor condition like this. He walked closer and saw many tools strung about, picks, axes, shovels… but what drew his interest was a peculiar contraption that had been arranged alongside a brook where a number of men, perhaps a few dozen, had gathered.

As he drew closer he saw that a wheel had been arranged beside the water so that as it turned it deposited water into a series of wooden troughs the men had built. As Saruman watched the last few men approached pushing wheelbarrows, which were dumped into the contraption where the water was entering it. The men waited for a few moments anxiously as the water washed the gravel and earth through the wooden channel. Finally one of them men, dressed better than the others in a full fur coat and wearing a single golden ring, stepped forward and plunged his hand into the water, sifting around a bit. He lifted his hand high, Saruman could see a single glint of gold. The men cheered in response.

When the cheering had abated a little Saruman stepped forward, smiling himself, “well done friend, well done!”

The men took notice of him, and the well dressed man who had pulled the gold nugget from the device smiled back, “You appreciation is noted stranger, but what is your business?”

Saruman thought a moment before giving his true name, “I am Saruman the White, Wizard and Guardian of Orthanc. I am on the road to Casterly Rock and Lannisport to meet the rulers of these lands.”

The men’s excitement faltered a bit and a few began murmuring to one another. The man, who by now Saruman came to guess was in charge of the operation, spoke quickly to ease the tension, “Well Saruman the White, I don’t know anything about Wizards, and I’ve never heard of a place called Orthanc either, but I think we can afford an extra cot and an extra meal tonight even if you’re just an old man having a laugh at us.” The men around the leader chuckled, “After all boys” he continued with a gesture toward the gold, “there’s bound to be more where this came from eh?” A jubilant yell went up before the men began to disperse back to their shacks and tents

Saruman watched them go before turning to the leader, he sweetened his voice ever so slightly, “this device, how does it sift the gold?”

The man eagerly explained, “It’s called a Long Tommen, after one of the old Lannister kings you see. Gold nuggets, like this one here” he held out the gold again for Saruman’s inspection, “they’re heavy see? If you make an earthen slurry and shake everything up they fall to the bottom.”

Saruman nodded, the dwarves had similar techniques he’d heard of, though with less refinement than the apparatus here, “and these ridges at the bottom of the trough, what are they for?”

The man pointed to the water, still running over the riffles, “that causes a little eddy in the water, swirls things up and gives the heavy stuff time to fall down and the lighter stuff time to move downstream.”

Saruman smiled, “clever, very clever… but it seems as though larger rocks and debris would quickly build up over a long workday.”

The lead miner shrugged, “we’ve got enough spare hands to dig out the rocks and roots.”

Now Saruman frowned, unhappy with this answer. “No, there’s a better way I think.” He walked around to the side of the Long Tommen to where the water entered the trough. “What if you were to put a steel grille here to catch larger pieces?” His analytical side was taking over now, “and here, if you were to narrow the channel and lengthen it perhaps you might be able to filter heavier objects…”

The man laughed, “I like these ideas… Saruman was it? But the workday’s over, the men deserve a bit of a reward so we’ve opened a few bottles of fine wine and a barrel of mead.”

Saruman sighed, even here men’s lack of vision held them back Orcs would not need to break for celebration, he thought to himself. “Very well, if I am to be your guest lead on,” he said reluctantly.

Talking to the men he soon found that the miners were there on the orders of the Westerling family, the owners of the ruined Crag which Saruman had already passed. The man commanding them was Ser Donal Lugh, a landed knight of some local fame.

“You see Lord Saruman normally we wouldn’t be mining like this so close to winter,” Lugh said as he passed the Wizard a cup filled with a warm spiced mead, “but Lord Gawen’s head this rumor that since the Arrival winter is only supposed to last a few months.”

The Wizard nodded, he’d already heard tales of the years long winters the Westerlands were accustomed to, and though the subject had intrigued him he had decided that whatever curse might have caused it had not arrived with them… still he wondered, “So this Lord Gawen would bet his family’s fortune and reputation on that rumor?”

Hugh snorted, “fortune? The Westerlings don’t have much of one left, and their reputation is long gone.” Now he grimaced, “truth be told the house was about at their end, if we can produce gold through the next few months while everyone else is huddled up for a winter that’s not coming we might make enough that Lord Gawen can at least repair the Crag.”

Saruman liked this line of thought, it was bold and given what he knew of winter in Middle Earth it was likely to pay off. The night at the camp had been enjoyable, the men sat around the fire drinking and telling tales from Westeros, and Saruman didn’t know if it was the mead or the men’s urging that finally drove him to it, but he lifted his staff high and fired three great blue bursts of flame into the sky to much cheering and applause.

The next day he departed early before the men had awoken. Now that he was looking for them he saw signs everywhere of mines and working towns. Some were merely abandoned wooden shacks where mines had once stood, others were small operations, perhaps a single family panning for gold by a stream.

Though small abandoned towns seemed common he soon came across a much larger structure, a ruined castle by the looks of it. The walls were pulled down and a river ran over the surface of the land through the courtyard. Squinting Saruman could see that a nearby river had been diverted to flow over the land the castle stood on… Odd, he thought, what good would that do a besieging army?

As if in answer to his thoughts someone spoke, “That’s Castamere, the old Reyne’s castle”

He turned to see a peasant with a sack full of corn slung across his back, “I see, and what happened to it?” he asked, he didn’t bother to enchant his voice this time.

The farmer spat, “Tywin Lannister’s what happened, you see the Reynes used to rule all these lands, got to thinking they didn’t need to be taking orders from Casterly Rock.”

Saruman nodded, by now he’d heard The Rains of Castamere, “So this castle was destroyed as a statement then?”

“Not just a statement,” the farmer pointed to the land, “Most of the castle was underground, when the Lannisters took the top levels they decided to drown the Reyne’s out like rats rather than fight through the tunnels, didn’t leave any of ‘em alive.”

Saruman was silent, he was unused to armies of men showing such brutality, even in wartime the Easterlings and Corsairs were known to allow some measure of surrender, even if only to be sold into slavery. He thanked the peasant for the information and continued on his way. This Tywin Lannister was a harsh and brutal man, far more so than any lord Saruman knew save Sauron himself.

As he walked he mulled this information over, though lord Tywin was brutal he had perhaps saved his realm from splintering… a few hundred deaths to keep a kingdom together? Ultimately Saruman decided to himself that it was worth it, he had seen what had happened in the north when the Kingdom of Arnor had split. What was a strong kingdom united was easily overrun by the forces of the Witch King when divided.

As his journey progressed he learned more of the Westerlands, they rivaled the Dwarves in their love of mining, and their recent history was full of such ruthless pragmatism as the destruction of house Reyne. Saruman felt a certain sense of… well not quite admiration, but something. Was this why Gandalf spent so much time among the Shirefolk? Did he feel these feelings for them? Saruman smiled to himself, when everything was… settled, he would perhaps take another journey here. Westermen would be model subjects for matters too delicate for orcs.

He came at last to Casterly Rock on the outskirts of the great city of Lannisport, a sprawling port town overseen by the great citadel of the Lannister family. His voice was enough to get him an audience with Genna Lannister, the ruling matriarch of the city in Tywin’s absence. She had been intrigued enough by his tale to offer him lodgings until the lion lord returned, and Saruman had wanted time to explore the Rock in any case. He’d spent a day talking with the miners in the lowest levels and watching the great chain elevators that carried gold to the surface.

Finally the meeting with the eldest Lannister arrived. The wizard entered an audience chamber near the edge of the Rock where a brilliant stained glass window faced the sea, the light coming in was spectacular and Saruman knew that at sunset it would be breathtaking. It depicted what appeared to be a rendition of Lannisport and the Rock with a roaring golden lion on a red background above both where the sun might’ve been.

The lion lord sat below this masterpiece on a throne that looked simple at first but as he approached Saruman realized it was in fact golden itself. There sat a bald and broad shouldered yet wiry man, with golden side whiskers that made the Wizard think of the animal that was the house sigil. His green eyes watched Saruman, a cold and calculating gaze.

“Welcome to the seat of House Lannister, Saruman the White, peer of Gandalf the Grey I presume?”

Saruman nodded smiling, “Yes, I know Gandalf well.” Inwardly he fumed, Gandalf had come before him. He had long suspected that the other Wizard was aware of his plans, and he had several spies watching him… why had none reported this? “Gandalf is an old friend and one of my few true peers in our arts.”

Tywin stroked his chin, “yes, he seemed quite learned in the people’s and lands of middle earth.” He leaned back again, “but enough of Gandalf, what brings another Wizard to treat with me?”

“To see the wonders of this new kingdom, as Gandalf did, and to offer counsel to any who would wish it on the matters of Middle Earth and it’s peoples.” The wizard tapped his staff lightly to the ground and the orb at the top began to glow brightly. The several guards arranged about the room looked to Lord Tywin, who held up a hand signaling for them to let the Wizard continue. “Gandalf will have told you some I am sure, but he is sometimes… soft, when he shouldn’t be. Middle Earth has many dangers.” A small dragon of smoke and fire flew forth from the top of the staff, the guards now panicked and several drew swords. Tywin just stared that same icy stare, even as the dragon flew towards him and then vanished into thin air.

“Are you trying to tell me there are dragons here?” The lion lord asked unimpressed, “we had as much in Westeros, long dead by my time, but there were rumors that some still yet existed in the far corners of the world.”

Saruman frowned, “dragons are but one of the dangers I spoke of, it seems that your people do not know proper respect of orcs, trolls, or many of the other, more powerful servants of the Dark Lord… nor for wizards it seems.”

Tywin’s face turned grim, he stood up and slowly and deliberately walked down the steps from his throne to the Wizard until they stood face to face, “I have met two wizards now, if there is some proper respect that you think is lacking please point it out.” The next words came like daggers, “I believe all warranted honors have been given.”

The room darkened even as the light came through the great window, and Saruman’s voice grew low and cold, “Do not take me for some cheap conjuror of tricks, Tywin Lannister.” The room’s light slowly returned, and from the look in his eyes Saruman knew he had sent his message, even if the Lord of Casterly Rock was trying to hide his awe.

“Well you did not come here to show me tricks, cheap or otherwise,” The Old Lion finally replied, “I have a few matters where the counsel of a wizened man from middle earth would do much good,” he turned to a guard, “send for Archmaester Perestan.”

He motioned for the Wizard to follow him over to a table on the side of the chamber where a map was laid out of the Westerlands and Middle Earth as far as Erebor. “The order of the Citadel, Maesters to the common people, are a group of learned men who provide counsel to rulers and keep the ravens which carry our messages.”

Saruman nodded, “I have seen these, remarkable birds.”

“I suppose to those who don’t know of them they must seem impressive, but even the smartest birds can only go between a few locations.”

Tywin was interrupted by a short robed man who Saruman took to be Archmaester Perestan, the Wizard noted he was wearing a strange chain of many metals, “Lord Lannister,” he spoke, “have you decided to agree to our proposal?”

Tywin nodded, “I have, this is Saruman the White, a wizard of middle earth… I would have you explain your plan to him.”

Perestan regarded him suspiciously, but pointed to the map anyways, “in order to create a new network of ravens we have asked Lord Lannister to provide funds and men so that a Maester may go to each of the great cities and fortresses of middle earth. We hope to start this with Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith in Gondor, and this Edoras here in Rohan.”

Tywin turned to the Wizard, “I am confident Denethor will accept a maester and his ravens, but I have had no contact with the Kingdom of Rohan… do you believe they will accept one?”

They will do as I bid them Saruman thought, “Yes, I am well regarded there and I can assure fair passage to this… maester,” he said the final word as he examined Perestan. He was unsure what to make of him, though there were many men of great knowledge Saruman had never known of men dedicated to it, he would need to see what lore they really possessed, “If it would be acceptable I would like one of these maesters and his ravens sent to my home of Isengard as well. I can arrange for payment and protection.”

Tywin turned to Perestan, “well? Are there sufficient maesters to fulfill this request?”

Perestan sighed, “I am afraid not, we only had a few maesters to spare, and there will be no more until we get our new Citadel built.”

Tywin stroked his chin a moment, “what of that man you asked Genna to have held in our dungeons? Was he not a maester?”

Perestan laughed, “Qyburn? Oh, you wouldn’t want him, he’s…” the laughter faded, “He has done unspeakable experiments. He takes the pursuit of knowledge to dark places and he practices fell arts.”

Saruman was intrigued now, not only is he expendable to these maesters but a visionary as well? He allowed his voice to become sweet yet powerful, “Maester Perestan, doesn’t this man deserve another chance to prove his good intent? Let him take a few ravens to Isengard and let him serve me as it’s maester.”

Perestan nodded and Saruman could tell the voice had been effective, though he noticed Tywin looking at him suspiciously. The maester spoke, “I suppose this is reasonable… in any case he would be far from here.”

Tywin spoke now, cutting in, “If you truly want this man I will have him freed on your departure but no sooner.”

Saruman looked at him, wondering if perhaps the lion lord had guessed the effect of his words was beyond mere persuasion, but then he smiled, “As you wish Lord Tywin, this is a reasonable caution for an uncertain man like this Qyburn.” The ravens alone would be worth the trouble even if the ex-maester held no new secrets. Saruman’s smile widened, this journey had already born fruit.

Chapter Text

The journey to Crakehall where the Umbari had docked was easy enough, at every stop they’d received free lodgings and supplies, and Herumor didn’t seem to mind when he ducked away during the evenings to sate his urges. A group of twenty redcloaks had been sent to guard him, as they had with Jaime, but where Addam Marbrand had lead Jaime’s contingent Tyrion had received Gregor Clegane. Tyrion knew that the man’s size and demeanor were an effective way to intimidate the Umbari, even if he made a poor traveling companion.

Though Tyrion knew it was unlikely Clegane and his men would do anything outright harmful to him he still felt it best to have a few more… reliable men nearby. Bronn had been an obvious choice, he’d proved he had enough loyalty to gold at least, and he’d taken a liking to the sellsword. If nothing else it would be pleasant to have someone other than Clegane and his men to talk to.

His next choice had been Timett of the Burned Men, but he’d refused Tyrion’s offer, as had Chella of the black ears. They had decided to lead their people into the mountains to settle on the Westerland’s new frontier. With Tywin Lannister’s blessing and gold they hoped to build new settlements there, game was plentiful and there were numerous minerals to be mined if they desired it. It was understood that at some point they would bend the knee to house Lefford of the Tooth, but Tyrion had his doubts about how well the clans would adapt to a life without raiding. Then again he knew that there were similar mountain clans in the North who’d bent the knee to Winterfell… time would tell if a similar accord could be reached here.

Shagga, son of Dolf, on the other hand had heartily agreed to another adventure with “the halfman” as the clansmen had taken to calling him.” The big clansmen had helped himself to the Lannister armory, taking two large steel axes that Tyrion was sure were meant to be wielded with two hands, as well as a shirt of chainmail and a new set of boots. He’d evidently been trying to convince the smiths to forge him a special protection for his beard, a “beardplate” he’d called it, when they’d been forced to leave for the coast.

The final member of their diplomatic mission was picked up at Crakehall itself. As they’d been loading the ships with supplies a small party lead by Lyle Crakehall, the strongboar as he was known, approached the docks. “Tyrion Lannister!” his deep voice boomed. “Your lord father has bid me to accompany you as your crier.”

“A crier?” the dwarf asked, amused, “why would I have need of a crier?”

Crakehall shrugged, “a big voice for a small man I suppose, truthfully my father wanted me along as well, these Umbari are a seafaring folk and it’s likely they’ll be seeing plenty of the Crakehalls given our position.”

Tyrion nodded, it made sense. “Very well Lyle Crakehall, I will accept your services as my crier on this diplomatic mission.”

The strongboar grinned and bid his servants farewell, boarding the ship. He greeted Clegane quickly, they knew one another but there was no comraderie between them. He stopped to look at Shagga and Bronn. “A swellsword and a savage? Surely a son of Tywin Lannister deserves better-“

Shagga unslung one of his axes and let the heavy hilt clang against the deck, “Shagga has seen his share of knights come and go, Shagga is still here and they are not.”

Crakehall’s eyebrows rose, “spirited at least, I’ll give you that much.”

Tyrion cut in quickly, “You’ll all have plenty of time to fight over who can protect me the best later, but for now why not help the men prepare the ships?”

Crakehall snorted, “sailor’s knots and deck polishing are not work fit for knights… nor for a sellsword and a savage.”

Shagga grunted in agreement, “Dolf taught Shagga many ways of making war, but nothing of the sea.”

Tyrion sighed, “very well, I don’t suppose any of you play cyvasse?”

“I’ll pass” Bronn said, “had enough of playing that blasted game with you back at the Tooth, let someone else be your whipping boy.”

Tyrion looked to Crakehall who just stared at him blankly, “I suppose Cyvasse isn’t a game fit for a knight?” He got no response.

Luckily enough Herumor seemed interested in learning the game, though Tyrion wasn’t sure he enjoyed spending time with the man from Umbar. He reminded Tyrion of Peter Baelish, smiling on his face and calculating behind it. He proved to be a fair player, and his skill increased as the trip continued until he managed to beat Tyrion as often as not.

It was on one day while they were playing a game where Tyrion was on the losing side that Herumor remarked, “tis good that we play with these ivory carvings and not with men, for any who were wise would have joined me already.”

Tyrion frowned, “I don’t suppose you’re talking about the game are you?”

Herumor grinned, “no I am not. The hammer is going to fall soon, Gondor has avoided it’s doom because the Dark Lord has not given them his full attention.”

He gestured at the board, “playing out a losing match is a sporting thing to do, but in war men do better to go for the winning side.” He studied the board and moved his dragon close to Tyrion’s king. “Sauron will soon rule middle earth, the men of the Westerlands would do well to join with him lest his attentions turn your way. He will not be content to let a corner of the world be free of his dominion even if you seek no quarrel with him.”

Tyrion moved a catapult, “A man who deals in such absolutes will find himself with many enemies he could’ve otherwise avoided, powerful men do not like to be troubled in such a manner.”

Herumor stroked his chin, “Sauron is no man, the normal rules of politics and war do not apply to him.”

Tyrion thought on this, “if not a man what is Sauron exactly?”

Herumor smiled, “he is many things, the greatest of Melkor’s prophets and servants, the forger of the rings of power, and master of middle earth until the day until Melkor returns from the great void. He guided the people of Numenor before the Valar destroyed it in their jealousy. He returned in my father’s time and we threw off the shackles of Gondor to follow him again.”

Tyrion continued studying the board, “so Sauron is like our Seven then? A god worshipped?”

Herumor shrugged, “I do not know of your Seven, but Sauron is not a god in the same sense as Melkor… rather he is a powerful spirit, the herald of a greater being.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, “I suppose my original question stands, do people see Sauron walk the streets or is he only heard in prayers?”

Herumor seemed annoyed at the implication, “Sauron lacks physical form now, but his great eye has returned at the top of the Barad-Dur. When the one ring is recovered he shall walk among us again. Until then the nine Nazgul ferry messages for him.”

Now Tyrion was beginning to get skeptical, “so the Nazgul are his priests then, men ordained in his worship?”

Herumor paused, “Not men anymore, like Sauron they are now deathless.” He shuddered, “I have met one of them, Khamul the Easterling, second of their number. They have an unnatural air about them, one knows instantly that they are beyond this world.”

Tyrion finally found his opening, with Herumor’s dragon so far on his side of the board his king was exposed. “Victory in two,” Tyrion announced. “Even when you have all but won it is still important to protect your rear weaknesses.”

Herumor scowled looking at the pieces, he reached for his king and tipped it over with the tip of his finger. “Wars are seldom easily won by a masterstroke such as that, do you think a small man with a clever plan will be the undoing of Sauron the Great?”

Tyrion shrugged, “well if he’d like to play cyvasse I’ll try.”

After a few more days of sailing they reached Umbar, it was an impressive city with a great white tower overlooking the harbor. The architecture and dress of the people reminded Tyrion of Dorne. He turned to Herumor, “who rules here in Sauron’s name?”

Herumor pointed to the tower, “the Two dwell there, I suspect you will be meeting them later.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, “two lords? How do they make decisions?”

The black numenorean shrugged, “Officially one manages the affairs of the city while the other commands our armies and fleets as Captain of the Haven. In truth both have the same amount of authority over all matters, Umbar has always had two rulers whenever she has been free of Gondor. I myself am named for one of our lords of old.”

Lyle Crakehall walked up from behind them, “begging your pardon Lord Tyrion, should I start the crying?”

Tyrion sighed, “I suppose if you must.”

Crakehall walked to the ship’s ramp and in his deep booming voice bellowed loudly, “Presenting Lord Tyrion Lannister, Son of Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands.”

Everyone at the docks had stopped to see this foreign lord’s arrival. A small procession approached their boat lead by a man in shining black armor He looked much like Herumor, except where the emissary had jet black hair this man was as blond as any scion of the Lannister family. “Well met Lord Tyrion, I am Fuinor, Captain of the Haven and of the Two.”

Tyrion smiled, “well met indeed, I am pleased to greet you on behalf of my father Lord Tywin and our King Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name.” His eyes drew close to a group of tanned women wearing bronzed smallclothes, a few dangling red cloths, and nothing else. “And who are these lovely ladies?”

Fuinor grinned, “You will find we are not so strict with certain things as our wayward cousins in Gondor. These lovely ladies are to be your escorts and will room with you and your men."

Tyrion’s small smile became a wide grin, “Well that is good to hear! You must remind me to return this favor if ever your countrymen come to the West.”

Shagga roared with approval and ran down to sweep up one of the young women who giggled loudly as he slung her over his shoulder. “Shagga will take his chambers now.”

Crakehall laughed, a great sound like a kettle drum being struck, “As much as we’re all looking forward to it let’s take a look around first.” He turned to Tyrion, “I think I’m beginning to like the wild man.”

A pair of the girls stepped forward, one with dark black hair and almond shaped eyes, another with the amber brown hair and olive skin that he’d have placed in Dorne back in Westeros. “We’d gladly accompany you to whatever you’d like to see first,” they said in unison.

Tyrion laughed, “oh don’t worry I’ll be sure to take my time and see everything.” This diplomatic mission was proving to be quite enjoyable after all.

Chapter Text

Denethor found himself in a truly good mood for the first time in years, Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister, would soon be arriving in his throne room. The white citadel looked better than it had at any time since his wife had passed, and the sun shone brilliantly even on the cold winter’s day. He’d ordered the entire citadel cleaned thoroughly, and garlands of kingsfoil had been hung about the throne room giving it a pleasant smell. Further helping his mood was the news that the party had been attacked by orcs and men of Umbar, this would make his plans for an alliance with the Westerlands all the easier… it would be hard to deny the enemy’s savagery when the envoy had seen it firsthand.

He sat there on the Steward’s throne now, Boromir at his side in dress robes and a silver breastplate bearing the white tree of Gondor. Word had reached them that Faramir’s party had entered the city, he’d called all the citadel guards into the throne room, looking resplendent in their winged helms and polished armor.

Finally the great door to the throne room opened, Faramir entered first, flanked by two rangers, “Lord Father, brother,” he said smiling, “I present to you Ser Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister and envoy of the Westerlands.” He stepped to the side and a golden armored young man with blond hair stepped through.

“Honored steward I am-“ his eyes suddenly landed on Boromir, “Stark?!”

Boromir looked around, confused, “I am sorry Ser Jaime, do you refer to-“

Jaime was striding up to him confidently, “So not only have we been thrown into this new world the dead have risen as well,” he snarled. His hand moved to his sword, “We’ll fix that though.”

Boromir’s eyes widened and his hand moved to his own sword, the guards, shocked, stepped forward, their ceremonial spears suddenly lowered towards the man from the Westerlands.

Jaime turned quickly to Denethor, “This man lies your grace, I know not what he’s told you but-“

Denethor had had enough, “Ser Jaime!” he bellowed, “I will not tolerate any further insults against my son without some proper explanation!”

Now it was Jaime’s turn for confusion, “y-your son?”

Boromir moved his hand away from his blade, “Ser Jaime I think you may have me confused for another.”

Faramir, who’d watched shocked during this entire exchange finally spoke, “Ser Jaime you mentioned a name, Stark?”

Jaime looked to his own men at the entrance of the hall, who had their hands on their swordhilts watching him hesitantly. Reluctantly he moved his hand away too and waved them to wait outside, “Yes, an enemy of ours… to whom Captain Boromir bears an… uncanny resemblance.”

Things were tense for a moment before Faramir broke the silence with a laugh, “surely we can excuse this? If Ser Jaime had arrived dressed as the Witch King of Angmar we may have had a similar reaction would we not?”

Denethor nodded, though his frown had returned and his good mood had evaporated. “Very well, though in the future Faramir I would have you not make light of attempts on your brother’s life… or the mention of such terrible enemies.” He sighed and leaned back in the throne, “Welcome Ser Jaime of the Westerlands, things have been prepared for you and your men, you are to stay in the Citadel provided you can avoid trying to kill my son.”

Jaime seemed to have mostly recovered by now, “Yes… of course, I’m sorry for the confusion lord Denethor.” He turned to Boromir, his eyes narrowed and Denethor could the knight had taken a disliking to his elder son based on this business with the “Stark” he’d spoken of.

Denethor stood up, “Well Jaime Lannister never let it be said that we are poor hosts, we have prepared our own banquet in answer to the one your father hosted for my son Faramir.”

Jaime smiled and nodded, “that would be good, we have brought two barrels of the Westerland’s finest wine as a gift, shall I have them brought to your kitchens?”

Faramir grimaced, “Strong stuff, but certainly flavorful.”

Boromir laughed, “Brother you never could hold your wine.”

Denethor frowned at his sons before looking to the envoy, “The wine can wait Ser Jaime, we have a few official matters I think we should discuss first.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow, “Oh? And what would those be?”

“Faramir has reported to me that you have agreed that our people shall have free passage in your lands but not mention was made of,” here his voice went low, “pirates and brigands.”

The knight frowned, “are you accusing House Lannister of something?”

Denethor shook his head, “No I do not, but men from the Westerlands I presume are outside of your control have already been sighted committing crimes in Gondor. I would with your leave dispatch men to hunt them down and subject them to our justice.”

Jaime smiled, “You will find my father has no patience for such men, you are free to do as you will with any you capture.” He seemed to think a moment, “if I may ask do you know what men have done these things? My uncle Kevan hunted down the last of the bandits in the Westerlands before I was born…”

Denethor shrugged, “we’ve no names at this time, but in the South near the new border between our realms there are reports of a ship with black sails crewed by vicious men who have attacked several ships and coastal towns.”

Jaime considered this, “Perhaps the Umbari are responsible? Several of them were found in the party that attacked Faramir and I and I’ve heard they are notorious pirates.”

Denethor shook his head, “This ship is always reported as approaching from the west, and it bears only a single mast while the ships of Umbar have two.” He stopped a moment trying to remember what else he’d been told before sighing and turning to his son, “Boromir, what else is known of this ship?”

Boromir thought a moment, “As you said father the sails are black, but it also bears a red eye upon it’s flag.”

“It sounds as though this ship bears a flag of Mordor-“ Faramir started.

“No,” his brother cut him off, “though it bears an eye it also sports a pair of crows carrying a jagged crown. No banner of Mordor is arranged in that manner.”

Jaime nodded, “yes that’s definitely a banner in the Westerosi style, but I cannot say I know any lord that bears a sigil like that… were there any other identifying marks?”

Boromir shook his head, “The ship strikes mostly at night, it is said to bear another symbol on the sail but there are no firm reports of what it might be.”

Jaime shrugged, “well whoever they are I’ll write my father at once and our own ships will join the hunt.”

Denethor smiled, “excellent, the next of many enemies I’m sure we’ll vanquish together… now tell me of this battle you and Faramir had on your way to Dol Amroth.”

The Blonde man smiled and immediately launched into a storied retelling of the encounter, detailing how he and Faramir had used their combined men to defeat the much greater force. Truthfully Denethor didn’t care, he’d already read the report and he knew that whatever victory Faramir may have won Boromir could’ve won it easier and with fewer men lost, for the boy’s instincts simply didn’t lend themselves to greatness. No, instead he’d hoped to remind the envoy before the banquet that he had been accosted by Mordor.

“And Ser Addam Marbrand, the leader of my guardsmen here, chased the rest down on horseback,” Jaime concluded, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the Steward wasn’t really listening.

“Splendid!” Denethor said, “You must tell the tale again later tonight when everyone has gathered in the dining hall.”

His voice grew serious, “Of course Ser Jaime now that Mordor has revealed their treachery surely you can see the Westerlands must have no dealings with them… why perhaps a reprisal is in order even?”

Jaime’s voice grew cold, “A Lannister always pays his debts,” but then the feeling vanished, “but my father is Lord Paramount and I will let him decide what course we shall take on the matter… he is known for getting his justice when our family is accosted.”

Inwardly Denethor sighed, disappointed, “I’m sure he is, but know that Gondor stands ready to help you to that end.”

Jaime smiled, “You have my thanks…”

“Ser Jaime,” Boromir spoke, “Faramir tells me you are a fair swordsman, a rare compliment from him.”

The knight’s ears immediately perked up at the mention of swordplay, “Indeed, we’ve sparred nearly every day after making camp on the way here. He’s spoken quite highly of your own blade Lord Boromir,” he said.

Faramir nodded, though he did not smile as Jaime did, “it’s true, brother, he’s one of the best with a longsword I’ve ever seen.”

Boromir turned to Denethor, “Father with your leave might I escort our guest down to our practice yard?”

Denethor smiled thinly, even now after all he had been through it was sometimes hard to see Boromir as anything more than the eager young boy who’d had the citadel smiths forge him a small set of armor to wear about the tower. “Go with the leave of the steward then, Captain of Gondor.” He turned to see Faramir about to say something, “And you as well, chief ranger.”

The three turned to leave, talking amongst each other about the benefits of taking a shield into combat against those of the added reach a greatsword offered. Sighing Denethor waved to the tower guard to return to their normal duties and walked to his own work study, a small enclave at the back of the throne room where he read reports from the front… among other things. He opened a small safe to reveal a blue glass orb. He turned to lock the door and steeled himself before placing his hand on the Palantir.

Chapter Text

Sandor Clegane had long ago begun to doubt the mission that the young king had led them on. The encounter with the wizard had restored some faith in the boy… or at least in the fact that there was a magic ring somewhere in a place called the Shire, but the many weeks of traveling had worn him down again.

They had plenty of food of course, the Wizard’s word had been true and the men of Dunland had given them plenty of dried meats and some wild carrots and onions, but they were missing wine, the only thing that had made Joffrey Baratheon tolerable. He’d brought his bag of gold from the Hand’s tournament of course, but they hadn’t come across a single place to buy any spirits.

They had passed through a series of swamps and now were entering a more wooded area. The sun was low in the sky and would soon set. He’d hoped to get into the treeline and onto harder ground before setting up camp. “Your grace, did your dreams tell you exactly how far away this “Shire” is?”

Joffrey scowled, “If I wish to march to the ends of the earth and over the side you’ll accompany me dog.” He smiled thinly, dirt had caked into his blonde hair and his eyes, always dangerous, were growing wild the longer they were on the road. “It’s only a matter of finding that ring you see, once I take it from the Baggins we’ll have everything we want and more…” He regarded Clegane a minute, “You’ll have whatever you want too dog… what would you like? Lands? Honor?”

Clegane snorted, “I doubt that even a magic ring can give me what I really want.” He briefly thought of his sword going through Gregor’s chest.

Joffrey brushed his hand through his now nearly brown locks and grimaced looking at the dirt on his fingers. “I think the first thing I will do is call my coward grandfather and that imp that calls itself my uncle to court… grandfather will bow to me I think, the imp…” he reached back to his crossbow and stroked it fondly, “there will be no more insults from that-“

Suddenly Clegane heard something distantly it sounded like… “Quiet your grace,”

Joffrey looked at him, annoyed, but obeyed. Suddenly his eyes widened as he heard the same sound Clegane had, “steel on steel?”

The hound nodded and drew his own sword, “load the crossbow, let’s see what there is to be seen.”

The approached the sounds of conflict as quickly as they could while still keeping silent. Clegane dismounted from Stranger and walked ahead of the horse. He came through a copse of trees to see a pair of men and what looked to be a child backed against a river by a group of perhaps ten… things. Those are no men, he realized. They were each around five feet tall, with pale green skin that was covered in scars and scabs. They didn’t move like men either, shuffling back and forth, and the sounds they made were closer to bestial grunts and squawks than battle cries.

He turned to Joffrey, “you grace perhaps we should-“

*whoosh*

He watched with dismay as the crossbow bolt arced into the closest of the beasts striking it between the shoulder blades. It roared and several of the things turned to rush towards them, all the while screaming and screeching.

“Today is no day for cowards Clegane!” Joffrey said confidently while loading another bolt.

“I was merely going to suggest sneaking up on them,” he muttered. With a savage roar he rushed forward himself.

The first one came at him like a beast at prey, but Sandor’s fury was greater and with a great swing he cleaved the creature clean in two. The other three that had run at him faltered seeing that, and Sandor cracked a smile that he knew made his ruined face look like a true horror. The bloodlust was rising now, and he let loose a cruel chuckle as he advanced.

“Which one’s next?” he rasped, one of the creatures found it’s courage while the other two moved to flank him, but though he wore full plate Sandor was fast on his feet and his reach was far longer than any of the things with their curved iron blades. He decapitated one of the flankers and when the close one rushed in to stab at his neck he brought his helmed head down in a headbutt both dodged the blade and cracked it’s skull. He quickly pivoted to the one behind him only to see it dead in the dirt with another crossbow bolt through it’s chest.

“Try to keep up dog!” Joffrey shouted from several yards away. He was rushing towards the group by the river where a few of the things still held them cornered.

Both groups saw their approach by now, the men rallied rushing at the monsters which mostly turned to run. One of them, seemingly enraged by having it’s kill denied, rushed towards Sandor clumsily. With a snarl he lopped it’s arm off at the elbow and then kicked it to the ground. He kneeled down and brought his mailed fist down onto it’s head over and over again until it was a pulped ruin. Panting he stood back up to see the three strangers staring at him, clearly unnerved by the savagery of his kill.

He scowled at them, “well it’s dead, isn’t that what matters?”

The first of the men, a tall gruff fellow dressed in boiled leather and with a bow slung over his shoulder, cleared his throat, “indeed, and who might you be stranger?”

He looked to see that Joffrey had come up alongside him, “I’m a hedge knight from the Westerlands to the South, Ser Donal Lugh.” He gestured to the king, “this is my squire Penn Teller.”

The man nodded, “well I’m Arthas and this is Muradin, the two of us,” he gestured to his associate, another brown haired man of strong build with a thick mustache and the oily hair of a seasoned outdoorsman, “we’re rangers tasked with making sure nothing comes over Sarn Ford. We heard there were orcs-“

“And other strange folk,” Muradin said, eyeing them suspiciously.

Arthas glared at him but continued, “Yes, orcs and other strange folk, were said to be in the area. We came across the river to determine their numbers.”

Clegane looked around at the scattered bodies, “so they’re called orcs are they?” he spat, “I can see why you wouldn’t want ‘em around.”

The little figure, silent up until this point, suddenly spoke up, “well truthfully we don’t need any sorts of outsiders in the Shire… and speaking of that what’s your business knight?”

Clegane looked at him closely for the first time, he was no child as he’d first presumed, nor was he a dwarf such as Tyrion Lannister or the others who sometimes traveled Westeros in shows. No, this was a very small man, but completely in proportion… well except for a gut that would’ve been impressive on a man Clegane’s size. He wore a collection of leathers and furs and a strange hat with a red feather in the cap. He wondered what the fat little man was doing with these rangers, whatever he was it wasn’t a woodsman.

“My business is my own little man,” he snarled looking down at him.

The little man stepped back, intimidated, but then indignant. “I am no man you oaf, have you never heard of a hobbit before?”

Clegane looked back to Joffrey, though neither of them were fond of reading he thought that maybe the prince might know something he didn’t for a change. Joffrey’s shrug told him he was wrong and he frowned, turning back to the rangers and the “hobbit.”

“Can’t say I have,” he responded.

Arthas chuckled, “forgivable friend, they’re the small folk that live in the Shire and they rarely travel. This lovable fellow here is Robin Smallburrow, he’s one of their Shirriffs who we invited to accompany us over the river.”

Muradin snorted, “We asked the head hobbit over in Michael Delving for a little support and he sent this one to make sure we weren’t making up all the tales of orcs and wolves gathering.” He shuddered suddenly, “It doesn’t take long out to here to realize there’s dark things stirring in the world again…”

The Shirriff folded his arms and glared at the two rangers, “well you could’ve brought us a body or two instead of dragging me off to almost get killed out here!” He paused a minute, looking over the orc remains spread about the ground. The sun was completely down now and Muradin had lit a torch which cast an eerie glow over them. “I’ll be sure to recommend to the mayor that we take up a collection for you.” His gaze returned to Clegane and Joffrey, “I don’t know about these two though… they still won’t tell us why they’re here!”

Arthas sighed, “We have been bidden to keep a closer watch on the Shire in these uncertain times, I am afraid I must ask you to tell me your business before I can lead you across the ford.”

Clegane thought a moment, “We’re looking for a Mr. Baggins, you see we have news for him from… a friend.”

Arthas looked to the hobbit for confirmation, the fat little shirriff was rubbing his chins thinking, “well Bilbo Baggins always did keep strange company… but he’s been gone from the Shire for some years now, off to Rivendell you see… are you perhaps looking for Frodo Baggins? Or Perhaps the Sackville-Bagginses?”

Clegane struggled to keep his face from betraying his frustration, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Joffrey’s smile at the name “Baggins” quickly turn into a frown. Too many gods damned Bagginses, he thought. “The last one,” he said quickly, “The Sackville-Bagginses.”

Muradin’s eye’s narrowed, “Hold on a moment Mr. Lugh, if you’ve never heard of hobbits before how are we to believe you’re on an errand on their behalf?”

Clegane stammered a moment before Joffrey spoke up, “a wizard, wise and powerful has sent us!”

Arthas’s eyebrows went up, “indeed, Old Gandalf sent you up this way? He’s long been a friend of ours and it is by his request that we watch the fords.”

Before Joffrey could speak Sandor interrupted, “Yes, old Gandalf, he has bidden us to carry a very secret message to the Sackeville-Bagginses.”

Muradin didn’t seem to believe that, “I’ve heard a little of these Westerlands you claim to be from, a new kingdom that appeared out of nowhere some months ago, yes? Are we to believe that you have met Gandalf and earned his trust so greatly in so short a time that he has sent you here with a message that cannot be relayed to any of the Dunedain?”

Clegane frowned and quickly looked at Joffrey, the unspoken message between them was clear, we might have to kill these fools. He’d sized them up already, both men clearly knew how to fight but he was bigger than either and he doubted the fat little hobbit would be any use… If Joffrey took one with his crossbow…

“Oh enough of this!” Robin Smallburrow spoke up, “It’s cold and the night is dark and full of terrors!” He shivered, “Gandalf and the Bagginses are always up to strange matters, I’d thought the Sackeville-Bagginses to be a bit more sensible but if they wish to play the Wizard’s games I’ll escort these two travelers to Hobbiton and make sure they keep the peace.”

Arthas considered it, “fair enough I suppose, do you two accept these terms?”

Looking at the fat hobbit Clegane decided if anything he probably knew where to get some food and drink, “that seems reasonable doesn’t it Penn?”

Joffrey nodded, “yes, very reasonable!”

Smallburrow nodded, “it’s agreed then, now let’s get back in the Shire… if we hurry we can make an inn, I’d prefer that to camping with the rangers, no offense meant.”

The rangers rolled their eyes, “none taken master Shirriff,” Arthas said, “keep an eye on these two for us.”

He waved for Joffrey and the Hound to follow him, “the ford’s this way, I’ve got a pony tied up just on the other side in the Ranger’s camp. I don’t suppose you fellows like beer?”

Clegane smiled the first genuine smile of the day, “why of course we do! Isn’t that right Penn?” Joffrey protested, something about making the best time, but Clegane cut him off, “It would be just rude not to sample some of the local drink while we’re here.” He fumbled in his pack for a moment before producing a gold coin, “Tell you what Smallburrow, if you lead us to some beer the first round is on me!”

Smallburrow smiled, “well with that attitude you two are going to be very popular around here!” By now they’d crossed the small stone ford and the hobbit was mounting up on a small pony tied to a tree, “You know I became a shirriff to search for the best beer in the shire incidentally, before you two leave you must try the Green Dragon in Hobbiton.”

Clegane nodded, in high spirits at the prospect of spending a night indoors and drunk, “We’ll remember that when we get to Hobbiton won’t we Penn?”

Joffrey sighed, “Of course Ser Donal, of course.”

Chapter Text

In some parts of the far western edge of Fair Isle the Drowned God still had worshippers and Ironborn customs still ruled. It was in one of these forgotten hamlets that Silence had docked while Euron Greyjoy made the final preparations for his return to Pyke. The Arrival had taken even him completely by surprise, and for hours he’d sat under the strange stars drinking shade of the evening and thinking over what he would do next. After some time he’d flown into a rage, throwing his cup across the deck of the ship and screaming gibberish at his crew, knowing his moods they wisely fled from him.

After another goblet further worked the blue stains into his lips he suddenly had a great urging to sail. He’d run down the gangplank and began sprinting to where his crew was camped on the beach. Yelling and running between them he yelled, “sail, SAIL!” with a smacking noise he backhanded one of the mutes who was groaning and trying to turn back over.

His crew roused, they’d set out. For the first week or so of sailing they stayed within sight of the coastline before he felt that same urging from before He turned his ship’s wheel to the southwest into strange and unknown seas, looking at those endless waves it felt almost like the first time he’d seen Asshai, like everything up until now had just been preparing him for this.

A few days out into open seas a great storm whipped up spurring them forward, the crew raced around him trying to keep the sail from ripping away as he laughed maniacally, “Let the winds of fate carry us to gold and glory!” The storm lasted three days, and during those three days they traveled as far as any other ship would’ve in a fortnight. Just before the crew reached a point of collapse the sea and sky quieted. The sun poked through the clouds illuminating everything.

Euron could see in the light that there were a great many large rocks just under the water, though it would be easy to navigate because the waves had become as clear as the finest Myrish glass. He squinted a moment, those are no rocks… he thought to himself, for he could see now they contained windows, spires, and doorways. They sailed above a sunken city.

They spent several days charting it from above, whoever these men had been they possessed arts beyond anything Euron had seen anywhere except in the smoking ruins of Valyria. Where fire had burned that ancient civilization to embers this one had drowned beneath the tides. He had several men sent down in a small diving bell and they’d brought a few coins and pieces of pottery up, but nothing of real value.

He became frustrated after dozens of these dives produced nothing that interested him, sensing that his mood was about to turn, or perhaps that there was nowhere to run if it did, one of his mute crewmen ran forward with a cup of shade of the evening. Euron knew he would soon run out, but he took the goblet and downed it in a single gulp anyways. He looked over the seas as the oily blue wine dribbled over his chin. A glint suddenly caught his eye a few hundred yards away, “There! There’s something there! He pointed and the mutes hurried to bring him close.

When they’d reached the shining object Euron could see it was placed near the top of a ruined tower, without a word he dived into the water after it. He swam lower and lower, feeling his ears pop, until he reached what he saw to be an orb of blue glass, but instead of solid it seemed to have a flame burning within it. Feeling the shade of the evening coursing through him he reached out with both hands and grasped it.

It was as though he were in the clouds now, looking down at his ship as if it were a child’s toy. He felt energy coursing through him, I can see everything, he suddenly realized. With a laugh he floated to the land again, as the crow flew. He passed over the Westerlands, looking down briefly at Casterly Rock and Lannisport, he’d seen them all before… No, he wanted to know what lay to the East.

He came first upon a great city on the coast before the desert, many ships were docked there and floating among them in the bay he could see they were meant for raiding as the Ironborn ships were, and men walked the deck with weapons in hand and overseers whipped slaves. He smiled to himself, a Reaver city then? He would need to go there at some point… his gaze turned North to a great layered city carved into a mountain side, seven great terraces of polished white stone nearly blinded him with their majesty as they reflected the sun.

With a start he realized that someone else was there, appearing before him as if from smoke was a tall man with graying black hair and a breastplate bearing a white tree, “Ah a spy?” he spat, looking eastward. “Have I fallen so low in his esteem that the eye will not even taunt me in person?”

Euron smiled as he realized that he too had assumed physical form before the stranger, “An eye taunts you stranger?” With a laugh he reached up and lifted his eye patch revealing the dark all-encompassing black of the crow’s eye. “Let me add another.”

The man stepped back, unnerved, but quickly recovered. “I am Denthor, Son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor and guardian of the White Tree. Who are you?”

Euron smirked, “I have no titles but Captain Lord Denethor, names though, I have many names… the men of Westeros call me Euron Crow’s Eye, in Bravvos the merchant’s curse, in Asshai the Scourge of R’hllor, in Pentos the Black Sail. I’m fond of them, but of all the things I take from your shores a new name will be the least I think.

Denethor glowered at him, “Boasts and delusions of grandeur. I see into your nature Euron Crow’s Eye, the Palantir does more than act as a spyglass for whatever fool has found it. You are a mere pirate and will be hung as such.”

From somewhere far to the south a terrible music echoed, great tentacles miles long erupted from the sea and a storm to end storms gathered in the sky. Even over this cacophony Euron’s voice could be heard, “I am the storm Lord Denethor, the first storm and the last.”

Denethor seemed unimpressed, “terrible visions are no stranger to me here Crow’s Eye.” Suddenly he looked to the East and sighed angrily, “Though today I’ll have none… I bid you farewell.” As if made of smoke he blew away on the wind.

Euron looked to the direction the Steward had to see what had made him leave... over the mountains he saw some manner of flame above a tower, a lighthouse perhaps? But why so far inland? He moved closer and the light swiveled quickly towards him.

I see you

A voice, as terrible as any cruel wind out of the wastes of Asshai, spoke. With a rush of movement he felt himself suddenly brought before a great flaming eye. Distantly in it he could see a mannish form, great and terrible. He realized that what he’d taken to be a lighthouse was a tower that housed this creature. Where Denethor had divined his nature the gaze of this thing ripped it from him.

Greyjoy… You have sailed the ruins of Numenor?

He found his voice, “Asshai, Valyria, and Leng too, I fear no seas, skies, or lands.”

Great are your skills Crow’s Eye, war is coming to this world and there will be much plunder and glory...I am ever in need of talented servants.

Now he laughed, “a talented servant?” Somehow he felt himself pulling loose of the Dark Lord’s grasp, “my self is my true king!” With a great mental tug he found himself back over his ship in the sea. Suddenly he was on the deck coughing up water.

“What the hell happened?” he yelled between coughs. One of his crew pointed over board and then made motions indicating they’d taken him back into the ship. He made another series of downward thrusting motions to indicate the resuscitation he’d performed. Euron burst out laughing, “Well wherever Aeron is he will be pleased I suppose, I have finally been drowned like a proper disciple of his precious Drowned God.”

He looked at the glass orb which had fallen out of his hands and rolled across the deck of the ship. What had that man called it again? A palantir? “Fetch a rag,” he told the man closest to him. He’d need a way to carry it without falling into it again. He smiled as he watched his men wrap it up and then looked over the seas, another storm was brewing and he knew somehow that it would carry him quickly to the East. He thought again of the city of seamen and slavers, that would be a fair place to start… He turned to his crew, still waiting for orders. He pointed eastward, “bring me that horizon you dogs!” He laughed again as they scrambled to begin the voyage.

Chapter Text

Even after a month of his presence Tywin Lannister was still unsure what to make of the Wizard. Saruman the White was a useful courtier to be certain, he was knowledgeable on the world they’d entered, among other things, and on the days he spent below the Rock talking with the miners it seemed they brought up more gold than they would through the work of the whip or the promise of payment alone. Still he was unnerving, Tywin recalled the day he’d first met the Wizard and the darkness that had filled the throne room… That had been no illusion, he could feel it in his very soul.

The rest of the Lannisters were divided on him, though Tywin knew that on some level they were all waiting for him to make a final judgment. Genna didn’t trust him and said as much frequently, when the Wizard had arrived at the nameday party for one of her sons she’d had him escorted out on the grounds that they didn’t have enough tarts and wine for extra guests, though from what Tywin heard she’d made sure he’d received an invitation.

Kevan liked him, and the two spent many evenings together discussing the history of the Westerlands and it’s people. Tywin occasionally joined them, though he was more preoccupied with writing history than studying it.

As for the younger members of the family Tommen was absolutely enthralled by him, though the Wizard took little interest in the boy save for the occasional smile or small crackle of sparks from his staff, to which the young prince would clap excitedly.

Lancel had perhaps taken the most obvious turn. The boy had become quite devout in the time since the Arrival, and had started a trend among some of the younger and more idealistic knights of wearing the seven pointed star of the Faith as a personal sigil instead of house colors. He had railed against the wizard’s presence in court, and one Sunday after services he had lead an angry mob to the gates of the Rock demanding the Wizard be brought forth and tried for heresy and sorcery. Tywin frowned thinking back on that day…

He’d met them there with one hundred men, including Kevan and the Wizard. Kevan had spoken first, “Lancel! What is this madness! You’d lead men against your own home? Your own family?”

Lancel had replied, “Father! Honored Uncle! The man you keep company with practices fell arts and speaks against the Faith. He must be tried for these crimes in a sept by a council of the Most Devout.” He’d looked to the Wizard, “Saruman the White, though I accuse you know that you have my word as a knight and a Lannister before the Seven that you will receive a fair and just trial and released if proof of your innocence surfaces.”

Just when Tywin was about to give the order to have Lancel restrained and the crowd dispersed the Wizard had stepped forward, “A just promise from a just man, Lancel Lannister.” Saruman’s voice was deep and powerful, and the crowd was instantly quieted. The wizard continued, “Why not let me be judged by those assembled here? For are they not the most devout? Those who would risk their lives for the Seven?”

A murmur of agreement had gone up from the crowd and Lancel, sensing the mood, had said, “Very well, but you must step out here and speak with us.”

“Absolutely not,” Tywin had interrupted, the last thing he needed was another man torn apart by the Faith… Lannisport didn’t need any more chaos.

“Peace Lord Tywin,” the wizard had said, and somehow Tywin had felt at ease, “I will go speak to the men to assuage their fears.”

Against his better judgment he’d sighed, “Very well, go forth and speak to the rabble.”

The wizard had walked through the gate, opened by the guard at Tywin’s command, and strolled slowly to the middle of those assembled, who backed away from him quickly. “Friends, they say that I am a foul sorcerer,” he laughed, a calm friendly sound that somehow had a few chuckles resound in return. “but is a Maester a sorcerer when he gives your child a poultice to heal a wound? Is the smith a sorcerer when he takes rock and raw ore and produces steel? I think not, and I am as they are, just a man of knowledge.” The crowd was openly speaking in agreement now, “Is it not written in the Seven Pointed Star that the Seven bring only the just and the darkness only the unjust?” A pause, “Have I brought any injustice upon you?”

“No!” a cry went up.

The wizard smiled, “Very well then, I propose that on this sept day we should all go forth and bring two justices or good turns to our fellow man, in the honor and vision of the Seven.” A roar of agreement had gone up and the crowd had turned to walk toward Lannisport again. There were tales that day of men who bought beggars feasts and of carpenters who brought new furniture into septs and widows homes. From that day forward Lancel had spoken highly of Saruman the White, and there was talk of making the day a new holiday of the Faith marked by dressing as the bearded wizard and giving gifts to the needy.

His brow furrowed, the object of his thoughts had just entered his study along with his brother, “and you see Saruman during the Dance of Dragons there was a great effort to find those who could tame the creatures, highborn or low.”

The wizard nodded, “fascinating, we must continue this discussion later, on to business.”

Tywin looked up from the papers at his desk, “and to what do I owe the pleasure of your company brother?” He looked at the wizard, “Saruman…”

Kevan placed a letter on Tywin’s desk, “we’ve received word from House Banefort that they’d like to build new fortifications and they believe we should help pay for them.”

Tywin frowned, “and what exactly do they base this reasoning on?”

Kevan gestured, “Well you can read it yourself, but the meat of it is that as the new northern frontier of the Westerlands their position is now a strategic chokepoint. Lord Banefort would like to build a wall across the entire gap between the sea and the mountains with a great wide gate, he says since this wall would protect the entire Westerlands the entire Westerlands should share the cost.”

Tywin nodded, “this is reasonable I suppose-“

“My lords” Saruman cut in, “this is a wasted use of limited resources,” He pointed to a map, drawn by Kilerog, that included the Westerlands and most of Middle Earth as it had been charted, “there are no realms or armies to the north of the Banefort, why should the Westerlands pay for defenses against… what is the expression?” He smiled, “Snarks and Grumpkins?”

Kevan pointed to the map, “I disagree, we have not yet had official contact with Rohan, and this Dunland is troubling as well. You said they were wild men and wild men will raid their neighbors once they know the wealth they hold.” He paused a moment, “our nephew Daven Lannister has led a group of men North to chart the lands, he will tell us more of their temperament, but we must assume the worst.”

Now Saruman spoke low and sweet, and in spite of himself Tywin found himself listening intently, “Rohan and Dunland are peaceful peoples, the Banefort needs no defenses beyond what it already has.”

Tywin found himself agreeing, why build new fortifications if there were no armies to defend against? “I will send word to Lord Banefort to let him know we won’t pay for such foolishness.”

The wizard smiled and nodded, “that would be for the best Lord Tywin, even a rich man must not fritter away his gold so readily.”

The three of them had then had lunch together. They discussed among other things the situation between Gondor and Mordor, the various castles of the Westerlands, and the lands of Rohan and Dunland.

He didn’t think on the Banefort again until later, when in his solar drinking a glass of wine and reading a letter from Tyrion, who had reached Umbar safely. Genna burst into the room unannounced, followed by Emmon Frey who seemed to be trying to calm her down.

“My sweet please-“

“TYWIN!” She shouted, “brother I must speak with you now!”

He frowned and put down the glass of wine and the letter. “Genna, what is the meaning of this? Calm yourself and then I will speak with you.”

She huffed and clenched her fists, “Kevan has informed me that you are not assisting the Baneforts with fortifications… Is there some stratagem I am unaware of? Are the Baneforts not to be trusted? Please explain to me why my brother, who I know to be wise and clever, has made such a foolish move?”

Tywin was angry now, “Genna you forget yourself-“

Genna seethed, “Tywin I speak to you not as your sister but as a concerned noble of the Westerlands and your subject, what has the Wizard said to you to convince you of wisdom of leaving your vassals undefended?”

Tywin was about to speak when he thought a moment, why had he denied the Baneforts help? Friendly or not the men of Rohan and Dunland were numerous enough to raise armies, and if he’d learned anything from Aerys Targaryen it was that friends could in time become enemies...

He frowned, “Genna your counsel is noted, I will write a new letter to the Baneforts in the morning… the Wizard, he can be quite convincing.”

She scoffed, “Tywin he is more than convincing, he bewitches men somehow with his voice. Remember Lancel and the Faith? I have seen him force many men into poor decisions in this manner”

Tywin nodded and thought back to Herumor’s warnings at the Golden Tooth, men become slaves to the Wizards and their terrible arts. He thought again about the decisions the Wizard had encouraged… “Genna,” he spoke suddenly, “I believe the Wizard seeks to open us to attack from the North.”

Genna nodded smiling, “Yes, that’s what I have long suspected as well. Shall I send for the guards?”

Tywin shook his head, “No, in spite of everything these Wizards are still widely respected in Middle Earth, imprisoning or even killing one would have negative consequences. He will be expelled from our lands and nothing more.”

The next day he moved quickly, gathering a number of men in the throne room and giving them special instruction, “when the Wizard enters the room you are to place these wax plugs into your ears, if he speaks after I have spoken you are to fire your crossbows at him until he stops moving. If sparks or smoke come out of his staff you are to fire your crossbows at him until he stops moving. If one of your number removes his earguards you are to fire your crossbows at him until he stops moving.” He paused looking at the assembled guards, who were shocked by the sudden seriousness of his commands. “Have I made myself clear?”

The captain stepped forward, “Yes Lord Tywin, men! Your earguards!” the men quickly placed the wax in their ears and loaded their crossbows.

Tywin nodded and placed his own in, he gestured for a man at the edge of the room to send for the Wizard.

He entered into the hall, immediately noticing the armed and armored men flanking both sides of the red carpet leading to the throne, where Tywin sat.

Tywin could hear his muffled voice slightly, “The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Lord Tywin Lannister.” Gritting his teeth Tywin pushed the plugs in further and spoke in response to the Wizard’s taunt.

“Saruman, I no longer desire your presence here at the Rock or the Westerlands, nor do I wish to hear your voice. If you speak to me again I will have you struck down.” Saruman frowned but said nothing. “If you need to ask something of me I have a page here who will provide you with quill and paper.” He gestured and the young man rushed forward giving the wizard the writing utensils.

Saruman’s mouth curled into a snarl, but still he scribbled something quickly and handed it to the page who quickly ran it up to Tywin. He read it to himself

May I have time to gather my possessions and those men in my employ?

Tywin looked back up to the Wizard, “your things and those men who serve you have already been gathered and are being placed in a wagon by the gates, I have written all lords on your path and they will provide lodgings and stables to you on the condition that you continue North and out of my lands.”

The wizard glowered at him and scratched a new note.
And the maester Qyburn?

Tywin grimaced, “He is yours, both of you are never to return to these lands without my leave under pain of death.”

Saruman the White turned angrily and walked out of the room, the men went with him for they had been ordered to escort him to his wagon. Tywin sighed to himself, relieved to see the Wizard go. He sat back on his throne and removed the earplugs. He gestured for his page to come closer again, the boy had also removed his earplugs. Taking the pen and paper he wrote a new note

To Lord Banefort
I have had a change of heart, not only will House Lannister assist in payment of these new defenses you desire, we shall pay for the entire wall on the assumption that construction will begin immediately on the receipt of this letter. The Wizard Saruman will soon be leaving our lands and I hope for him to see some of the new structures being raised as he passes from our realm.

He paused a moment before adding

Though I have deigned to pay for these new defenses it should go without saying that no new fortifications to the South of the Banefort are needed, as only friends lay in that direction.

He folded the letter and took it to his study, placing a wax seal upon it. He would have it sent via raven to the Banefort that afternoon… for now he sent for a glass of wine and a minstrel, he felt like hearing The Rains of Castamere.

Chapter Text

In spite of the awkwardness of their initial meeting Boromir found he liked Jaime Lannister, the two of them shared an interest in swordplay to be certain, he’d been the first real challenge in years, and Jaime often accompanied him as he oversaw the preparation of the defenses of Gondor. Faramir had left some days before on an expedition into Ithilien, this meant they would have plenty of warning if attack came from the East. In light of this Boromir saw no harm in allowing the envoy from the Westerlands to join him in his duties. Today they were riding the length of the Rammas Echor, the great stone wall surrounding the Pelennor fields and the outer townships of Minas Tirith. It had been built in his grandfather Ecthelion’s time, but had not been properly maintained and now crumbled in many places.

They were riding around the exterior now, “the length of the wall is certainly impressive,” Jaime Lannister commented, “but it seems somewhat lacking to withstand a dedicated siege.”

“It’s not meant to withstand a dedicated siege,” Boromir replied, “it’s meant to give time for the people of these outer towns to get within the city.” He pointed to Osgiliath in the distance, “it also serves to force the enemy to engage us at Osgiliath, there we have many fortifications where ambushes and chokepoints allow a smaller force to hold off a larger one.”

Jaime nodded, “sensible I suppose, but you can hardly charge down the enemy from inside a ruined city.”

Boromir looked over the river into Ithilien, noting the black clouds over the distant mountains. “If the enemy passes these defenses that is when we would deploy cavalry. Between the towns and the city there is a wide open plain perfect for such charges, though we would again use these tactics to give our men time to withdraw to Minas Tirith.”

Jaime didn’t seem to like the sound of this, “so many of your plans involve running and hiding behind those walls, are you so confident in them?”

Boromir nodded, “there is no battering ram in the world that could breach the gates of Minas Tirith, and the city has many rooms dug into the mountain that are always stocked with food and other supplies. The city can last longer than an army in a siege.”

Jaime shrugged, “The Westerlands has always had the finest cavalry in Westeros, and our foot is no laughing matter either. We have rarely found ourselves on the defensive in sieges.”

Boromir laughed, “Well how would you win one if you did? You’ve no practice Jaime Lannister, surely even you know the best way to break a siege is not to sally forth with cavalry in some grand charge?”

Jaime smiled and looked to the southern gate of the great wall, “well if it were me I’d have my brother come up with some clever trick to hold them off until my father could arrive with help.”

Boromir smiled, but inwardly he was slightly annoyed, it’s quite clear these Lannisters have never faced a threat on the level of Mordor… “Well if I meet him I’ll tell him his brother is counting on some clever tricks to win his battles.”

Jaime returned the grin, “I’m sure he’d love to hear it.” Suddenly he looked to the west, “well Boromir it seems today you will meet my sweet sister.”

Following his gaze Boromir spotted a procession approaching of perhaps two hundred, among them he could see banners bearing the golden lion of the Lannister family and some bearing the swan-ship of Dol Amroth as well. “Shall we go to them?” Boromir asked.

Jaime nodded, “Let’s, it seems as though my father and Imrahil have given her quite the escort.”

The rode towards the caravan together with the handful of men that had accompanied them to inspect the defenses. As they approached a man rode out to greet them wearing the silver armor of a knight of Dol Amroth, “greetings Lord Boromir! I am Valin Phanuel, captain of these men. When Prince Imrahil heard of the attack on your brother and Lord Jaime he sent one hundred of his own men to match Lord Tywin’s as an escort.”

Boromir smiled, “well met Valin, the house of the steward shall feed and house your men for the night, I think the walls of Minas Tirith will protect Lady Cersei and her children from here.”

The knight nodded, “you have my thanks, we will likely leave on the morrow once we’ve had some rest.” He returned to the column.

The Lannister men were lead by Ser Brax, the man who had originally come to Minas Tirith bearing the Lannister’s letter. Boromir and Jaime greeted him politely, but there was little to be said between them. They came to the wheelhouse bearing the Queen mother at last. As if sensing them Cersei stepped out. She was fair to be sure, a woman entering middle age and carrying it well, though not so fair as the elves, but still likely stunning to behold in her youth.

She curtsied to them, “Brother,” turning to Boromir she froze, her mouth open in shock, she turned to Jaime who was chuckling.

“No Cersei, he’s not Ned Stark, I’ve made sure of it. He’s a much better swordsman for one.”

She collected herself and stepped forward to examine him, without asking she reached out and touched his hair, then his face. Seemingly satisfied she sighed, “not Ned Stark…” seeing their bemused glances her cheeks turned red, “I-I apologize. Who is this man then Jaime?”

Jaime looked at her with a wry smile, “this is my friend Lord Boromir, Steward-Prince of Gondor and Captain of the White Tower. Denethor’s eldest Son.”

Now Cersei’s entire face was crimson, “I… I am truly sorry Lord Boromir, you see there is this man-“

“I’ve heard, your brother nearly took my head when we first met. Whoever this Lord Stark is he must’ve been quite the imposing figure.”

“Handsome devil though,” Jaime cut in and Boromir, quickly getting the joke, barked in laughter.

Cersei didn’t seem to appreciate the men’s humor. “Well if you’re through making light of a man who nearly killed your niece and nephews maybe you can tell me something about what lodgings we are to have?” She sniffed and looked over the outer towns inside the great walls, “surely we’re staying in there at least?” she pointed to the shining white layered city of Minas Tirith.

Boromir nodded, “you will stay in the Tower of the Sun, the very highest level where the Steward’s family resides. Several of our finest rooms have been cleared for your use.”

She nodded, seemingly pleased, “That is all very well, what of my brother Jaime? Are his quarters on this level too?”

“They are” Jaime answered for him, “Just next to yours in fact.”

Boromir nodded, “we’ve also prepared a room for King Joffrey and Prince Tommen, as well as one for the princess Myrcella.”

Cersei frowned a moment and there was an awkward silence. “King Joffrey has taken ill and was unable to travel, prince Tommen returned to Casterly Rock with my father to provide companionship to his brother.”

Jaime approached her quickly, “Cersei-“

She pushed him away, “we will discuss it later brother, in private.”

Boromir was unsure what to make of this, “I am sorry to hear of the King’s illness, at the very least the princess will still receive our hospitality then?”

Cersei nodded, “Myrcella is with me, she has much been looking forward to our arrival.”

Hearing her name the small blond girl poked her head out of the wheelhouse curtain, “oh mother it’s beautiful!” she said.

Turning Boromir saw that a ray of golden light had come through the gray winter’s sky, the reflection off the white stone of Minas Tirith bathed the Pelennor fields in a beautiful glow. He smiled, “Indeed it is princess Myrcella, and it is even more so from within.”

Cersei nodded politely, “it has a certain charm… too bad about the view though,” she pointed to the bleak mountains of Mordor and the distant fires that burned beyond them.

Boromir grimaced, “that is Mordor Lady Cersei, and it is far more than just an eyesore… though I will darken the day no more by speaking of it.”

She looked at the faraway fires for a moment before accepting his answer, “very well Lord Boromir, lead us to this Tower of the Sun.”

He nodded, “as you wish m’lady.”

He motioned for the assembled men to follow him and Jaime as they rode for the front of the column, Cersei reentered the wheelhouse with Myrcella and they moved as one towards the gates of the Rammas Echor.

Once they reached the front Boromir commented to Jaime, “your sister is quite the beauty, a true noblewoman of the Westerlands as the messengers told us.”

Jaime laughed, “I suppose it’s for the best you think that.”

Boromir raised an eyebrow, “Oh? And why is that?”

Now Jaime seemed uncomfortable, “Boromir, have you had an opportunity to read over any of the works my men brought? Any of the histories perhaps?”

Boromir scoffed, “of course not, I mean no offense Ser Jaime, but I’ve no time for such diversions. Faramir I’m sure has read them all twice, the man takes a book with him to bed nearly every night.”

Jaime chuckled, “no offense taken, I haven’t read any of your histories either. Men such as us must stay in fighting form after all, and why read books that would put a Septon to sleep when we can know all we need to know of one another on the practice field?”

Boromir grinned, “I feel the same of course, but what was your point?”

The embarrassed look returned to Jaime’s face, “Well, in Westeros, the land from whence we came, alliances between great families are usually made through marriage…”

Boromir frowned, “so your father has sent her to seek an alliance with a powerful Gondorian family? They’ve wasted a trip then, Dol Amroth is very near the Westerlands and Imrahil has three marriageable sons.”

Jaime sighed, “Boromir, when my father arranges such things he tends to aim high. My sister’s late husband was a king, and she was betrothed to a prince before that.”

Boromir shrugged, “Well Gondor has no king if that’s what he-“ the realization suddenly hit him. “Jaime I am a Captain of Gondor and Gondor is at war, Faramir is no better. I’ve no time for… anything of that sort.”

Jaime laughed, “We truly are not in Westeros anymore.”

They passed through Pelennor fields without issue, but when they entered the first level of Minas Tirith a great crowd had gathered to watch the entry procession. Whispers went up from the crowd, Jaime they had grown used to, but the Westermen had all spoken of Cersei’s beauty and the people wanted to see it. Finally the queen mother peaked her head out of the curtain, and the people cheered, though she was no Elven maiden she was fair enough, and the anticipation alone had built the crowd’s enthusiasm. Flower petals rained down on them from people overlooking the second level and Boromir could see Cersei smile a genuine smile and begin waving at the crowd.

So far so good, he thought, the mood in Minas Tirith could fluctuate wildly depending on how high the fires from Mordor danced or what news came from the various fronts in the war. He’d hoped the newcomers would see Minas Tirith in a positive light and it seemed his wish had been granted.

As they continued up to the final level the wheelhouse was parked into a small loading area where larger objects were brought up to the top level of the citadel via elevator. Cersei and Myrcella exited and followed Boromir and Jaime up the stairs to the White Courtyard holding the tree of Gondor. Though it had died years ago it still commanded a certain respect in the city.

“It looks like someone forgot to water it,” Cersei commented.

Boromir took offense, “it was descended from one of the twin trees of old, from which the light of the sun and moon were gathered. It has seen better days, as we all have, but I would ask you not to disparage it so.”

Cersei smiled condescendingly, “of course, my mistake. There were those in Westeros who worshipped trees too…”

“We do not worship-“ the comment was cut off by the opening of the doors to the throne room, his father Denethor, garbed in his best finery, stepped out.

“Welcome Queen Mother Cersei of the Westerlands, I am Denethor, Son of Ecthelion, steward of the realm of Gondor. As a token of our meeting I have arranged for a pair of gifts for yourself and your daughter the princess.” He gestured and a pair of servants, heads hung low, brought forth a pair of white dresses of elven cloth. Boromir could see glossy red lions embroidered on the sleeves and gold trim made several patterns over the rest of the gown.

Cersei’s eyes lit up and she felt the cloth, “this is magnificent lord Denethor, I thank you on behalf of house Lannister.” In spite of her earlier comments Boromir could tell this gratitude was genuine. She continued to run her hands over the patterns, “what is this? It’s finer than any silk…”

Denethor nodded, “It is of elven make, I cannot tell you what it is made of for that is guarded secret of their artisans, but for friends they are sometimes willing to part with some. And what better use for it than to adorn such a beauty?”

Boromir was suspicious, though his father was hardly a mean spirited man it was unlike him to be so… flattering. A sudden thought struck him, Does he know of this Westermen marriage custom? Suddenly Denethor’s smile took on a sinister look… or perhaps it was a trick of his eyes.

His thoughts were interrupted by his father, “Where is King Joffrey? I’d hoped to greet him as well…”

Jaime spoke up, “the king fell ill just before they departed, he has stayed behind to recover and his beloved brother prince Tommen would not leave his side.”

Denethor considered this, “unfortunate, let me know if there is anything I can do for him.” The steward’s warm smile returned, “we shan’t let it ruin your visit though, Boromir! Why don’t you take some of Queen mother Cersei’s things and show her to her chambers?”

One look in his father’s eyes answered his earlier question. He knows, Boromir thought with horror. “Father surely the servants can-“

“Nonsense, we rarely entertain guests so important, and hosting is not the job of the servant alone.”

Cersei as if sensing the Steward’s intention filled her voice with a sweetness Boromir could instantly tell was false, “Why yes lord Boromir, please escort me so that I may have my seamstress tailor this fine gown in time for the festivities later.” She hooked her arm around his and he reluctantly led her inside the tower.

As soon as they were inside the tower and out of sight she detached from him, “it seems your father has taken to the game of thrones like a duck to water.”

Boromir nodded, “it seems he has, though since we are both on to him he can hardly win can he?”

She raised an eyebrow, “No… I suppose he can’t. Now take me to my chambers in earnest, I really must get this dress tailored.”

He took her to her chambers, a fine room with a window overlooking the city and the fields. “I’ll take my leave, if there is anything else you need do not hesitate to ask a servant or my father and I.”

Walking further down the hall his thoughts raced, he suddenly felt more nervous than he had on any battlefield in years… Marriage, what is father thinking? His mind raced, surely there is some other way to form an alliance, why not simply fight as friends like sensible folk? He brooded a moment, If the Lannisters would marry into the Steward’s line… I wonder when Faramir will return. He put the thought out of his mind and went to prepare for the night’s feast.

Chapter Text

The stay in Umbar was turning out to be quite pleasant, it was a beautiful city and even though the land was supposedly in the dead of winter it was warm and pleasant to be outdoors during every day of their visit. Tyrion had enjoyed the company of many women of colors and features he’d never dreamed of, though he knew that they were far from mere whores. His latest suspicion came late one morning after a long night with little sleep, the almond eyed girl, Mel was her name, kept steering the conversation into odd places.

“So how many men does your lord father command?” She’d asked sweetly, hands running through his hair as they lay in a large bed in his provided chambers.

He’d laughed at this, “Mel if Fuinor wants to know he can come and ask me himself, I’ve no desire nor need to hide our strength.”

She pouted, “Lord Tyrion there are… rewards, given to the girls who learn the most important information.”

He grinned and reached into a purse hanging from one of the bedposts, he fished out a small gold coin and handed it to her. “There, now let’s speak no more of war and diplomacy.”

Her eyes lit up, probably more gold than she was used to seeing then. Though Umbar was a wealthy city hard currency seemed rare and Tyrion had noted most of the merchants bartered rather than bought. He thought this over a minute.

“Tell me Mel, what other valuable information have my traveling companions revealed? I suppose I can pay secret for secret to know.”

The girl turned over in bed, a truly magnificent sight, and lay her head on the pillow looking up at the ceiling. “The sellsword Bronn has told us that your family has a reputation for wealth and ruthlessness, in particular he described your part in the attack on… I cannot remember the name, it was the capital of Westeros?”

“King’s Landing” Tyrion replied grimacing, “so the leaders of Umbar know about what happened to Elia Martell and her children then?”

Mel seemed uncomfortable, “Yes, and it caused some shock that you would bring one of the men responsible here with you as a guard. Umbari have done many cruel and necessary things to be sure… but killing children like that, it’s something an orc would do not a man.”

Tyrion had heard of these “orcs” several times but had not yet encountered one, though he was told there would be many in Mordor. He decided to think on that later, “and Clegane? What have you learned from him.”

She shuddered, “we have learned not to send women to him. I have served Fuinor’s family since childhood, he is sometimes cruel but never wasteful.”

Tyrion was taken aback, “has he killed some poor girl?”

Mel sighed, “no, but she’ll never be pleasing to look upon again.”
They sat in silence for a moment before Tyrion spoke, “well we are leaving today, he will trouble you no more…” He thought a moment, “Mel, you are owned by Fuinor, yes?”

She nodded, “brought in from beyond Khand as a babe I’m told.” She stretched.

“Would he… perhaps be willing to part with you?” He asked hesitantly.

She laughed, “I do not think so Lord Tyrion, when I am not… entertaining he has me inventory the wares his family’s merchant ships bring in. There are already complaints that my replacement is not up to the task and I’m to be recalled to it immediately.”

He was shocked, “You do this for him and he sends you to bed foreign dignitaries?”

She shrugged, “I thought as much too, but in Khand there is a saying, the horse may pull a chariot, carry a man, or simply bear a bag of wool, but in all cases it does what the master needs done.” She giggled, “besides it has not been an altogether unpleasant task…”

He grinned back, “nor for me, after all in the bedroom a small man can cast a very large shadow no?”

She laughed, “Go Tyrion Lannister, you have places to be that are far more important than my bed.”

“Though none so wonderful,” he replied, lacing up his shirt and pulling his boots on.

He was the last of the party to arrive at the gates, Herumor and ten men stood there waiting with the Lannister party alongside several large wagons of supplies loaded up for the journey.

“You know Lord Tyrion it’s good for a man to last in the bedroom, but too long and you may miss out on things in life,” Bronn commented.

Tyrion waved him off, “There are few things in life more pleasant than a good woman. Besides, it’s not like you can leave without me, I’m the emissary!”

Bronn shrugged, “Well Shagga and I were talking, got to thinking maybe I could be Tyrion Lannister, how would Mordor know?”

The dwarf laughed, “You’re too tall and too ugly again by half, let’s waste no more time and be off.”

The trip was to be alongside the coast through the deserts to the place called Minas Morgul, they’d decided to avoid taking ships because the Gondorian navy had been surprisingly active of late, with several ships out of Umbar going missing.

“It’s strange,” Herumor had commented, “normally Gondorian ships do not pursue, and our ship designs are smaller and sleeker. Though there are battles our men almost always escape…”

Tyrion thought it over, “perhaps the Gondorians are building some new class of ship that are capable of catching up with you?”

Herumor shook his head. “Gondor has not come so far into our waters since they burned our fleet in anchor when I was a boy. It’s not normal to lose ships so close to Umbar.”

Tyrion nodded, sympathizing, “when I was a boy my father’s ships were burned at anchor by the Greyjoys, enemies of ours who rose in rebellion against the crown. We have since set many watches and warnings to prevent it from happening again.”

After a week they reached the Harnen River, it was good to find a steady source of water. Although it was supposed to be the later stages of winter in Harad the air was dry and the men who wore armor grew hot.

Bronn had taken to leaving his mail folded in the caravan, despite Tyrion’s protest that he would need it if they were attacked, and Lyle Crakehall had reluctantly gone down to just his overshirt. Shagga, who rarely wore any armor at all, had taken to taunting them.

“If we are attacked Shagga will have to kill them all while you Andals scurry for your metal plates.”

Bronn took offense at this, “I’ve never had the money for plate in my life and it’s never stopped me from killing a man that needed killing. I’ve fought in a Dornish summer before, makes this look like the Reach in spring.”

Crakehall nodded, “see here Wildman, a knight’s armor is but a part of what makes him a knight, during the Greyjoy rebellion I crossed blades with Victarion Greyjoy himself when we boarded his ship,” his deep voice boomed as his chest swelled with pride. “He wore all the armor a man can wear while I wore naught but boiled leathers, and here I stand before you.”

Shagga considered this, “and this Greyjoy? Did he die?”

Crakehall was silent for a moment, Tyrion, who knew the answer already, chuckled, “Yes Lyle, tell us, did Victarion Greyjoy die?”

For once the strongboar’s voice faltered, “He got lucky, the ship turned at the wrong moment and I slipped overboard.”

Shagga roared with laughter, Crakehall’s face grew red, “well Shagga son of Dolf, if you are such a great warrior why didn’t you ever throw Jon Arryn off the Eyrie?”

This stopped Shagga’s laughter, “The Andals have numbers and steel, though Shagga is worth ten of them they bring one hundred to face him.”

Bronn frowned, “You didn’t let the dishonor of numbers get in your way when I first met you and you were planning on cutting our throats there in the woods.”

Shagga shrugged, “We did not, so why stay angry at Shagga?”

“Why indeed?” Tyrion said as he took another swig of wine, they’d been sure to take plenty when they left Umbar. It was a sweeter vintage than he was used to but wine was wine.

Over time they reached The Harad Road and the bridge over the river that Herumor had spoke of. The party crossed and began their journey North into the disputed lands of North Harad and Ithilien.

It was in the deserted lands that they met a familiar face. The party had been traveling on the road through Ithilien when a single man blocked their path. Riding closer Tyrion could see it was Faramir, smiling he called out to him.

“Faramir, what on earth are you doing here? Can we offer you some wine perhaps?”

The ranger did not return his smile, “Lord Tyrion you pass through these lands in the company of our enemies… surely you must know this is unacceptable.”

Tyrion was puzzled, “and when we all said our goodbyes at the Tooth how did you think I was going to be reaching Mordor?”

Faramir sighed and rubbed his forehead, “Some other way I’d hoped.”

Herumor had seen the commotion and ridden up himself, “Ah so it’s the so called chief ranger. Now do you see the banditry we have to put up with?”

Faramir produced a knife from somewhere, and Tyrion could see that Bronn, startled, had produced his own, “I’d cut your lying tongue from your head Herumor, but it might stain the ground with your wretched blood. Ithilien has suffered enough I think.”

Scanning the treeline near the road Tyrion could see that Faramir’s rangers were in the woods and were clearly waiting in ambush if things turned south. He quickly moved to defuse the situation, “Faramir, as a token of our friendship would you allow us safe passage just this once?”

Faramir glowered at the Umbari and Herumor returned the gaze, “Very well Tyrion Lannister, out of respect for you and your family I shall… but I warn you that Mordor will not be so forgiving if you wrong them.”

Herumor just smiled smugly and rode back to where his men were placed in the column. Faramir turned to Tyrion, “Tyrion…” he sighed and tore a strip of green cloth from his cloak. “If you should need help simply have your men tie this underneath your standard. We will be watching.”

Tyrion was confused but took it anyway, “You have my thanks lord Faramir but we have their assurance of our safe return and in any case my father would not tolerate anything less.”

Faramir was expressionless, “I think, lord Tyrion, that Mordor may be something you need to see yourself. Though I hope we meet again I bid you farewell.” With that he walked to the trees and seemed to disappear into them.

“Grim bastard isn’t he?” Bronn commented, sheathing his knife.

Tyrion nodded frowning, “He is.” What about Mordor scares Faramir so? That’s no fear of men and arms. He would be sure to keep his wits about him when they arrived at Minas Morgul.

Chapter Text

Bronn had been almost all over Westeros and to a number of the free cities. He’d been beyond the wall and on one occasion had trekked so far as to go off the maps into the land of Always Winter. All those sights great and small did nothing to prepare him for the sight of Minas Morgul.

They had passed from Ithilien into the beginning of a great valley flanked by black mountains. Herumor had explained that when the Volcano of Mount Doom erupted the ash would often fall upon the mountains and that the stone was white when cleaned. The fields leading into the valley started as grass, but gave way to fields full of pale wilted flowers with black stems. Here Herumor had instructed them to feed the horses from feedbags he’d brought in their supplies, for none of the animals would touch any of the plants in the vale.

Finally they stood before the city itself. Though the surroundings were dark and the sun glowed through the clouds only dimly the city was lit with a pale corpse-white light, and a strange vapor seemed to rise from the sharp angular walls.

The entire party was silent, even Shagga and Crakehall, who when together never shut their mouths for more than a few minutes, were awestruck.

Finally Tyrion spoke, “Well I’m sure it looks nicer on the inside.”

Herumor nodded, “It is my lord, I have been here before. The lodgings for men are near the city center, though we will need to pass through the orcish districts.”

Looking at those walls Bronn felt something… he realized it was fear, though a type of fear he didn’t think he’d ever felt before. He’d feared his first battle, his first kill, his first woman… but this? “Lord Tyrion,” he said suddenly, “I…” he didn’t know what to say, suddenly feeling foolish. He looked to Crakehall and Shagga, who averted his gaze, he could tell the felt the same.

Clegane looked at them all with disgust, “It’s only a city, and we are here to show the worth of the Westerlands.” He turned to Tyrion, “My lord if these cowards will not accompany you by your command I will dispose of them here myself.”

Tyrion had been staring at the city himself, but Clegane’s words seemed to shake him out of it, “No. No, I don’t think that’s necessary. This place has an effect on men, like The Wall almost…” the little man sighed, “Herumor lead us on, any more and I fear I will not be able to continue.”

Herumor waved his arms and took the lead, “Your feelings are understandable my lord, the Witch King of Angmar rules here, and he is beyond man now.” Bronn could see something in Herumor resembling a shudder, but it was greatly repressed, “in the presence of higher beings it is not uncommon for mortal man to feel the limits of his form.”

As they reached the great glowing gates of the city their fear didn’t abate any, and Bronn noticed that Clegane had donned his great helm. Doesn’t want us seeing his face, he thought, he’s as scared as any of us. Bronn jumped as the gates creaked open, though he could see no one at the top of the wall that could’ve spotted them and he was sure Herumor had made no gestures or signals.

Nobody was there to greet them, and there were a handful of men walking the streets, but all seemed to be going somewhere just behind the row of buildings lining the street, and Bronn could swear at least one man was just circling the same building over and over.

“This way friends,” Herumor said, pointing towards the tower in the city center, “we’re to stay there.”

The rest of the way there was no less unnerving. Bronn was certain the men walking the streets were an act now, for they said little and the city had an eerie silence about it. Crakehall rode close to him, “Sellsword, do you hear that?”

Bronn craned his neck and heard a distant chattering, like the scurrying of a million insects, “I do, what in seven hells is it?”

Crakehall scanned the alleyways, “I don’t know… this is a foul place.”

They reached the tower at last, they were greeted by a man in a black armor astride a great dark destrier. Like Herumor he had a certain regal air about him, and he was tall and broad shouldered with a taut angular face like he was carved from stone.

“I greet you Tyrion Lannister as the Mouth of Sauron the Great, Lord of Mordor and the East.” The stranger’s voice was as deep as the Stronboars, but more refined… smooth. Still, there was something off about it, as though someone else repeated his words in a whisper somewhere.

“Whatever you desire will be provided by the most gracious of hosts,” the man continued.

Tyrion suddenly seemed to remember his role as envoy, “Many thanks… I’m sorry I don’t think I caught your name ser.”

The man smiled, there was nothing outwardly unfriendly about it but it still put Bronn on edge, “I am only The Mouth of Sauron, I neither need nor desire any other names or titles.”

He turned to lead them into the keep at the city center. In here Bronn had to admit things did seem a bit nicer, it had the feel of a place where men lived and worked. A great hall had been set up with long tables, and Bronn could smell food cooking somewhere. Seeing the servants scurrying around Bronn realized something suddenly, they aren’t human.

His startled gasp seemed to alert the Mouth, who turned to see that the rest of the party was having a similar realization. He laughed and gestured for some of the servants to come forth. Their skin ranged from a dark green to black, and they had slender pointed ears. Their faces were the worst though, with crooked teeth and beedy hungry eyes.

“These are orcs, do not let their appearance fool you, they are quite friendly to those who show the proper respect to the Great Eye.”

Tyrion was skeptical, “Is that true?” he asked the orc, who jerked suddenly, clearly not used to being addressed, “are your… people friendly master orc?”

It looked at him suspiciously as if afraid of some trick, “we… we serve the master,” it said in a raspy voice, “men are often here and we have at times entertained your kind as well Lord dwarf.”

Tyrion’s eyebrow raised, “My kind?” He paused a moment, “oh you must mean those dwarves from the mountains that Herumor spoke of. I’m afraid I’m just a very small man.”

The orc seemed confused by this, “m’lord I must return to my work.” He hurried back to the table and laid out silverware.

The dinner was not as boisterous or enjoyable as the one thrown for Faramir and Herumor back at the Tooth. It was some of the best food he’d ever eaten, a roasted chicken covered in some sort of brown glaze paired with a bright yellow cornbread, but he felt unable to relax and enjoy it somehow and even the wine, which was as strong as anything in the Westerlands, did nothing to help him.

He slept fitfully in the group barracks that had been offered to the men from the West, and though he knew Clegane and Crakehall had been offered their own rooms they had both opted to stay in there with the rest of the Lannister men.

The next morning Bronn had gone to see Tyrion but had found the little lord’s quarters empty. He flagged down a passing orc who was going from room to room collecting chamberpots, “you there, where’s Lord Tyrion gone?” The orc was quiet, it was a small wiry thing, and Bronn towered over it. He quickly pinned it against the wall, “WHERE?” he bellowed.

“The little one went to speak with the Mouth!” it squeaked suddenly, “they’re not to be disturbed!”

Bronn growled and released the creature, looking back into Tyrion’s room he saw the green cloth Faramir had given him. Absentmindedly he tucked it into his pocket before going back to the men’s quarters.

The mood was foul to say the least, Clegane brooded in a corner drinking milk of the poppy, and Crakehall was halfheartedly trying to get someone to spar with him in the yard, but no one wanted to go outside. Shagga sat atop a stool silently, polishing one of his axes with a dirty grey rag. They did not see Tyrion again for the rest of the day.

The next day Bronn decided again to look for the dwarf, but this time he took Shagga with him. He didn’t feel comfortable being alone here. We’ll be talking about my fee after this, he walked quickly through the courtyard from the barracks to the door. The wind blew and it sounded like a dying man’s groan, Seven hells, I’m done with gold, I’m asking for a castle.

Tyrion was gone from his room again, he searched the hallway for another orc, and when it tried to run Shagga grabbed it by the neck and lifted it up. Without being prompted it spoke, “He’s with the mouth!” it rasped.

Bronn rubbed his temples, frustrated, “where are they?”
The creature was choking now and with a gesture Bronn told Shagga to let him down. The thing gasped for breath before it replied, “the great tower, they’re in the tower…” before Bronn could ask anything else it ran on all fours away from the two men.

Shagga growled, “Shagga has had enough, where is this tower?”

Bronn returned his gaze, “this way, I saw the door when I was here yesterday… I think it’s time we collected our employer.” They came to the door leading to the highest tower in Minas Morgul. Bronn attempted to pull it open but couldn’t. Turning to Shagga, “it’s locked” he said.

Shagga gestured for him to step aside, doing so Bronn saw him heft one of his axes and bring it down on the doorhandle. With a clanging sound the axe shattered and Shagga fell backwards. The big man groaned on the ground and Bronn examined the door.

“Not even a dent,” he scowled. “Come on, we aren’t getting in.”

When they returned the barracks was in an uproar, it seemed Crakehall and Clegane were trying to calm the men.

“They took him off to eat him!” one man said, panicked.

“I hear men’s teeth are like gold here! They took ‘em one by one!” another man said in a high pitched tone.

“QUIET!” Crakehall bellowed.

The men quickly quieted and Bronn took the chance to ask, “Ser Crakehall, what’s going on here?”

Clegane and Crakehall turned to them and Crakehall sighed, “One of the men’s gone missing. Supposedly he went to take a shit and never came back.”

Bronn frowned, “when was this?”

“At least two hours past.”

Shagga snarled, “it’s time to leave this place, they’ve taken the halfman and they will take us now too.”

“The savage is right,” Clegane echoed, “If we must we can cut a path to the gates, but they will not take me in my sleep.” Agreement went up around the room and Clegane continued, “I say we leave tomorrow morning, they say these orcs cannot bear the sunlight.”

Bronn thought a moment, he truly didn’t wish to leave Tyrion here but… a man had to look out for himself first. He felt the green cloth in his pocket, “We’ll need help getting out of here, Faramir promised it to us if we bore this cloth under our standard.” He lifted it out of his pocket, showing the room.

“Fat lot of good that does us now,” Crakehall barked, “how’s he supposed to see it? And what can he do if he does?”

Bronn thought a moment, “perhaps if we could get a man to the gates with a standard we could drape it over the wall, whatever aid they can offer we’re in no position to turn it down.”

Shagga stepped forward, “Few of the men Shagga has killed heard him coming. Shagga can sneak to the walls to do this thing and none will know.”

The sellsword sighed, “I suppose we’ve got a plan then, tomorrow Shagga will alert Faramir and the rest of us will ride to meet you at the gate?”

Clegane and Crakehall looked to one another, “If that’s how it’s to be then…” the Mountain muttered. Unspoken was the question of how they’d open the gates while presumably under attack, but it was a mad and desperate plan in any case.

They slept in shifts, though Bronn found himself unable to get much. He’d often slept soundly on the eve of battle, death was something he hoped to avoid of course, but it was something he understood enough that it’s threat brought adrenaline and action not cowering and fear… but somehow he thought that something more than death would await them if their escape failed.

His uneasy rest was broken as the Strongboar shook him awake. “Sun’s up, time to get moving.”

He nodded and quickly threw his chainmail over the leathers he normally wore. Everyone was quiet as they armed and armored themselves, he noted that Shagga and the standard were gone and guessed that the Wildman had left just before dawn. The men marched in single file out the door and moved as one to the stables, the black and red lacquered armor of the Lannister redguards shining in the low sunlight that penetrated the Morgul Vale.

Luckily their horses were still there, and once mounted up the men moved together towards the small gate of the central keep. Seeing their approach one of Herumor’s men walked to them, “M’lords why are you-“ Bronn heard a sudden *whoosh* and the thrown spear caught the man through the eyesocket. Bronn didn’t see who’d thrown it and he didn’t care. He dismounted and pulled a small weighted lever he knew would cause the doors to open.

As they pulled apart they could see the streets were inhabited in earnest now, hundreds, maybe thousands of orcs walked to and fro going about their business. With the gate opened he saw them all pause and glance the way of the citadel. He drew his sword.

“CHARGE!” He shouted, and somewhere he heard Crakehall and Clegane echo his words. The orcs were unprepared for a fight and easily scattered, the party ran down any that stood in their way. Feeling his bravery return Bronn reached his sword to one side and lopped the head off one of the scurrying beasts who might’ve otherwise escaped.

They reached the gates, which were again unmanned. He saw a pair of great wheels in front of them which he realized would need to be turned. Gesturing to the redcloaks he barked, “get those moving!” The men saw his purpose and jumped off their horses and moved to the turnstiles.

By now the orcs had rallied. The creatures scurried like ants out of the buildings, covered in crude jagged black armor and bearing blades ranging from simple swords to curved scythes and spears.

The men stayed as close as they could while still protecting the two groups on the turnstiles, the wave hit them with a savagery Bronn had never seen in men… until with a roar he saw Shagga emerge from the gatehouse swinging his remaining great axe.

In spite of the situation Crakehall laughed, “Good to see the oaf again isn’t it?” He bellowed.

Bronn found himself grinning a little too, before he turned and began parrying the strikes of a pair of orcs who’d slipped through the skirmish line. He stabbed one and with a quick motion pulled his knife and threw it into the other’s skull. Glancing to his side he saw Clegane kill three of the creatures with a great swipe of that terrible longsword, the orcs fell back in fear.

Suddenly there was a loud thudding noise and around the corner onto the main street Bronn saw… well he wasn’t sure what it was, it was at least a head taller than Gregor Clegane and it carried a great black hammer, rough stony scales covered it’s head. The thing roared and rush towards them.

“Spears!” Bronn shouted, and hearing him a few of the redcloaks with pikes tried to form up to stop the thing’s charge, but it swept them aside with ease, tossing them high into the air.

“Fuck this,” Bronn mumbled to himself, and prepared to attempt to climb the wall when he saw Clegane lumber forth screaming like a madman. The big thing saw him and raised it’s hammer but with a quick blow Clegane struck at it’s wrist. Although the strike made a sound closer to steel hitting stone than flesh the creature roared with pain and dropped the hammer. It raised a fist to strike but Clegane raised his shield, the largest Bronn had ever seen, to block it. Stumbling from the blow the great knight fell to his knees. Pulling his arm back he suddenly pushed his enormous blade through it’s throat. The thing fell backwards onto several orcs that were behind it, and the mass fell back before Clegane’s wrath, for the man had entered a state of legendary bloodlust.

“Stop this senseless violence!” a voice roared over the battle.

Bronn took a moment to recognize it, Tyrion?! He thought madly, but as the orcs fell back and parted he could see the little lord sitting atop a horse in the middle of the street alongside the Mouth of Sauron.

Everyone was in a state of shocked silence before Crakehall stepped forward, “Lord Tyrion… we’d thought, well…”

“Thought you’d embarrass me? Thought you’d insult Sauron the Great by running amok in his city like this?” Tyrion’s voice was bolder and stronger than Bronn remembered... The little man sighed, “Your conduct means we must leave early, I was enjoying many enlightened discussions with my friend here,” he gestured to the Mouth, who wore an amused grin, “I’d hoped you could all be more mature than this.”

The Mouth spoke now, “Worry not lord Tyrion, we will forget this slight if you only bear our message to your lord father.” He gestured and a group of orcs quickly moved around the men and began opening the gates. “Go freely friends.”

Tyrion rode to them, and after a moment of confusion the men mounted up and began the ride out of the city following his lead. Looking around Bronn saw they had lost perhaps half the redcloaks, though both the knights and Shagga appeared to be intact.

Bronn rode up alongside Tyrion, “Tyrion is everything-“

“Silence” The little man raised his hand, Bronn could see it bore a golden ring with a square blue stone set in it. “You have not performed to my expectations Bronn, we will discuss this further when we have returned.”

Bronn sighed angrily, “Yes, yes we will.”

Chapter Text

Sandor Clegane was quite literally in high spirits, these hobbits brewed all manner of drink, and he’d had an opportunity to sample many wines, beers, meads, and brandies which he knew would cost an arm and a leg in King’s Landing but here were flowing like water. The hobbit Shirriff, Robin Smallburrow, was making good on his promise to take them to the home of these “Sackeville-Bagginses,” but they’d made a number of stops along the way to see various inns and taverns that the little man had assured them were essential to the “proper Shire experience” as he called it. Every one of these required Clegane and even Joffrey to bend over to enter, but with a bit of a search most of them were able to find a man sized chair and table for the two visitors.

The hobbits seemed standoffish at first, but due to the large weight of a gold dragon and the inability of most of the tavernkeeps to provide change for them Clegane almost always ended up buying the entire tavern a round to drink. Though the hobbits seemed suspicious of outsiders Clegane noticed that they loved their manners and formalities as much as the highborn women of King’s Landing. This, combined with Smallburrow’s assurance that they were, “right solid folk,” meant that often they felt compelled to approach him to thank him for the free drink, and usually ask the travelers where they were headed. On one particularly cold night, when the fire was roaring and snow fell outside, one of the little men, perhaps emboldened by drink, or perhaps hoping Clegane was, asked him something more personal.

“So,” the little man slurred, “You get them scars fighting dragons? They say you got them scars fightin’ dragons.”

Clegane growled and stood up, Joffrey noticed and whispered to him, “don’t do anything-“

“You wanna know how I got these scars?” Clegane bellowed. The tavern had gone quiet, people put their drinks down, and the barkeep had lifted a wooden club that might have intimidated the little hobbits but just looked childish to Clegane. Looking around he noticed that everyone was looking at him, and suddenly self conscious he muttered, “there was a fire…”

He nearly sat down when the hobbit, clearly not understanding his reluctance to discuss the subject suddenly blurted out again, “well did you fight dragons though?”

His inebriated mind immediately went to the Targaryons and Robert’s rebellion, “Yes I fought some dragons in my day, killed one of their men when I was twelve, sorry bastard…”

The hobbit smiled groggily and stumbled away, “dragon slayer…” the little man mumbled.

As they moved closer to Hobbiton, the place where the Bagginses supposedly lived, Joffrey grew increasingly agitated. One day when Smallburrow had led them through a village called Frogmorton things came to a head.

“Oh Frogmorton has a number of places to warm one’s bones,” the shirriff said, “There’s The Floating Log of course, but if they’re full you can sometimes find a stool at The Drunken Clam or Moe’s Tavern, oh you must try a Flaming Moe Ser Donal! It’s a delightful mix of wine and some other brew that he then lights-“

“Shirriff Smallburrow,” Joffrey cut in tersely, “It’s not even noon yet, perhaps we should just keep moving.”

Smallburrow chuckled gaily, “Now now master Penn, surely even warriors need to take time to stop and smell the roses as it were?” The fat hobbit gestured towards one of the establishments, “after all who knows when you’ll be back this way again?”

“Never!” Joffrey spat, shocking the hobbit, “Seven hells this entire place is terrible! Nothing but drunk little imps scurrying about! You live in holes for fuck’s sake!”

Clegane had ridden over now and with a hard backhanded slap he ended the boy’s rant, “Squire Penn!” He yelled, “that is wholly inappropriate!”

Joffrey seemed to be calming now, and seeing the shocked expression on Smallburrow’s face realized that he had erred. “I am… sorry, Shirriff Smallburrow. The cold must be getting to me, too much time on the road too.”

The little hobbit’s eyes narrowed, “if you didn’t like taverns you could’ve just said so…” he muttered. “Come then, let’s go and get you to Hobbiton.”

Clegane sighed, feeling a little annoyed at Joffrey for costing him another tavern visit. He briefly consoled himself with the thought that a flaming drink sounded awful anyway before riding close to the boy and whispering, “Calm yourself your grace, we are nearly there and we must maintain our guise. This fellow is willingly leading us to your magic ring.”

Joffrey nodded, “Yes, I can feel it as we draw closer… Once I have it I’ll send men back here, tear down this whole gods damned place.” He glanced at Smallburrow, who was now whistling a catchy tune, “perhaps they’ll gut some of the fat piggies too…”

Clegane frowned but said nothing. The idea of Lannister men, of Gregor, coming here to this place saddened him somehow. The little Hobbits were an innocent and kind folk, in a way they reminded him of the little bird Sansa from King’s Landing. A sheltered people like this would have no way of resisting, and the rangers alone would be no protection from Joffrey’s wrath. I’ve doomed these people by bringing him here, he thought suddenly, One night Gregor is going to come and bring an end to all of this. He scowled angrily and put it out of his mind, not my place…

They finally came to the small village of Bywater. Smallburrow encouraged them to stay there that night as there were no inns in Hobbiton with man-sized rooms, and he also told them that Lotho Sackville-Baggins was known to frequent the Green Dragon Inn some nights. That was enough to assuage the king’s temper and stop another outburst.

Clegane parked himself at the bar in a large chair that had been prepared for him. The two hobbits to his left whispered suddenly and then suddenly one piped up, “You must be sir dragonslayer! The knight that’s been traveling the Shire buying hobbits drinks!”

Clegane barked in laughter, “Ser dragonslayer?”

The hobbits looked to one another before turning back to him, “does that mean you’re not going to buy us drinks” one said hesitantly.

Clegane rolled his eyes, “Barkeep!”

The hobbit waddled over to his seat, “what’ll yah have Sir Dragonslayer?”

“Wine, strong wine, for me and get these two whatever they’re having.” He dropped a gold coin on the bar and the little inkeeper’s eyes went wide as he scurried to take the other Hobbit’s orders. Knowing what was coming next he turned to cut off the two hobbits, “there’s no need to thank me, introduce yourselves, or anything else of that sort.”

One of them laughed, “Oh Sir knight you can’t insult our honor like that!” He gestured to his friend, a dirty blonde little man with a square jaw and blue eyes, “This is Peregrin Took,”

“Pippin to friends, and anyone buying beer’s a friend!” the other one cut in.

“Right you are!” the first one laughed, “I myself am Meriadoc Brandybuck, but you can call me Merry! A toast to new friends!” They both raised their glasses, and with a sigh Clegane met theirs and drank with them. “Anything you need around here Dragonslayer, you just tell us!” Merry said.

Clegane thought a moment, he looked to Joffrey who was angrily sitting in a corner drinking a goblet of wine. “I don’t suppose you two know where I could find someone by the name of Sackville-Baggins?

A look of distaste came over the faces of the two hobbits, “What do you want to talk to Lotho for?” Pippin asked, “That little pimple doesn’t care for anything but getting his grubby mitts on Bag End.”

“Well I’ve got business with the Baginses you see,” he thought back to the Ford, “in fact the Wizard sent me.”

Merry took another swig form his mug, “You sure he didn’t mean for you to find Frodo Baggins?” he asked, wiping the foam from his lips.

Clegane thought it over, “Well where is Frodo Baggins?”

Pippin laughed, “Oh he’s staying in tonight, if you want Lotho though he’s over there,” he pointed to a booth on the far wall where a fellow he assumed was Lotho was drinking with a few other hobbits.

Well I guess we’ll start with the one that’s here, “If you’ll excuse me I must collect my squire.” He fished a silver coin out of his pocket this time and tossed it to the barkeep, “keep these two drinking on me.” The two hobbits grinned and toasted him as he got up and walked to Joffrey.

The king saw him approach, “I hope you’re enjoying the drinks dog, this will be the last time we get stuck in one of these places.”

“One of the Bagginses is here in the tavern,” he said quietly.

Joffrey’s eyes went wide, “where!?” he hissed, suddenly looking around.

Clegane looked over to Lotho, “Go get us a corner table… I’m going to go invite him to have a drink with us.”

As he approached Lotho’s table he could see the little hobbit and his comrades quiet down. “You Lotho Sackville-Baggins?” Clegane asked.

The hobbits were quiet before Lotho spoke up, “I am, and I’ve got no words for big clumsy oafs so bugger off.”

Clegane frowned, his black cracked skin glistening slightly in the low tavern light, “You should come have a drink with my squire and I,” before Lotho could say anything else he cracked his knuckles loudly, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”

Lotho scowled but got up anyways, “This had better be worth my time,” he muttered.

They all sat down at the corner table that Joffrey had moved to, as soon as the hobbit and the knight reached their chairs Joffrey hissed, “Where is it?”

Lotho seemed confused, “Where’s what? What’s this all about?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, you’ve got the ring don’t you? Is it with you now?”

Clegane rolled his eyes at the boy’s lack of tact, “Mr. Lotho, does your family by chance own a ring? We’re interested in… purchasing it.”
Lotho scratched his chin, “Well my old mother has a ring that she got from her mother and so on. Don’t really know where it came from, you fellows think it’s worth something?”

Joffrey seethed, “It doesn’t belong to you… you Bagginses” he spat the word, “give it to me and there won’t be any trouble.”

Now Lotho grinned, “Ahhh so mum’s old ring is worth something! Well I won’t be parting with it now, we’ll get it properly appraised by someone over in Michael Delving.”

Joffrey’s voice grew high and nearly cracked, “Hobbit, Give. Me. That. Ring.”

Lotho laughed, “No you stupid boy! Your kind just aren’t clever enough to keep up with Shirefolk!”

With a screech Joffrey launched himself across the table and he and the hobbit rolled on the floor trading blows. Joffrey started on top and landed a few good blows, but the hobbit somehow managed to flip him over and then stood up delivering a flurry of quick kicks into the young king’s stomach.

“Dog! Kill him!” Joffrey screamed. Clegane grabbed the hobbit and lifted him off the king, who scurried back to his feet. Everyone was looking at them now, and after Joffrey caught his breath he repeated his command, “Kill them, kill them all…” he muttered pointing frantically around the room. Clegane noted that Lotho had fled through the front door.

Smallburrow stepped forward, “Squire Penn you have had too much to drink for a man your age I think,” he looked to Clegane, “by your leave I’d escort him to your room.”

Clegane suddenly laughed at the absurdity of it all, “Yes Shirriff Smallburrow, here’s the key, lock him up there and let him sleep it off.”

Joffrey looked at him shocked, “Dog?” several hobbits including Merry and Pippin grabbed Joffrey by his arms and as a group began hoisting him up the stairs while laughing. “DOG!” Joffrey yelled loudly, but then he was upstairs and that was the end of it.

With a light chuckle he walked back to the bar and put down a few more coins, “Sorry for the mess, now keep the drink flowing for everyone!” The tavern roared in approval.

Sometime later, after he’d stumbled upstairs and fallen into a deep sleep, he was awoken again by someone shaking him. Opening his eyes groggily he saw Robin Smallburrow there.

“Ser Donal get up, I’m afraid there’s been an… incident.”

Sandor rubbed his eyes and saw that Joffrey and the crossbow were gone, he sat straight up, “Oh bugger all, he must’ve gotten out when I came in drunk…”

Smallburrow sighed, “yes he did, come with me please.”

He followed the Shirriff out silently for about a mile down the road to the town he knew was called Hobbiton. He could see the glow of torches in the gloomy late winter night. As they drew nearer he could see that there were perhaps two dozen hobbits gathered around one of the small burrows he knew they lived in. There Joffrey was tied and gagged in the center of the group, writhing furiously.

Lotho walked to the front of the group, “You there! You big stupid knight! Look what your fool boy did to my mum!” he gestured to an old Hobbit woman who was slouched against the burrow moaning, a crossbow bolt through her arm.

“This is what happens when we consort with outsiders!” the woman sobbed “Frodo and Gandalf are to blame for this!”

Smallburrow sighed, “she’s delirious, but I think she’ll be fine. The boy broke in here last night, obviously still mad at Lotho over some squabble, and things got ugly.”

Clegane looked down at Joffrey, who just glared up at him angrily. “This is… obviously unbecoming behavior for a squire.” He thought frantically of a way to get out of the situation, but he was saved by the sound of approaching horses. The crowd turned to see a dozen men approach, led by Muradin and Arthas, the rangers, along with…

“Daven Lannister!?” Clegane exclaimed.

The young Lannister knight, who now bore a great bushy beard that made him look like the lion that was his namesake, nodded, “I see we’ve finally found you fools.”

“These men were following you and explained the situation to us, we decided to lead them to you at once,” The ranger Arthas explained, “frankly the sooner you’re gone the better as far as I’m concerned.”

Daven looked down to Joffrey, “Seems we came none too soon. Who’s in charge here?”

Robin Smallburrow stepped forward, “That’d be me, I’m Robin Smallburrow, shirriff of the Shire, I’ve been guiding these two under some amount of deception apparently.” He glared at Clegane.

Daven nodded, “Well Ser Sheriff, a Lannister always pays his debts,” he unhooked a small coin purse and tossed it to the Hobbit, “for the trouble of catching him and tying him for me.”

Now Lotho stepped forward, “What about me? He shot me mum!”

Daven shrugged and cut loose another purse from his belt tossing it to the other hobbit, “That’s fair enough I suppose, what possessed the brat to do it?”

Lotho sneered, “he wanted the family ring, my grandmum said she traded a barrel of red herring for it, this… this mathom snatcher must’ve wanted it for himself!”

Daven looked at Joffrey, disgusted, “All your lands and gold and you’re up here at the ass end of the world trying to steal rings from dwarves?” Joffrey’s muffled screams cut through even the cloth gag the hobbits had put on him, “Save it for your grandfather,” Daven said. He gestured to some of the men to sling Joffrey over one of the horses. He turned to Clegane, “and what about you Clegane? Are you coming back with us? I’m sure Lord Tywin has words for you too.”

Clegane looked at the hobbits, his eyes lingering on the crying woman slouched against the door, and then at Joffrey, “Fuck the Westerlands, fuck the king.”

Now the ranger Muradin spoke, “Well you can’t stay here, you’ve caused enough trouble to the poor halflings.”

Clegane looked at Smallburrow, “he’s the Shirriff ain’t he? It’s his decision.”

All eyes turned to Smallburrow, who sighed. “Ser Don-, No, I suppose Ser Clegane was it?” Sandor nodded and he continued, “I’ve grown quite fond of drinking with you but this is… this is beyond my power. As a friend I’d ask you to come to Michael Delving with me and we will let the mayor make this decision.”

The rangers glowered but said nothing and Daven just shrugged, “I’m not going to drag you back, don’t trouble these folk too much Hound.” They turned and left on the road to Bywater, the king trying in vain to undo his restraints. The excitement over, the hobbits began to disperse except for one, who Clegane guessed was a healer, who lingered over the old Hobbit woman dressing her wound.

He looked back to Smallburrow, “So when do we leave?”

The hobbit yawned and rubbed his eyes, “For better or for worse we’ll leave tomorrow. Let’s go back to the Green Dragon and get some sleep.

Chapter Text

When the rangers brought him news that the Lannister Banner had been draped over the walls of Minas Morgul bearing his green cloth Faramir had ordered them to march immediately. He knew there likely wasn’t anything he could do for the Westermen, but they approached the dread city anyway.

One of his men came to him as they approached, “Captain, you don’t mean for us to enter the city do you?”

He looked at the walls, the terrible glow bathing the valley in a sickly white light. “No, we won’t go in…” Distantly he heard the sounds of battle, and suddenly a great groan went up which Faramir knew from experience was a troll dying. He sighed, “we’ve no siege equipment and the walls are too high to climb… maybe we could-“

He was cut off by a creaking noise as the gates slowly pulled open. The Westerlands men, mounted and bearing their standard, were leaving the city. The men looked to him, confused. He reluctantly sheathed his sword, he saw that they’d been spotted and the party was now approaching them with the little lord Tyrion riding in front.

“Ah Faramir, it is good to see you,” the little man said, “We will need an escort back to Minas Tirith, I believe my father has sent them a maester and ravens and among other things I have need of them.”

Faramir frowned, “I’m sorry lord Tyrion but my men and I are not here simply because we enjoy the outdoors. I must continue to harry the foe and gather information on what forces he is gathering-“

“There are fifty thousand orcs, five thousand men of Haradrim and Easterling composure, perhaps two hundred… no sorry, one hundred and ninety nine trolls, and nine mortal men no longer doomed to die.” The little man smiled at Faramir’s shock, “They are quite plainly preparing for a push, I would recommend we return to Gondor so you may warn your father.”

In spite of his smug attitude Faramir somehow believed him, and despair overwhelmed him. Fifty thousand? We would be hard pressed to defend against half that... and The Nine? Father must be warned. He forced himself to be calm, If we defend in Osgiliath maybe… He sighed, “you speak true Tyrion Lannister. Come, we will escort you back to Minas Tirith.”

The little man smiled, “excellent, it seems that your expedition will have some value after all.”

Faramir glowered at him but called for his men to mount up as he moved to the front of the column. He rode in silence for some time until the sellsword Bronn approached him.

“Faramir, I need to ask you a few things,” he said.

Faramir nodded, “I’d hoped to ask someone from your party some questions as well.”

Bronn looked back, quickly making sure no one else from the Lannister party was near them. “That place… whatever curse is on it, can it follow a man out?”

Faramir shook his head, “You are safe Bronn, the foul stench of Minas Morgul is on they who dwell there. It is not caught as a disease is.”

Bronn leaned in closer, “It’s not me I’m worried about” he whispered. “It’s Tyrion, he’s been… odd. He disappeared for two days and then suddenly right when those things were about to butcher us suddenly he showed up and talked down to us for not wanting our throats cut in the middle of the night.” He shuddered, “I’ve been talking to Crakehall, does this Sauron practice necromancy? Is it some foul thing in his shape while we’ve left the real Tyrion back there to rot?”

Faramir looked back to Tyrion, who was now taking a drink of wine and laughing with the big man, Gregor Clegane. “Sauron was known at one time as the Necromancer, but to make a perfect copy of a man like you describe isn’t something I’ve heard of in any songs or stories.”

Bronn breathed a sigh of relief, “well they still did something…”

Faramir thought about this, “Did they give him anything to take with him? Jewelry…” he spoke his next words low, nearly silent, “a ring?”

Bronn’s eyebrows went up, “Yes! He had a ring on that I’ve never seen him wear before.”

Faramir looked again to Tyrion, who met his eyes and waved, even from here Faramir could see the ring on his hand, but no fine details. “My father will know more of these matters, he is learned in the lore of Mordor and Sauron’s rings.” He turned back to the sellsword, “will you meet him with me when we return?”

Bronn shook his head, “Fuck that,” he looked to Faramir who was taken aback and shrugged, “sorry for the language but after this little adventure I’m done. I’m going to ride my horse as far west as west goes. Crakehall’s talking of going back and building himself a keep somewhere, maybe I’ll join him.”

Faramir thought this over, the sellsword was a skilled fighter, he had to be if he’d survived Minas Morgul, and he was, or at least had been, close to Tyrion… “Bronn is there any way I could convince you to stay in Minas Tirith for a time?”

He thought it over, “does Gondor pay sellswords well?”

Faramir laughed, in spite of everything the man still cared about money, “I’m sure we can make some arrangement-“

“What’s so funny?” Neither of them had heard Tyrion approach, but there he was, suddenly riding alongside them.

Bronn cleared his throat, suddenly nervous, “Well you see Lord Tyrion Faramir was offering to bring me on if you were done with my services…”

Tyrion laughed, but where his laugh was normally raucous and jolly now it was sharp and cruel. “Oh? Is Gondor assembling a band of cowards to plan the best routes of retreat?”

Bronn’s nostrils flared, “Tyrion-“

“Faramir did you know these louts were trying to run away when I was discussing diplomacy?” The little man took another swig of his wine.

“Keep it up and Shagg’ll be calling you the quarterman,” the sellsword growled.

Now Tyrion’s smile faded, his eyes grew cold and bleak, “Bronn, return to your place in the column. I’ll tolerate no more insubordination.”

The voice gave Faramir chills and he could see it had an effect on Bronn as well, for the sellsword turned to go back to his place without a word of protest. Now the dwarf turned to him, “Faramir, my party unfortunately acted out of turn back in Minas Morgul and we were forced to leave without our provisions or tents. I was thinking that as chief ranger you should volunteer yours for my use.”

Faramir could tell from the look in his eyes that the dwarf knew what he and the sellsword had been talking about, and he also knew the little lord didn’t really care about the tent. “Of course Lord Tyrion,” he said without emotion. He looked at the ring on the little lord’s hand, a gold band with a square blue gem in it. Should I ask where he got it? He thought, No, best not to give my suspicions away.

The trip quickly grew miserable as a cold rain started to fall over them. True to his word Faramir had let the little man use his tent, such material discomforts were old friends to him anyways. The worst part was Tyrion, he seemed to enjoy tearing others down now and he routinely rode alongside each of the men allowing his infamous wit to run wild until the only man who would ride alongside him was Gregor Clegane, who oddly enough seemed to be sharing many dark jokes and much laughter with him.

They crossed through Osgiliath without incident until they came to the far bridge, where Boromir and Jaime were waiting for them. Boromir in particular seemed surprised to see them. “Faramir why have you returned from your ranging so early? Is an attack imminent?” his brother asked.

“There is an attack coming, but it is not imminent,” he replied, “We will speak of it later… in private.”

Jaime rode forth to greet his brother, “Tyrion! How was your journey?” He smiled, “No doubt you’ve charmed all the women east of the Anduin?”

Tyrion returned the smile, “Of course Jaime, and speaking of charming lovely women has our sister arrived? You two have always been quite inseparable.”

Jaime seemed taken aback by this comment for some reason, “Of course, she’s rooming in the Tower of the Sun. She and Myrcella have taken quite well to Gondor, the people here practically throw themselves at her feet every time she steps outside and Myrcella has a line of tailors and dressmakers offering to make her free clothing, hats, and other silly things.”

Tyrion nodded, “Yes between their praise and the company of… family, I’d say Cersei has everything she’s ever wanted here, wouldn’t you agree?”

Jaime seemed upset but Faramir couldn’t quite place his finger on why. He decided he’d ask later, for now he wanted to speak to his father, “If you’ll excuse me brother, Ser Jaime, I’ve got to report on what I’ve seen to father.”

“I’m afraid I too must go to the city, I need to send our own father some news as well,” Tyrion said.

Jaime nodded but didn’t smile at his brother this time, “Understandable, we will see you at the tower tonight then?”

“Of course, I have enough business to keep me here for some time I think,” Tyrion replied.

Faramir shuddered, What business might that be? He made a mental note to have one of his men follow the dwarf and detail his activities when they reached the city.

When they arrived he gave orders for the men to be lodged. He pulled Bronn aside quickly, “have you considered my offer?”

The mercenary looked to Tyrion, who just stared at them from across the room, smiling. “Yes, I think I could be convinced to stick around and… sort a few things out.”

Faramir nodded, “Good, come with me. We must speak to my father at once.” He made a quick gesture to one of his men and they left the stable area to climb to the high tower. Turning to the other ranger, “I want Tyrion Lannister shadowed, don’t let him see you. Report back to me on everything he’s done, everyone he’s talked to.”

The man nodded, “Yes Captain,” he left them.

They quickly entered the throne room, Denethor was absent but Faramir knew he spent most days in his study drafting orders and reading reports. He found the door locked and knocked loudly. They got no answer.

Bronn shrugged, “maybe he’s off somewhere else.”

There was a shuffling inside the office and suddenly the door swung open revealing the steward. “Faramir, weren’t you supposed to be on a ranging for at least a few more weeks?” His father asked.

Inwardly Faramir sighed, he had no time for this, “Father this is Bronn, a companion of Tyrion Lannister. They have just arrived in the city.”

Denethor brightened, “Another of Lord Tywin’s children? Well where is he? I should introduce myself-“

“It is regarding him that we must speak with you. Father, this is not a matter that we should discuss out here in the open.”

Denethor raised an eyebrow but ushered them into his study. He locked the door and turned to the two men, “Now what is so secret that even the throne room of Minas Tirith is not permitted to hear of it?”

“I think Tyrion Lannister bears one of the rings of power,” Faramir said.

Denethor’s mouth opened in shock, “Surely not the One? No… He’d never send that one out of Mordor…” he turned to Bronn, “Do you think your lord has this ring?”

Bronn shrugged, “I’m a swordsman m’lord, I don’t know anything about magic rings or curses or anything of that sort. All I know is he came out of that foul city with a new ring and ever since then he’s been a rotten little shit.”

Denethor raised an eyebrow at the harsh words, “Indeed… the enemy may have hoped to bewitch him so. It would be an ideal manner of sabotaging any alliance between our peoples.” He stroked his chin, “It’s likely one of the seven, the nine are still in use and it’s likely the elves have the three hidden away somewhere.” He turned to Faramir, “have you set a watch on him?”

Faramir nodded, “Yes, we’ll know his every move.”

Denethor sighed, “I will see this ring myself to make sure this is not yet another trick, then we will determine what must be done.”

Bronn cleared his throat causing the two men to look at him, “I’ve got a good knife right here, we could go grab him right now and be done with it.” He drew a dagger and pantomimed cutting a finger.

Denethor shook his head, “Absolutely not, I’ve been reading on Lord Tywin’s… accomplishments, and that would be an unwise course to say the least. If we must go that route I’d have more proof than the word of two men, one of whom is my own son.”

That night they hosted Tyrion for a grand dinner which all three of the Lannisters attended along with Boromir, Denethor, and himself. For at least a while Tyrion seemed to be his normal self, laughing and drinking with everyone. Denethor had seated the little man at the head of the table near himself, no doubt to see the ring in question. After they’d had their first course of the meal he could see his father looking at him, meeting his eyes the Steward simply gave a slight nod, imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t looking for it. So it’s one of the Seven then, Faramir thought grimly. He excused himself, saying the march had tired him. Boromir and Jaime mocked him for his lack of stamina, which led to another round of jokes at his expense regarding wine and women, but he merely smiled and left, pretending nothing was wrong.

He’d intended to meet the man shadowing Tyrion immediately but oddly the Queen mother, Cersei, was by herself in the hallway with a small goblet of wine. “Lady Cersei is something troubling you?” he asked quietly, hoping not to alert anyone still in the dining hall.

She looked to him, “My… brother, Tyrion.” As she moved closer Faramir could see her eyes were red.

Has she been crying? He thought, he felt compelled to say something. “Lord Tyrion… he may still be tired from the road, try not to take his words to heart right now.”

“He’s always been a disgusting little imp,” she spat, “but before dinner he came to me… he said things, things about me and my children.” She sniffed, “I normally don’t let his filth cut me so deeply, but something about him is different.”

Faramir sighed angrily, “As I said, don’t let his words trouble you. A woman of such beauty needn’t pay his barbs any heed.”

She smiled faintly, “Thank you Lord Faramir… I-I think I shall return to the hall now.” She turned to leave and he continued towards the barracks.

He finally reached his destination, his man was waiting there for him. “What news?” he asked expectantly.

The man nodded, “He went to one of the outer gates earlier, a great carriage was waiting for him and he seemed to be expecting it, several of the men driving the horses seemed… swarthy.”

Faramir’s eyes narrowed, “do you know what could’ve been in it?”

The man shook his head, “I asked the stablemaster and he said Lord Tyrion brought a carriage of wine for the banquet tonight, supposedly the Westerland’s finest vintage.”

Faramir’s frown deepened, “I’ve had the Westermen’s wine before, what we drank tonight wasn’t it. In any case he couldn’t have arranged for some to be sent so quickly. Where is this carriage?” The man quickly led him to the stables where the great carriage sat, Faramir quickly pulled a cloth off the top of the cargo revealing it was full of barrels… barrels with their tops removed. He stepped up onto it and looked inside, “There’s no wine in these,” He spat, “and there never was.”

Turning quickly to the man he asked, “What did he do next?”

The ranger stroked his chin, “After that he went to go see the fellow keeping the ravens, what do they call them… the master?”

“The maester,” Faramir replied grimly, “where is he?” The ranger led him to the small apartment at the base of one of the western towers which his father had converted into housing for the ravens brought from the Westerlands. As they approached he could see some commotion, two citadel guards were already there.

“I’m telling you someone’s killed all the birds!” the robed man yelled.

The guard didn’t seem to be buying it, “Look here, I’m not going to spend all night looking for a bird killer. It was probably a cat, there’s plenty of them about,” the guard said.

Faramir approached, “Maester, you said someone’s killed all of your birds?”

The man turned to Faramir, glad that someone was finally taking him seriously, “Yes! That’s what I’ve been trying to explain! It seems as though someone took a cord and choked them all!”

Faramir and the ranger looked to one another, “Maester, did anyone send any messages by raven today?”

The Maester thought a moment, “Yes, Lord Denethor sent one to Dol Amroth, and Lord Tyrion sent one to his father back in Casterly Rock.”

Lord Tyrion sent one to Casterly Rock, the thought reverberated in his skull. What is the imp planning? He thought to himself. He looked to the East and in the dark of night he could see the soft glow of the volcanoes.

Chapter Text

In several millennia Saruman had never been humiliated so much as he had when he had been forced to leave the court of Tywin Lannister. He’d seethed at the insult of expulsion, the man thought to intimidate him? A Wizard? Even with all of his guards he could have struck down every man in the throne room including the old lion himself with hardly any exertion, but that would forever mar his image in the Westerlands… a land he now felt would be a fine seat of power for the new Lord of the Rings. He’d taken his leave in anger, collecting what few men he’d come to employ and the maester Qyburn. Saruman was somewhat disappointed with the latter, instead of a clever and bold man he’d been a wrinkled fellow with grey hair, like some child’s favorite grandfather. Giving him up was a final insult from Tywin rather than a boon to be celebrated.

Salt was rubbed in the wound when his party passed the Banefort, a great wall was being constructed and he saw several dwarves there assisting with the building. As the small wagon he’d been provided rolled by he could see their great pulleys bringing stone to bear while several others were constructing a great gate in the open field in front of the hooded men’s fortress. That wall will be impregnable when manned, he thought to himself, A dwarven made gate too… not so grand as Minas Tirith’s but no ram will break it. He glowered and said nothing, the few serving men he’d collected in Lannisport feared him too much to break the silence.

One of them, the former maester Qyburn, finally did speaak, “My lord Wizard, I thank you for your patronage but since it seems we have a long journey to your home ahead of us, might I ask what duties you wish for me to perform when we arrive?”

Saruman glanced back at him and gestured for him to come sit at the front of the wagon, “Tell me Maester Qyburn, what are the normal duties of a maester?”

He shrugged, “There are many and they are of course open to interpretation. Some of the more prominent ones include advising the keeper of a particular hall or fortress, treatment of wounds and illnesses, and keeping of ravens of course.”

Saruman nodded politely, as the Banefort faded from view so did his temper, “I’ve no need of ravens in Orthanc and Lord Tywin wouldn’t part with any, perhaps a healer would be useful.”

Qyburn sighed and looked off into the horizon, the empty plains of Enedwaith provided little to attract the eye. “I wish I could offer you more, the maesters are supposed to seek new knowledge instead of offering the same old falsehoods for generations… I was expelled for trying to right this wrong you see.”

Saruman stroked his beard, “And what knowledge were you seeking?”

Qyburn seemed hesitant, “I sought the truths of the body’s function so that I might save lives. To this end I consulted many banned texts… among other things.”

Saruman let power flow into his voice briefly, just enough to get the maester talking, “What other things? Do not worry Maester Qyburn, you will find no judgment here.”

“I-I opened the living,” he said suddenly, “All criminals I assure you, murderers mostly.” He looked at his hands a moment, “I needed to see a beating heart, a filling lung… It’s the only way to truly understand the workings of a machine as complex as the body.”

Saruman smiled to himself, perhaps Qyburn was a worthy acquisition after all, “I myself have learned much of the nature of life through some… unorthodox experiments. Perhaps when we have returned you might assist me with some of them.” He thought a moment, “I saw that you brought a number of books and scrolls, are there any you would recommend to a peer in these crafts?”

Qyburn smiled genuinely now, “Yes certainly,” he reached back into the wagon and pulled a burlap sack filled with texts up to their seat. “The fool Septons wanted to burn half of these… with the other kingdoms gone these are the only remaining copies of several of these works. They’d hoped to snuff them out forever.” He started rummaging, “I’ve got a few more common texts for reference, Maester Yandel’s “The World of Ice and Fire” of course , as well as the Seven Pointed Star…” he suddenly seemed to find what he was looking for. “As well as some more esoteric works.” He pulled a book with a wrinkled brown jacket and a terrible face carved into the cover.

In spite of himself Saruman found himself unnerved by it, but he took it from the maester anyways, he flipped through a few pages before giving up. “This is not in any language I know of, what is it?”

Qyburn took it from him, “The Necronomicon Ex Mortis, The Book of the Dead. Bound in human flesh and inked in blood, this ancient Ghiscari text contains bizarre burial rights, funeral incantations, and demon resurrection passages.” He smiled thinly, “At’s probably best not to read this one aloud. Another maester, Marwyn he was called, was helping me translate it before the Arrival.” He sighed, “It’ll never be done now, but I couldn’t bear to let Perestan or one of those other fools use it for firewood.”

Saruman was impressed, “When we return to Orthanc you’ll have to compile a reading list of those more esoteric texts for me. I think you will make a fine Maester of Orthanc.”

Qyburn smiled in turn, “Many thanks, truthfully many are nothing but hoaxes and senseless superstition, but there is great and terrible truth to some of them…”

The rest of the journey continued pleasantly enough, Qyburn was a surprising fount of knowledge about the human body and it’s functions, and they spent days talking and exchanging what they each knew. Finally after over two weeks of travel they came to the tower of Orthanc. Having been away for some time Saruman excused himself to make use of the palantir… he needed to commune with the Dark Lord.

As he stepped into the shadows of the Palantir it didn’t take him long to locate Sauron, he was like a beacon here when he chose to show himself. He felt his form float to the east. Suddenly the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, there was another here. He turned to see a tall man with dark brown hair and an eyepatch. He knew Denethor sometimes used the Palantir and chose to avoid his sight, but this stranger was no Gondorian…

“Who are you-“ the figure vanished into smoke, leaving the palantir. He frowned but then felt the presence of the eye. Instinctively he knelt, “Great Sauron I come with a request…”

Rise Wizard. What would thou ask of me?

He could feel the burning heat as though a roaring bonfire were just behind him, “I wish to breed an army of orcs, a second force you could use to crush Gondor from the North…”

Hmmm… I am intrigued, but why not simply gather the orcs of the Misty Mountains to your banner?

“They are numerous but weak Lord Sauron, they do not have discipline nor do they have the strength to fight men in the light of day.”

You would breed yourself a new race of Uruks?

“Yes my lord, they would be at least as tall and strong as men, perhaps moreso, and unafraid of the sun.” There was silence for a moment and for one frightening second he feared the Dark Lord had seen through him, but then-

What do you need for this task?

“I request that you send me a few hundred orcs, I can gather men from Dunland for the remaining stock needed.”

It will be done, look for them one week hence.

“Thank you my lord, I leave now to do your bidding.” He pulled his hand from the palantir and smiled, someday he would be the one called lord and master by even the great spirits of Middle Earth.

He quickly descended a few floors to where Qyburn was staying, the man was in a chair reading when he entered. “Maester Qyburn come, I must train you to assist me with our first project together.”

Qyburn put down the book and smiled, in spite of the topic at hand he still looked like some kindly old man, “I am at your service Lord Saruman, what project is this you desire help with?”

Saruman returned the smile, “We’re going to build a better soldier.”

He spent the rest of the day explaining the nature and history of the orc to Qyburn, as they didn’t have any on hand yet the maester was forced to take his word for most of it. “So they can be grown? Like a carrot?” the maester asked.

“Yes,” the wizard replied, “but it requires a complete and stable creature first. When we have assembled one more can be made in his image.”

Qyburn stroked his chin thinking, “So these orcs are small but fierce… and we need them bigger and smarter. You say that men’s flesh and organs can be grafted to them?”

Saruman nodded, “It is a difficult process but it will certainly be necessary, I have called for the Dunlanders to send us men that they do not want returned. We will have enough manflesh for several attempts and we will select the best of them for mass production.”

“What of animals?” Qyburn asked suddenly, “Can they be given the wings of a bird? What of the horns of a goat?”

Saruman thought about it but then shook his head, “I do not think so, to create orc men or uruks is a process that merges creatures of similar size and disposition.”

“Perhaps for a personal project someday then,” Qyburn said reluctantly.

The orcs arrived in a week as Sauron had promised. Saruman easily compelled them with his voice and his authority as a Wizard, soon they were locked in cells beneath the tower awaiting their fate.

The men of Dunland seemed more willing to resist, but the few who could withstand the power of his voice were scared into their cages by a few flashes of fire. He smiled and prepared his work table, turning to one of his servants from the Westerlands he said, “Fetch Qyburn, tell him it begins.”

Qyburn had arrived wearing a dark black robe and a cloth covering over his mouth, on his belt he had several flasks and vials of potions and poisons that Saruman knew he had spent the last week brewing. Before they started he turned to the Wizard, “It is an honor to work with you… master.”

Saruman smiled in spite of himself, “As it is with you Maester Qyburn.”

The work started slow, gathering the pieces from the men was not easy as even Saruman’s voice could not compel a man to watch his own flesh being torn, but Qyburn had stepped forward with a needle filled with a strange milky liquid that put the man immediately to sleep upon injection. When they had enough spares he sent for one of the orcs, he decided to start with a smaller one, there would be no need to use the prime subjects on a practice run.

After a time they had hewn some enough pieces from the man onto the orc that a new creature stood before them. Suddenly Qyburn stepped forward with a wet burlap sack, with a flourish he removed it and revealed a freshly dripping wolf’s head, it’s face frozen in a hateful snarl.

“I was thinking Lord Saruman, the creature could use some larger teeth…” he said as he pulled a pair of plyers from his belt and began collecting them.

Saruman laughed, “Very well my friend, I suppose it is worth a try.”

When the maester had finished replacing the teeth Saruman motioned for him to step away from the beast. “It’s life is faint, I can still order it to… LIVE!” he shouted suddenly and the creature awoke suddenly, screaming horribly. It burst free of the restraints and jumped off the table. Before Saruman could react it stopped suddenly, jerking and then falling to the ground. Qyburn went and put his finger to the thing’s throat.

“Dead, most likely a burst heart.” He sighed, “I’d worried that we’d put too large an adrenal gland in it…”

Saruman looked at the dead thing on the ground, it was big for an orc now, and it had the largest teeth any of them had ever borne… “I’ll send for more, we’re on the right course.”

Chapter Text

Tywin Looked down at the newly blossoming tree with wonder, winter truly had only lasted a few months. He could tell from the warm breeze and the greening plants that this was no false spring as they were occasionally blessed with in Westeros, this was the real thing. He was drawing up orders for the family fields to be resown when Kevan entered his study with the latest reports on the fortifications at the Banefort.

“Brother, it seems things are going better than we had hoped, the Baneforts believe the additions to the Banefort itself are to be done within the next few months and the great wall is proceeding as well.”

Tywin nodded, “Good to hear, how are they proceeding so quickly though? Gold can make men work faster but only by so much.”

Kevan handed him the letter, “Lord Banefort says he’s hired on a small party of Dwarves to be stonemasons. Apparently they’re quite skilled in these arts.”

Tywin’s brow furrowed, “Dwarves Kevan? Surely they’re more accustomed to circus performances.”

Kevan shrugged, “It seems that in these lands there is a race known as dwarves, squat and stout like the Ibbenese. They live in great caves in the mountains by all accounts.”

Tywin nodded, “Yes I seem to recall the emissary of Mordor saying something about them.” A thought suddenly struck him and he looked at the map displayed on his wall, “You don’t suppose there’s dwarves living in the mountains near to us? If the Wizard is in service to some power in Dunland or in Rohan the Banefort will hold until we can reinforce it, but against an army that comes out of the mountains…”

Kevan studied the map with him, “I know only that Lord Banefort’s dwarves have come from the Blue Mountains here,” he pointed to a small maintain range in the far northwest. “Genna mentioned something to me earlier about the Westerlings wanting to hire on some Dwarves of their own.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow, “the Westerlings? The Banefort guards the entire realm now, surely they must know I’m not paying to rebuild all of the castles in the Westerlands?”

Kevan smiled, “Well old Lord Gawen had his men stay out mining all winter and managed to bring in some gold while everyone else stopped. It seems he decided to trust the people saying winter would last three months over those who said it would last six years.”

Tywin looked out the window again, down to the green grass and leaves that colored the landscape, “A gambit that paid off it seems. Still these Dwarves are rare in these parts, I’d not have the Westerlings pull their services away from where they are needed.”

They were interrupted by Lancel, who entered abruptly without knocking, “Lord Uncle, father-“

“Lancel, I did not raise you in a barn. Do that again properly,” Kevan cut him off.

The young knight sighed and left the room, closing the door. Tywin could hear him rap the door a few times. Kevan looked to Tywin with a grin. Tywin allowed himself a very small smile, “Enter,” he said.

Lancel entered again, “There, was that so difficult?” Kevan asked.

Lancel ignored him, “Lord Uncle, Father, there is a man here claiming to be a prince of Rohan. He seems genuine enough to me but I thought it best to have you… examine him.”

The two older men exchanged glances, Tywin decided to speak, “So prince Theodred of Rohan comes himself to meet us? It seems that I have underestimated Perestan’s Maesters.”

Lancel shook his head, “No, he says his name is Eomer, but he comes with a letter from Theoden, King of Rohan.”

“Eomer is the nephew of the king and has been raised by him since childhood,” Kevan said, “Saruman told me that-“

“I’ll hear no more of the Wizard,” Tywin said. “Lancel, house prince Eomer and have him brought to the throne room at twilight.”

“Yes Uncle,” Lancel said, and left quickly.

Some time later he sat in the golden throne of Casterly Rock, he always enjoyed greeting a guest here for the first time. Between the great stained glass window behind him and the golden throne, which had sat there for thousands of years by all accounts, he always felt as though he was presenting the glory of House Lannister through the ages. Looking at the chamber at sunset he knew it was impossible not to feel awe at the history and power of the ancient line.

The great doors were opened at each end by the redcloaks, wearing their finer regalia. He could see the horselord prince enter, himself wearing a lacquered crimson and green armor set and carrying his helm by his side.

“Greetings to prince Eomer of Rohan. I am Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and hand of Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Andals and the First men,” he had to stop himself from including “Lord of the Seven Kingdoms,” but he felt that between the bright colored light that streamed in from behind him and the glowing golden throne he had made his impression.

Eomer knelt low, “Hail to Lord Paramount Tywin Lannister and King Joffrey Baratheon. I come on behalf of King Theoden of the house of Eorl, lord of Rohan and all it’s people’s to establish relations with the Westerlands."

Respectful enough, Tywin thought, but still… “I see you wear full armor to treat with me, fine though it is, do you fear attack in my halls Prince Eomer?”

Eomer suddenly seemed embarrassed, “Forgive me Lord Tywin, I spend little time in foreign courts. These are my most impressive vestiments and I thought-“

“I will see you are given a proper set of Westerosi dress robes for your stay here,” Tywin continued, “Consider it a gift.”

Eomer nodded his head, “Many thanks Lord Tywin.”

Sheltered enough from courtly politics not to see gifts as slights I see, Tywin thought, Rohan must be far more rural than Gondor or the Westerlands.

The young knight interrupted his thoughts suddenly, “Forgive my inquiry Lord Tywin, but I have heard the wizard Saruman graces your court… is there truth to these rumors?”

Tywin frowned, “No, Saruman’s counsel proved to be ill suited for my needs. He is forbidden to return here.”

Eomer smiled and it seemed a weight had been lifted from him, “A wise move your lordship, I have long suspected Saruman of certain ill activities in Rohan.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow, “Truly? We will need to discuss this further in more… private spaces.”


Eomer was silent a moment, “I suppose that wouldn’t be improper. I will say I am a Marshal of the Riddermark and some things are not to be discussed with outsiders.”

Naïve to court intrigue but still no fool, Tywin thought, “I simply wish to inquire as to the wizard’s movements so that I may determine his motives. I will not trouble you for the intimate details of Rohan’s defenses,” he assured Eomer.

Eomer nodded, “Then I see nothing wrong with the request. Where and when shall I meet you?”

Tywin thought a moment, “My solar, ensure your men are fed and housed and then come at your convenience. See my nephew Lancel, the man who greeted you, about proper attire.”

Eomer nodded and got up to leave. Tywin went to meet with Kevan briefly, he found his brother in his own apartment in the Rock, on the level just below his own.

“So is he a prince then?” His brother asked as he entered.

“A nephew of the king at any rate, I’d have you accompany me to speak with him. He knows some of Saruman’s dealings, if the Wizard moves against us in other lands I’d prefer to know.”

The two men went up the great staircase to Tywin’s personal solar, though the view from the top of the rock was magnificent the sun was setting and he knew that by the time the horselord arrived it would be too dark to see anything but the few remaining lights down in Lannisport. He lit a few of the torches on the walls, he rarely allowed servants up here, preferring privacy.

He was sitting with Kevan discussing the influence of the Faith in Lannisport when Eomer entered. Tywin noted that he wore a green silk button up shirt that appeared to have been hastily tailored. Still, it seemed to suit the man well.

“Prince Eomer, good of you to join us,” he greeted the prince and gestured for him to sit in a chair arranged across from the two brothers, “I’d hoped we could discuss the Wizard.”

Eomer nodded and sat down, without asking he poured himself a cup of the wine that was present on a small table. He quickly took a gulp and then spoke, “I’ll start by saying I have no proof of the White Wizard’s treason, only suspicion and circumstance.”

Tywin nodded, “Suspicion and circumstance are often pathways to truth. Why not start with the latter?”

Eomer sighed, “The Wizard is the master of Isengard, he was given the keys to the tower several hundred years ago by all accounts.”

“Several hundred years ago?” Kevan cut in, “surely you are mistaken-"

“I could believe this,” Tywin said suddenly, “Whatever he is it is more than a man… in a land where all seasons come in a single year anything is possible.” He left his own experience with the Wizard unsaid.

Eomer nodded, “The wizards have roamed the world for centuries, perhaps longer. Some say they are of elven blood, but it matters little for our purposes.” He took another drink, sipping instead of a great gulp this time, “Saruman’s duties included guardianship of the West, but in the past year there are reports of orcs about. The men of Dunland have also come in force to those parts in a way they haven’t in decades. At the very least the Wizard is neglecting his duties. He has also raised a great stone ring around the tower of Orthanc, I worry he is preparing it to resist us.”

Tywin took a sip of his own wine and considered this, “Can your uncle, King Theoden, not simply remove him from this post?”

Eomer sighed, “My uncle is… ill. His sickness is of the body and the mind. His counselor, Grima of the house of Galmod, fills his head with foolish advice and folly.”

Now Tywin was interested, It seems Aerys was not the only madman the gods granted a throne, “This Grima, he seeks to advance himself then?”

“More than that,” Eomer scowled, “Not only does he fill the halls of Edoras with men answering only to him, he has alienated the King’s sworn men. He has sought to pit Theodred and I against each other, but we see through him. All of these worry me little compared to the gazes he gives my sister Eowyn though.”

“He wishes for marriage to your sister?” Kevan asked, stroking his short beard.

Eomer grimaced at the thought, “She would never consent and I would never allow it.” He gripped his glass tightly.

Tywin considered this a moment, The fisherman baits his hooks again, “It sounds as though this Grima is unfit for governance. The Seven Kingdoms have been bled terribly at the hands of unfit kings and foolish advisors, perhaps a regency is in order for his grace.”

Eomer’s eyes narrowed, “You overstep Lord Tywin…”

If you won’t do it for your kingdom... “I apologize Prince Eomer, I was only thinking of your poor sister.”

Eomer stared into his cup a moment, “Can I offer you a refill?” Kevan asked, filling his own cup to the brim. Eomer nodded and though Tywin hid his emotions inwardly he smiled. Kevan had sensed his intention and knew wine would grease the wheels turning in the young prince’s head.

“Yes please,” Eomer replied, turning his cup over to the younger Lannister. “A regency would be… complicated, I do not think Theodred and I could raise the men to do it. Not without leaving the realm undefended at any rate.”

“Your plight moves me Lord Eomer, I would do all I could to help,” Tywin said.

Eomer’s eyebrows shot up, “You would send men to help guard Rohan while this matter was… settled?”

Tywin faked a sigh, “I must apologize Prince Eomer, I would provide you aid and shelter but I cannot ask my vassals to go to war for my personal feelings and friendship.”

Eomer nodded sadly, “I feared as much, you have my thanks in any case.”
“Indeed, the lords of the Westerlands will not march to war without imminent threat… or family ties of course,” Kevan said.

Eomer perked up a second, “family ties?” he asked. His speech was slightly slurred, it seemed that the wine of the Westerlands was stronger than that of Rohan as well as Gondor.

“Well if there were marriage ties between our families all would agree we would have reason to become involved,” Tywin said, making quick eye contact with his brother, who smiled at him briefly.

Eomer shook his head, “No, no… impossible…”

“Quite the contrary,” Tywin replied, “I’ve both an unmarried daughter, quite fertile I assure you, or if you desire I’ve granddaughter of the Royal Line who will come of age in just a few years.” He paused a moment, “of course my brother here has a son, Lancel. I believe he greeted you.”

Taking the cue his brother nodded, “A fine and stout lad if I do say so myself. Before being raised to knighthood he squired for King Robert Baratheon.”

Tywin cut in, “I also have a son, Jaime, known to be the finest warrior in the Westerlands and my heir.”

Eomer was silent for a time, Tywin and Kevan gave him time to think. “I could not very well save Eowyn from Grima by wedding her to a stranger,” he sighed, “Perhaps Theodred or myself…” He looked at his cup and then set it down, when Kevan moved to refill it he shook his head, declining the offer. “Things are not so bad in Edoras that these drastic measures are necessary. I thank you for your offer and I will pass it to my cousin Theodred.” He paused, “These words cannot leave this room,” he said suddenly.

“Of course, secrecy is a necessity in such matters,” Tywin said, “wouldn’t you agree Kevan?”

His brother nodded, “Nothing of this will leave our lips.”

Eomer looked at them and nodded, “I grow weary, by your leave I would retire to my chambers…”

“You have my leave,” Tywin said, doing his best kindly smile. Judging from Kevan’s reaction it probably needed more work.

After the prince had gone he and Kevan discussed the potential of an alliance with Rohan, “He would be reliant on us to stay in power,” Kevan said, “It would be ideal.”

Tywin nodded, swirling his wine slowly. “We could also work towards evicting the Wizard from Orthanc, I share Eomer’s suspicions. A man who builds a fortress expects a siege, he has been planning something since before The Arrival-“

They were interrupted by a sudden frantic knock on the door. Tywin frowned, Who could that be at this hour? “Enter,” he said.

It was maester Creylen, he had long served Casterly Rock though he’d never provided any words of advice Tywin had found particularly helpful, “Maester Creylen it is late, whatever has happened perhaps it can wait until-“

“It’s Jaime Lord Tywin,” the maester said, “He’s...” Tywin could see the man’s hands shaking and suddenly his blood ran cold.

“Out with it!” he suddenly roared.

The maester collected himself, “A raven has come from Minas Tirith from Lord Tyrion… Ser Jaime has been murdered by the men of Gondor.”
The shocked silence was broken by the sound of Tywin’s cup hitting the floor.

Chapter Text

Cersei had found Minas Tirith to be a pleasant surprise, never had she been in a city so large that was so clean. Even Lannisport, with it’s great sewers leading out to sea could not manage this level of hygiene. The people were not only respectful, but they seemed to genuinely enjoy her presence. When she had occasionally walked the streets of King’s Landing the people had stopped and stared, occasionally there was some bowing or some cheers in the more well to do areas, but she was at best a spectacle to them. When she walked among the people of Minas Tirith she felt the way a queen should feel, flower petals were often thrown on her path and people bowed and curtsied with a smile. Vendors would often rush forward offering food or clothing as a token of their esteem, and improper though it was she found herself telling her guards to allow them to approach.

The only drawback was her fitful sleep, not knowing Joffrey’s whereabouts had haunted her the entire journey. At least Tommen was at the Rock, and though she knew her father would be forcing the poor boy to practice the sword at least she took solace in the fact that he wouldn’t be harmed. Joffrey though… On the way to Minas Tirith she’d asked one of the men from Dol Amroth about what was to the North of where the Westerlands now was. He’d told her it was nothing but wastes, she took a little comfort in that for she trusted Clegane to be more of a killer than anything in the woods, but still she wondered what had possessed him to go.

She’d told Jaime of Joffrey’s departure on the first night. She’d hoped to convince him to leave in pursuit of the boy, to that end she had brought him two gifts. The first she’d given him between the bedsheets on the first night of her arrival. The second she hoped would perhaps be more convincing.

She’d invited him back to her chambers one morning and brought him over to a chest she’d had brought all the way from Casterly Rock, “Jaime,” she said, “You are the only one who can bring Joffrey home. Will you not go to your son?”

He laughed, “Cersei, from what you’ve told me Devan has already gone for him. By the time I get to Enedwaith to begin searching they’ll probably have found him already. Besides, Clegane is with him and the Hound is hardly going to let a bear gobble the boy up.”

She frowned, “Don’t joke about such things…” She sighed, “I have brought you something I think might convince you otherwise.” With a flourish she opened the trunk revealing what appeared to be a pile of rags.

“Impressive,” Jaime said with a sarcastic smile.

She sighed, “Underneath them Jaime, I didn’t want anyone to know I had it…”

He reached down and pulled them aside, the sudden glint of steel underneath made him pause suddenly before pulling a great sheet aside revealing the greatsword. It bore a roaring lion engraved on the pommel, and the brilliant rippled patterns gave it away as Valyrian steel.

“Brightroar,” Jaime whispered, “Cersei, how?”

She smiled, pleased with his reaction. “Uncle Gerion’s ship, the first day of the arrival it crashed into a beach outside the rock… it was with his body, I pried it from his cold dead hands and secreted it away.” She touched his face fondly, “There is only one man in all the world worthy of wielding this blade, and I love him.”

Jaime lifted it up and hefted it in his hands, “I’m not used to greatswords, I’ll need to practice with it… it’s so light.” He mock swung it a few times.

Cersei rolled her eyes, “A sword’s a sword isn’t it?”

Jaime shook his head, “No, I typically use a longsword and a shield.” He thought a minute, “Boromir! He could teach me to use this.”

Cersei’s smile faded, “There will be time for that when you’ve returned Joffrey home perhaps.”

He looked at her uncomfortably, “Cersei, there is nothing I can do for Joffrey now, sword or no. In any case what would our hosts think if I left so suddenly?”

“Damn what they think!” She shouted suddenly, “your son needs you!”

He put the flat of the sword over his shoulder, “Cersei, I’m sorry, but Joffrey will return either with Daven or on his own, not with me.”

She stared at him angrily as he left, with a huff she decided to find Myrcella and prepare a new set of garments for them. Word around the city was that Tyrion would be returning soon and the Steward was planning to host him a banquet as he had for the other two Lannister siblings. She cared little for the imp, but she still wanted to impress the knights and ladies of Minas Tirith.

Some hours later she joined several of the royal ladies of Minas Tirith at the practice yard. While the Gondorian ladies were in many ways more sophisticated than their counterparts in King’s Landing she had found that Jaime and Boromir’s bouts before the white tree had introduced the contagion of watching men at arms practice their arts. She sighed as she watched the several ladies enter. At least they’d brought proper fans, it wasn’t yet warm in the White City but a fan bearing a house sigil was an important part of any lady’s wear even in Spring. Looking about she saw the flowers of Lossnach, the Swan-ship of Dol Amroth, many white trees of Minas Tirith… and one bearing the clams of House Westerling.

With a frown she walked over the brown haired girl, “That’s no banner of Gondor,” she said.

With a flourish the girl lowered the fan, “My apologies Queen Mother Cersei, I meant no deception. I am Jeyne Westerling, of the Crag. I do not believe we have met.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed, “As the Gondorians say well met Jeyne Westerling. I was not aware any other Westerosi ladies had traveled so far afield.”

She blushed, “Well my mother wanted to ask your Lord Father permission, but my father insisted I travel here over the winter,” she said with a smile.

The fool girl doesn’t even know what her father wants, and less why her mother counsels against it, Cersei thought, “I see, I’ll have to write about you in my next letter home.” It was a veiled threat but the girl seemed oblivious.

“Oh that would be wonderful!” the girl said smiling, “The maester Lord Tywin sent here says the ravens are still being trained, it may be some time before they are available for non-emergency use.”

Cersei smiled, the gesture filled with false niceties, “It will wait then, but it will go out eventually.”

Jaime and Boromir entered the small practice field now, Cersei noted that where normally there was a chalk ring to mark the boundaries today there were only four wooden posts to mark the general combat area. Jaime unsheathed Brightroar, it’s strange rippled pattern causing a gasp to go up among the assembled ladies.

Boromir stared, “Jaime, where did you find such a blade?” he asked incredulously.

Jaime laughed, “’Twas delivered to me by an angel bright and fair.”

Boromir grinned, “Now I know why you wanted to practice with greatswords today…” Boromir drew his own sword, the finest Gondor had to offer, “I suspect you’ll be wanting a refresher?”

With a grin Jaime nodded, “I haven’t used a greatsword regularly since my days as a squire for old Sumner Crakehall, he was fond of certain legends and liked all his squires to use a two handed sword at least a few times.”

Boromir’s eyebrow raised, “Certain legends Ser Jaime?”

Jaime shrugged, “The tale of the Big Goron’s sword is popular in Crakehall, during the Age of Heroes a young lad supposedly traded a number of items, each only slightly greater in value than the last, until he could convince a legendary smith to grant him a greatsword so sharp it could cleave boulders in two.”

“Seems like a lot of work just for a sword that won’t break,” Boromir said with a laugh.

“My thoughts exactly, but it’s passed into story now and everyone in Crakehall’s lands says it’s better than any legend that came after it,” Jaime replied, “But enough of that nonsense, tell me how a man uses one of these things!”

Boromir slowly approached with his own greatsword, “The first principle of a two-handed sword is that reach is your shield, if the foe comes at you with greater armor than your own you must kill him before he reaches you.”

Jaime nodded, “I’d guessed as much, but what if a man is inside one’s reach?”

Boromir moved quickly to Jaime, who allowed him to do so without resistance, and put his blade against Brightroar. “You must use the guard and the pommel to catch an enemy blade and put it in a position where you can strike the foe but he cannot strike you.” He paused a minute looking at Jaime’s golden armor, “against an armored foe you thrust with all your might to pierce it, against the less protected enemy a great blow from such a sword is a quick way to end any fight.”

Jaime nodded, “Well and good, but I’ve always learned best by doing, let’s have a round.”

The two men circled each other to the oohing and ahhing of the ladies, It didn’t take them long to learn this game, Cersei thought, Any of them would be begging for marriage to the winner of even the smallest tournament in Westeros. Suddenly Boromir lunged forward and brought his sword up in a great strike that was to come down on Jaime’s shoulder. With a quick move Jaime blocked the strike, sending sparks into the air.

“Like this?” Jaime asked as he suddenly shifted his weight to bring Boromir’s blade in contact with the guard of Brightroar.

“Yes!” Boromir said smiling, “You were meant for the sword Jaime,” he suddenly leapt backwards, an impressive feat in full armor, and now stood just beyond Jaime’s reach. “Come on, try it on the attack!”

Jaime grinned and swung his full body weight in a vicious upward swing against Boromir’s sword. The Gondorian for his part easily moved to block it, but then with a strange ripping noise Brightroar tore completely through the Captain’s sword.

The ladies, who had been gossiping amongst themselves, suddenly fell quiet, and Boromir looked at his stump of a blade for a moment silently. Jaime had stopped the attack, staring in wonder.

“Jaime… that is one hell of a sword,” Boromir said, “Is it dwarf forged? Has some Elven smith decided to sell his wares here in Minas Tirith?”

With a smile he handed the sword to Boromir for examination, “Valyrian steel, nothing holds an edge like it, you could chop a tree in half and it would still be just as sharp.”

“It’s so light,” Boromir said with wonder, “If you won’t tell me where you got yours will you tell me where I can get my own?”

With a flourish Jaime sheathed the blade, “Nowhere now, the technique for making it was lost long ago and the blades were rare even in Westeros. Brightroar here might be the last one left in all the world.”

“Unfortunate,” the Gondorian replied, “I could’ve used a blade like that. In the future though it is perhaps better not to practice with it,” he pointed to his ruined sword, “I can’t afford to lose a blade every time we spar.”

Jaime smiled, “noted.”

They were preparing for a new round when a man ran up the stairs to the courtyard level, “Ser Jaime, Lord Boromir, Faramir and a company of Lannister men are approaching Osgiliath.”

“That must be Tyrion, will you go with me to greet him Boromir?” Jaime asked.

“Certainly, at any rate I need to find out why Faramir is back so soon, come let’s go see them,” Boromir replied.

As they walked to the stables the assembled ladies began to disperse in pairs, gossiping about seeing Jaime’s sword. Cersei seethed, for she was certain not all of them meant the sword in his hands.

“Will you come with us Cersei?” Her annoyance was interrupted by Jaime.
She shook her head, “No I think I’ll pass on greeting the imp, I’ll be forced to endure his presence tonight at dinner no doubt.”

Jaime sighed and walked away. With a huff she retired to her apartment in the tower of the sun, Myrcella was gone when she arrived, and Cersei remembered that she was off with a number of other young girls who were all attempting to learn the harp from some noblewoman or another. She decided to pour herself a goblet of wine.

She was brooding over Jaime’s refusal to go after Joffrey when her door opened. Expecting her daughter she turned and was surprised to see Tyrion standing there alone. She gave a false smile, “Tyrion, I suppose having seen the beauty of House Lannister it is only fair to show them the beast as well.”

Strangely he returned her grin, walking toward her with a confidence she didn’t think she’d ever seen in the little man. “Yes I am quite beastly aren’t I? “The imp” isn’t that what they called me at court?” he poured himself a cup of wine from Cersei’s pitcher, “Cersei, sister… I’ve come to ask you a rather personal question.”

Oh this will be good, She thought to herself, “And what might that be?”

“Why have you always hated me?”

The question took her aback, but she wasted no time answering it, “Your birth killed my mother, and instead of having the decency to die you grew into… into.”

“An imp?”

“Yes.” She said glowering at him.

He sighed, “I never knew our mother, sometimes I hated her because everyone blamed me for her death… sometimes I blamed myself.” He paused a moment and Cersei wondered if he would shed a tear, he didn’t.

“Die then, go and rid the world of your wretched self,” she spat.

He looked at her angrily now, “I don’t know what I hoped to accomplish speaking to you, for all that you are cruel you are my sister and I’d hoped to have some account with you…” He got up and walked toward the door, when he reached it he turned and looked her dead in the eyes, “The Valonqar comes Cersei.” She stared in shock as he left the room.

Chapter Text

Tyrion looked out over the city of Minas Tirith, the Steward had provided him an apartment in the tower of the Sun and the balcony provided a spectacular view. It was a crisp clear spring night carrying a lingering winter chill but not to a degree that made the outdoors uncomfortable. He swirled his wine a little in his cup and stared at the low lights flickering below, the sight calmed him somehow.

It was the eve of his final victory, the revenge for an entire lifetime of scorn and humiliation. He knew he should feel excitement, jubilation, perhaps fear or trepidation… but as he watched the dancing flames of thousands of lives he just felt empty, even the wine seemed tasteless. His eyes lingered on the ring he now wore on his right hand and he felt his mind slip back to Minas Morgul.

It was all still somewhat blurry to him, but he remembered enough. The first day in the Tower of the Moon had been the worst. He had awoken strapped bodily to a great table, cruel curved blades hung on the walls and through a skylight the pale white light illuminated the room revealing a pair of figures there.

“The little lion is awake I see,” he recognized the Mouth of Sauron. Turning to the other, a great hooded man in a dark black robe, he felt a sudden chill and then absolute terror. “Tell me Tyrion Lannister, what do you know of fear?” The Mouth asked.

Finding his voice he piped up, “W-What is the meaning of this? I am an envoy! Do you want war you fool?”

Now the hooded figure approached him and drew back the covering, upon seeing what lay underneath Tyrion gasped and then screamed in horror. Where a head should have been two great flaming eyes stared into him, and a black jagged crown sat above them.

“I am the Witch-King of Angmar, lord of the Nazgul.” His voice was a deep dark rumbling thing, hearing it made him feel as though gravel were being dragged over his heart.

Tyrion struggled futilely, “I do not care who you are, my father will-“

“The first lesson I shall teach you is that you are beyond help now. Call to your friends and allies, few will hear and none will come.” Before Tyrion could say anything the being touched a finger to his forehead and a terrible icy pain wracked his entire body.

As he writhed in pain he cried out, “JAIME!”

“Your brother is not here Tyrion” another great shock, his arms strained against his bonds.

“BRONN! BRONN SAVE ME!”

“Why would he come for you? He is only a sellsword, a whore with a blade.” He removed his glove revealing a smoky skeletal hand, “whores are not your friends Lord Tyrion, they desire your gold and nothing more.” He touched Tyrion’s forehead causing a scream that nearly broke his voice, the touch of that hand made the first two shocks feel like a lover’s kiss.

“My father…” Tyrion wimpered, “he’ll kill you all… kill you all…”

“He would thank us for ridding him of you.”

Tyrion just sobbed, he knew on some level it was true. His father hadn’t marched to war for him, he’d marched to war for House Lannister. Jaime was the only one in his family who’d ever shown him anything resembling kindness.

As if reading his thoughts the Mouth spoke, “Is your brother really any better?”

Tyrion sniffed and did his best to blink tears from his eyes, “Jaime does care for me, and when he hears what you’ve done here he will make you pay for this.”

The Mouth laughed, “Will he now? Your pain is merely a demonstration of Sauron’s power.” He grinned broadly, “Lord Tyrion the great eye sees many things, even things of your world past…” he smiled, “Fire and blood, that’s what befell the Seven Kingdoms in your absence… but I suppose that is irrelevant now.” He withdrew something from within his black robes, Tyrion could see it was a gold ring with a square blue stone set in it. “The Dark Lord is prepared to give you many gifts once you have entered his service, this first among them.”

“I think I can afford my own tasteless jewelry thank you-,“ he was cut off by the Mouth swiftly forcing the ring onto his finger.

There was a sound like rushing water and suddenly he felt… he wasn’t sure, it was like the careless confidence of drunkenness tenfold, but instead of clouded he felt a mental clarity he hadn’t in ages. He took in a deep breath, he turned to the two in the room and he could see the Witch King in full now, a great white ghostly figure that glowed in the room’s low light. He gasped.

“You see now that I am beyond life and death,” he said, “in time you may earn this form…”

Instead of fear Tyrion now felt wonder, “immortality… how?”

“The ring Lord Tyrion, it brings greatness of mind, body, spirit… and power beyond compare.” He pulled a small dagger from the wall and cut through Tyrion’s bonds. “The Master has watched you Lord Tyrion, you have the potential to be great among men if you will only accept the chance.”

Tyrion sat up rubbing his wrists, “Was the torture necessary to give me this offer?” he spat.

“You are whole are you not?” The Nazgul said, “It is the easiest way to ensure that you know your place and cooperate.”

“I suppose I can forgive it once in light of this,” he said looking at the ring, even as he said it he felt his mind moving faster. He studied the Witch King’s form, “The ring… it lets one see the unseen?”

“It allows mortal eyes to see the spirit world, though it will be many years before you can enter it yourself,” The witch king replied.

“Now you see the true glory of the Lord of the Rings,” the Mouth said, “the folly of those who oppose him, and the rewards that await those who serve him faithfully.” He paused a moment, “Will you serve him faithfully Lord Tyrion?”

Tyrion looked at the ring on his finger, it was… pleasing to say the least. “What does he desire? I could be persuaded to assist Mordor if there are proper incentives.”

“You will bring the Westerlands to war with Gondor and her allies, between our forces we will crush them and all of Middle Earth will fall under the shadow of Mordor,” Somehow he could see it, the great streaming lion banners of House Lannister, him at the head of an army, the white tree of Minas Tirith burning.

Tyrion frowned, “I’m afraid that my father is unlikely to march to war on my word alone.”

“If the Dark Lord believed your father was up to this task the ring would have been presented to him. You will rule the Westerlands in the Dark Lord’s name, you will lead it’s armies to victory against the men of Gondor,” the Mouth said, “The eye does not make mistakes.”

Tyrion was silent a moment, “Then the Dark Lord’s plans include the death of my father?”

“They do.”

He stroked his chin, “I’ve thought about it many times…” his mind went to Jaime, “My brother, I’d not have him harmed… Even if I agreed to this madness how am I to succeed my father when I am not his eldest son?”
“Sir Jaime is not the friend you believe him to be Lord Tyrion…”

He looked to the Witch-King, the pale form still unnerved him but did not prevent his anger from coming through, “Do not speak ill of Jaime, he has been my only true friend, the only person in my entire life who cared for me instead of my gold.”

“You lie Tyrion Lannister, there was another,” The witch-king quickly reached forward to touch his forehead again, this time instead of pain a vision flashed before his eyes. He saw himself as a boy, Jaime too, riding alongside a road.

He recognized the scene, “I don’t want to see this, stop.”

The witch king made no reply and the scene continued as it had in his memory. The pale young girl on the side of the road, the group of strange men attacking her, the small scuffle as Jaime had driven them off. He watched with sadness as he saw himself look into Tysha’s blue eyes for the first time.

“I’ll do whatever you want, please just don’t make me live through this again!”

The scene progressed, he married her in a small sept outside Lannisport, only Jaime as a witness and an old half blind Septon to officiate. There had been brief happiness… then his father’s men had come. They’d taken her, one by one, as he was forced to watch. Each paying a silver coin to her. His father had made him do so last, giving her a gold coin for the deed.

“A Lannister is worth more than a commoner Tyrion, remember that,” the shade of his father said.

“And why would he do this Lord Tyrion?” the Witch-King appeared next to him, “Why would they take away the only one who ever loved you?”

“She never loved me,” Tyrion said bitterly, “she loved my coin and the promise of more to come.”

“Tyrion you will find in time that the power of your ring will let you divine truths even when presented with lies… for now I shall do it for you.”
Suddenly they were at the Rock, Jaime and his father were yelling at each other.

“Father they love each other, you must not do this!” Jaime shouted

“Jaime a member of House Lannister, even a stunted one such as him, cannot be wasted on a commoner. It would be an embarrassment that would last generations,” his father said sternly, “Tyrion is in need of a harsh lesson for this folly.”

“I will not-“

“You will,” his father cut Jaime off, “Tell him that this girl was a common whore. That will end this pathetic infatuation and hopefully lead your fool brother to act with more wisdom in the future.”

Suddenly they were back in the Tower of the Moon. Tyrion fell to his knees, “Jaime… he told Jaime to tell me she was a whore, that means-“

“She was as she appeared,” The Witch-King finished for him, “A girl who loved you, and they took that love from you out of pettiness.”

Tyrion began crying again, “Go! Leave me!” Without a word the Nazgul and the Mouth left the tower, leaving him in darkness. He’d brooded and cried on and off until night came, leaving him to collapse into physical and emotional exhaustion. Even in his sleep his anger and sadness roared through his dreams, a cruel burning feeling that poisoned his mind.

He awoke to the sound of the tower door opening, sitting up he saw the Witch-King enter without the Mouth this time.

“What now Lord Tyrion? Will you accept your place at the Dark Lord’s side?”

“Yes,” he seethed, “I’ll kill them all, Jaime, Father…” in spite of his anger he thought a moment, “Cersei too, perhaps my whole family.” He laughed suddenly, a mad cackling sound, “My father took what I loved, he loves his precious family name more than anything, I’ll take that from him I think.”

“Good, arrangements will be made in preparation for your return… you will find that all you desire awaits you Lord Tyrion… gold, women,”

“Golden women?” Tyrion asked sarcastically, “Spare me, when I rule the Westerlands I will not need Sauron to give me such trifles, all I need from him is revenge.” He thought a moment, “We will need the Westerlands lords to march to war under my father, it would be some time before I could gather them as he could…”

“And how will you do this?” The nazgul asked.

Tyrion smiled, “Jaime, he and Cersei are in Gondor now. If he dies there my father will raise it to the ground… and bring himself right to me.” He laughed madly though a few tears still came through, “The battlefield can be such a dangerous place, even for a commander.”

“An attempt on your brother’s life was already made by one of our clumsier servants… We have learned he is strong, and he is in the heart of Minas Tirith. It will not be easy.”

“Jaime is the finest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms,” Tyrion spat, “I’ve won more than my share of gold betting on him in tourneys and more than his share of men have died after betting their lives they could match him on the battlefield.” He smiled evilly, “But he is not a clever man, a knife in the shadows? He would never see it coming.”

He spent the rest of the day with the Witch-King planning his visit to Minas Tirith. He would make sure Jaime died there. Cersei would die too, there was a part of him that had wanted to force her to live in a world without Jaime or any of her children, but ultimately it would be for the best to dispose of her there.

He had a thought, “I think I’ll tell my father about Jaime and Cersei before I kill him,” he said suddenly, “I want to see the light leave his eyes, that his precious son fucked his own sister right before I choke the life from him.”

“A fitting reward for one who treated you so cruelly,” The Witch-King replied.

With a sigh he let his mind return to the present in Minas Tirith. Now that he had seen Jaime, the cocky smile and golden hair, he had felt less sure of his plan… but every time he was about to confront his brother a voice whispered in his ear, ”remember Tysha” and his anger would return.

He’d been able to find the courage to see Cersei alone, in spite of everything she was his sister and he’d hoped to have some final words with her before he carried out his plan… if anything she’d only made him more committed to his course. He smiled remembering his final words to her, that same voice had whispered just the right thing to say. He knew the word Valonqar held some significance to her, but he didn’t particularly care what it was so long as it upset her.

Jaime though… He sighed and drained his cup. The die was cast, the letter sent. Jaime would pay, his father would pay, the whole gods-damned world would pay. He saw the first light of dawn beginning to break over the horizon. He heard a lumbering noise and then the door to his chamber opened, he turned to see Gregor Clegane in his full armor.

“It’s nearly time Lord Tyrion,” the mountain said.

He smiled thinly, “Yes, I suppose we should get to our own positions. Is our escape route secured?”

Gregor nodded, smiling at the prospect of blood being spilled, “Everything is prepared as you ordered, we should be able to get through the gates and past the outer wall by the time they know what we’ve done.”

“Good,” Tyrion said, “You will receive all that is promised and more Ser Clegane.” The big knight nodded and left the room. He looked at the lion engraved on the side of his cup, “Hear me Roar,” he whispered to himself.

Chapter Text

Jaime was hoping to see Tyrion and talk more of his travels in Mordor, but it seemed the little man had been busy every time he’d tried. That morning he’d gone to his brother’s chambers to find he was already gone.

“Must’ve spent the night in a whorehouse somewhere,” Jaime muttered to himself. He turned to walk back outside trying to decide the best way to spend the day. He passed Clegane and a few fellows he didn’t recognize practicing in the yard, he waved at them politely. Clegane returned the wave with a smile, odd since Jaime couldn’t recall ever seeing him do so when a man wasn’t about to die. He put it out of his mind and went to find Boromir.

The Gondorian was two levels down inspecting one of the trebuchets that lined the walls of the White City, “You don’t need to wear armor to operate a trebuchet,” he heard Boromir saying.

The soldier he was talking to shifted uncomfortably, “but Captain, what of stray arrows or orcs that breach the walls?”

Boromir sighed, “Look, it slows you down in an area where your speed is more important than being able to take a glancing blow from a blade. If the orcs breach the walls you’ll have plenty of time to run to the armory and suit up. Do you think the enemy is going to fly up here somehow and fight you?”

The soldier looked at the ground, “No sir,”

“Good, resume your duties.” He turned to see Jaime, glancing back to see the man had gone back to his post by the trebuchet he shook his head, “The men on the trebuchets all want to wear shining armor while the young ladies walk by,” He grinned suddenly, “I believe it’s your sister that leads them in such processions isn’t it?”

Jaime returned the smile, “Yes that sounds like her, I’ve heard there’s a fellow somewhere down on the third level who makes a living selling those ridiculous fans now.” Their conversation was interrupted by the approach of Bronn the sellsword.

“Ser Jaime,” he said bowing slightly, “Lord Boromir, I come with a message from your father and brother, they need to meet with you immediately.”

Boromir’s brow furrowed, “That’s odd, did they say what we needed to discuss?”

“Only that you must see them right now,” Bronn replied.

“Where are they?” Boromir asked.

“A gatehouse one level up from here, I’m to take you to them.”

The Gondorian nodded, “Very well, lead on.” He turned to Jaime suddenly, “Jaime would you inspect the trebuchet for me?”

Jaime frowned, “I know little of the workings-“

“Just have the crew mock-fire a few times to make sure it all works,” Boromir said as he walked away.

Jaime sighed and turned to the crewman, who was now wearing plain leathers instead of shining armor, “Well get your men then, I suppose we should do as he asks.”

They operated the trebuchet a few times until he dismissed them out of boredom. He milled about for some time waiting for Boromir to come back until a short man with dark hair whom he didn’t recognize approached him.

“Are you ser Jaime?” the man asked.

“I am, and what is your business with me?” He replied, arms crossed.

“I am a messenger hired by your sister to bring you this,” he said, his accent was odd, but Jaime paid it no mind. The man quickly produced a small scroll with a wax lion seal on it.

Jaime was about to fish a coin from his pocket to tip the man but the messenger quickly turned and left without a word, “Strange fellow,” Jaime muttered to himself. He tore the seal from the scroll and looked over it.

Jaime,
Meet me in my chambers. Come alone.

He smiled and felt his loins stirring, he looked one last time for Boromir before beginning the journey back to the Tower of the Sun.

He walked through the outer courtyard containing the tree, Clegane was still sparring with the men from earlier, though he did not greet Jaime this time. He pushed open the great doors to the throne room and immediately saw Cersei seated on the stewards throne, “Jaime! It’s a –“

“Oh that’s enough of that I think,” he heard Tyrion’s voice, his younger brother was seated on the throne of Gondor itself. At his command a man garbed in black robes placed his hand over Cersei’s mouth silencing her.

Jaime looked around confused, suddenly seeing several bodies around the room, four redcloaks he knew to be Cersei’s personal guards, as well as two of the winged-helmet wearing citadel guard. From behind pillars and columns men appeared, dressed in those same black robes which covered their faces save for their eyes. They wore curved scimitars and each had a bow over his back as well. Jaime counted perhaps a dozen in total.

“Tyrion, what the hell is this?” he asked shocked.

Tyrion smiled, “Why Jaime, surely someone so used to betrayal can recognize it when he sees it?”

Now Jaime drew his sword, “Clegane!” he yelled, “Get in here!” He turned expecting to see the Mountain coming to his aid but instead Gregor approached the doors and pulled them back shut, a wicked smile on his face.

“Clegane is going to make sure we’re able to finish this little conversation in peace,” Tyrion said with a smile. He looked at Jaime’s blade, “Why don’t you drop that, a blade in your hand is a blade at our dear sister’s throat brother.”

Jaime saw the man at Cersei’s side produce a dagger and move it dangerously close to Cersei’s neck. With a scowl he dropped the blade, one of the men scurried forward and took it.

“I can’t believe I ever called you brother,” Jaime spat, “Is the Rock so important to you that you’d resort to kinslaying for it?”

Tyrion laughed madly, “The Rock? Piss on the Rock, I don’t care for it any more than you do. No Jaime, this is revenge, revenge for what you and father did to my wife.”

Jaime’s blood ran cold, his wife? “Tyrion, Tysha was-“

“A whore? Spare me Jaime, I know the truth. She’s the only woman who saw me as anything more than an easy source of coin. And you… you were my brother Jaime, you were my sword and my shield.” Tyrion’s eyes were filling with tears now, he wiped some away causing the blue stone in his ring to glimmer brightly in the morning sun filtering in from the great skylights above. “The only man I could ever truly call my friend…”

Jaime felt a deep shame, desperate to say something, anything, he started, “Tyrion-“

“No!” His brother screamed, “You don’t get to talk today, you don’t get to make excuses… Kill him, Kill him now!” At his word a number of the black robed men rushed forward, swords drawn, there was a piteous scream from Cersei that cut through the man’s hand.

Jaime looked around frantically, noticing a brazier on the wall he ran to it and quickly pulled the torch free, desperate to have a weapon in hand, even if it was just a piece of wood. Brightroar, he thought suddenly, it’s in my chamber. Does Tyrion know about it? Deciding it was his only chance he hurled the unlit torch as hard as he could at the approaching man nearest to the hallway that led to the tower. With a sick cracking sound it made contact with his forehead, At least they’re not wearing armor, Jaime thought as he bolted towards the hall.

“You can’t hide from me Jaime!” Tyrion’s enraged voice echoed behind him and he could hear several of the men’s footsteps racing just a few paces back. As he reached the door to his room he burst through the door with such force that it ripped off it’s hinges with a great crashing sound bringing him to the floor with it. Looking about frantically he saw Brightroar, still sheathed, leaning against his nightstand. He scrambled to his feet, the first of the men was inside the door now, he grabbed the sheathed greatsword and brutally swung it like a club into the man’s face. He could hear the crunch of the hooded man’s nose breaking and his foe staggered back, blocking the doorway.

He took the opportunity to unsheathe the Valyrian blade. With a roar he plunged it into the man’s chest and he dropped. By now the other two men that had chased him were there and Jaime brought his sword up and then down swiftly in a chopping motion towards the nearest one's head. The man quickly moved to parry his strike, but his eyes briefly registered shock as Brightroar cut the Eastern steel in half before continuing to cleave his head in two.

The other man saw his chance and moved to slash at Jaime’s belly while the greatsword was still buried in his comrade’s head, but Jaime simply let go of Brightroar and quickly caught the man’s wrist before he could complete the swing. With his other arm he elbowed the man in the face, staggering him and causing him to drop the blade, a strong kick sent him to the ground. Jaime picked up the scimitar and with a downward thrust planted it firmly in the man’s ribcage, he rasped a wet death rattle as he breathed his last.

He turned to pull Brightroar out of the skull of the first attacker, and after wiping the blade on the dead man’s black robe he walked back towards the throne room.

“Time to go finish that little talk,” he muttered to himself.

Chapter Text

Faramir and his father had met in a gatehouse on the sixth level of the white city, the citadel itself was being used to house all three of the Lannister siblings and his father the Steward had hoped that Tyrion could be apprehended without alarming Jaime and Cersei. Though lore on the topic was scarce the hope was that removing the ring from the little man would end whatever corruption Sauron had planted in him. If not… well Gandalf could come quickly and if he proved too troublesome to hold a blade could come quicker still. Faramir grimaced at the thought, he’d liked Tyrion Lannister, but that friendship would be only the latest the war had stolen from him.

Boromir and Bronn entered, his father nodded in approval to see that Boromir was wearing ceremonial armor already, “Good, you’re prepared for a fight.”

Boromir frowned, “And who exactly are we fighting?”

“Tyrion Lannister bears one of the rings of power,” Denethor replied.

Boromir gasped, “The one?” he whispered.

Denethor sighed, “No, most likely one of the Seven. In any case the corruption has started, we must remove it from him. At best he merely acts as a spy for the enemy, at worst a knife in the dark inside our own walls.”

Boromir nodded, “So we’re going to march up to the Tower of the Sun and take it then?”

“Yes, Faramir believes he’s snuck someone or something into the city… as usual your brother’s reports carry much wild speculation.”

Boromir looked to him, “What do you base this claim on Faramir?”

“I found a number of empty barrels in a wagon that supposedly contained Westerlands wine, it was brought up to the citadel stables on the orders of Tyrion Lannister shortly after he arrived.”

Boromir stroked his chin, “That does sound suspicious, but if we take him unawares he won’t have time to gather whoever or whatever he’s brought. Let’s go.”

The small party walked as one through the second level, it was mostly homes of wealthy merchants and noble houses, so there were few on the streets during the day. They were almost to the stairs leading to the top level when Faramir heard a familiar deep booming voice.

“Well now, where’re the Steward’s sons and a sellsword off to?” Lyle Crakehall said.

Looking to his side Faramir saw the strongboar seated at a bench alongside the road, a wineskin on one side and Shagga the clansmen to the other.

“Seems to Shagga that they are off to a fight,” the mountain man said as he took the wine from Crakehall. He took a deep swig.

“What in the seven hells are you two fools doing here?” Bronn asked impatiently.

“Queen Mother Cersei often walks past here with her lady friends, Shagga and I had nothing else to do so we thought we’d perhaps greet them here and offer to be their escorts,” the strongboar said with a grin.

Faramir noticed that Crakehall was wearing a full set of armor which had been polished to a point where the party’s reflection could be seen in it, the boar of house Crakehall engraved on the front being the only imperfection. For his part Shagga was wearing a silk shirt, though the buttons strained to contain his bulk. His hair was combed and his beard was braided, but this just made him seem even more out of place somehow. He had one of his axes with him, and like Crakehall’s armor it had been thoroughly polished.

Bronn scowled, “look, we’re on important business, you two get out of here.”

Crakehall frowned, “you don’t own the street sellsword.”

“No but he does,” he jerked a thumb back at Denethor, who was approaching from the rear of the party.

“What is the meaning of this delay? Are these men in league with Lord Tyrion?” the steward asked.

Crakehall and Shagga laughed at that, “Hell no,” Crakehall said, “I’m never doing anything for that little cunt ever again. You lot going after him?”

Faramir shifted uncomfortably, “Lord Tyrion is… unwell. We need to apprehend him and get him the help he needs.”

Crakehall and Shagga looked to one another and then stood up in unison, “Now look, if that’s some sort of euphemism Shagga and I are not fancy folk, just say what you mean.”

Shagga nodded in agreement, “Halfman owes Shagga gold, you will not hurt him until he has paid Shagga.”

Denethor gave an annoyed sigh, “We will take him alive, if the two of you assist in this I can promise you will be rewarded and likely have the thanks of his father too once word of this reaches him.”

Crakehall nodded, “Seems reasonable to me, that little bastard hasn’t been right since we left Mordor. We’ll help you grab him.” He looked to Shagga who nodded in agreement, “It’s settled then, where’s he at?”

“Follow me,” Boromir said, taking a position at the head of the party. The group marched up the stairs to the citadel, Shagga and Crakehall now on their flanks. In the courtyard Gregor Clegane stood in his great armor, sword and shield at his side, along with five other men wearing the scaled armor and curved helms that Faramir recognized as Easterling work.

Seeing them approach Clegane closed his helm, hiding his face, “I’m afraid Lord Tyrion is having a private conversation with his brother, you’ll have to come back another time.”

Jaime, Faramir thought frantically, he means to murder Jaime! “Ser Clegane you are outnumbered, stand aside and I promise no harm will come to you.”

This just made the Mountain laugh, “Outnumbered by what? A pair of spoiled princelings and an old man?” He looked at the rangers who seemed intimidated by the man’s size and the thick steel he wore, “Those ones are already pissing themselves,” he looked to Crakehall, “Oh how the old boar will mourn when he hears how I’ve made the little piggy squeal.”

Crakehall’s face turned red and his nostrils flared, “You know Clegane, I’ve never cared for you. Orders are orders but it doesn’t take big man to kill women and children, it takes a big cunt.” He spat on the ground and continued, “And as the “old boar” always told me a big cunt isn't good for anything but a sloppy fuck.”

A roar of anger went up from Clegane and he charged towards Crakehall, taking his que the Easterling men rushed forward screaming battle cries in their strange tongue.

“Protect the Steward!” Boromir yelled, and three of Faramir’s men grabbed Denethor before he could say anything and hauled him bodily back down the staircase to the lower level. For his own part Boromir drew his sword and rushed forward to meet one of the men from Rhun.

The Easterling was a fine swordsman, and Faramir was finding it difficult to land a killing blow. He was on the defensive, he’d worn the leather armor customary of the rangers of Gondor while the other man’s scales let him take glancing blows with ease. Eventually he shifted the man’s blade upwards and while their swords were tangled he drew a knife from his belt and shoved it through the eyeholes in the other man’s helmet. He went limp and dropped.

He looked over the courtyard, Clegane had reached Crakehall and brought that terrible greatsword down in a blow that would cleave a man in two. Reacting quickly the strongboar had brought his own sword up to block it while bracing his mailed hand against the flat of the blade. The blow made a great clanging noise and Faramir saw with dismay that Crakehall’s sword had bent from the impact. The mountain raised his blade again and Faramir, fearing the worst, ran towards the knight. Too far, he thought with dismay.

He was relieved to see Shagga come screaming from the Mountain’s other side hefting that great axe high, judging from the blood on it and the now headless Easterling on the ground behind him it wouldn’t be his first kill of the day. Unable to complete the blow against Crakehall Clegane turned and raised his shield blocking Shagga’s attack. Crakehall scurried to his feet and ran towards the Easterling’s corpse behind Shagga, dropping his own ruined sword and scooping up the dead man’s.

Faramir was prevented from entering the fight by the appearance of another attacker, he saw one of his men on the ground behind him, blood pooling around him from a wound across his back. He blocked the savage blows from the Easterling as best he could, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Boromir was approaching the Mountain from behind, his greatsword drawn. With a great thrust his brother penetrated the steel plate armor and Clegane roared in pain. Seeing their opening Crakehall and Shagga both struck him together and the big knight fell with a thud that shook the earth.

Seeing the Easterling distracted by the sound Faramir stabbed him through the throat, looking around he saw all the men were dead. Bronn was standing over one himself, stripping the Easterling of several pieces of jewelry he’d been wearing. His father was coming back up the stairs, a sword in his own hand and at least forty guards behind him in full armor.

He looked around, seeing that Boromir and Faramir were safe he nodded, “Open the doors to the citadel." He walked towards the Mountain’s body while the guards rushed forward, when he was close Shagga, who’s silk shirt had ripped open now, raised a hand.

“A man this big is like a bear, Shagga has killed bears before.” He raised his axe and brought it down on Clegane’s head, cleaving through the helm and smashing his head like a ripe melon. He grinned, “There, now he is truly dead.” He hefted the weapon over his shoulder and walked to join the men gathering around the Citadel doors. Faramir grimaced at the big man’s ruined head and then followed him.

Boromir had again taken a place at the lead, “So much for grabbing him quickly,” his brother muttered as he pushed the doors open. The scene inside the citadel was a charnel house, Faramir counted at least ten dead bodies on the floor, a few guards of the Citadel, several of the Lannister redcloaks… and a number of men dressed in the black robes of the Haradrim. Looking up at the throne he could see the stunted form of Tyrion Lannister sitting atop the king’s throne, while Cersei, the queen mother, seemed tied to his father’s own. Both of them turned towards the newcomers, shock on their faces.

In the corner of the room seven of the men seemed to have penned in Jaime Lannister, who now wielded the Valyrian greatsword Brightroar.
Seeing them he yelled, “Boromir, Tyrion’s gone mad!”

“Kill him! Jaime must die!” Tyrion screeched from atop the throne. At his command the remaining men all rushed forward at once trying to kill Jaime, but with a flurry of blocks he forced an opening and ran towards the assembled Gondorians.

With a cry Boromir led them forward to meet Jaime, Faramir felt himself join in as well. When they reached the Haradrim it was a slaughter, the men were armored lightly, if at all, and the sudden numbers of the Gondorians left them no chance to make any kind of stand.

Faramir looked to see Jaime had cut Cersei’s bonds, “Kill the little Imp Jaime!” she screamed, “make him pay for this treachery!”

Jaime was mounting the stairs as if to do just that, He doesn’t know about the ring! Faramir thought suddenly, “Jaime don’t! he’s bewitched!” He shouted.

Jaime looked back at him, “what do you-“ he was cut off by Tyrion, who had launched himself with a cry down the stairs at Jaime, a dagger in hand. He collided with Jaime’s chest and the two brother’s tumbled down the stairs. Faramir saw with a shock that Tyrion’s dagger had pierced Jaime’s shoulder. As the two rolled to a stop at the bottom of the throne Faramir could see Tyrion was on top, trying to force the dagger down into Jaime’s throat while the older brother clasped his wrists trying desperately to stop him from doing so. “How is he so fucking strong?!” Jaime screamed.

Tyrion’s eyes were wide with hate and a sick smile was on his face, “I’ve always been strong, you just never saw it.”

Suddenly Bronn rushed forward from somewhere and with a kick sent Tyrion several feet away from Jaime. He drew a dagger that he kept in a sheathe on his back.

“Take the ring off or I’m cutting it off mate,” the sellsword said. By now the men, including Crakehall and Shagga, had assembled in a loose ring, watching the spectacle and making sure the dwarf had no chance of escape. He looked around angrily like a trapped rat.

“I’d rather die!” he shouted as he rushed toward Bronn, dagger raised.

With a sigh Bronn stopped him with a blow to the face that broke the dwarf’s nose, “Ser Jaime, help me pin him!” the two men rushed forward and pinned the stunned Tyrion to the ground.

Sensing what was to come next Faramir drew his own dagger and walked towards the screaming little man, who was now incoherent with rage. Reaching down to extend the finger in question he tried several times to pull the ring off. It wouldn’t budge no matter how much force was applied. He sighed angrily and brought the dagger down severing the finger where it met the hand.

Tyrion screamed.

Chapter Text

Denethor flinched slightly at the dwarf’s scream, though the men assembled around him were too numerous for him to see the deed done himself. He looked around the throne room in dismay, the white stone, which had seemed so pristine and polished when Jaime Lannister had first arrived, was now awash in blood, men of Gondor, Harad, and the Westerlands sprawled about like obscene decorations.

With a sad sigh he turned to the assembled men, “Let me through,” they parted allowing him to the small man who was sobbing as the sellsword Bronn pressed a black rag onto his stump of a finger.

“Someone fetch the maester,” Bronn said, “if putrefication sets in he’ll lose the whole hand.”

“No need,” Faramir said, “I can treat this,” he looked around and saw a torch that had been torn from one of the brazier’s and was now laying on the floor. He picked it up and, producing two small pieces of flint, lit the oil soaked wood. He motioned for one of the men to hold the now burning torch and held his knife inside of the flames.

“Is he… is he going to be back to normal now?” Jaime asked.

“Time will tell,” Denethor replied. He noticed the older Lannister brother had a nasty wound on his shoulder, “Get that cleaned and bandaged Ser Jaime, it would be a shame if infection finishes the job your brother started.”

By now Faramir’s knife was starting to glow red hot, the ranger pulled it out of the fire and walked over to the huddled Tyrion, “Get him something to bite down on.”

Tyrion stopped his crying a moment to look at the approaching blade, “What are you-“ his eyes went wide, “Oh gods no!” Without asking Bronn quickly jabbed a wad of cloth into the little man’s mouth muffling his protests. Faramir pressed the hot blade against the bleeding stump of Tyrion’s finger, his scream cut through the gag. After a moment the ranger pulled it away and began bandaging it.

“Remove the gag,” Denethor commanded. Bronn did so and Tyrion coughed and then took a deep breath. “Tyrion Lannister,” Denethor said, causing the little man to look at him, “How… How do you feel?”

“I’ve just had my finger cut off and my bastard brother is still alive, how do you think I feel?” Tyrion yelled in response.

“You’re the bastard! You tried to kill us just like you killed our mother!” Cersei screeched, Denethor looked to the woman, her face was flushed with anger, “A finger? Cut off his head!”

“Lady Cersei please calm yourself,” Denethor said loudly, “Your brother has been under the influence of fell magicks, he cannot be-“

“He’s always hated us!” she spat, “He’s a curse on this family and always has been.”

“No he’s not,” Jaime said quietly looking at his feet, “Cersei please leave us, find Myrcella.” She groaned angrily but stalked out of the room.

“Go with her,” Denethor said to several of the assembled men, “there may yet be more assassins about.” They nodded and followed her out of the room.

“Well if that’s the end of the excitement I think I’m going to go find someplace to get drunk,” Crakehall said. He looked to Jaime and the steward, “By my lord’s leave of course.”

Jaime just nodded and Denethor rolled his eyes, “You are released Ser Crakehall.”

The knight smiled and looked to Shagga, “You coming you big oaf?”

Shagga stared sadly down at the ruins of his silk shirt, “Shagga spent all of his coin on this…”

In spite of everything Denethor swore he heard a small chuckle from Jaime, “Go to my chambers,” Jaime said, “There’s a bag of coins in the drawer on my nightstand, take a few and get out of here.” Crakehall and Shagga grinned and left together, an argument starting about what tavern they were going to visit first.

“I’m going with them,” Bronn announced, “you lot clearly have some issues to work out and I don’t want any part of it.” He sheathed his blade and turned to walk out, he paused and looked back at Tyrion, “When you’ve cleared your head a bit come and find me, I wouldn’t mind working for you again if you need it.”

Tyrion just glowered at him as he left, “So what now Jaime? Going take my head like our dear sister wants? You’ve already taken everything else from me.”

In spite of the harsh words Denethor could feel nothing but normal anger in them, perhaps the corruption is gone, “Boromir, Faramir, Jaime, Tyrion,” He put emphasis on the last name to get the dwarf’s attention, “Clean yourselves up and meet me in my chambers.” He thought a moment, “Boromir go with Tyrion and make sure he doesn’t make any more mistakes.”

Boromir looked at Tyrion, who was now struggling to his feet, “Is that wise father? Perhaps he needs bedrest first.”

“No,” Denethor said, “There will be time to rest after we determine the extent of his sabotage here. Do as I ask Boromir.” With that he turned and went to his chambers to wait for them. As soon as he reached them he poured himself a drink and downed it in one single gulp.

Jaime and Faramir arrived first, Jaime had a small bulge under his shirt that Denethor assumed was a newly packed bandage, then Boromir and Tyrion entered, with the dwarf looking sour. Without a word he poured himself a cup of wine fit for a man twice his size, and echoing Denethor’s earlier gesture, downed it in a single gulp. Where the steward had stopped there however; Tyrion immediately poured himself a second.

“Lord Tyrion, you’ve lost a lot of blood, perhaps you shouldn’t-“ Faramir began, but was cut off by the dwarf.

“Faramir, I’ve had a little time to think, and I’m sorry for involving you and your nation in my… personal matters, but if you try and get between me and my drink right now I can’t promise I’ll sit here peaceably.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Denethor said tersely, “surely you must realize you were being used as a pawn?”

The dwarf shrugged, “Looking back many of my plans seem a little… too much.” He pointed to Jaime, “Him though, he deserved death today,” he said with a sneer.

“Whatever lies they told you in Minas Morgul were only to turn you against us and your family,” Boromir said angrily, “Even after all of this your brother sits here speaking with you when by all rights-“

“He’s right,” Jaime said quietly, “I’ve wronged him.”

Tyrion laughed, “Oh you’ve wronged me?” He shook his head angrily, “you make it sound like you borrowed something and didn’t bring it back. Did you not tell your new friends about how you and father celebrated my wedding?”

Jaime looked up suddenly, “Tyrion please-“

The plea enraged the dwarf, “Oh you don’t want to hear about it? Does it embarrass you to have been a part of it?” He drained the second cup of wine before continuing, “When we were boys Jaime and I came across a lovely young girl named Tysha… I’ll spare you the details but suffice to say we ended up married…”

“Tyrion stop this,” Jaime was more insistent now.

“My father was most displeased that I had married a commoner, to express his disapproval he had her raped by his men in front of me…” Tears were flowing now, “Jaime there told me she had just been a simple whore, a girl hired to make me a man. She loved me Jaime!” he roared.

Denethor looked to his sons and saw they were as shocked as he was, he struggled to keep his face calm, “Lord Tyrion… I am sorry for this, but my duties as Steward compel me to ask what plans were set in motion other than your attempt on your brother’s life. He shot Jaime a hateful stare, “Though frankly I now wonder if it wouldn’t have been best to let you continue uninterrupted.”

Tyrion wiped his nose with a sniff, “I... Understand. I killed the ravens.”

Faramir nodded, “I’d guessed as much, what else?”

Tyrion’s eye’s widened suddenly, “Gods the letter!”

“What letter?” Boromir asked leaning forward.

“I sent my father a letter saying that you had murdered Jaime and were holding Cersei and I as your captives!”

Whatever sorrow was in Jaime’s face was suddenly replaced by shock, “Tyrion… what have you done?” he whispered.

Denethor frowned, “Surely we can send a messenger and explain this situation to him?”

“No, you don’t understand, when our father reads that letter he will amass his armies and he will send his dogs of war among your people,” Jaime said, “Have you read of the Sack of King’s landing? Clegane is dead but Amory Lorch still lives. What he does in his raids will be… monstrous.”

“Why does your father keep such a man in his service?” Boromir asked horrified.

“To instill fear in his enemies and ensure the proper respect for House Lannister,” Tyrion sneered.

“I’ve got to leave, he’s got to know I’m alive!” Jaime said standing up.

“You will go tomorrow at first light,” Denethor said firmly, “Ser Jaime the situation is urgent but if you leave now you’ll collapse from exhaustion or rip that wound open again. You will cause us just as much trouble dead in a ditch outside Pelargir as you would with your “death” in that letter.”

Jaime nodded, “I fear I must go prepare then…” He turned to Tyrion, “Tyrion I… I am truly sorry, I do not know if I can ever repay you but as your brother I beg you to forgive me.”

“Oh fuck off Jaime,” Tyrion replied, “and when you see father tell him to fuck off too.” With a sigh Jaime left the room.

Tyrion turned back to them, “I believe that’s the extent of what I had planned. Do you have any further need of me?”

“No,” Denethor said rubbing his temples, “I hope Jaime can reach his father before anything… unfortunate happens.” He brightened a little, “perhaps when Jaime has explained things to your father he will see the wisdom in allying with us against Mordor.”

Tyrion shrugged, “I fear he’s mostly going to want my head. He cares more for his family name than his family… You are right that he will want revenge at some point though.” Tyrion shuddered, “He doesn’t know what lies in those lands, there’s no number of women and children he could have murdered that will make Sauron fear him.”

Denethor stroked his chin, “If what you’ve told me is true Tywin Lannister sounds like a monster second only to Sauron himself… but not one who will take such insults lightly. Perhaps there is still hope.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, “I could care less, I only hope he dies on the battlefield trying to kill something that can’t be killed.” He stepped up with a stagger, “Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go sleep…” he stumbled through the same door Jaime had left through.

“I’m going to set a pair of guards on his door,” Boromir said, “Better to be on the safe side.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary,” Faramir replied, “That’s a man who’s dead inside and the enemy only loosed a trebuchet that was already there and loaded.” He frowned, “What manner of monster does something like that to his son? His brother?”

Boromir shook his head, “I do not know brother, I… If Jaime didn’t have to leave tomorrow I think I’d have harsh words with him.”

“We still need them,” Denethor said, “In spite of everything that’s happened here… everything they’ve done, we need them.” He stood up and walked to a window where he could look out over Pelennor fields. “Something brought them here, something beyond Sauron or any of his servants… and whoever did this, be they of the Valar or Eru Iluvitar himself, they did it for a purpose.” He walked back to his sons, “I’ve read the history of the seven kingdoms… it might be best described as a clash of kings and a feast for crows at worst.” He paused, “There were many there who might have been chosen, I’ve read that the Baratheons are strong… there was a man named Stannis Baratheon there, brother of their last king, who was said to possess an unbreakable will. Why not him?” He paused with a wry smile, “The Lannisters were sent to us for a reason, we can only have faith that they yet have some role to play in all of this.”

He saw that his speech had lightened his son’s moods, Faramir was smiling himself now and Boromir just nodded, “Father,” Boromir started, “what of an alliance? We should move quickly to secure one. The Westerosi custom is with a marriage…”

Denethor made quick eye contact with Boromir, He knows, he thought, “We will determine what will be done on that front when we are sure war has been averted.” He smiled, “if my sons are perhaps too frightened of this challenge a mere engagement might be made with the princess Myrcella until she comes of age...”

Faramir grimaced, “Father perhaps you are right, let’s wait to discuss this until we have word that we are not at war with the Westerlands.”

Chapter Text

The trip to Michael Delving should have been pleasant, unlike Joffrey he had no objections to Smallburrow’s slow rate of travel, and without the sorry little King he didn’t have to try and remember the various details of the story they’d made up every time he talked to someone. Unfortunately word of things had spread and he found that the hobbits, previously warm to him, had cooled considerably as news of the attack on Lobelia and Lotho spread. Smallburrow at least seemed to warm back up to him over a few days, and if he now received sour looks from the little folk at least he still had Smallburrow to laugh at his off color jokes.

The Shirriff was laughing now as they approached the capital of the Shire, Michael Delving, “Oh that’s quite the song Ser Clegane!” He chuckled, “I’d avoid singing about the Dornishman’s wife in front of the mayor though, he’s an older fellow, right proper and all that.”

He found himself smiling a little, “I’m no fool Smallburrow… but I’m also no knight, you needn’t call me ser.”

Smallburrow shrugged, “You ride a horse, you’re good with a sword, and in spite of that awful boy you came with you don’t seem so bad a fellow to me. What more is there to a knight?” he grinned, “You’ve even travelled the Shire doing the noblest of deeds, helping good hobbits buy beer.”

“Never took the oaths,” he grunted, “Didn’t see the point since you end up breaking them all anyway.”

“And what oaths are those?” Smallburrow asked with a frown.
“Well first you’ve got to be just and honorable…” he said stroking his chin, “Then there’s one for each of the Seven, show the Father’s wisdom, the Mother’s mercy… I can’t remember them all,” he said dismissively, truthfully he knew them all by heart, but he didn’t want to speak about it any further.

“Those all sound fine enough,” The hobbit said, “which one do you think you wouldn’t be able to follow?”

He sighed, if the little man wouldn’t drop it then… “I’ve killed people who didn’t deserve death Smallburrow, I’ve done any number of things that would make those oaths meaningless. Truthfully so have most of the men who take them… My brother-“ he paused, seeing the hobbit’s horrified face, he would spare him the details of Gregor’s atrocities for now, “he has done many terrible things,” he finished.

They rode on in silence for a time, entering the town proper now. The hobbits knew he was coming of course, and when he entered word spread quickly and the townspeople glared at him from shops. Some of the braver citizens stayed in the streets, crossing their arms and looking at him with disapproval, he returned their stares with a sneer of his own that at the very least made them flinch and fail to meet his eyes.

“You saved my life when we first met,” Smallburrow said suddenly, “You didn’t have to, you and Joffrey were hidden. You could’ve let those beasts butcher us…”

“His grace felt the need to shoot one with a crossbow,” Clegane replied, “We had to fight for ourselves as much as for you.”

“I don’t care,” Smallburrow declared, “I’d like to thank you for your good deed.”

Clegane laughed, spooking several hobbits lining the road, “If it makes you feel better feel free, one “good deed” doesn’t make me a knight in any case.”

They came to the Town Hole after a time, it was a great burrow dug into the side of a hill, Sandor could see a number of skylights and chimney’s poking through the top of it and guessed that, for a hobbit at least, the interior was quite expansive. They tied their mounts at a small stable near the entrance.

“Do you think your horse will be safe out here?” Smallburrow asked, looking around at the angry faces.

Clegane looked back at them and then to Stranger, who snorted angrily, “I think he’ll be fine, gods help them if they untie him…”

They walked to the door, which was tall enough that Clegane only needed to lower his head to enter, and opened it with a creaking sound. The interior hall was arrayed in some miniature parody of a throne room, a small chair at the end was ornately carved and flanked by a pair of skylights that bathed it in the midday sun.

“Is that you Smallburrow? Come over here!” a voice called from one of the side chambers.

Smallburrow gestured for Clegane to follow him and walked into the room to the right of the small throne which appeared to be arranged as some sort of office space. It was immaculately clean, not a trace of dust on any of the shelves, and the various documents and maps that were framed on the walls stood behind shining glass. Sandor took the impression that very little real work got done here, behind the desk, a great oak thing that would’ve been the envy of Tywin Lannister, sat the fattest hobbit he’d yet seen.

“So this must be the knight Sandor Clegane,” the large hobbit said, stroking one of his many chins, “Why have you brought him here Smallburrow?” He grimaced only momentarily at Sandor’s burns, but then his face went blank.

The shirriff for his part glared at the mayor and then cleared his throat, “Ser Clegane if I may introduce the respected mayor of Michael Delving, Will Whitfoot.” He took a seat in a small chair across from the mayor. Sandor took one look at the other little chair and pushed it aside with a sigh before sitting cross legged next to the Shirriff.

The mayor seemed flustered a minute, “Oh I am sorry ser Clegane, as he said I am the mayor, though my question still stands, from what I’ve heard you and your squire were some manner of outlaws from your home country?”

“Not exactly,” Smallburrow cut in, “The boy King Joffrey was struck with some wanderlust and wished to travel the world or so I heard, he collects rings or some such nonsense and wished to see what was here” he looked to Clegane for confirmation.

“Something like that yes,” Clegane said, whatever ring the boy had been after he had no interest in it, nor in some feud with the Baggins family.
The mayor nodded, “So the authorities from your land came for him and you were so enraptured by our fair Shire that you wanted to stay rather than return home?”

Clegane thought a moment, the Shire was perhaps the most pleasant place he’d ever been, even Winterfell in the North didn’t have so comfortable and happy a people, “The Shire has good food and good drink, what more could a man want?” Gregor’s head on a pike, he thought to himself.

The mayor smiled, “Indeed! It is nice to see a man recognize this, the rangers sometimes come to see me and they always complain that our food is too rich, our drink too strong.” He laughed, “Have you had a second breakfast yet? That is a true Shire tradition!”

Sandor almost laughed but then he realized the mayor was serious, “Er… No, I’m afraid that I haven’t had one yet, Shirriff Smallburrow and I have been traveling you see-“

“Oh you must have one with me tomorrow, I think I shall make a peach crumble and some tea!”

Do these hobbits think of anything but food? He thought to himself, “I’ll consider it, but it depends on your answer to the question of whether I can stay or not.”

Smallburrow nodded, “We’ve come because Ser Clegane wishes to stay here in the Shire, I thought it best that you make the final pronouncement.”

“A man in the Shire?” The mayor asked incredulously, “Why there hasn’t been one since the days of the Thains…” He thought a moment, “Also there’s the matter of this assault on the Sackville-Bagginses, I’ve heard it was this boy Joffrey, but he traveled here with you, and you must answer for this.”

“The knight from the Westerlands, Daven Lannister, has already paid reparations to the Shire and to the Sackville Bagginses,” Smallburrow said quickly, he put the small coinpurse on the mayor’s desk, “It’s all there… minus travel expenses of course.”

The mayor gave a knowing smile, “Of course, I’m sure the Green Dragon could confirm these expenditures.” He hefted the purse and then opened the drawstring, his eyebrows going up slightly when he saw that it was gold in the bag. “Well… in light of this I don’t see why we shouldn’t allow Ser Clegane to stay for a time.” He paused a moment before putting the coin purse in one of the many desk drawers, which he then locked with a small key he produced from his pocket.

“Now then,” he said, “Of that other business, the rangers wanted us to provide them some food and other provisions? You met with them Smallburrow, what is your decision?”

The Shirriff shuddered at the memory, “We should give it to them, there are orcs near the shire, I don’t know how many, only that the rangers speak truth regarding their presence.”

The mayor looked to Sandor, “Have you seen these orcs yourself?”

He nodded, “I have, even killed a few when I first met the Shirriff there.”

The mayor was shocked, “Is this true?”

Smallburrow nodded, “Yes, several of the beasts fell upon myself and the rangers. Ser Clegane and King Joffrey, drove them off.”

The mayor sighed, “What a strange time… I suppose I must make arrangements to provide them with supplies.” He brightened, “Though I suppose the gold the Lannisters gave us will serve this purpose for a time.”

“You’ll need to tell the rest of the shirriffs,” Smallburrow said, “If there’s orcs about they might find a way past the rangers, we must not to let them take the lads by surprise.”

“Best to make them start carrying swords too,” Clegane cut in, “Your boys won’t be able to do much but tell you about it if worse comes to worst.”

“Swords?” the mayor said with a laugh, “Why the Shiriff’s haven’t needed swords since the Bullroarer’s day, we’re sending food to the rangers, surely that will allow them to spend more time patrolling-“

“In my experience there’s no situation where a man with a sword would be better off without one,” Clegane said.

Whitfoot shifted uncomfortably, “Old Bilbo was the only hobbit who had any idea how to use a sword, and he’s long gone…”

“If you’re that worried about it I can give the Shirriffs a few pointers,” he said, patting his own sword pommel, “I’d give some references but I’m afraid most of the men who know my skill with a blade are dead,” he grinned and the mayor was taken aback momentarily.

“Well I don’t know if that’s going to be necessary… Perhaps this Lithe day feast we will have a vote on it when all the Shiriffs are there,” the mayor said.

Clegane scowled, “when it comes to learning the sword sooner is better than later Mayor Whitfoot, when is this Lithe day feast?”

“Well the next one is in June, though in leap years we celebrate an Overlithe-“

“June?!” Clegane exclaimed, “By then an army could march here from any corner of the world!” He paused collecting himself, “Mayor Whitfoot, I have seen some dark things… I wouldn’t wish them on the Shire. Those rangers are good men, but how many of them are there?”

“I think we should listen to him,” Smallburrow said, “He’s fought in wars you know, thousands of men on each side.”

The mayor raised an eyebrow, “Quite taken with our foreign knight aren’t we Shiriff Smallburrow?”

Smallburrow shrugged, “He’s bought me drinks from here to Sarn Ford, I think I’ve gotten to know him fairly well.”

No you haven’t, Clegane thought, Else you’d tell him to run me out like a rabid dog, “I could teach Smallburrow the sword,” he said suddenly, “If he takes to it perhaps he could speak with the rest of your men- er… hobbits, about it.”

The mayor shrugged, “I suppose that’s a fair compromise, Smallburrow do you agree to this?”

The fat hobbit looked to the mayor and then to Clegane, “Why of course, but I don’t own a sword, where could I find one?

“Take one from the Mathom-House,” The mayor said dismissively, “Heaven knows there’s plenty there that aren’t seeing any use.” He thought a moment, “Ser Clegane, I suppose if you are to travel with Shirriff Smallburrow in his duties I should appoint you as a Shirriff also. Would you accept this station?”

He thought it over, “What duties does it carry?”

Whitfoot and Smallburrow laughed, “Duties?” the fat mayor wheezed, “Go around and help anyone that asks with whatever problems they’ve got, is that so complicated?”

Clegane felt himself grinning a bit, if only everything was so simple, “I suppose I could do that, what do we need to do to make it happen?”

The mayor opened another drawer and withdrew a red feather, “Here take this and stick it in your… do you have a hat?” He asked suddenly.

“Well I’ve got a helm,” Sandor replied.

The mayor shook his head, “No, that won’t do, go and get yourself a proper cap at Ron John’s Leatherworking over on George Martin street, tell them I sent you.”

He took the feather, “So I just I stick this in my cap and everyone knows I’m a Shirriff?”

“Precisely!” The mayor said, beaming, “A big man such as yourself ought to do a lot of good around here… I’ve heard some ne’er do wells have been stealing farmer Maggot’s carrots! I’ll bet they’ll think twice if you walk by with one of these in your hat!”

Clegane gave a polite chuckle, “I’m sure they would,” poor bastards better not cross me, he thought.

“Well that’s all settled then,” the mayor said, “Go and do your duties Shirriffs!”

Robin Smallburrow grinned and Clegane, feeling like he should at least pretend to be grateful, grinned with him.

The pair left the Town Hole and walked towards the Mathom-House, “So what kind of sword should I pick?” Smallburrow said excitedly, “the Bullroarer used a great two handed club, perhaps a two handed sword?”

Sandor snorted, “Mate, you’re small, it’s in your name for gods’ sake, pick a small blade and carry a shield with it.”

He waved at Clegane dismissively, “Oh why shouldn't I take a great two handed sword? I’ll name it Orcsbane!”

Clegane pulled his own sword slightly out of the scabbard, “A “greatsword” like this you mean?” He chuckled, “Of course you’d name it…”

Smallburrow seemed offended, “lots of people name their swords…”

“Lots of cunts,” Sandor replied. “A blade’s not your friend, it’s a tool no different from a hammer you use for a nail or a cup you use to get drunk.” He grinned, his scarred face cracking a bit, “You name your cup Robin?”

The hobbit looked down, “No…” he muttered. “I suppose you know best,” he said with a sigh, “still I wish you could’ve waited a bit before taking all the fun out of it…”

“Fun?” he chuckled, “there’s no fun, you’re training to kill someone, never forget that. The only people who have fun doing that aren’t the types you want to have a drink with.”

They arrived at the Mathom-House, another building with a great door requiring only a slight stoop to enter, and began looking at the assembled items.

“Can I help you?” the small man, who Sandor guessed was the curator, asked.

“Oh Yes!” Smallburrow said excitedly, “Where are the weapons? The Mayor himself has given me permission to take one!”

The curator sniffed derisively but didn’t challenge the claim, “They’re over there in the left hallway,” he pulled a key from his pocket and handed it to Smallburrow, “remember to lock it after you make your selection.”

The two of them walked through the great hall which contained a number of weapons behind glass cases, “I wish Bilbo hadn’t taken Sting,” Robin said mournfully, pointing towards one empty case, “I’d have liked to take that one most of all…”

Clegane rolled his eyes, “What did I say about naming swords?” He looked at the assembled blades, most were rusted and useless, if there were few weapons in the Shire there were probably even less smiths qualified to restore them. He saw one that looked long enough to be a sword for a man, and perhaps a bastard sword for a hobbit, “There, take that one out,” he said.

Smallburrow obeyed and opened the glass case, “It seems… right,” he said hefting the sword in his hands, “It was probably used in the goblin invasion… maybe Elven forged.” He paused a moment, “Drink, I’ll name it Drink!”

Sandor laughed, “Well if you must name your blade I suppose Drink is as good a name as any, drink has brought me much pleasure in life and perhaps Drink will do the same for you.”

The hobbit grabbed the scabbard for the sword from the display and sheathed it in a dramatic fashion, “I name you Drink, slay my foe and I shall treat thee well!” he said ominously.

Clegane laughed so hard he feared he might fall to his knees, a moment later he did, “Mate…” He wheezed, “It’s just edged metal, it can’t hear you!” he continued laughing for a few minutes until the joke had passed.

The hobbit did not seem amused, “Ser Clegane, you have seen war, I will not dispute this, but this is a sword that deserves respect, and I shall give it no less.”

Clegane stood to his full height and shrugged, “I suppose I’m bound to teach you swordplay if you carry a wooden club or Brightroar itself, Drink it is then. Come, we should get on our way. We still have much to do as Shirriffs.”

The two of them left the Mathom-Hall, Smallburrow insisted on staying in Michael Delving for the night and Sandor didn’t offer any argument. He spent the evening instructing his fellow shirriff in the basics of swordplay, teaching simple blocks, falls, and strikes. When the sun fell low they retired to a tavern and Smallburrow offered to buy the first round.

This isn’t too bad, Sandor thought, I’d need to buy a bigger house than this lot, but I could live here.

Chapter Text

Joffrey struggled in vain against his bonds, they were tied tight and Daven personally checked them each night before setting a watch on him. They’d travelled out of the Shire without incident, Joffrey had yelled to any they passed that there were great rewards for any who would free him, but most of the hobbits and the few rangers they encountered just stared at him quizzically, and after a few of these attempts Daven had just ordered him gagged again.

They’d marched south through Enedwaith until the North-South road approached the foothills of the Misty Mountains, the great clouds circling the peaks in the distance were the type of thing a weakling like Tommen would want to gasp at and stare for hours, to Joffrey they were just big rocks.

“Strange to be in springtime again so soon,” His uncle remarked, Joffrey just stared at him angrily. Daven grinned, “Nothing to say your grace? Perhaps the air out here is doing you some good.”

One of the men rode up to him, “Sir, when do we leave the road?”

Daven looked at the mountains and then withdrew a small map, “I suppose we should head south either tomorrow or the day after that, any further and whatever time we save from the use of a road will be lost by going too far East…” He pointed to a place where the mountains ended for a stretch, it was marked Fords of Isen, “If we get there we’ll know we’ve gone too far.” The sun was starting to set now and Daven sighed, “I suppose we’d best find a campsite and a tree to tie his disgrace to.”

Joffrey tried to respond but all that came through the gag was an angry mumble.

Daven laughed, “Good to see the king agrees.”

“I don’t know if we should stop here Ser Daven… something’s got the horses on edge,” the other guard said.

Daven shrugged, “Wolves about perhaps, if they’re foolish enough to trouble us I suppose we could use the extra meat.” Joffrey looked at him with disgust and the knight rolled his eyes, “We’ve eaten far worse coming after you, a bit of salt and dog tastes just like mutton.”

They tied the horses up and with a laugh one of the men tied him to a tree, “Now if you’re able to shut the hell up tonight we won’t need to put this back in,” the man said as he pulled the wadded cloth out of the king’s mouth.

“You’ll all pay for this!” He coughed, “You’ll wish you had a king like Aerys who’s content with burning you!” The man just laughed and walked off.
He sulked under the tree until the fire went low and the men fell asleep, two of them were sitting on watch playing some manner of dice game.

“Hey!” he whispered, trying to get their attention.

They stopped what they were doing and giving each other an amused look walked over to the tree where he was tied, “What do you want?” one of them asked.

“If you two let me free I can promise you anything you want, land, women, gold, all of it!”

The second man chuckled, “Your grace your grandfather can give us all that and we’ve all but completed the task he’s set before us, just enjoy the rest of the trip home.”

“I was on a quest you fools!” he sneered, “I would have ruled this whole world!”

The men each gave a low laugh until suddenly one fell forward, a crusted black arrow blossoming out of the back of his head.

“We’re under attack!” The other man screamed drawing his sword before dozens more small arrows struck him down. Joffrey could see them now, dozens, perhaps a hundred, small green creatures no taller than he was who moved with a scurry closer to a rat than a man.

Daven emerged from his tent with a yell, sword in hand, “Form ranks! Form ranks! To me!” He held his sword high and brought it down quickly as one of the creatures ran through the men to him, failing to touch the young lion. As the men formed up he ran towards Joffrey and with a single swipe of his sword cut through the king’s rope. He held up his hands and with a reluctant sigh Daven cut through the remaining bonds, “Follow me and don’t go-“

Not bothering to listen Joffrey ran off into the darkness, “Too slow uncle!” he yelled jubilantly as he ran into the darkness.

“GET BACK HERE YOU LITTLE SHIT!” Daven’s voice echoed behind him.

He laughed to himself, Fool, I’m far too smart to-, his thought was interrupted by a tree that seemed to appear from nowhere, knocking him out cold.

He came to with a groan some time later, a number of toothy grins looked down at him from green faces, “The little one’s awake!” one said with glee.

Orcs, he thought, like the ones at the ford, “I’m a king!” he blurted out suddenly, “I’ve got gold!”

A sound of excitement went up amongst them and a dozen small greedy hands suddenly frisked him all over, “Stop! Stop it!” he screeched. The orcs found nothing and they all began chattering angrily.

The largest one hefted a mace over it’s shoulder, “Where’s the gold you little squealer? You can tell me now or I can beat it out of ya.”

Joffrey sighed, dumb as a Northman, “Look I don’t have it with me!” one of the orcs rushed forward and beat him with a wooden stick.

“No gold!” it cried and the others took up the chant, “No gold! No gold!”

He thought quickly, “Possession is sometimes an abstract concept!” he yelled. “Someone else has it but it’s still mine!”

The big orc rubbed his chin, “I am Narg little King,”

“Narg smart!” one of the creatures said suddenly, and again the chant went up amongst them, “Narg smart! Narg smart!”

Narg smacked the nearest orc hard, “QUIET!” he bellowed. He turned back to Joffrey, “I know sometimes men will pay a ransom for the return of someone important… you say you’re a king? A king of whom? Not the horselords, nor the Dunedain…”

“The Westerlands!” he said, “I’m king of the Westerlands! I was on… personal business when my fool grandfather sent those idiots after me!”

Narg grinned, “I have heard of these Westerlands, word spreads even into the Misty Mountains of the Arrival.” He thought a moment, “If you are a king they would pay greatly for your return…” He looked at Joffrey and licked his lips, “If not… Well I have never eaten manflesh, seems distasteful to me to eat something that talks, but my orcs insist they can make it taste quite delectable.”

He means to eat me!? He thought indignantly, “I need swords,” he said suddenly, “Whatever ransom those fools pay for me is a pittance compared to what I would grant you if you would enter my service.” He stood up, Remember, you are the son of Robert Baratheon, make foes into friends, “My kingdom is wealthy in many ways, gold and silver of course, but also in food and drink, in beautiful women, in learned men!”

The orcs seemed to be paying attention now, chattering quietly amongst themselves, “What are you suggesting?” Narg asked.

“My grandfather and his men refuse to obey me,” He said, “I need loyal servants who will force them back into line!” He gestured widely, “You defeated some of his finest men, you would be able to put me back on my throne and slay those fools who would oppose me!”

Narg nodded with approval and a cheer went up, “And I suppose you’d pay us as well?” The goblin asked.

Joffrey grinned, “Whatever you want would be yours!”

While the smaller goblins were dancing around in excitement Narg was silent, finally he spoke, “Little king?” he asked suddenly

“You can call me King Joffrey or just Your Grace,” he said with a smile.

“How many men does your grandfather command?” Narg asked.

Joffrey’s smile faltered, “He could perhaps raise fifty thousand, though a number will join me if I declare my authority against him.”

Narg nodded, “I’d feared as much, this is a matter that requires the word of the Great Goblin… he can raise an army equal to that, perhaps more, but we need more proof you are really the King Joffrey of the Westerlands.”

Joffrey’s back straightened and his eyes grew cold, “I am Joffrey Baratheon, son of Robert Baratheon, king of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.” He could tell from the cheer the goblins were convinced, Narg was still uncertain.

“Are there any who would validate this claim?” Narg asked

Joffrey thought a moment, “The Wizard!” He said suddenly, “The Wizard Saruman! He will tell you I am the King!”

Narg nodded, “Saruman of Many Colors has joined with us… Will you go with us to the Great Goblin? He is in contact with the Wizard.”

Joffrey nodded and smiled, “I would gladly meet with this Great Goblin!”

And so he joined with a new party. They’d taken Daven and his men by surprise and captured a number of horses and his own sword and crossbow. He’d been quite pleased to take them back and one night he’d shot a raccoon which fed himself and Narg for a few days. They told him his uncle had fled with a few other men, but he just laughed, they’d never take him now. Though the scouts reported the men followed perhaps a day’s travel behind them he didn’t worry. As they entered the mountains proper there were reports that the men had broken off the pursuit. Joffrey only laughed at his uncle’s cowardice.

Finally they came to a great cave, “This leads to Goblin Town,” Narg said, “Men do not go there, stay close to me else you might end up in a cookpot.”

Joffrey sniffed dismissively, “Noted, though any fool that troubles me will soon regret it.”

They soon walked through a great hive like structure where dozens of eyes looked out at him. Torches lit the way, though to his eyes the light was still far too low. A number of wooden ganglpanks formed some sort of path, and he could see Narg shoving a number of smaller orcs out of the way.
Finally they came to a great lit chamber that Joffrey guessed was something similar to a throne room. A great mass of pink fat and warts sat in a great throne of bones that reminded him of the Iron Throne back in King’s Landing. A sick music played as they approached,

Swish, smack! Whip crack!
Smash, grab! Pinch, nab!
You go, my lad!
Ho, ho! my lad!

The black crack! the back crack!
The black crack! the back crack!
Down down to Goblin-town
Down down to Goblin-town
Down down to Goblin-town
You go, my lad!
Ho, ho! my lad!

“So! You are King Joffrey Baratheon!” The great fatty mass said, “I am Barg, Son of Bolg, Son of Azog, the Great Goblin!”

“Well met Great Goblin!” Joffrey said with a smile, Just play along, when they aren’t needed anymore the knights can slaughter them, he thought. “I am King Joffrey Baratheon of the Seven Kingdoms, the true ruler and King of the Westerlands!”

The Great Goblin nodded, “Saruman has sent word that your identity is valid, we are to send you to him at once… can you offer any reason why we should not?”

Joffrey frowned, The Wizard seeks to slow my progress too… He put it out of his mind and gave a bright smile, “Is wealth and plunder enough of a reason?”

The Great Goblin returned the grin, “Wealth and plunder is a good reason for any undertaking… how can you deliver such?”

Joffrey drew his sword and held it high, “I am the KING!” He shouted, “The Westerlands are full of gold hoarded by my miser of a grandfather, I would share it with any who would help me throw him off my throne!” the goblins cheered loudly.

The Great Goblin gave a small smile, “You have captured the hearts of my subjects King Joffrey, but men are great warriors, how can we overcome your grandfather?”

“Men will join me!” Joffrey cried, “Many chafe under my grandfather’s rule and they would join us if you would call your soldiers!”

The lord of the Misty Mountains stroked the large chunk of fat resembling a beard on his chin, “I suppose an army of goblins could march in the shade of the Misty Mountains… would the Wizard allow us past the Gap of Rohan?”

“He serves me!” Joffrey declared loudly, “If he will not we will raze his fortress like the warriors we are!” At this a great cheer went up from the assembled goblins.

“Joffrey! Joffrey!” the goblins cried

The Great Goblin looked about the room and nodded, “Very well, if we can pass the Gap of Rohan I see no reason why we could not march on the Westerlands…” He pulled a great knife from his belt that could’ve been a bastard sword for a hobbit or a longsword for a man. He cut his hand, drawing a thick black blood. “Will you agree to a blood oath Joffrey Baratheon? That we shall be your allies and receive rewards for putting you on your rightful throne?”

Joffrey grinned and drew his own sword, “Gladly your Greatness!” he winced as he cut his own hand, the red blood flowing like water. He walked to the Great Goblin and clasped his hand, “I swear that you shall receive your just reward on behalf of all goblins!”

The goblin returned the handshake, their blood pooling beneath the joined limbs, “Very well, then I name thee Joffrey Baratheon, Goblin-Friend and man of the Misty Mountains!”

“But your greatness what of the eye?” one of the smaller orcs at his side said.

Barg son of Bolg knocked him aside with a great backhand, “Bugger the eye!” he shouted, “We’ve befriended a king!” He grinned, “They say your kingdom is mountainous… may goblins dwell there?”

“I don’t see why not!” Joffrey replied, “So long as they acknowledge my rule any may dwell in the Westerlands and mine their gold and silver.”

“It is agreed then! Send for my vassals, gather all goblins beneath my banner!” he commanded. Many of the smaller orcs scrambled at his command. He looked back to Joffrey, “It will take some time to bring all of my armies to bear, how should we contact the men loyal to you?”

“The Wizard will know ways,” Joffrey said confidently, “if not I can order them to my side when we arrive. In any case you shall be rewarded greatly for helping me in this most desperate hour.” He beamed, “The minstrels will long sing of Joffrey Baratheon, the Goblin Friend!”

Chapter Text

After several weeks of experimentation he had, with Maester Qyburn’s help of course, produced several new breeds of orc. He had assembled around a dozen of them in the field outside Orthanc, he hoped to have them remain outdoors for the entire day to determine which ones were the most resistant to sunlight. Walking down the steps in front of the tower he saw that Qyburn was waiting for him there, looking from orc to orc and questioning them.

“Ah Maester of Orthanc, I see you have already begun without me,” he said pleasantly.

The maester turned and smiled on seeing him, “it seems none of this lot are burned by the sun, perhaps we’ve finally hit the right admixture.”

Saruman looked at the orcs who growled and snarled at one another, true to the Maester’s words none of them seemed in discomfort or pain.
“What of obedience? Did they give you any trouble when you started questioning them?”

Qyburn shrugged, “No more than any other fighting man did, and they’re quite a bit more respectful than the last group I traveled with.”

Good, he thought to himself, some of the strains of Moria orcs are entirely too independent for my tastes. He stopped a moment and saw a mangled pile of bodies perhaps a few dozen feet from the base of the tower. They appeared to be smaller orcs that had what looked like…

“Are those wings on their backs Maester Qyburn?” he asked with astonishment.

Qyburn scratched the back of his head and seemed embarrassed, “Well they are, but they don’t seem to work very well.” As if to drive his point home one of the batlike appendages in the pile twitched. “I read in one of the books in your library that a bird throws it’s young from the nest to force them to learn flight… I’d hoped it would work with them so I took them up to the top of the tower and well...” He gestured to the mangled bodies on the ground, “it still didn’t take.”

“Evidently not,” Saruman said, slightly amused, “The wings are of… inspired construction, how was it done?”

Qyburn shrugged, “I simply tried to replicate the shape and function of a bat’s wings using the bones and skin of an orc.”

Saruman nodded, “We will revisit this another time, for now let us examine the Uruks.” He tapped his staff loudly against the stone pathway and the orcs jumped to attention and began forming ranks. The maester followed behind him as he walked through. One specimen in particular caught his attention, it had long wiry arms that hung below it’s knees, and long claws resembling a bear’s on it’s fingertips.

“Those arms will leave it exposed…” The wizard said, “and the claws are frightening but Uruks will use swords and pikes.” The creature growled lowly but silenced when he looked it in the eyes.

Qyburn scratched his chin, “Perhaps it could be useful for another purpose?” He pointed to the stone ring that surrounded the field around the tower, “Orc!” it jumped to attention with a snarl, “scale that wall.” With a ferocious roar it ran and then dropped to all fours, it’s long arms giving it a disjointed gallop. Faster than Saruman thought possible the creature reached the wall and with a great leap began climbing up the side.

He smiled, “I think you’re right, we might have to make more of those...”

They examined a few more Uruks, some too wide, some too short, until finally they came to a specimen that was as tall as the Wizard was, with thick muscular arms and large wolfen teeth. He looked it in the eyes and it began a low growl, there was a hate there… a hate that would consume the world of men.

“This one!” he said, “You will be the first of a new race of orcs, the finest this world has ever known!” The Uruk smiled and roared loudly at the sky like a great lion, smaller roars rose up from the other orcs and he turned to Qyburn, “We will begin digging the breeding pits tonight… you had best get some rest Maester, there will be much to do.”

The maester nodded, “I’m afraid I’m not quite so good with steel and stone as I am with flesh and bone, but I shall be at your side regardless.”

As soon as the sun dipped over the horizon the orcs spilled out of Orthanc, picks and shovels in hand. A number of them moved to begin work on damming the river while others dug into the exposed fields with wild abandon. Excited chattering and squawks echoed across the field as great bonfires were built to provide light.

He walked to a group of orcs who were busy felling trees under Qyburn’s supervision, “These are old trees,” the Maester said, “their roots go deep.”

“Ours will go deeper,” the Wizard said, the firelight flickered over his face giving him a mad look, “into the bowels of the earth itself.” He paused a moment looking over the old trees one last time, “Rip them all down!”

A few hours later a small orc approached him, “My lord we have received a messenger from Goblin Town,” he rasped, “They say one of their raids has captured someone claiming to be King Joffrey of the Westerlands.”

Saruman stroked his beard, Joffrey… I will need to question that little fool. He looked back to the orc, “Tell their messenger that I know King Joffrey to have been in that area and it is likely their prisoner is genuine. Have him brought to me at the first opportunity, I will reward the goblins greatly for his safe delivery.”

He and Qyburn worked from dusk until dawn as days became weeks. While he needed little sleep the Maester crashed into slumber each day as the sun rose, for all his knowledge he was still only a man after all. Finally after a fortnight of work the first breeding pits were prepared, his chosen specimen was seeded into the earth and with the proper incantations and spells he began the process of building his army. One would become ten, ten would become one hundred, one hundred would become thousands…

One night as he was overseeing the building of a series of forges a frantic goblin approached him, “My lord a force approaches from the North!”

“The North?” He said in shock, If the elves or the Dunedain come in force now…

“Goblins my lord, at least a thousand,” the orc said.

His brow furrowed, “Goblins? I didn’t send for any-“ he stopped, suddenly remembering Joffrey, “Surely that many aren’t needed to hold the boy king?” He boarded the elevator to the surface and began walking briskly towards the gates of the stone ring. Sure enough he could see a movement on the horizon, lit by a few torches the group carried. After some time the horde came within speaking distance of the wall. “Who commands this rabble?” He called down to them.

One of them rode forth atop a great black warg, he was big for a goblin and clad in jagged black armor topped by a cruel looking helmet that hid his face. With a flourish he tore it off revealing curled blonde hair and bright green eyes.

For the first time in perhaps a thousand years the Wizard was truly shocked, “Joffrey Baratheon?” he asked incredulously. Suddenly he recognized the crossbow slung across the boy’s back and the castle forged steel sword at his waist.

“King Joffrey!” the orcs chattered behind him, one got too close and the young prince backhanded it hard with a snarl, “Shut it you little imp!” he looked back to the wizard and smiled, “Wizard, we must speak, allow me in at once!”

He gestured for his orcs to begin opening the gate as Joffrey approached and walked down to meet the boy king.

As Joffrey entered Isengard he dismounted from his wolf and took the creature’s reigns in hand, “I must say I enjoy riding these wargs,” he said, “They only eat live meat you know, I might have to borrow a few of Tommen’s cats when I get back to the Rock.”

“The ring,” the Wizard asked quietly, “Did you find news of the ring in the Shire?”

Joffrey waved dismissively, “it is there and will likely remain until I return to claim it, once I have it we will march down to remove my treasonous-“

“Where is the Ring?” He asked, his voice suddenly dripping with power.

“It’s with Bagginses or the Sackville-Bagginses,” he said suddenly taking the request seriously, “they’re stupid fat little creatures who have no idea what they’ve got.”

Saruman nodded, “Who defends them?”

“Rangers,” Joffrey replied, “Perhaps a hundred of them, not enough to stop me.”

Dunedain, he thought derisively, perhaps the first batch of Uruks will be put to use against them instead of the horselords.

He thought suddenly of the goblins, “Have you told the goblins of the ring?” he asked.

Joffrey shook his head and Saruman sighed with relief, “They believe I seek a family heirloom stolen by the halflings, I see no reason to say more.”

“What will you do now Joffrey Baratheon?” He continued to allow his voice to hold his power, he didn’t need any more surprises out of the boy.

“I have made common cause with the Great Goblin,” the king said proudly, “He will allow me the use of his armies to take not only my “stolen heirloom” but to throw the traitors out of my kingdom!” He thought a moment, as if remembering why he’d come, “We will need to march through your lands, the goblins will not do so unless you give your word we are permitted to.”

I will need to keep this fool away from the Shire, “I will give you this boon if you retake your kingdom first,” he said By the time the boy and his grandfather kill each other I’ll have had an opportunity to take the ring myself. “Your people suffer without their King, and worse still during my travels there I heard many laugh at you, calling you feeble and weak.”

“Feeble?!” Joffrey spat angrily, “Weak? Your counsel is wise as ever Wizard, the traitors at home must be dealt with first…” He paused to collect himself, “It will be some time before the Great Goblin’s armies are amassed, I am ordering you to prepare provisions for us in that time to help carry the army past the Gap of Rohan.”

Orders? You’ll make a fine jester for me if you survive this war Joffrey, The wizard thought, “Your grace this can of course be done… but as you can see I am working on many projects of my own,” he gestured to the smoking pits that dotted the fields of Isengard, “If your grace would order your followers to help with certain… construction, I would be more able to prepare what you need.”

Joffrey nodded, and this time there was no compulsion needed to force cooperation, “That seems reasonable,” he looked back through the gate and saw his orcs milling about, “Dogs!” He yelled catching their attention, “There’s work to be done!” A great moan of dissatisfaction went up among the rabble but Joffrey just grabbed a whip strapped to the warg’s saddle and cracked it loudly, “Get moving! Remember where there’s a whip” he cracked it again for emphasis, “There’s a way!”

Saruman smiled to himself watching the orcs march by. A thousand extra laborers would help speed things along, and he was already thinking of ways to turn the situation to his advantage. He would need to contact Grima to make sure the Rohirrim did not interrupt the boy’s march on the Westerlands. Whether Joffrey won or lost would be immaterial, the realm would be weakened and that wall they were building would be torn down before it could be completed.

His thoughts turned next to the Shire, The boy seems to have seen it… he thought, I will send the first ready group of Uruks to search for it. He smiled at the thought, used to wolves and goblins at the worst the Dunedain would be completely unprepared for the creatures he would send. His spies reported that Gandalf was heading South from Mirkwood towards Gondor, he would be too far away to help the Hobbits until it was too late.

Chapter Text

Eomer had been impressed with Lannisport and even more so with the Rock, though he had in his youth visited Gondor Minas Tirith never bustled with the same hum of activity Lannisport did. He had come with a party of ten men to meet the rulers of these new lands on Grima’s orders, he had thought little of the mission itself, a mere greeting and then a return, until he had spoken with Tywin and Kevan Lannister. Their proposal of some manner of marriage alliance struck him as… odd, but he had heard that among the Dunlendings such customs were common during clan feuds.

The first thing he did when he woke up was ring the small servants bell at the top of his door and send for some water, he had slight headache no doubt from the wine the night before. He felt odd asking someone else to do so simple a task but the quartermaster had insisted that anything they desired would be brought. He sat rubbing his temples for a moment before noticing there was a book on his nightstand.

Odd, he thought to himself, I don’t remember this being here yesterday… he picked it up and read the title, “A Storm of Swords: An Account of Robert’s Rebellion” he muttered to himself. He could see that someone had left a bookmark about a quarter of the way through. It must belong to one of the servants, he thought absently. He opened the book to the page marked.

“House Tully,” he mumbled as he read. House Tully was convinced to join the war against King Aerys by the betrothal of Lord Eddard Stark to Catelyn Tully. With this alliance and the addition of the Tully’s forces the rebellion could now stand against the loyalists on equal footing… He closed the book, he was beginning to think it was no accident that this particular volume marked to this particular chapter had been left in his chambers.

The servant returned with water and he downed it with a sigh, he decided he would speak with Lord Tywin again. He suspected that Theodred would support a regency and with Lannister soldiers to guard the borders the whole process could be carried out fairly painlessly if Grima were caught early. That only leaves the question of who’s marrying whom he thought to himself.

He walked to the main throne room noticing a flurry of activity, men were running in every direction and he could hear shouting from inside the chamber as he entered.

“Tywin we don’t know that this letter is genuine-“ Kevan Lannister pleaeded

“It was in Tyrion’s hand!” The Old Lion shouted. Unlike at their previous meeting today Tywin Lannister was disheveled, he wore the same clothes as the night before and he had a beard growth that indicated he hadn’t had time to shave that morning. His eyes were bloodshot, from lack of sleep or anger Eomer couldn’t determine, but it was probably some combination of the two.

“Brother,” Kevan continued, “I cannot support sending Lorch among their people until we know the truth of things!”

Tywin brooded on his golden throne for a moment, “I hope…” he sighed and the tough exterior fell away, leaving only a tired and concerned father, “I hope Jaime is alive and well, but if he is not I will not allow his killers to escape justice Kevan.”

Kevan nodded, “This is a wise course, I have sent ravens to our vassals ordering them to gather their forces and meet us at the Golden Tooth.”
Tywin’s anger returned, “Good… see that the fleet is gathered as well, I want Lord Crakehall in command, he-“ he stopped and noticed Eomer for the first time, “Prince Eomer… you must forgive me for the state of things.” He was at least attempting the dignified front now.

“Lord Tywin what has happened?” Eomer asked, “Last night we dined and sung songs and this morning you march to war?”

Tywin sighed, “After you left to your chambers last night I received a message from my son Tyrion in Minas Tirith. It seems that he was going to return from Mordor by way of Gondor and the young Captain Boromir attacked him in a rage believing that he would recommend an alliance with Mordor… my son Jaime came to his brother’s defense and though he was able to slay over a dozen men he was killed.” He rubbed his temples, “My son Tyrion, my daughter Cersei, and my granddaughter Mycrella are held hostage in Minas Tirith, Tyrion was able to escape briefly to send this letter. What they intend to do with the rest of my family is unknown…”

Eomer was shocked, he had met Boromir once years before, though only briefly, but he didn’t seem the type of man to do such a thing, “There is only this letter as proof?” He asked suddenly, “Perhaps this is some trick-“

“It is Tyrion’s handwriting,” Tywin said firmly, “His penmanship is the only field he ever surpassed his brother in.”

“He still could have been coerced, the prince is right that we cannot take this letter as absolute proof,” an exasperated Kevan cut in. “We should send a letter demanding Jaime return at once, and if he does we will obviously know he is intact.”

Tywin shook his head, “No, if they have murdered Jaime that would only give them time to prepare for our attack, and we are lions not lambs in any case.” The lord of Casterly Rock clenched his fist, “We will march on Dol Amroth and besiege it, if they cannot produce Jaime we will make the Sack of King’s Landing look like a mummer’s farce.”

“What of the others?” Kevan asked, “What of Cersei, Tyrion, and Myrcella?”

“After tales reach them of what we will do to captured cities they will surrender them rather than let Minas Tirith suffer such,” Tywin replied, “If they are still harmed…” He seemed at a loss for words, “We will take appropriate actions then.” He finished.

“You would butcher their people to send such a message?” Eomer asked horrified, “That’s an orc’s strategy, not a man’s!”

Tywin glared at him, “Prince Eomer my son may be dead, this world will know what happens to those who show such disrespect to our house.” He looked down, “A family name is all you have really… all you have…” he muttered.

Eomer was silent, but he let the disgust stay on his face, seeing this Kevan gestured for him to leave. He stalked out of the throne room wondering if he should make arrangements to leave. When he was about to exit the hallway he heard a voice call to him suddenly.

“Prince Eomer!” it was the Lord Paramount’s brother Kevan, “Prince Eomer I must speak with you.”

With a sigh he stopped, “Yes Ser Kevan?”

“The matter we spoke of, it is more important now than ever. Tywin is… he is not at his best right now, but when we have recovered his children he will still be interested in an alliance.”

Eomer snorted, “If you are to be at war with Gondor you will soon be at war with Rohan, we have been allies for generations.”

“Be that as it may we are not at war yet, if war could be prevented I would do so, and I think you can help me in this.”

Eomer raised an eyebrow, “How would I do that exactly?”

“I have heard that the Rohirrim are fast riders,” Kevan said quietly.

“The fastest,” Eomer replied firmly.

Kevan nodded, “I would ask you to ride into Gondor and see if they have made preparations for war, if they are acting as though they have just killed a foreign lord’s son.”

“You would ask me to act as a scout against Gondor?” He asked indignantly, “Why not ask me to lead your knights for you as well?”

“We need a more complete picture of what has happened,” Kevan said impatiently, “Tywin has let himself fall into anger and grief, but as days go by he will become determined to know the situation. If Gondor lays open to attack on their Western border and no troops have amassed it may at least give him pause.”

Eomer thought about this, “Are you not worried I would tell the Gondorians of your approach?”

“If they have really killed Jaime then they likely know we are coming in any case,” he replied grimly. “If they have not the word of a prince of Rohan might help convince more aggressive minds at court of their innocence.”

“Are you not worried I would lie to you?” he asked quietly.

Kevan looked him in the eyes for a moment, “Would you lie to me?”

“No. No I wouldn’t,” Eomer replied without hesitation.

Kevan nodded and sighed, “I thought as much, do this thing for me, for Tywin too in truth, and I can promise that you will be rewarded.”

“What manner of reward are you offering?” He asked curiously, “I’ve little need of gold or horses…”

Kevan seemed to understand what he was really asking, “If we are truly at war then there will be little we can spare for you.”

“And if you are not at war?” The question hung in the air a moment before Kevan answered him.

“Then a Lannister always pays his debts.”

Eomer nodded, “I will leave at first light tomorrow with my men. Where shall I seek you upon my return?”

“The Golden Tooth,” Kevan replied, “We will gather there and you will pass it on your way to Gondor regardless.” He handed Eomer a letter, “This will grant you passage through any of our lands and it orders any lord you come upon to supply you in the name of House Lannister.”

“Grima,” he said suddenly, “He will be suspicious of a long absence… and Theodred will wonder as well. If I tell them you want this thing done Grima will almost certainly condemn me for it and I will be ordered to return to Edoras.”

Kevan thought a moment, “We have ravens from Edoras in our tower. The maester we sent you returned a few for this purpose. You could send a letter saying you have decided to tour our countryside perhaps?”

He laughed at the notion, “Theodred would see right through that, Grima would too most likely. I’m not a man known for such flights of fancy.”

Kevan smiled a little at that, “No, you didn’t seem such, that’s why I thought I could ask this of you.” He stroked his jaw a moment, “What if we said that thieves stole your horses one night?”

Eomer nodded, “Yes that would explain a delay of a few weeks…” He grinned, “Especially if stingy hosts failed to provide remounts.”

Kevan was not amused, “Perhaps you should write that you pursued the thieves over the course of a week or two and caught them.”

Eomer shrugged, “I suppose it makes no difference, when I have returned I will likely explain the truth of things anyway. Grima will find it much harder to speak ill of me when I stand before him.”

“If this task ends up saving lives I would hope even he would commend you for it,” Kevan said.

He rolled his eyes, “I don’t believe Grima cares for lives so much as his own authority, I am sure he would speak poorly of me no matter what course I took here. If you have nothing else I will prepare my men for departure and ride for Gondor.”

Kevan nodded, “I thank you.” He turned to walk back to the throne room where Eomer could hear Lord Tywin yelling again.

I suppose this is how friendships of old were formed, he thought to himself, A rider doing a good turn for a man he owed nothing. He reached his chambers and saw the book was still open to the chapter on the Tully’s and their marriage alliance with the Starks. He closed it with a huff, distasteful though they are Rohan needs friends now.

Chapter Text

A/N: This chapter was not written by me, it was written by spacebattles user DC79 as an omake regarding some of the religious aspects of The Arrival. It stars Cerenna Lannister, daughter of Ser Stafford Lannister and brother of Daven. This takes place around the time Eomer arrived at the Rock.

To say Cerenna Lannister was initially disappointed was an understatement.

Naethan presented to her with the sum total of his collections, after a six month expedition into Middle Earth. During the first month after the Arrival, there had been acquisitions made that were tantalizing hints at the nature of the new world. When she had learned that long stretches of empty wastes bordered where the Westerlands now lay, she had gotten impatient and loaded up a carriage with a chest of gold and anything else she thought worth trading. She wanted to know. She wanted to know everything, and so had sent Naethan, her most loyal servant, on a mission to return with knowledge, as well as material goods. Truth be told, she was the second child of the brother of the late wife of the Lord Paramount; despite her family's wealth all of it came from her purses and personal allowances, so it was not a problem she had unlimited Dragons to throw at until she was satisfied.

He had departed a few weeks before the first snowflakes began to fall. Time passed, and rumors reached her ears of the kingdoms that lay to the North and the East. She heard talk of the Elves, which as near as she could tell was a name for a culture, like the Andals or the First Men. The Elves had fractured into several small kingdoms that were both hidden by and part of the vast woods that engulfed the North. They must be the closest this world has to wildings had been her first thought. All heard talk of Gondor and there was some frightened whispers of what lay to the East. She didn't doubt that other Lords had sent similar expeditions- perhaps Naethan would not be the first to return, but she still imagined gaining a bit of glory for herself by opening wide the history of Middle Earth and making it accessible to the people of the Westerlands. She had already acquired a book on the founding of the House of Eorl or Rohan, and learned many of its customs. She was somewhat amused that according to legend, the dragons of Middle Earth were as intelligent and verbose as any man. They lusted for gold, thought conveniently they were all long dead- else they might be a particular bane to House Lannister. King Fram had supposedly slain the great dragon Scatha alone. but there were references to Scatha's size, and he slew him without aid. True, Scatha was of a flightless breed of dragons, but unless his entire body was as soft and pink as a newborn kitten, this was an incredible feat.

In this uncertain time, her books were a balm to the anxiety a heretofore unknown world beyond their borders brought up. The Citadel wasn't an option, and frankly, she was glad of it. Maesters were expected to excel at and learn of a great many fields of knowledge. She cared little for potions, ravenry, warcraft, smithing- history and culture was her passion. Her father had chided her for such unfeminine pursuits because they came at the expense of her expected duties- her needlecraft was mediocre at best, for starters. But there was no putting the cork back in that bottle, so he indulged her.

She supposed she had enough of the famed Lannister beauty; certainly the golden hair, lithe but shapely figure and the emerald eyes would please a suitor enough to let her pursue her hobbies as long as she also managed her wifely duties. But the slightly upturned button nose and large eyes made her look rather doll like at times. Not to mention the slightly uneven teeth- she was no Cersei, though from what little she remembered of her cousin before Robert's Rebellion she was glad. In any case, there were many other ladies in her own family who a knight or Lord might ask for their hand after winning a tournament or some such display before her.

On the subject of Cersei, her youngest children were both rather sweet natured, even if the young King was rather short tempered in the face of losing most of his kingdom. She was glad his illness prevented their paths from crossing, but then her brother Daven had been sent away on an expedition to the north of where the Westerlands now resided. The departure of her beloved brother and her favorite servant quashed any relief she had over not having to deal with her annoying cousin. It had been a whirlwind few days- her father, Ser Stafford Lannister, had agreed to send his wife and daughters on a trip to the Golden Tooth to visit the Leffords, Lady Myranda Lannister's family. They had even allowed Naethan to accompany them to the Tooth before he had continued on. But as the trip was about to get underway, Joffrey had fallen ill and Daven had been sent on a mission so urgent that he couldn't even accompany his mother and sisters partway; he had to leave immediately.

It had been a nice enough visit; the banners had been made ready at the Tooth in the event that either Gondor or Mordor turned out to be hostile. She met many a Lord and Knight that she had grown acquainted with over the years, but it seemed all talk of marriages was on hold until it was determined what lay beyond. To which she was profoundly relieved. It seemed negotiations with Gondor had gone well enough that Lord Tywin had departed They spent the winter in the Tooth, and just when Myrielle had started to gripe about missing the Rock

Blast it all, but she had missed the presence of two wizards. The Tooth had been host to the Steward of Gondor's second son Faramir during the intial diplomatic meetings, and he had brought a wizard with him. A few men who had seen him swore that Gandalf the Grey had made sparks and light appear out of thin air, creating art out of them as they darted to and fro. But he had departed even before Faramir had returned to Minas Tirith with Ser Jaime. And when they returned home, she learned that Lord Tywin himself had sent away another wizard, Saruman the White. Fewer spoke glowingly of him than they did Gandalf, least of all her Aunt Genna. The amount of disdain the de facto matriarch of House Lannister could fit into a few syllables when speaking of the wizard was remarkable.

But the point was, either could have been an invaluable source of lore and history of these new lands, and through sheer bad luck and timing, she was back to waiting for Naethan's return.

The coming spring was promising to thaw the unfathomably short winters of Middle Earth, and the people of the Westerlands finally believed the rumors. Cerenna, having been born in the year of the False Spring, and possessing barely any memory of a grueling winter, had thought it a poor trade. To have a summer so short the snows were back in the blink of an eye... to never again enjoy a long summer. But then she felt the cold chill of the winter, and was pleading to the Seven for the rumors to be true. And devout as she was, she remembered to thank Them for this when the snows started to thaw.

And Naethan returned with the spring, with artifacts. She had eagerly dug into his acquisitions almost immediately after they were brought to her chambers. She had hoped that the carriage would be filled to the brim with books, paintings, anything of value that could tell her more about the history of this new world. She supposed the books would provide context for much of the art and artifacts. The first of these was a portrait of a tall man wearing a great winged helm at a beach. He had fallen to his knees with a look that resembled... joy? It was hard to tell. Behind him nine enormous ships were visible in the distance, and other men like him were disembarking from rowboats that had obviously come from these ships. Both men and ship alike were adorned with what she knew to be the symbol of Gondor-

"'The Coming of the White Tree to Middle Earth,'" she read the title at the bottom of the frame aloud.

Naethan next produced a framed map of Gondor and this Mordor she had heard so much about. In the lower left corner she could see a small portion of where the Westerlands would one day reside. By now many maps had been made and passed out to the Lords of the Westerlands; this was the first she had seen of the time before the Arrival. She noted that there did not seem to be any cities marked in vast stretches of Gondor, fitting with what she heard describing their neighbors as sparsely populated despite fertile lands.

She sorted through the trinkets. There was a small sculpture of what looked like a hulking lizard, its neck as thick as its muscular body. A broken helm engraved with that same white tree, and numerous other items... but not quite the haul she had expected.

"I brought back a lesser quantity than perhaps my lady had hoped for, " Naethan explained, having stood silently as she inspected her prizes. "But last but not least is a collection of what you wanted. It was the most expensive purchase I made, and I believe the most worthy."

Books...
"Did you return with any of my gold?" she huffed.

"No, my Lady," Naethan quickly replied. "But I think what I brought is worth every Gold Dragon, no matter how unimpressive this collection looks. A Lord of sorts died, and his children were selling his possessions... they were destitute, what with the ongoing war. But they would not haggle at all for these books. Too important, they said. I- I admit fault in not concealing my homeland more discretely. Once they knew I was of the Westerlands, they were even more obstinate. They saw the lion seal on the chest of gold you provided me with, and word has already spread of our House's wealth." She thought of scolding him, but she had to admit, said wealth left many a Lannister not learning the fine art of haggling. She looked at the bottom of the chest:

3 pairs of moderately thick books lay within, each pair bound with a leather strap. Gently, he undid them all, and presented them to Cerenna. And lastly, he presented a tube from the chest. It was of a finely lacquered wood that was coated a great many years' worth of dust.

"What I have here is said to be a full accounting of the history of Middle Earth to at least a thousand years ago," he explained.

Cerenna slowly opened the tube and produced a roll of parchment as ancient, cracked, and yellowed as any she had ever seen. She delicately unrolled it and read aloud:

"The Enemy has beaten us. A great sickness has spread across my kingdom like wildfire and it can only be carried on the foul winds from the east. Even now, the last citizens of Cardolan are stricken and awaiting the release of death. The hordes of the Witch King have yet to invade us in our weakened state; I fear they are enjoying our slow demise far too much to grant us a quick release."

"My greatest gift to the World of Men is hope. The hope we shall find in our history, if only we are allowed to remember it. Contained within is the truest accounting of Arda, from the moment the Great Music birthed Ea to the recent shadow that has fallen over my kingdom of Arnor. The gathering of these tomes and hiding them away is my final act before leaving this city- in spirit, if not in body. I had hoped to die in battle against the Enemy, but I lay in my sickbed, my body ravaged by disease, knowing the same sickness killed my realm as surely as its people. May they serve you as well as I attempted to serve the people of Arnor."

Prince Dervorin of Cardolan
In the Year 1636 of the Third Age."

"The merchant explained to me that evil spirits now roam free over Arnor," Naethan murmured. "These books were retrieved at great cost- the night is dark and full of terrors in the lost kingdoms. A land as terrifying as Asshai is now as close as the North... best to know of it as soon as possible."

Cerenna looked to Naethan. She had to admit, she was struck by the despair in that message from the long dead Prince Dervorin, and at the back of their mind she thought he might be somewhat disappointed at where his cache of knowledge had ended up.

"These.. these could be invaluable to the people of Middle Earth," she said. "Would it be right for me to keep these, if these are such rare editions? What if this Prince was right and we stand between the people of Gondor and their lost history?"

"Well, it'll take some time to get the word out of this finding," he shrugged. "We haven't even trained all the ravens to all these new cities- I think you will have plenty of time to enjoy them." But still, she looked at him skeptically.

"I've served you faithfully, my Lady," Naethan swore. "I truly believe I have spent your Dragons well." But there was a hint of pleading in his voice, asking for her understanding.

"Well, delaying serves neither of us. Go, rest. See your family. I have a lot of reading to do before I know if my money was well spent." He nodded eagerly, and quickly departed, but she stopped him before he reached the door with a single sentence: "I'm glad you're back." He smiled at this. "I may yet find I underpaid for this once a standard for currency conversion is set." Naethan nodded, and she waved at him to continue on his way. Truth be told, she didn't really believe that, but there was always more gold where that had come from. Best now to examine her prize.

There were six volumes, numbered in the following order.

I. Ainulindale
II. Valaquenta
III. Quenta Silmarillion
IV The War of Wrath
V. Akallabeth
VI. The Stirring of the Shadow

She devoured them. A lady had her duties; she knew her Uncle, the Old Lion himself, might take a greater interest in the marriages of his kin than her father; Ser Stafford had always been content to wait for an opportunity to come to them. One had... but the young man, the second son of House Shermer, had died of what Daven had solemnly (and somehow still tactlessly) called "a pissing disease," saying that even when his survival was still undecided he would not be able to perform his husbandly duties. This had dragged on from when she was fifteen until last year when young Aldos Shermer finally passed. He had seemed an earnest young man, if not dreadfully dull. The searches began again.

On the last night before his expedition into the wastelands she had a long private conversation with her brother about this, among many other things.

"I'm sure Father and our Lord Uncle want to marry you and your sister to one of these Giants of Kings," he had chuckled. "I heard some of these Gondorian peasants speak of a race of Men, all of whom as tall as the Mountain himself. And of course they're as wise as all of the Maesters in the Citadel and could reduce even the heartiest of warriors to tears with by a harp and a single song."

"And what would do you think the women who birth these giants be like, dear brother?" The implication for his own marriage prospect was clear.

"I would hope gentle, if only for my sake," he laughed. "A broken cock is still a broken cock no matter how sorry she is." Myrielle laughed at his ribald jokes when not in proper company, but Cerenna had never cared to. His booming laugh always got louder when she rolled her eyes at his jokes, but she at least didn't begrudge him that.

"I'll be back- I promise," he finally said, when the grin finally faded. He quickly embraced his sister to make this point.

"Most who die far from home make the same promise," she sniffed, gripping him even tighter.

"Well, write a song about me if I don't," he chuckled.

"It will be a sonnet, not the tavern song you surely would prefer," she had replied.

"Just as well- I don't need a song to be remembered in the taverns of Lannisport," he had said, before ruffling her hair. They had spoken of his impending journey, saying that she was planning to send one of her own servants to gather lore, writings, and perhaps a valuable artifact or two. She lamented the necessity of his leaving, and. He had somberly said he had other duties to perform during the journey but said no more.

But now, any search for a suitable marriage had been quashed, as House Lannister would doubtless look for opportunities in these new strange lands. So she was free to read, not having to entertain potential suitors.

But back to the chest.

Within was a nearly unbroken history of this new world, and she read until her eyes burned. The ladies at court who she considered her friends missed her presence at Court- she explained she had her share of duties to the New Realm, as she called it, and she would be re-joining them shortly.

The books spoke of the Great Music, the song of creation composed by Eru Iluvatar, the One God, and sung with him by the Ainur, a host of angelic spirits who preceded the world. Great Music... Cerenna thought. Every man, woman and child in the Westerlands had heard the song that announced the Arrival. It was the most beautiful music she had ever heard- she could not, if asked, say for sure if they were voices or instruments. It was a seamless blending of the two into something wholly unique. But now she knew divine music was said to have sung "Arda" into creation. And a Great Music had taken her homeland and placed it and all of its people in a new world.

Her faith was the constant balm through all of this. It was her rock, her sword and her shield. She would often pray to one of the Seven who she felt she had neglected in her other prayers- even the Stranger, for was he not the one all men would meet? But this music heralding an event far beyond any feat attributed to the Seven and an explanation that hinted at something greater...

These books claimed that there were peoples, these "Elves," who had met these Valar. And what they described was very unlike the wilding-like people she had imagined. That they were the first Children to awaken to this world, and were it not for the strife that followed those who were First Born would still reside in Middle Earth today.

The great Enemies- first Morgoth, and then his lieutenant, Sauron, who was said to trouble the world at the time of these writings nearly 1,400 years ago. In The Stirring of the Shadow it was stated his greatest servant, the Witch King of Angmar, was still begrieving the world of Men and few doubted he acted alone.

And lastly, the histories were an almost seamless fusion of legendary times to the more grounded present. Maester Yandel's histories speculated about what more grounded realities lay behind the histories of the Dawn Age and the Age of Heroes. Surely the Children of the Forest did not break the Arm of Dorne with their great magic, but instead it had to be a natural event. Lann the Clever surely did not live to be 312 nor could he have gained power over the Casterlys by impregnating numerous ladies in their sleep. Surely he most likely was a retainer who had weaseled his way into acquiring the hand of the Lord's daughter in marriage and went from there.

But these books sure a slow but sure progression from a world unrecognizable to the Middle Earth of today and slowly but surely became the world different but familiar to the Westerman. But the books spoke of how Eru Illuvatar Himself made the flat disk that was Arda into a sphere, and the year and date was given. There was no speculation, nothing lost to the veil of history that a historian would have to piece together.

So... what? What did this mean for her? For the Faith? She had thought to discuss this with her cousin Lancel, but the flames of his newfound piety would doubtless lead to a more heated discussion than she cared to partake in. There was more than one Sept in the Rock, and the one she had always attended had been presided over by Septon Archer since before she was born. She brought him a few of these books, and asked him to read them, but to keep the contents to himself. She requested his time to discuss her concerns about them. And truth be told, she was drained. Final victory had come over Morgoth. But she read of Hero after Hero, both man and elf alike, fall in the battle. The futility of the War of Wrath, the tragedy of the curse laid upon Turin Turambar. The duel between Fingolfin and Morgoth was another that affected her deeply. A sense of melancholy seeped through every page of these books, and into her as she turned every page.

The final victory over Morgoth himself could at best be called bittersweet if one stopped reading there... but read on she did. The shattering of Beleriand was the least of these tragedies. And so she read of Numenor... these seemed to be the giants of men that Daven had spoken off. Again, reference was made to the brother of its fonder Elros, lord Elrond himself, still residing in Rivendell at the time of 1636 of the Third Age. Had he too fallen to the Enemy in the intervening 1,400 years? But Numenor's reign was another glorious day that also faded into the night. An echo of familiarity brought to mind the Valyrian Freehold. But it echoed a promise made earlier, and the breaking of that promise brought what could only be a divine wrath on Numenor- quite different from constantly active volcanoes suddenly reaching a furious peak.

A week after she had started, she spoke to Naethan about what she had read so far.

Naethan had always served her so well, always following her instructions to the letter. Had he been taken in by the awe inspiring way in which they found themselves in a new world?

"I asked for a written history," Cerenna sighed. "You gave me a religious text." Truth be told she was disturbed by what she read, and was trying to seem casual in her reprimand.

Naethen shook his head. "The merchant was quite insistent that all of this is really true. I mean, that Prince thought it important enough to seal it away as his final act."

"It seems to merge mysticism with history. And there seems to be less magic in the world the closer we get to the present. Maester Yandel would find that to be very convenient."

"I have been told that..." he paused, "The Lady Galadriel still resides over Lothlorien in the far Northeast. The very same Lady who was born in the Years of the Trees." Naethan had taken time to peruse every volume he purchased on her behalf. At that moment, Cerenna was at a loss to determine which of the two of them was the more gullible. She was trying to find any hint that he had been played for a fool to assuage her own terror.

"I- I will go to Lothlorien. Or to Mirkwood. Anywhere these elves reside, to see them for myself if you give me the word, my Lady," He placed an affirmative palm on his chest, and he awaited her approval.

"No, that won't be necessary," she finally said. "I gave you your mission in my impatience for knowledge. It would be another long journey, another long wait. I- I think I am content to wait for the answers to come to me on their own this time."

Naethan nodded, and she dismissed him again. She had put up a much braver front to him than she actually felt. She knew this was far different than what Maester Yandel wrote of. And so she continued. What little was left were amazing additions to an incredible tale, but this tale was left with no solace to take in the final defeat of the great Enemy, so she drew little satisfaction from this knowledge. Then the nightmares came.


The first night after she finished reading the books, two weeks later after she had started, she had lain in her bed, her eyes wide awake. She imagined a vague black form, man like in its shape but several times larger, laughing as it loomed over her, three burning lights in its forehead obscuring its face. A twisted hand that could engulf her entire body reached for her. Panicked thoughts ran through her mind as her legs worthlessly tried to force her from her spot: I am a mite, I am nothing, I should be beneath the attention of this Dark Lord- before the black shape engulfed her, forcing her awake.

She looked out at the new ocean, to the West. Dare she try to spot Earendil the Mariner's faint point of light traversing the heavens? Would the sign of the great hero reassure her... or terrify her by confirming the truth of these terrors?

She requested dreamwine that night. A last image came to her before succumbing to sleep- that of fourteen great figures, standing at the edge of the horizon beyond the sea. The smattering of clouds present passed over their faces. They could each behold all of the West under their gaze, but she felt as though all of them were focused on her.

It was another week before Septon Archer invited her to his Sept, when he told her had finished reading the Histories. He sat her down at the edge of a pew, and eased himself into the opposite one to face.

Septon Archer's face was that of crumpled parchment, and the constant ease with which he smiled threatened to crack it further.

She told him of her fears, of the nightmares, and how and why they troubled her. When she was done, the old man merely shrugged.

"I fear not these tales, even if they are true. Even if the Faith is based on only a shadow of the true nature of two worlds."

Cerenna was confused. "Would this not... prove your life's work to be a lie?"

"What, these Valar?" Archer scoffed. "If the Seven never existed, the wisdom of the Seven Pointed Star is true and a worthy roadmap for the hearts of men to follow."

"I can hide nothing from you," she explained. "Surely you see how frightened I am at the implications of these stories?"

"Indeed I do, my Lady. You have nothing to fear. And if anything, a great burden should have been lifted from your heart if you saw this as I have."

He gestured for a Septa, and she brought him a lantern and a roll of parchment. Clearly he had prepared this.

"This lantern is a single brilliant light. The truth of men’s hearts and the light of creation. These crude forms that are our bodies- and some are cruder than others-" and he ran a finger over the wrinkles that covered his kindly features with a chuckle-"-cannot comprehend the light as it is. We must see seven lesser flames that comprise the luminous whole." And here he unrolled the parchment and held it in front of the lantern. Seven holes had been poked in it, in a star like pattern, and they became seven points of light as he held it in front of the lanterns light.

"But from a distance, fourteen could be mistaken for Seven."
And he unrolled the parchment further. Now, fourteen holes had been punched in the same star like pattern, in seven pairs of holes. Each pair was cut so closely together that from a distance they could easily be mistaken for one light as Septon Archer held them in front of the lantern.

"But I am of the mind that all could be true. The One. The Seven. The Fourteen Valar. All of it." And he seemed to be excited.

"You'll have to forgive an old man's creaking bones demanding a need for brevity," Septon Archer chuckled. "These pews are rather hard on the joints, so I thought it best to cut to the chase."

"I- I think you're saying that all you have is speculation, and you seemed to have latched onto fourteen being a multiple of seven." She said this with no disrespect.

"I say you have nothing to fear," Archer said soothingly. "Whatever Power is behind all of this, it clearly holds sway in both the Westerlands and Middle Earth. Be it the Seven or these Valar or Eru Himself, I feel that whatever has happened it has brought us closer to the truth."

Cerenna was silent for a long while: "So you're saying you don't know, but you're optimistic?"

"Do you not remember what the Seven Pointed Star says about council given?"

"'Beware he who promises answers to all that is asked of him and even questions that are not,"" Cerenna quoted. "'And be wary of council given that is naught but all the reassurance you sought."

"'Precisely, my dear. Make no mistake, we are living in an exciting time. But I should warn you... there are hard liners within the Faith. I have always held that the great truth is greater than the hearts and minds of mere men can bear. Perhaps they are Seven Who Are One. Perhaps they are Seven unique individuals as adherents to other faiths believe and our comprehension falls short. But many who have made up their minds would not care to hear Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, and the Stranger spoken of in the same breath as Manwe, Varda, Aule, Yavanna, Orome, Vana, Este, Vana, Mandos, Vaire, Ulmo, Nienna, Tulkas, and Nessa."

Cerenna was impressed. The Histories had so many names that even she could scarcely keep track of all of the Valar, let alone the types of Elves and what lands resided where and when.

She was silent for a long time, and Archer waited patiently for her to speak again.

"Morgoth," she breathed. "If it is true, his malice still taints this world through his servant. We have an Enemy, akin to the Great Other the Red Priests fear so much. Is being closer to the truth worth having an encroaching evil upon us at all times?"

"It means... we have a responsibility now. The men of the West, which includes the Westerlands- we fight the last servant of the Great Enemy. Whatever brought us here surely has wisdom to match its power."

"And you believe the Powers that brought us here think us up to the task?" Cerenna replied. Archer nodded.

"Again, there are others of my Faith who would call any notion of the Valar or Eru heresy, though they have long tolerated the worship of the Old Gods, and even the Drowned God with some derision. But new heresies are always the least tolerated," Archer said darkly.

"You want me to keep silent in this matter?" Cerenna asked, confused.

"No need to involve yourself in a contentious debate when I believe the truth will be revealed to us all on its own," Archer explained.

"But- we should sing the names of Eru, the Valar, if this is all true-" Cerenna objected.

"Not when there are whispers of a new Faith Militant arising!" Archer hissed. Cerenna was shocked- such whispers hadn't reached her eyes, high atop Casterly Rock.

"I fear for you," Archer said, his withered hand clasping hers. "Your sister fears for you. She seemed to have mistaken your scholarly pursuits for a more ominous isolation."

"She came to you?" Cerenna asked, confused. Myrielle was not devout in any way; she could often see her sister nodding off during services, and she certainly could not imagine her seeking council from a Septon.

"She thought I might have insight into what was troubling you so much. She sensed you were troubled even after you completed your new studies."

Myrielle seemed more likely to scoff and think her older sister would get over anything that troubled her given enough time; she had always acted like the older sister despite being ten months younger.

"I wish to do what I can for the struggle against Sauron," Archer explained. "I will not involve myself in strife within the Faith if I can. I hope you can do the same." Many Devout would think it cowardly to keep their heads down during a crisis of Faith- but she saw his meaning. Sauron was the Enemy, not those with a differing interpretation of theology.

With that, he arose, and sensing that their time was over, Cerenna did the same. Despite his hobbling gait, he took her hand and escorted her to the door of the Sept like any noble Ser would.

"Thank you, Septon Archer," she finally said. "I think my nightmares will be somewhat abated. I will still concern myself with 'merely' the tangible armies that may march from the East." The smile was sincere.

"Any time, my Lady. Perhaps you should reassure your sister of your gladdened heart." And he slowly brought the heavy doors to a close.
.
She barely had time to ruminate on the evening's talk when she heard her cousin Lancel's voice.

"-and these levels were once the highest part of the mines before they were cleared out. Once my ancestors were done with them, these tunnels were completely mined out they spent another century turning it into livable space."

Lancel was escorting an armored man whose mane was as golden as any Lannister, and easily as tall and as strongly built as the Hound himself. But his sculpted visage produced a very different reaction in the pit of her stomach than did that of Sandor Clegane. Shrugging this off, she stepped forward, noting the horses engraved into his armor.

"Cousin Lancel, I had no idea an emissary from Rohan was expected at the Rock!" For an instant she feared they would keep going, but the tall Horselord stopped, an intrigued look on his face.

"I am afraid I was not expected. I am Eomer, Prince of Rohan, nephew to Theoden, King of Rohan. All the same, Lord Tywin has agreed to meet with me."

"Indeed. Our Lord Uncle has requested he be given more comfortable garments to wear while treating with him. And you know how he loathes to be kept waiting." The implication was clear.

Cerenna grabbed her skirt and lifted it up off the ground with one hand, and offered Prince Eomer her free arm "I can easily keep stride with the Prince unless you mean this as an order. I fear to lose an opportunity to forge a tie of friendship to the Prince of a land I've read so much of. And you know no one else is more informed " She gave him a pleading look when she was sure Eomer couldn't see. Lancel was Lancel... but for once, he got the hint. And even he saw the advantages of an attractive, unmarried Lannister maiden ingratiating herself with a prince. Suddenly, she realized she had forgotten her manners, and withdrew her offered arm in place of a hand.

"Forgive me, Prince Eomer. I am Cerenna, daughter of Ser Stafford Lannister, cousin to Lord Tywin."

"Greetings to you, my Lady." She had enough time to will her expression to stay guarded before he kissed the offered hand, before taking her arm as she had offered it before. Lancel led them forward without another word.

"I promise I won't bore you to a standing sleep with the minutiae of the Rock," Cerenna promised. He chuckled at that.

"You know enough of my land to recognize a Rohirrim on sight?" he asked. A horse symbol was obvious enough, but she could tell this was a conversation starter. "The few Westermen I've met on this journey seemed only vaguely aware of my homeland."

"All of my education is for naught with an entire world left behind. I thought it best to begin it anew with the Westerlands' nearest neighbors."

"These are trying times for Rohan, but we are nothing if not welcoming of visitors. Any who would know of us from books is always welcome to see the beauty of Rohan in person. I hope to leave here with more friends than I had when I arrive."

Mission accomplished, Cerenna managed to keep this to herself.

She had seen artists drawings of Meduseld- she had to admit, she had re-read the text accompanying it, thinking the building shown was a guest or servant house. Even compared to Winterfell, it seemed rather quaint. A faint hum filled her senses as she looked again at the Prince's kind expression and she couldn't quite conjure the same feelings for the more rural nation of Rohan that she had before.

"If you will take the time, Lord Tywin will see to it that you get to behold all of the Rock's majesty before returning home." Cerenna had always been proud of her home, and her eagerness to share its glory was genuine.

"I certainly had not envisioned such beauty, such opulence when traveling here. It was when I started to see the Rock peer over the horizon that I realized the people I had spoken with on my travels here spoke true." He sighed. "But I fear this will be a short visit. All the same, I hope both offers still stand when my business is back in order." And so they conversed about various minutiae of their homelands as they turned corner after corner and ascended one staircase after another. She noted his mention of the Hornburg and his amused frustration at many who used it interchangeably with the valley it resided in, Helm's Deep.

'''Helm's Deep' is just so evocative, though," Cerenna chuckled.

"True enough, but one only has to behold the horn of Helm Hammerhand and to imagine the power of its call and they would scarcely forget the fortress's true name," Eomer replied, amused.

"There's another bit of legend I have read of," Cerenna asked. "The story of your ancestor Fram and the dragon Scatha. Did he really slay the beast on his own?"

"Indeed he did. Though doubtless you know of what he did after, which was less laudable," Eomer said grimly.

"We had dragons in Westeros," Cerenna explained. "But they were but beasts, tamed by House Targaryen to aid in their conquest of the Seven Kingdoms. Three dragons subjugated the entire continent in the name of Aegon the Conqueror. But I've read enough history- the dragons of Middle Earth could dwarf even these monsters, and so many were slain by single men. I could scarcely believe it. Even Ancalagon the Black was slain by a single man

"I would say it's less than fair to compare Men of today with Earendil the Mariner," Eomer replied. "We would fall far short of that standard."

Despite the amusement in his tone, Cerenna sensed something about him. He looked normal enough, and his own golden hair could mark him as another Lannister to the unknowing. And there were plenty of taller men- her own cousin Lucion was taller and broader. He is still descended from such stock, however distantly...

"Well, it is good to know Middle Earth has seen such men," Cerenna continued. "A dragon of your lands would wail in ecstasy when he learned of the mines beneath our feet."

"Smaug was the last of such beasts," Eomer explained. "He troubled the Men of Dale and the Dwarves of Erebor for decades before Bard the Bowman brought him from the sky nearly eighty years ago."

"With a bow?" Cerenna asked incredulously. Seeing this, Eomer grinned and nodded.

"Hence the name." And he says Men have degraded since those Elder Days. Eighty years is nothing in a world with Immortals living in it.

Lancel stopped at a door, and opened it for the prince. "Come inside and we will prepare your new garments. It should not take long, Prince Eomer."

Cerenna knew her presence inside would not be appropriate. A few minutes later, after some murmured conversation from within, Lancel re-emerged.

"It will be a few minutes before they finish tailoring his shirt," Lancel explained. Cerenna nodded, and assumed the perfect posture to befit a patiently waiting lady.

"I had no idea you harbored such ambitions," he said at last. "If you had shown them earlier, perhaps a match with Willas Tyrell could have been arranged."

If this was more astute than was usual for Lancel, it was offset by how loudly he said it. She angrily shushed him, and he shrugged, and spoke no more. A few minutes later the Prince emerged, wearing a hastily tailored buttoned up shirt. It was of green silk, and Cerenna allowed herself the briefest of fantasies that he had chosen it to match the eyes of his new guide.

"I will have the servants return your armor to your guest quarters, Prince Eomer," Lancel explained. The prince thanked him and they continued

"Whatever you may say about the grandeur-" That's good, I didn't say "wealth"-"-of Casterly Rock compared to your home, you cut as kingly a figure as any I have ever seen in such fine clothes." Truth be told the shirt was not as fine as a noble Lord might wear to treat with a foreign ruler.

"If I am only ever marked as a king by my appearance I will be quite pleased," Eomer said with a smile. Right- it will take more deaths than that of the king to place him on the throne. A brilliant way to remind him of the last thing he would want to happen, she chided herself. They were silent for the moment, before that reminded her of something else.

"I hope the host you saw gathered at the entrance to the city did not alarm you. My father, Ser Stafford was training them even before the Arrival." And she was glad of it. Her Uncle Kevan never had a thought enter his head his elder brother had first.

"An impressive host, to be sure," Eomer agreed. "And it would be wise to keep them ready. I will say no more of this until I speak to your Lord Uncle," he added solemnly. War was doubtless forever on his mind.

"And I must say, the fleet I saw gathered at your ports is quite spectacular. Men of Rohan don't quite have the sea legs we could but we are not averse to the oceans."

"And a man or lady of the West might scarcely believe the stories of the amazing power of Rohan's steeds," Cerenna replied. "A horseman can know the open sea and the people of the West can learn of the tales of your steeds are true. My sister Myrielle dotes on her steed and always chides me for my poorer riding skills. Perhaps after a few lessons from a man of Rohan I could show her a thing or two."

"I would insist that a Rider of the Mark accompany a novice rider if trying one of our mounts," Eomer explained. Here, he leaned in so close that Lancel couldn't hear him, if he was still paying attention: "Though i suppose you know that?"

As little as she had cared about the Prince seeing through her, hearing him confirm it brought a flash of crimson to her face.

"Forgive me, Prince Eomer, if I was too-"

"It is quite all right." Now, they had turned the corner to the hall leading to Lord Tywin's solar, and she knew this is where they would have to depart.

"I am glad to have made at least two friendships today," he said, regarding both Lancel and Cerenna. "May they be the first of many. Ser Lancel. Lady Cerenna." He nodded, and departed. If Cerenna thought he emphasized the word friendship when he had nodded to her she hoped it was more to keep her from getting her hopes up rather than a promise of nothing further. But if she knew her Lord Uncle...

And he was gone. Lancel looked at her for a moment, and he seemed about to say something, but she noticed he was clutching the pendant he wore of the Seven Pointed Star. Whatever he was about to say, he seemed to think better of it before wishing her goodnight and departing. Thinking to warn me away from the heathen? she thought absently.

Still, Cerenna left with a skip in her heart. She thought to herself that the excitement she felt was the promise of this new world, the hope in her heart her talk with the Septon had given her. That it was the possibility of the wide beyond opening before her. But she had to admit, the stirrings she had felt began in the moments before she noticed the horse insignia.

But as Cerenna turned the corner, there she was. Her younger sister Myrielle, a knowing smile slowly spreading across her comely features. She was the tall, willowy, golden haired beauty that many others would imagine when hearing the name "Lannister." Any could imagine her dancing through a field of green and gold, like nymphs from legend. But it was that smug grin on that face that those same people could scarcely conjure.

"The word had just reached the ears of myself and the Ladies at court of the visit of a handsome foreign prince, and I had merely hoped to catch a glimpse of him before retiring. But here you are... would you lift the hem of your dress for me to confirm your feet are still touching the floor?" And the chortle as she said this last part reminded her very much of Daven.

"I- I was just performing my duties as a lady of the court of the Rock," Cerenna mumbled. Myrielle ignored this.

"All of this talk of the fear of marrying a dullard, and you were truly just holding out for a handsome prince just like any other starry eyed maiden!"

She thought to protest, but for once, tried to counter with a jest. "I take it then you didn't see him for yourself?"

"A Lioness does not dig her claws too deeply at the first sight, no matter the beauty of the Stallion before her," she said, that smile still on her face. Cerenna was blushing furiously, and Myrielle rolled her eyes and went to her sister, placing her arms around her in a placating manner.

"Oh, come now. The japes of a younger sister should not be heeded so. Come, tell me everything. The other ladies will want to know. “As much as she shared Daven's bawdy sense of humor, she still had her moments. And knowing how worried about her Myrielle had been she knew she wanted some reassurance

Even if she could not resist making a joke or two about mounting stallions.

Chapter Text

Euron had grown to love the whispery world of the palantir, the great distances one could fly… it was almost enough of a treasure on it’s own to sate his thirst… almost. He’d avoided others for a time, he sometimes saw the Steward of Gondor, attempting to spy on the hosts of Mordor, sometimes the man in white would appear around the lands of Isengard.

The Eye though, the Eye was something more… It had offered him treasures and power if he would bow, and perhaps in time he would, but he would come to the Dark Lord on his own terms. I am the storm, he thought to himself.

It was raining softly now, he stretched his arms and walked to the front of the ship. They’d taken a wooden carving in the shape of a sad looking woman from a ship that had been a little too slow one day. It’s hands were held out in mourning and, liking the look of it, he’d taken to placing the palantir in them while he looked through it. He did so now, pulling the cloth covering off and meeting hands with the weeping woman.

With a sound like rushing water he found himself in the skies above the bay of Belfalas.

Back again Crow’s Eye?

He could hear the voice of the Dark Lord and steeled himself, even for one as… experienced with the unnatural as he was, communing directly could strain the mind.

Come to me…

He felt himself appear before the Barad-Dur again, the pupil of the great flaming eye dilated and the Dark Lord himself walked through it like a door, clad in great spiked armor and standing at least eight feet tall.

He cleared his throat, “My Lord I have an answer to your proposal.”

Do you now?

He suddenly felt a sharp pain inside his head and he fought to suppress a scream, “The seas!” he shouted, and the pain subsided and the dark lord looked at him curiously.

What of the seas?

“If I serve you I want the seas! I would have them for all time,” He said a little more calmly.

Sauron laughed at this, You are a captain Euron Greyjoy… a man does not walk off the dock and into a position as your first mate does he?

“Give me an opportunity to show you what I am capable of!” He said, “What I truly am.”

The dark lord seemed to consider this, What opportunity would you suggest? he asked in a mocking tone.

“Give me the city of Umbar and I will make it’s men a tool worthy of you, they shall be Ironborn.”

A city of men cannot be given like a city of orcs can

“Then I ask for a free hand and your blessing to take it.” He said confidently, “If I can take Umbar with a single ship then surely I would be a more worthy ruler than the fools that rule now?”

The Dark Lord was silent a moment, but then spoke, They have disappointed me greatly for ones so proud of their Westron blood… If you can subdue them then I will give this my blessing. Go.

He felt himself thrown out of the world of the palantir and he fell back a few feet across the deck. He looked around at the mutes staring at him curiously and he let his face become warm and confident.

“Sail for Umbar,” he’d been there already of course, but he’d kept a low profile and simply sought to get a feel for the city. This time he would arrive as a conqueror. He smiled as the wind picked up, perhaps this little drizzle would become a storm after all.

They sailed into the Haven, the great kraken on the sails fully inflated by the winds and his crow’s eye standard waving wildly. The rain stopped and the wind calmed as they approached, though strange shaped and low hanging clouds continued to drift over the waters. He could see a number of fishermen in the harbor watching his ship go by, and one of the great black ships he know to be a corsair raider began following him too.

It’s to be a spectacle then… “Cragorn!” he shouted, one of the mutes perked up hearing his name, “Prepare Dragonbinder!” rushing to his command the men ran to a great chest at the back of the ship and hoisted the great horn into place near the front.

Finally after a time they reached the docks of the city, looking back he saw at least four of the great ships had followed him in now.

They don’t want me to escape… He thought with amusement. He climbed high on the bow of the ship and looked to the gathered men of the docks, a number of men he guessed were soldiers had arrived and even those unloading things on the dock stared at him curiously, gripping crowbars, wooden cudgels, or whatever was handy.

“Greetings to the people of Umbar, I am Euron Greyjoy captain of Silence, called the Crow’s Eye!” He shouted.

“Well that answers my first question,” One of the men, a tall blond fellow with a regal face and angular cheekbones, said. “My second is why have you borne that standard into my city… it is said that it flies above a ship of raiders that have pillaged Gondor and Harad alike, a ship that has even been said to strike at our own Corsairs.” An angry murmur was going up from the crowd and the man smiled, “Though of course if you have come to turn yourself in and face your penance a lifetime of servitude for you and your crew would of course be acceptable.” The crowd laughed a bit now.

Laughter? I’ll silence that, he gestured to Cragorn who blew the horn. Where the air was filled with laughter a moment before now the loud and low baleful sound of the hellhorn filled the air. The runes on the horn glowed brightly and some of the men down on the docks covered their ears or fell to their knees. Euron just stood there, eyes closed and hair blowing about his face. After a moment the horn stopped. Cragorn, his lips now covered in blisters and his tattoos oozing blood, fell over onto the dock and then rolled into the sea where steam rose from his sinking corpse.

He grinned seeing the crowd’s now shocked faces, “I have been sent by Sauron the Great! He has found your leaders lacking and has named me the new Captain of the Haven!”

“That is preposterous!” the blonde man shouted, “I am captain of the Haven, as my father before me, know you speak to Fuinor! The true Captain of the Haven.”

Euron let out a mocking laugh, “You are a failure, like your father before you.”

“Watch your tongue or I shall cut it from you!” Fuinor was furious now, “If you claim to speak for the Dark Lord why has he not sent one of his esteemed servants to confirm this?” Fuinor asked angrily.

Euron gestured widely, “One stands before you, if proof is necessary why not settle this in the manner of a true man of the sea?”

Fuinor drew his sword, “Then come down from there and face me you wretch!”

Euron laughed, “Oh I suppose to a “captain” who’s become so accustomed to the land a man’s measure might be decided by a single blade…” He paused and he could see from the nodding heads and the muttering that he was winning over the assembled sailors.

Fuinor saw this and his anger grew, but he suppressed it and sheathed the sword, “Then what do you propose Greyjoy?”

“Let us meet on the open water, you and all your ships and men against me and mine, let Sauron’s favor be shown in battle.”

The black Numenorean grinned at this and crossed his arms, “Very well fool, my household alone commands seven greatships and hundreds of men. If you surrender now my offer of a life of slavery is still on the table.”

Euron shrugged, “At dusk I will be in the harbor.” He looked to the assembled crowd, “Tell everyone to watch tonight and see the will of Sauron.” He turned to his crew, “Shove off!” he shouted.

“Let him go,” he heard Fuinor yell behind him, “Block the bay though, I will have his head!”

Euron rolled his eyes, he would be glad to be free of the fool. He saw that the greatships were sailing for the bay’s exit to block his supposed retreat, but it mattered little. He looked over the smaller ships in the bay, mostly small fishing vessels. He pointed to a pair that were close together.

“There.” The men followed his instruction and they were soon alongside the pair of fishing boats. Aboard there were six boys, three in each ship, along with a man he assumed was their father. “You there! Fisherman,” he yelled getting the man’s attention.

“Whaddaya want? I’ve got a catch to haul in,” the man yelled back.

He kicked open his chest of plunder, causing a number of golden cups and coins to spill out, “How would you like to make some gold today?” he said.

The man’s eyes went wide, “What’re ya buyin?”

Euron stroked his chin, “Do the men of Umbar use the resin of evergreen trees to patch their hulls?”

The fisherman nodded, “Aye they do, but it’s expensive, it’s got to come from either Gondor or Rhun. If you need repairs stranger my cousin has a small drydock over in-“

“No, that won’t be necessary. I need you to go into the city with your ships and bring me back a few things. I will pay not only for your time and for the cost of the goods, but I will also allow you to take whatever your arms can hold from my chest here when you’ve returned.” He smiled, “Do we have a deal?”

The man’s piggy eyes widened and he nodded frantically, “Whaddaya need?”

He stroked his chin, “The pine tar of course, bring a few barrels of it, as much as your first ship can hold. Then I need sulphur, apothecaries or alchemists should have some, I need at least this sack full.” He reached down and grabbed a burplap sack tied to the side of the ship and tossed it over to the man. “Finally… are there markets for slaves here?” The man nodded and he continued, “I need either a man who’s been a father or a virgin girl, spare no expense to get either one but make sure they are genuine.” He threw a rope over and the two men drew the ships close. After the man had taken enough gold to buy the supplies he sat back and whistled, watching the clouds drift by.

Before long the man and his sons returned, their ships riding low in the water from the collected items. Euron watched them approach silently, he could see the barrels of tar on the deck and a bound man he assumed had been a father at some point. They drew the ships close and the man eagerly jumped aboard, shoving a bag of Sulphur into Euron’s hands.

“It’s all there, now my payment?” For a moment Euron thought about just kicking him overboard and sailing on, but then he saw the man’s children and smiled.

“Take your gold,” he said pointing to the still open chest, “But a word of advice friend,” he pulled his patch aside causing the boys to gasp and the man to step back a bit as his blackened eye was revealed, “Buy yourself a bigger ship and start teaching the boys swordplay.” He paused a minute, “In fact take an extra handful of coin and leave one of the ships.” The man just nodded, mouth still open in shock, and walked towards the chest.

A short time later Euron was with his new slave on his new ship standing over his pine resin. He casually sprinkled some Sulphur into each barrel. He turned to the slave, an older man with a scraggly beard and wiry arms.

“What is your name?” he asked

“Shen,” the slave rasped with a cough, “Could I have some water master?”

Euron gestured for one of the men to bring a cup and as Shen drank he stuffed a long rod into the barrels and with a struggle mixed the material with the Sulphur, “Have you any children Shen?” he asked.

The slave nodded, “Two of my daughters still live, I had a son but has passed…”

Euron smiled, “It is a noble thing raising children, it raises the worth of even lowly men such as us.”

Shen smiled, “Kind words master I-“ with a single quick fluid motion Euron drew his knife and cut the man’s throat. As the man struggled Euron roughly grabbed him by the hair and held his spurting neck over each of the barrels in turn until the wound stopped flowing and the slave lay still.

“You see Shen,” Euron said to the corpse as he wiped his hands on the dead man’s rags, “This is normally a process that takes months, sometimes years, to perform properly. Fortunately in Asshai I learned a way to speed it up a little…” He gestured for his men to go back aboard Silence, leaving him alone on the small fishing vessel.

He held his hands over the barrels and began speaking in a low and terrible voice, “përvëlues jala yonishi!” The winds picked up slightly and he closed his eyes with a grin, Ignis! Omnis fhtagn!” He felt a stirring in him, an energy that raced from his head and down through his fingers, “Valar Morghulis…” he finished with a whisper. He looked down at his work, the mixture in the barrels was now much runnier, with an almost liquid composition, and it was giving off a low green glow.

Dusk came quickly, he didn’t bother to give his crew a speech, any that had followed him this far didn’t need one. The sun was going down now, and he brought his ship around to face towards the city where he knew the people would be watching. Outlined against the setting sun he knew the great black sails of Silence would be all the more impressive.

He could see the ships coming from the city now, four great black junks, “Fuinor of Umbar,” He cackled to no one in particular, “Tell your gods I sent you!” In spite of his excitement for the battle he was a little annoyed that Fuinor hadn’t brought all seven of the greatships his family supposedly owned, More to inherit from him I suppose. He gestured to the man who was sitting in the fishing boat alongside Silence and the little ship sailed toward the approaching Corsairs. He grinned as he saw the glowing green mixture begin to seep into the water.

“Fuinor!” a chant came from the assembled ships, “Fuinor! Fuinor!”

“From the sound of things at least he brought plenty of men,” Euron said with a sigh, he picked up his bow from the deck of the ship and nocked an arrow. “Can I get a light?” he asked with a giggle, and one of the mutes approached with a torch in hand and lit the end of his arrow. All of them looked at him expectantly and he was confused for a moment before chuckling, “I can’t say something clever every time…” With that he loosed the flaming arrow towards the approaching ships, who had just passed the leaking fishing vessel.

A great green fireball lit the waters of Umbar.

Chapter Text

The days following his failed attempt on Jaime’s life were mostly a blur, Tyrion had never drank so much before and gotten so little pleasure from it. Jaime had gone, he remembered that at least, he’d refused to see him before his departure. Each day was merely a search for an end, either passed out drunk or asleep somewhere. His dreams were only a little better, Tysha’s crying face often haunted them, as did his father’s mocking laugh.

They were keeping him under guard now, not that it mattered since there was no way he’d be leaving in any case. Cersei had come to yell at him at some point, he wasn’t sure how long she’d stayed or what she’d said. He’d just mumbled some apologies that only seemed to make her angrier. Myrcella had brought him a bouquet of flowers but he’d merely waved her away, he held nothing against the girl and foresaw that no good that would come from them speaking, it was one of the more coherent thoughts he’d had. Still, during one of his brief moments of sobriety he managed to wonder what Bronn had promised the Citadel Guard to make them leave his chambers while they spoke.

“Lord Tyrion,” he said with a sly grin, “I know that things have been a bit… rough, so the lads and I decided we’d get you a little gift to help you back to your senses.” The door behind him opened and a pair of beautiful women walked through wearing nothing but smallclothes adorned with jewelry.

“Get them out of here!” he roared as he threw his wine goblet at them. With a startled cry the two girls obeyed and ran back down the hall.

“Alright now, what in the seven hells was that?” Bronn asked angrily, “It’s hard enough finding a whore in this city, and harder still to sneak her up here into the citadel.”

Tyrion sighed, “I’m sorry Bronn, I’ll pay you back for the coin. It’s just that…” He sighed, “I’m not in a mood for whores right now.”
Bronn cocked an eyebrow, “Well that’s a first, is there anything I can get you then?”

“More wine,” Tyrion said, walking over to pick up the thrown cup.

“I didn’t think I’d ever be the man saying this but, well… I think you’ve had enough mate.”

Tyrion waved at him dismissively, “Oh what do you care, you’re just a sellsword, you wouldn’t be here if not for the promise of coin.”

Bronn shrugged, “Well I certainly wouldn’t risk my neck for you, and if it were hard labor involved you could certainly fuck right off with that, but you’re an alright fellow to travel and drink with.”

Tyrion smiled, “Kinder words I fear have never been spoken of me. So what have you been doing to keep busy without my company?”

Bronn pulled up a chair next the small table Tyrion had sat at, “Well I’ve been with Crakehall and Shagga mostly. Alright sorts, if a bit thick.”

Suddenly he chuckled, “You won’t believe it, Crakehall knighted Shagga.”

He felt a smile appear on his face for the first time in days, “You must be joking, he’s a skilled fighter but he’s no knight!”

“Well the way Crakehall tells it any knight can make a knight of any other man he deems worthy,” he paused a moment, “You know if that’s true?”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, “Technically yes, I suppose it is, tell me what coat of arms has “Ser” Shagga taken?”

“He’s not just Ser Shagga, he’s Ser Shagga of House Dolf, and his sigil is a grey crow atop three peaks,” Bronn replied, “He’s already had patches made and he’s sown them onto his clothes.”

“A stone crow,” Tyrion said thoughtfully, “I’ll give him this, it’s clever enough… though with the rest of the Stone Crows living around the Tooth somewhere I have a feeling there might be some fighting over who gets to use it.”

“Well those fools can figure it out themselves,” Bronn said with a smile, “Come on, you’ve been in here too long, let’s go take a walk.”

The two of them left through the throne room, which had been scrubbed clean and now reflected the morning sun brightly. Tyrion noticed a pair of guards had begun shadowing them but didn’t say anything, he knew they had good cause to do so.

They finally came to the courtyard where Faramir, and the Wizard Gandalf the Grey waited for them. From the way they were arrayed and the silence at his approach Tyrion could tell they waited for him.

“Greetings wizard,” Tyrion said, “I suppose your business here is something to do with me?”

Gandalf gave him a small smile, “I’m afraid so yes, Faramir sent a great many messengers to seek me out and one finally caught up with me.”

“And Bronn?” He asked

“We felt it best that a friendly face fetch you,” Faramir said.

Tyrion laughed, “Then why’d you send Bronn?”

“Hey now,” Bronn said in mock offense, “You’d say that after all we’ve been through?” He looked embarrassed a moment at the Wizard and the Ranger, “He err… He didn’t need as much time with the girls as I’d thought.”

Tyrion was about to make a remark about that but suddenly he realized someone was missing, “Where is Denethor?” he asked suddenly, “Surely he should be here for… whatever this is?”

Gandalf rolled his eyes, “Sometimes the Steward does not know the best course of action even when it lays directly in front of him. It is fortunate that Boromir is in the field today, he’s a good man but in this regard he is his father’s son.”

Tyrion considered this, “So you mean to do something with me that you do not believe the Steward will approve of… I can’t say I’m thrilled with whatever it could be.”

“It was your brother’s request actually,” Faramir said, “Something I promised him I’d do before he left. He asked me to find what help I could for you, and if none could be found to send you into hiding. He fears your father’s wrath…”

“And with good reason,” Tyrion said searching for his flask. He realized it must’ve been taken from him at some point over the last few days and sighed, “He will likely follow my dear sister’s advice and take my head. Trying to kill Jaime gives him the pretense to do what he’s desired since my birth.” He chuckled grimly, “I’ll probably leave this life the same way I came into it, being punished for a crime I didn’t even get to commit.”

“Lord Tyrion I will hear no more of this talk,” Gandalf said firmly in a voice that shocked the dwarf. “Whatever else you are still a living man, I will take you from here to a safe place where you may perhaps find some sort of peace.”

“All this just for me, I’m touched. And what do I owe you for this pleasure Wizard?”

Gandalf sighed, “You are not the only reason I must travel to Rivendell… and in any case the ring of King Thrain could not be allowed to remain in Gondor,” he produced the ring that had been given to Tyrion and he suddenly felt a brief longing for it, but it was overwhelmed by sorrow.

“I care little in any case,” he said with resignation, “Casterly Rock, Minas Tirith, Rivendell… I doubt there’s much for me in any of them.”

Bronn stepped forward, “Whatever does wait for you wherever you’re going, we had some good days together, take care Tyrion Lannister.”
He smiled a little but couldn’t find any words for his friend.

The horses were already packed and prepared, Gandalf traveled light and it seemed he expected Tyrion to do the same. They left the city without fanfare, going through a far Northern gate in the Rammas Echor that Gandalf explained was seldom used, and therefore unlikely to be graced by an inspection from Boromir or his father.

They rode northward and passed many folk on the road who seemed to pay them little notice, “It’s considered somewhat rude to point and stare at Dwarves,” Gandalf explained, “There are many stories that if one does so they will soon find a quarrel, and there are none so stubborn in quarrels as Dwarves.”

“Well that’s the first time I’ve gotten anything for being a dwarf,” Tyrion said sarcastically, “Aren’t Durin’s folk supposed to wear great beards?”
Gandalf chuckled, “Few in these parts have met a dwarf, they live far to the north and they’re not fond of travel, it takes a promise of wealth or a hate of foes to bring them forth.”

“And Wizards?” He asked, “Is it rude to point and stare at a Wizard?”

“Wizards look like any other old man,” Gandalf replied, “Is it common where you come from to point and stare at old men?”

“If they wear great big hats like that yes I imagine that they would attract at least a passing comment,” He thought a moment, “Gandalf, how old are you?”

Gandalf was silent for a time, “It’s probably best not to say Tyrion,” he said finally, “Just know that I’ve aged gracefully.”

“I know that there are those who are deathless,” Tyrion said, “I’ve met them myself…” he shuddered remembering the Nazgul’s withered visage.

“Whatever stories they told you were but lies and half truths meant to make you their slave,” the Wizard was angry now, “They have turned many good men to evil paths with their false promises and dark arts.” His voice suddenly grew quiet, “Faramir told me what your father did to you… your brother as well.”

Tyrion scowled, “Good, now everyone will be sure to know what happens when someone disgraces House Lannister,” tears stung his eyes now, “Shall I sing the Rains of Castamere to drive how the message?”

The road grew rocky and their travel slowed, “Tyrion…” The wizard started, he sighed and brought his horse to a stop. “I cannot tell you I know the pain you have suffered, I don’t envy anyone who could… But I am certain that there is some light in your soul, and in your brother’s…”

“Then you are a fool,” Tyrion spat. “I would’ve gladly been a kinslayer, and Jaime betrayed many others he was sworn to protect before he betrayed me.”

“King Aerys?” Gandalf snorted dismissively, “Yes I know of that, a king that would do such things is no king that has earned a faithful servant. Do not hold it against Jaime that he would not go to battle against his own family for a man who had committed such atrocities.” His serious demeanor returned, “As for you, he has done you a great wrong, and nothing he says or does could ever repay that debt.”

“A Lannister always pays his debts…” Tyrion mumbled.

“So I’ve heard,” Gandalf said sarcastically, “But when such a debt is incurred forgiveness is sometimes the proper path. Can you truly say you have no more love for your brother?”

“No…” Tyrion muttered, “I cannot.”

“Nor would he say the same of you, else he would have done as you feared he would and killed you. Instead he sends you to safety.”

They began riding onwards again. Tyrion thought over what the Wizard had said, in fact very little else occupied his thoughts. He realized the Wizard was right, Jaime still cared for him, but his brother had helped steal away the only woman who’d ever loved him…

They were passing a city now, not a large one by Westerosi stanards, but a city nonetheless. He took the opportunity to try and get the Wizard to stop for some drinks and perhaps a bed.

“Gandalf, perhaps we should rest there tonight,” he said, pointing towards the walled settlement.

“No. We will not stop in Aldburg,” The Wizard replied, “Rohan is less friendly than it used to be. We will stop in no settlements until we have passed these borders… I fear the enemy’s spies.”

No inns or wine then, Tyrion thought with annoyance, “Perhaps we could wear some manner of disguise?”

Gandalf laughed genuinely now, “Lord Tyrion man does not live on wine alone… if you need drink so badly I promise that Rivendell has the fullest and richest in all of Middle Earth.” Tyrion crossed his arms and a sour expression sat upon his face, but he said nothing in protest. Gandalf just smiled and they traveled on.

A few nights later they were awoken by a high sharp howl, “Wolves!” Tyrion whispered. One of the items that had been packed in his supplies had been a long knife, perhaps just long enough to be used as a short sword for one of his height. He drew it now and looked into the darkness. He couldn’t see much, the embers of their fire had gone low now.

Gandalf whispered something and his staff lit up the roadside where they camped, a white light shining from the strange crystal atop it, “There should be no wolves in Rohan…” He growled, “At least none that prey upon men.”

Out of the dark a beast lunged and with a cry the Wizard drew his sword and slashed at it’s throat with an accuracy that Tyrion would’ve expected out of his brother. That was just the first and most eager of the wolves, five of them entered the circle of light now, their mouths foaming and their eyes black as night.

“Fuck me,” Tyrion rasped, he backed towards the Wizard, who scanned the creatures with a determined look. The wolves were nothing like the animals Tyrion knew, they were much larger for one, and they had enormous fangs that made those of the Dire-Wolves on the Stark banner seem small by comparison.

Suddenly one lunged at Tyrion, jaws open wide. Gandalf pirouetted quickly and stabbed the beast right in the throat. Another ran towards the Wizard’s flank but he brought his staff down on it’s head with a loud crack and then his sword penetrated the stunned animal’s eye.

While the Wizard’s back was turned one of the remaining wolves jumped towards him. With a grimace Tyrion ran forward and stuck his blade outward with his eyes closed. He heard a whimper and when he dared to look again a dead beast lay before him, a bleeding wound on it’s neck. The remaining two barked loudly and ran off into the night, leaving Gandalf and Tyrion panting in a mixture of exhaustion and triumph.

“They won’t come again,” Gandalf said confidently, “They saw an old man and a Halfling on the road and they found naught but cold steel.”

“Surely such creatures cannot think,” Tyrion said as he sheathed his sword.

“Those were Wargs,” Gandalf said angrily, “If you wonder if they can think simply see to our mounts.”

Tyrion turned and saw that their horses had been savaged, their throats torn open and their legs covered in deep bites. Their mounts had not died well.

“Aldburg is but two day’s ride behind us,” Tyrion said suddenly, “We could walk back there and-“

“No,” Gandalf interrupted, “It would be shorter to walk to Edoras now… though I am uncertain we shall receive a warm welcome.”

“Oh lovely” he said, “What was it, a pretty noble girl or perhaps a tavern quarrel that went bad?”

“Neither,” the wizard replied, “I could not tell you why Grima despises me, only that he does. Theoden, King of Rohan, unfortunately heeds his counsel.”

“Well then let’s not speak with him, it seems that Faramir packed me some of my gold, let’s just buy some new horses and be done with it.”

Gandalf just smiled at him, “Will any man look at a Westerosi gold dragon and conclude it arrived in Edoras by chance? No, we will seek an audience with the king… for better or for worse.”

Tyrion shrugged, “He can hardly be worse than the kings I’ve willingly knelt before.” He thought a moment, "Will the Wargs return?"

"No," Gandalf said confidently, "They will not trouble us this night at least." Somehow Tyrion believed him and slept soundly. When the sun rose they began the walk to Edoras.

Chapter Text

It had been Denethor’s wish that he take a party of at least a dozen to return to the Westerlands, but he’d decided to go alone to make sure none would slow him, every day he stalled was another day a war could start. Instead of his bright golden armor he dressed only in a chainmail shirt which he hid by wearing rags over it. He’d strapped Brightroar to his back, now covered by a plain leather sheath instead of the ornate one he’d first chosen from Gondor’s armory. He was about to leave just before the morning dawn when he was approached by Addam Marbrand, who was also dressed and packed for travel.

“Ser Jaime you fool,” he said, “Are you really going to try and go it alone? Do you know how much trouble I’m already going to be in for failing to protect you?”

He shrugged, “I’m alive aren’t I?”

“That you are,” the other knight said, “but somehow I doubt your father will see it that way, especially if the next word that reaches him of my performance is that I let you run off into the countryside on your own.”

“So what are you saying exactly?” he asked.

Marbrand rolled his eyes, “I’m coming with you, that way if you run yourself to exhaustion and ride off a cliff at least someone’s there to bring back the body.”

Jaime smirked, “Well if I do go tumbling into a ravine I’ll be sure to spend my final moments writing you a glowing letter of praise before I expire. Let’s be off then.”

They rode out through Minas Tirith wordlessly, he could see that even while wearing rags and a hoods over their heads a number of the people still recognized the pair of them and hushed whispers and pointing fingers soon filled the sidestreets. One of the braver men ran up and tried to offer him some manner of pastry but he just waved the vendor aside without a word. This seemed to deter the rest of them.

Crossing Pelennor fields to the outer wall was much more peaceful, though there were some small townships inside the Rammas Echor he hadn’t spent a great deal of time in any of them and he doubted they would be troubled.

As they left through the outer gate he looked back to the city briefly, They must get Tyrion to safety, he thought, Even if father believes me about the ring’s magic it would be best for Tyrion to be elsewhere, outside of his reach or influence.

“I must say I can’t believe the imp really tried to kill you,” Marbrand interrupted his thoughts, “If my little brother tried that I wouldn’t leave here without his head in a bag.”

“He was driven to it by dark powers,” Jaime said.

“Seems an easy excuse to make after the fact,” Marbrand scoffed, “I’ll give you this, after killing a few orcs I’m more open to believing some of these Gondorian fables, but that’s no excuse for kinslaying. There are some lines a man just doesn’t cross.”

“Like Kingslaying?” Jaime asked bitterly.

Marbrand seemed uncomfortable, “Well that’s different Ser Jaime, Aerys was mad. There were… extenuating circumstances.”

“And there were here too,” Jaime replied, “I’ll speak no more of it until we see my father.”

The two of them rode on for a time mostly in silence, days passed as they traveled south around the curve of the White Mountains. They avoided all but the smallest settlements, often stopping at lone farmhouses to purchase a loaf of bread or perhaps some jerky using Gondorian coppers that couldn’t be traced back to a Lannister.

Jaime’s thoughts again returned to his brother when they passed outside Pelargir, a large river port that seemed to be built into the water itself. The very streets were channels of from the Anduin that even from a distance he could see were being used by a number of small ships. This was the type of marvel that Tyrion would’ve diverted the entire party to see…

Perhaps one day I’ll come here with him, he thought, When all this is settled… when I’ve gotten him to forgive me and we’ve made amends. He turned his head away from the city and led Marbrand to a stone bridge that crossed the river Sirith, descending down from the mountains.

As they passed from Pelargir Jaime’s thoughts turned dark, What if he never speaks to me again? What if… He cleared his mind, better to think of nothing than that. His horse stumbled and he felt a brief pain in his shoulder, though the wound was healing well it was another reminder of the betrayal that he and Tyrion had wrought upon one another.

After another few days of travel they saw the city of Dol Amroth on the horizon, he turned to Marbrand, “Ser Addam, I’m afraid the time has come for us to part ways.”

“What?” Marbrand asked surprised, “Why?”

“Between Dol Amroth and the Tooth the lands are sparsely populated, if there is another party of assassins you must tell my father that we made it at least as far as Dol Amroth and out of the Steward’s reach. By now there are ravens in the city and I’d have you take this,” he produced a letter in his own hand and sealed in with a Lannister lion that he’d written before leaving Minas Tirith, “have it flown to my father and write one yourself confirming it’s authenticity.”

“Surely the letter serves as proof enough-“

“I must go alone ser Addam, only seeing me will stay my father’s wrath, and if I cannot finish the journey or the letters fail to reach him you must stay here and stop him from razing this city.”

Marbrand considered this, “Ser Jaime… I do not mean to be harsh but, well… Some knights learn the ways of foraging and survival and some knights become masters of the sword.”

Jaime laughed at the implication, “Are you worried I’ll starve?”

“Quite frankly I am more concerned you’ll drink stagnant water and then die from dehydration after shitting your guts out somewhere,” Addam replied sourly.

Jaime rolled his eyes, “Do as I command Ser Marbrand, I promise I won’t drink any stagnant water.”

After two days ride beyond Dol Amroth Jaime was beginning to regret the decision to split from Marbrand, where the other knight had laid a number of small snare traps around their camp every night Jaime was realizing he didn’t know how to tie any of them. Another setback had come when he’d seen a number of berries growing on the side of the road. Although they looked appetizing he knew better than to eat them… unfortunately he’d tied his horse within a few feet of them and he woke to see the animal laying on the ground giving a soft moaning sound.

“Well isn’t that just bloody great,” He said angrily looking down at the creature. He looked in both directions and saw no one on the road. He sat back down for a minute and decided he would wait a few hours for his mount to recover.

Instead it just groaned loudly and panted, just when he was about to cut the poor animal’s throat he saw a small party of men approaching on horseback. Most of them wore scaled mail and open helmets which framed their eyes. A white horse on a green background was painted upon their shields and the leader wore a dark red lacquered armor that could almost be that of the Lannister redcloaks if not for the spiraled patterns on it. They saw him and slowed their approach. The lead man dismounted.

“Hail stranger, do you come from Dol Amroth?” The man asked.

“There’s not much else in that direction,” Jaime said hesitantly, the fear of assassins was still with him. “Why do you ask?”

“I have been bidden to approach the city by the lords of the Westerlands to determine the truth of certain… rumors,” he replied, “Does Dol Amroth prepare for war?”

Jaime cocked an eyebrow, “That’s quite a question to ask a fellow traveler… As a Gondorian I don’t know if I-“

“You are clearly from the Westerlands,” the leader interrupted. He pointed to Jaime’s horse, “No horse in middle earth will eat rochsbane berries, it seems those of your country haven’t yet learned why.” He dismounted and walked over to the beast which gave another low grunt, “He should be fine in a day or two and hopefully he won’t make the same mistake again.” He turned back to Jaime, “That simply leaves the question of why you lied to me.”

Either they’re really here on father’s orders or they’re likely to kill me all the same, Jaime thought, best to just get things out in the open.

“I am Jaime Lannister,” he said suddenly, “It seems that in an attempt to goad our nations to war a rumor of my death was spread, but as you can see” he gestured to himself, “I’m quite alive and well.”

The man snorted, “Alone on the side of the road with a sick horse is hardly well, I am Eomer, prince of Rohan and I have been bidden to see if Gondor prepares for war with your people.” He looked at Jaime’s rags and dirt covered hands, “I don’t suppose you can offer some proof of your identity?”

“Prince Eomer of Rohan?” He asked skeptically, “I’ve heard the name but you seem awfully far from home.”

“I’ve ten men who will agree I am who I say I am,” Eomer said tersely, “what do you have?”

Jaime thought a moment and then with a flourish he unsheathed Brightroar causing several of the men to level spears at him, “Is this the sword of a common peasant?” He asked. The sword caught the light in an impressive manner showing off the many waving patterns in the Valyrian steel.

Eomer looked at it, “An impressive blade to be sure, but I’ve never seen Jaime Lannister’s sword. Have you got anything else?”

I Should’ve made another stamped letter, he thought with annoyance, “Have you met my father?” he asked.

“I’ve met Tywin Lannister yes,” Eomer replied, “What of him?”

“He’s a humorless man who went out of his way to impress you upon your first meeting I’d gather. Since you’re a prince I’d also guess he’s embroiled you in some scheme relating to either your hand in marriage or the succession of your land. Am I far off?” His smug smile unnerved the prince.

Eomer was quiet for a moment, “I suppose you must have at least met Lord Tywin at some point… and you do have the Lannister look to you. We will bring you back and determine if you are the real Jaime Lannister.” He gestured to one of his men to lead one of the spare horses forward, “I can give you one of my remounts, take that saddle off your other horse and ride with us.”

He did so and they set off at a much greater pace than he’d been travelling at, he’d never ridden a war horse of this stamina before and he looked around amazed that all of the party’s horses seemed to carry the armored men like they were nothing. Jaime was himself a skilled rider, but these men seemed to have been born in the saddle. Where he had expected the party to take another five days at least to reach the Golden Tooth they arrived in only three.

An army of perhaps twenty five to thirty thousand men had been gathered at the Golden Tooth for the second time in the span of a year, If nothing else I’m certain Lord Lefford is tired of hosting so many men, Jaime thought. Eomer raised his banner high, the white horse of Rohan fluttering in the breeze as the men approached. No need for this now, he thought, and threw back his hood. His hair was dirty and he had several days beard growth unshorn on his face, but the excited murmurs went up through the camp as he rode by anyways. He could see men running in every direction, They’ll know I’ve returned, they’ll know we are not at war with Gondor.

Finally he came to the Tooth itself, the great gate flew open and his father stood there, clade in his red armor with the golden roaring lions on his shoulders, a great crimson cape billowing behind him in the same wind that held the Rohan standard aloft. He should have been impressive, but he’d never looked so small to Jaime. He dismounted and walked to his father, who stumbled forward and embraced him in the first hug he could remember ever receiving from the man.

Suddenly as if realizing what he was doing Tywin broke the hug and coughed, “I am pleased to see you are alive and well Jaime. I received your letter but in these strange days seeing is believing.”

“Lord Tywin,” Eomer called, “I have returned your son to you and war has been averted. Let us discuss your proposal now in earnest.”

Tywin nodded, “Stable your horses and meet me in at the gatehouse.” He turned to Jaime, “You’ll need to be present too, go wash your face and put on some proper clothing.”

About a half hour later the three men met in the gatehouse which had been cleared of all othes, leaving them alone. A map had been arrayed on a table and Jaime could tell from the number of assembled chairs that his father had been holding his war councils here. He and Eomer took a seat across from the old lion.

“I believe that in light of these repeated attempts on your life retaliation against Mordor is warranted,” Tywin began, “the only question is how we go about this and to what extent they shall be punished…” he pointed to Umbar, “the Corsair city is the most exposed target, though I would enjoy teaching this “Lord of the Minas Morgul” what happens to those who would play me for a fool.”

“Lord Tywin,” Eomer said, he paused as though not sure what to say, “Mordor fears no reprisals… I have slain many orcs and yet their leaders do not fear me, I have destroyed their foul nests root and stem but they think nothing of building more.” He pointed to the Morgul Vale, “You wish to punish Sauron as you would an errant child, but one does not simply walk into Mord-“

“They tried to kill my eldest and they bewitched my youngest!” Tywin snapped, “If I allow this all the great houses and peoples of the world will know that the lion merely mewls instead of roars.” He paused and breathed out slowly, “I will not let House Lannister fall into disrespect as my father did, I do not care if we need to murder thousands, tens of thousands! The Rains of Castamere could always use another verse.”

Eomer sighed, “Lord Tywin… you seek to strike fear into a creature born of it. Sauron fears no living man, elf, or dwarf and even one such as you, who has built his family name on such cannot teach it to him.”

Tywin glared at the prince for a time, “We will see…” he muttered. He turned to Jaime, “What has become of Tyrion? Magic or no he will face consequences for this betrayal.”

“Father he was enchanted!” Jaime exclaimed, “you cannot punish him for being merely a man in the face of sorcery!”

“I have seen sorcery,” Tywin said, “I have felt it’s foul touch on my own mind and here I stand before you, unmarred by it. Why can Tyrion not say the same?”

“He has fled by now in any case,” Jaime said angrily, “I made arrangements with the Wizard Gandalf for his protection.”

“The Wizard?” Tywin growled, “Jaime the Wizards are no better than Sauron himself, I suspect they may even be in league with him.” He looked with disgust at his son, “No doubt he played some trick on your mind as well.”

“Lord Tywin,” Eomer started, “whatever may be said of Saruman, Gandalf Greyhame has ever been a loyal friend to the people of Rohan.”

Tywin rolled his eyes, “Both of you will one day grow out of the romanticism of youth. Let Tyrion go then, let him drink away his days in some gods forsaken corner of the earth, and let him take all Wizards with him.”

He calmed himself and turned to Eomer, “Now I believe you had some arrangement with Kevan, what strategy do you believe would be best for establishing your uncle’s regency?”

Eomer studied the map, “Most of the orcs and wargs enter Rohan from the West over the Fords of Isen, some come out of the Misty Mountains and sometimes human bandits come from Dunland to accompany them.” He thought a moment, “If you could send a force of a few thousand men to hold the fords until such time as my cousin and I have dealt with Grima I believe the people of Rohan would be safe.”

Tywin nodded, “You do not desire any direct support?”

Eomer shook his head, “This is a matter best settled by the men of Rohan. Grima’s men follow him for the promise of quick reward, I believe most will abandon him when a true struggle presents itself.”

“I am never so optimistic of any conflict,” Tywin said curtly, “Go to Lord Leffort and have him give you at least a few thousand gold dragons. If most of Grima’s men are sellswords it will be easier to buy them off rather than fight them.” He looked at the map a moment, “I will order Lords Banefort, Westerling, and Marbrand to marshal their forces at the Banefort and await your raven. Tell the Maester in Edoras that Tywin Lannister sends his regards, he should cooperate fully.” He paused, “Will your cousin Theodred support this plan?”

“If I counsel it he will,” Eomer said confidently, “He knows as well as I that Grima cares not for Rohan, but only for gathering wealth, power,” the prince grimaced, “and women…”

“It is settled then,” Tywin said, “Return to your land and make the preparations.”

Eomer nodded and left leaving Tywin and Jaime alone.

“So what else is in this for you?” Jaime asked, “Merely scouting a potential enemy… that doesn’t warrant such an alliance does it?”

Tywin looked at him a moment before indulging in a rare chuckle, “Jaime, princess Eowyn of Rohan is the highest ranking unmarried woman of childbearing age in all of Middle Earth.”

Jaime felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach, “And I father?”

Now his father’s look was almost predatory, “The highest ranking unmarried man of course.”

Chapter Text

Sandor Clegane had never been the sort of man to make friends, but he now found himself with several. Farmer Maggot had taken a liking to him after he and Smallburrow had arrived in Eastfarthing to look for his crop thieves, though they hadn’t yet found the culprits the old farmer had offered them a roof and a bed whenever they’d wanted.

“It’s high time we had some law with a bit of teeth around here,” the old hobbit said, “Those fat louts in Michael Delving don’t know what it’s like living out here in the borderlands!” Maggot gestured to the Clegane hounds embroidered on his shoulder, “I’ve got three dogs of my own for that very reason!”

Then there was Robin Smallburrow of course, the hobbit had proven quite adept at swordplay and the two of them sparred frequently. His only annoyance was that Smallburrow still viewed fighting almost like a game, he left the inn where he’d been questioning people to see his fellow Shirriff pirouetting about slashing at the air in front of a pair of giggling hobbit women.

“And then I’d put it right through their foul throats like this!” He thrust at nothing, “Then I’d say, drink my steel orc! That’s my sword’s name you see, Drink.”

“Why bother telling a dead foe anything?” His voice startled the hobbit and the two young ladies gasped at his burns. A few months ago he might’ve given them a cruel grin and sent them running, but now he just rolled his eyes.

“Why if it isn’t Ser Clegane!” Smallburrow said with a smile, “Come! Perhaps we could give these two a swordplay demonstration?”

“I don’t feel like fetching the practice swords, unless your friends there are the ones who’ve been stealing carrots we can talk with them later.” He looked at the sun, which was now almost below the horizon, “The crop thieves are striking mostly at night, it’s warm enough that we can stay out in the fields and perhaps luck across them. Let’s finish up here and head back to Maggot’s farm.”

Smallburrow sighed and bid the ladies farewell, “So did you learn anything?”

“Only that the “man sized rooms” in Eastfarthing don’t have man sized beds,” Clegane growled.

“That’s because men don’t dwell in the Shire,” a new voice called. He and smallburrow turned to see it’s source standing a little further down the street. He was a man like Clegane, one of the few other men tall enough to meet his gaze without looking up. “Even less common here are swords in hand, for men or hobbits,” he said looking down at Smallburrow. Clegane could see him well now, he wore a dark green cloak and a hood, he appeared to be in his forties with shaggy dark hair and grey eyes. “You must be Ser Clegane.”

“My good looks give me away I suppose,” Clegane said, “And who’re you stranger?”

“You can call me Strider, of the Dunedain. I’ve business with you Ser knight, is there some place we can talk?” The man, Strider, looked to Smallburrow briefly, “Preferably in private…”

“Now hold on a minute, what’ve you got to say to him you can’t say to me?” Smallburrow asked indignantly.

Clegane was suspicious too, Strider was clearly a man who knew his way around a blade, Have the rangers sent him to chase me out? He wondered.

As if reading his thoughts the ranger spoke, “I have questions about how you came to be here, if you satisfy them I will trouble you no more.”

He considered this, “Fair enough, let’s go up to my room.”

“What about me then?” Smallburrow asked.

Clegane shrugged, “Go show those ladies some more of your swordplay.”

The two men went back into the inn and up to the room he’d rented the night before. His eyebrows rose a bit when Strider moved to lock the door and checked for peepholes and even tapped a few of the walls. Seemingly satisfied he nodded and sat down at the small table across from him.

“I heard you came here with a lordling in search of a ring,” Strider began, “How did you come to know of it? Of the Shire?”

Sandor shrugged, “The little brat Joffrey claimed he had a vision or a dream or some such nonsense, said someone named Sauron wanted him to come here and bring his ring back. The king seemed to think a Baggins had it.” He could tell his words unnerved the ranger, and he stopped, “You all right mate?” he asked.

“He knows where the Shire is…” The ranger muttered, “Why have you stayed?” He asked suddenly, “Are you searching for it?” His voice grew harsh, “Do not lie to me Ser Clegane!”

He felt his hand drift toward his sword, “Don’t call me Ser, I’m not a knight,” he growled, “And I’m not after any rings, fuck all that nonsense.”

The ranger was quiet a moment, “I believe you,” he said, ”but that doesn’t explain why you’re still here, why haven’t you gone home?”

“I like it here,” he said defensively, “There aren’t a lot of places in the world like this and…” he sighed, “Truth be told I’m worried that one day a band of bad men in service to some lord or another are going to come and rip it apart for no other reason than that they can.”

“The rangers guard the Shire, you needn’t worry,” Strider assured him.

“Even so hobbits are a bandits dream, they’re small, they’re rich, and none of them has ever held a weapon before.” He pulled a wineskin from his belt and took a drink, “You’d best believe that at some point someone will come for them that’s too strong for a few hundred woodsmen to throw back, especially if more people show up here looking for magic rings.”

Strider was quiet a moment, lost in thought, “I’ve made arrangements with the one who holds it, there will be no more magic rings in the Shire soon enough…” He stroked his chin, “So you’d arm the hobbits then? I see you’ve taught that Shirriff some swordplay, but we both know it won’t do him much good if the scenario you’re suggesting comes to pass.”

“If they formed a real militia, maybe built some fortifications on their borders-“ Clegane started.

“Wouldn’t that ruin their innocence Clegane?” Strider asked, “That’s what you love about this place isn’t it? That it’s nothing like the land you came from?”

“I’d rather see a fort on the Brandywine than the Shire in flames,” Clegane replied sourly.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door and he heard Smallburrow's excited voice, “Clegane! One of Maggot’s boys just came and said they’re missing some potatoes! The tracks are fresh!"

Clegane smiled, “If you’ll excuse me mister Strider my duties call.” He thought a moment, “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in coming with us? It’ll be dark and I’m not the best tracker.”

Strider cocked an eyebrow, “Your sigil is a trio of hounds and you can’t track in the dark?”

“I’m not that kind of dog,” Clegane said, annoyed, “Are you going to help or not?”

Strider stood up, “I suppose there’s no harm in it, lead on.”

About twenty minutes later He, Strider, and Smallburrow were on the edge of Maggot’s farm following a pair of footprints leading towards the road, he and the hobbit were mounted while Strider just led his horse, reins in hand, and a torch in the other.

“They’re walking side to side, and they’re definitely hobbits,” Strider said, he pointed to a carrot discarded by the side of the road, “They took more than they could carry…” He raised a hand suddenly and looked to a small copse of trees by the side of the road. “You two can come out of there on your own or we can drag you out by your ankles!”

“You’ll never catch us!” A high voice came back, one Clegane recognized.

“Pippin Took if you come out of there now you’ve got to pay for the crops, if I’ve got to go to your house tomorrow morning I’m going to beat your arse black and blue,” He yelled. Smallburrow chuckled and he turned to the hobbit, “I’m serious I’ll do it, those little bastards have had us out here for a week now.”

The two hobbits trudged out of the forest angrily, Merry was with Pippin as Clegane had suspected, the two were rarely apart. They each dumped an armload of vegetables before the trio and glared sourly at the shirriffs.

“What now?” Merry muttered.

“Well I suppose you two will need to pay Maggot back for starters,” Smallburrow said, “Probably some kind of apology too.”

“Down in the Westerlands we tie crop thieves up in the town square and throw rubbish at them,” Clegane said suddenly, “That’ll teach those two not to do it again-“

“Surely that’s a bit much Ser Clegane,” Strider began but he was cut off by a loud horn from somewhere to the East.

“Now who the hell’s blowing a horn in the middle of the night?” Clegane asked.

“That’s a ranger horn!” Strider said suddenly, “The Brandywine Bridge!” The horn blew twice more, “It’s under attack!”

A rider appeared out of the darkness on the road, Clegane recognized the man as one of the rangers that had accompanied Daven and his party into the shire. He was slumped over on horse, an arrow sticking out of his shoulder and a great grisly bite on his flank that bled horribly down his side.

“Strider,” the man rasped, “Orcs…” he gave a wet cough.

Strider gripped him, “Arthas! How many?”

“Hundreds… some of them broke through. They’re big strider, the biggest orcs and wargs I’ve ever…” He coughed and his eyes fluttered and he fell from his horse.

“He’s finished,” Clegane said solemnly, he looked to Strider, “We’ve got to get to that bridge!”

“No!” Strider yelled, “They’re after Frodo Baggins in Hobbiton, my men will retake the bridge, but if some broke through they’ll be heading there.”
Smallburrow drew his sword, “Well let’s be off then!”

Clegane put his hand on the hobbit’s shoulder, “No Robin, take those two,” he gestured at Merry and Pippin, “go to Farmer Maggot’s and get everyone into the cellar, put out all the lights and by the Seven keep quiet. I’ll come for you when things are safe.”

Smallburrow seemed offended, but the look on Clegane’s ruined face scared him into submission, “Fine then… Come on you two!” He led the other hobbits off towards Maggot’s farmhouse.

He looked back to Strider, who was closing his friend’s eyes for the final time, “Let’s be off,” the ranger said grimly. The two of them rode as quickly as their horses could take them towards Frogmorton. Strider pointed at a number of large tracks on the road, “At least thirty of them made it through. Perhaps a half hour ahead of us!”

“Too many for the two of us,” Clegane mumbled, he could see a fire burning on the horizon. Frogmorton… They rode into the town square where at least a dozen orcs were throwing torches onto the buildings and chasing any poor hobbits that had the misfortune to be in the streets. With a roar he spurred Stranger forward, running down the closest of the beasts and bringing his sword down on it’s skull.

He dismounted and saw Strider had approached four of the beasts on the far side of the square. Two of the orcs approached him, unlike the ones he’d seen before these were tall, at least six feet each, with thick sinewy arms. They had fangs like wolves and cruel looking yellow claws that dripped with fresh blood. They had only boiled leather armor on and carried cruel iron swords with a jagged angle at the end of the blade he guessed was made for catching the flank of a horse.

They ran at him and he charged too screaming like a demon. He blocked the first downward slash and shoved the creature into it’s comrade, stumbling the one behind it. With a quick motion he stabbed it through the heart causing it to drop with a growl.

Before the other could recover he ran to it and slashed as if to cut it’s belly open, but the orc blocked him and pushed his blade up and away from it’s torso. Gods they’re strong, he thought, he was used to overpowering his opponents but he worried even his strength might not be enough if one of these things got him on the ground. As if reading his mind it rushed forward and tried to grapple with him. Suddenly it’s wide maw came down on his shoulder, he heard a snapping noise and looked to see that the thing’s teeth had broken on his armor. Taking advantage of it’s shock he brought his knee up into it’s stomach and then cleaved it’s head off as it stumbled away from him.

Panting, he turned to look for Strider, “Ranger!” He called.

“Here!” he turned to see the ranger standing in the midst of four dead orcs.

His eyes widened, “Seven hells man! You’re a demon with a blade.”

Strider nodded and looked around, “the rest have fled, and more will be on their way to Hobbiton! Hurry!” He ran to his horse and with a single graceful leap landed on it.

Clegane was about to mount Stranger when he noticed something on the orc he’d killed. Painted on the boiled leather armor there was a white hand. He thought back to the wizard Saruman, he had given Joffrey a small wooden badge with a white hand on it as a sigil to present to the men of Dunland. If Saruman had sent the orcs then that meant…

“Gods no,” he whispered stumbling back, Joffrey and I led him here. He looked at the burning town, there were several dead hobbits laying about and screams still echoed through the edge of the settlement. My fault, he thought numbly, It’s all my fault…

Chapter Text

Aragorn had come to the Shire on Gandalf’s orders, the creature Gollum had confirmed their suspicions, the One did wait in the Shire and the enemy knew. Gandalf had gone South on other business and bidden him to find the hobbit Frodo Baggins and tell him to leave the Shire. They’d agreed to meet again in Rivendell, Elrond’s counsel was needed on this matter. The hobbit had been slow to trust him at first, but eventually Frodo had taken his warning to heart and was making preparations to leave. He’d wanted several months but he’d only given the hobbit a week, in the meantime he’d resolved to investigate rumors that a Westerlands knight was travelling the Shire. After speaking with his rangers about the incident involving the boy king and his bodyguard he’d set out to find the Hound.

Sandor Clegane was not a difficult man to find, the grisly burns on his face were proof enough of his identity, and the Mayor Michael Delving had apparently made him a Shirriff. He’d questioned the man regarding the ring, and whatever intent the boy Joffrey had held towards it Clegane didn’t seem to care for anything but enjoying the comforts of the Shire.

Now though, in the midst of this attack he was happy to have the man at his side. They’d driven away the orcs attacking Frogmorton, though a number had fled into the dark and would likely trouble the surrounding lands in the coming days. He mounted his horse and turned to Clegane, who was examining one of the dead orcs silently.

“Ser Clegane!” He yelled, “We must be off!”

“I’m not a knight!” Clegane yelled back angrily, tears were in his eyes suddenly, giving Aragorn pause, “Go without me.”

He frowned, “Ser Clegane they have numbers and-“

“Just go!”

He didn’t bother questioning the man, there was no time. He rode his horse down the road towards Hobbiton. He passed through Bywater, the Green Dragon was in flames but the rest of the small village seemed completely abandoned. He finally came to Hobbiton, he could hear shouting and he rode towards it.

The orcs, about twenty of them, were standing around Bag End laughing, they’d torched he could see that Frodo was gagged and bound to a warg that was as large as any horse he’d ever seen. From the bruises on his face the hobbit hadn’t gone willingly. Riding atop the great wolf and wearing a curved iron helm was an orc that was at least a head taller than him, large enough that it could easily pass for a small troll.

“What do we do with this one?” one of the orcs asked, hauling a fat blond hobbit forward.

“Let me go you beasts!” he yelled struggling.

“He brained Bonesy with a frying pan,” the orc said, “Got him as he came around the corner in the house there.”

“And I’ll do the same for you too you animals!” the hobbit snarled.

The big orc just laughed, “Go get the frying pan and tie him up, we’ll roast him up in it later in honor of Bonesy.”

Aragorn dismounted and crept close, the orcs threw a lit torch into the hobbit hole and closed the door, another laughed and began lighting the various flowers and bushes in the garden, causing the second hobbit to thrash about angrily.

He sheathed his sword and nocked an arrow, he took a position behind a small hill across the street from Bag End, in the dark it would be impossible for them to see him. He fired a pair of arrows in quick succession taking the orc in the garden and the orc holding the fat hobbit.

“We’re under attack!” The leader shouted, causing the orcs to scramble for shields, they formed up a rudimentary wall but he fired another arrow through one of the gaps dropping another orc with a howl. They looked around snarling, “Over there! It’s coming from over there!” the mounted orc cried pointing toward his hiding space, at his orders the orcs began rushing towards him. Realizing the element of surprise was lost he loosed another pair of arrows before drawing his sword and rushing forward out of the darkness.

He could see behind the surging wall of orcs that the leader was turning as if to leave, I’ll never catch him if he leaves now, he thought. He blocked the first approaching strikes, he was forced to continually step backwards or let the orcs surround him. It’s finished, he thought angrily, they’ve got Frodo-

“GREGOR!” An enraged voice filled the air causing both the ranger and the orcs to suddenly pause, he turned to see a figure blocking the great orc’s path on the road. Sandor Clegane had replaced the Shirriff’s cap he’d worn earlier with a helm in the shape of a cruel snarling dog. In the dancing light of the burning hobbit hole the burns on his face made him look like an angry demon. “Gregor you bastard, take off that helm, even someone as stupid as you knows better than to bother with a disguise at that size.”

The orc leader laughed and pulled off his helmet and dropped it to the earth where it fell with a clanging noise, “You have me confused for someone else little human.” The orc had red and black pocked skin, with a great greasy tail of hair going down the back of it’s head. “I am called Lurtz,” he dismounted and drew his own sword, stooping to pick up one of the torches that his orcs had dropped as Aragorn had attacked them. “It seems little runt that someone has only cooked your face halfway, come here and allow me to even it out for you.” Aragorn could see a mix of emotions on Gregor’s face, shock, fear, and… disappointment?

“As big as him and as much of a cunt, come and die then,” the Hound responded, drawing his sword. The orc rushed forward swinging the torch wildly, Sandor gave a startled gasp and began to stumble backwards, only raising his sword to block Lurtz’s strikes.

This seemed to rally the other orcs who again ran towards him laughing cruelly. One by one he cut them down, each one forcing him further from the road until he could only distantly hear the fight between Lurtz and Clegane. Finally only two were left, they desperately tried to come at him from two sides but he pulled a knife from his belt and threw it into one’s chest while he smoothly cut the other’s arm off and then gave it a killing blow across the midsection. He pulled his dagger out of the dead foe with a wet sucking sound and ran back towards the road to see Clegane still fighting.

He first looked to Frodo, he was still tied to the warg’s side, he ran down the hill towards the beast which looked at him with a snarl and ran toward Cleganes own mount, biting at it’s legs. The great black courser reared up with an indignant grunt and brought both of it’s iron shoed hooves down on the Warg’s head, continuing to strike the beast until nothing remained but bloody pulp. He looked at the beast in surprise but it only gave him an angry snort.

He turned back to Clegane, the orc was striking wide and wild now, laughing madly. Suddenly Clegane pivoted into the orc’s strike with the torch, his arm caught fire and he screamed wildly, but now inside the orc’s defenses he cut Lurtz from shoulder to breastbone. Lurtz dropped with a scream. Flames still on his arm he brought the sword down again and cleaved the creatures head in two.

Clegane then began to scream in fear in pain, slapping madly at his burning arm. Aragorn rushed forward, ripping off his cloak. He brought it down forcefully, smothering the remaining flames. The two of them just panted a moment, surveying the still burning Bag End.

“Where're the rest?” Clegane rasped.

“I killed them all,” he replied, “most of them are over there,” he gestured to the hill where he’d hidden.

Clegane nodded, “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen your work back in Frogmorton.”

The two of them walked over to Frodo, pulling his knife again Aragorn cut the hobbit free and pulled the gag from his mouth.

“Sam!” Frodo said suddenly, “did anyone see where Sam got to!”

“I’m over here mister Frodo!” the other hobbit called from behind one of the unburnt trees, he stepped out, another frying pan in hand. “These two, Can we trust them?”

“They just saved us, so I think so,” Frodo replied sadly as he watched the flames consume Bag-End.

“Is… is it safe?” Aragorn asked quietly.

Frodo pulled an unimpressive golden band from his pocket, “It is.”

“That’s the ring isn’t it?” Clegane asked solemnly, “The one everyone’s after…”

“It is,” Aragorn said, “we’ve got to get it to Rivendell.”

“What manner of thing is it?” The Hound asked angrily, “I hear a foul voice in my head… Put it away, put it away now!”

Frodo quickly obliged him, “Will you take me to the elves then Strider?”

Frodo asked, a crash was heard as a beam inside bag end fell, “There’s not much need for preparations now.”

“Well I’m coming with you,” the other hobbit, Sam, said, “sheathing” his frying pan. “You’ll need an extra set of eyes if there’s more of them after you.” Sam smiled a little, “Besides, I’ve always wanted to see elves!”

“This is no holiday,” Aragorn said, “This?” he pointed to the burning hobbit hole, “There’s going to be a lot more of it if things go badly.”

“Sam’s already killed an orc,” Frodo said suddenly, “when word came that there was trouble he came right away to see if I was safe! If it weren’t for him you might not have gotten to me in time.”

He could use a loyal friend for the journey, he thought, “Come then Samwise, you’ll ride with us to Rivendell.” He thought a moment, “And you Ser Clegane? You’ve seen the horrors that this ring brings, will you not help take it somewhere safe?”

“I’ve got a debt to be repaid here,” Clegane said sadly, “This… this is all my doing.”

Realizing what he meant Aragorn searched for the words needed to console the man, “They would have found the Shire eventually in any case Clegane, and by stopping them from getting that ring you’ve saved thousands, tens of thousands.”

Clegane sighed sadly, “I will accompany you to Rivendell but no further. We need to go by Maggot’s farm first though, I’ve got a few things I need to tell Smallburrow.” A grim determination set across his face, “I’m not letting this happen again…”

A pair of ponies were procured for Sam and Frodo and the small party was off toward’s Maggot’s farm. The sun was beginning to come up again over the horizon and with the excitement over the pair of hobbits looked as though they might fall asleep in the saddle. Clegane looked weary, but Aragorn could tell he would not be sleeping anytime soon, he felt a tiredness beginning to set into his own bones.

They’d stopped alongside the road to sleep before they all collapsed, he and Clegane took turns taking watch and they built no fire. Some hours later in the light of day they continued to Maggot’s farm. One of the barns had been burnt, but the main house seemed intact. Clegane dismounted and knocked on the door.

“Maggot!” He called, “Smallburrow! Are you here?”

“Back here!” The shirriff called, the party followed around back to see Merry and Pippin digging a great hole while Smallburrow and Maggot watched. A trio of dead orcs lay next to the hole.

“I thought I told you to hide in the basement,” Clegane scowled.

“Nuts to that, that’s what I told him,” Maggot said, shaking a pitchfork. “I got the dogs n’ the boys and we met ‘em out by the old barn,” he pointed to the burned structure, “They were killing my cows so we locked the lot of them in there and torched it ourselves.” He gestured to Smallburrow, “He fought one like he was an elven hero or something, stabbed it right through the heart.”

“I got one that came out of the window with a good sized rock,” Merry said proudly from inside the hole.

“That’s true,” Pippin cut in, “Caught it right on the forehead!”

“Back to work you two!” Maggot barked, he laughed seeing Aragorn and Clegane’s expressions, “They’re still working off those crops, orcs or no… and my father always told me hard work purifies the soul in any case.”

Clegane laughed a little, “Smallburrow… my gold’s back at the Inn, I need you to take it and begin making some preparations for when I come back.”

“Come back?” the Shirriff asked surprised, “Where’re you going to?”

“I’m making the Shire safer, just know that,” he said firmly, “Take the gold and do whatever rebuilding can be done with it… then speak to Whitfoot about building fortifications on the Brandywine. The bridge needs at least a gate, probably something more for Sarn Ford…”

“What’s all this about?” Smallburrow asked suddenly, “Orcs in the Shire? it’s madness!”

“We’ll discuss it on my return,” Clegane said. He paused a moment and smiled, “So you killed one… good work. Was there any time for any taunts or battle cries?”

Smallburrow shuddered, “No, no there wasn’t. It all happened so quickly…”

“Take a drink before bed tonight, else you’ll just toss and turn,” Clegane said.

“Do you have any other business here?” Aragorn asked.

“No,” the Hound replied, “Let’s get going…”

They moved down the road towards the Brandywine Bridge silently. The quiet was broken by the clattering of approaching hooves. Aragorn looked to Clegane who nodded, the two of them drew their swords and turned to see who was coming. They both relaxed upon seeing Merry and Pippin riding up to them on a pair of ponies.

“What are you two doing here?” Aragorn asked with a smile.

“We’re going with Frodo and Sam,” Merry said quickly, “It’s important to stay close to your friends in times like these.”

Clegane snorted, “Maggot wanted you two to do more work didn’t he?”

“The man has a vastly inflated idea of what a carrot is worth!” Pippin said, “He said we’d be working on his farm all Summer!”

“You know the Tooks Frodo,” Merry said, “His family will make him do it!”

“Probably the Brandybucks too I reckon,” Sam said with a grin.

Clegane looked them over, “Well what do you think?” he asked Aragorn.

“Friendship is a rare commodity in the best of times,” He replied smiling, “Come then, I doubt I could stop you two from coming if I tried...”

“Damn right!” the two of them said in unison.

Clegane rolled his eyes, “Fine, let’s get a move on then…” he paused, “Did you two steal those ponies from Farmer Maggot too?”

They looked at the ground uncomfortably causing Frodo to burst out laughing, “When we come back you two are going to be working on his farm until you’re old and grey!”

His friends already help lighten the burden Aragorn thought, Perhaps these two will have some use after all.

Chapter Text

They arrived in Edoras in the middle of the day, it was a small city by Westerosi standards, more fit to be some lord’s seat than a capital of a nation. In some respects it reminded him of Winterfell, if with wooden palisades instead of high stone walls. The countryside itself was more impressive, Edoras sat atop one of the first hills coming off the plains, just before they turned into the great snow-capped White Mountains. A small spring bubbled by the main road leading up to the King’s great hall, and Tyrion noted with approval that though some people came to gather water none were emptying chamberpots or rubbish bins into it.

After a short walk they came to the highest point of the city where a great hall stood. At first Tyrion thought it’s rooftop was painted gold or perhaps even gold plated, but as they got closer he realized it was actually made out of straw.

“What manner of king thatches his roof like a peasant?” Tyrion asked.

“Not all noble houses draw their strength from gold Tyrion Lannister,” Gandalf replied, “Rohan lives and dies by the horse and the beasts of the field.” He smiled as the sun glinted off a patch of straw, “In days of old the lords of Rohan would send straw here as a sign of fealty and it was used thatching the roof of the golden hall of Medusheld.”

A pair of guards ushered them into the great hall, fire pits flanked the entryway and Tyrion guessed this was a hall meant more for hosting guests than impressing them. At the end of the room sat an empty wooden throne carved with a number of horse motifs and what looked to be a shining sun on the back. Next to it was a small bench, on it sat a pale man with dark greasy hair. He wore a hooded black robe that struck Tyrion as being out of place among the rest of the Rohirrim, and he seemed nervous even here in the heart of the city.

“I see that Gandalf Greyhame has again come to trouble our halls,” the man said, standing up. He looked to Tyrion, “Along with the usual hangers on…”
Before Gandalf could reply Tyrion cut in, “I’m sorry but I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure Lord…?”

Grima arched an eyebrow, “At least this one shows proper respect. I am Grima, son of Galmod, advisor to the king. What is your name Halfling?”

Tyrion thought about making up a fake identity but decided he didn’t care to, “I am Tyrion Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands.”

“And what brings a foreign princeling to this court?” Grima asked, “The king’s nephew, prince Eomer, left some time ago to meet with your father, but it seems strange that a response could come so quickly.”

“Enough of your questions,” Gandalf bellowed, “Where is Theoden? Where is the king?”

“He is ill!” Grima snapped, “I will not allow you to trouble him while he rests.”

“We have need of horses Grima, the business is urgent,” Gandalf said exasperated, “If you will not grant them I will speak to Theoden regardless of your protests.”

“If I may,” Tyrion cut in, “It seems that we have a mutual problem Lord Grima,”

“And that is?” Grima asked curiously.

“We have a need to get out of Edoras as soon as possible, while you have a need to get us out of Edoras as soon as possible, surely simply giving the Wizard and I some horses would be the best course for all parties?”

Gandalf and Grima were silent for a moment, looking at him as though he’d interrupted something more important than a mere quarrel.

Finally Grima spoke, “Go then, take any horse of Rohan you desire, but know that selection is wanting, for Theodred took the Riddermark to battle two days past.”

“What?” Gandalf exclaimed, “Why? What foes move against Rohan?”

“A host of Goblins has marched out of the misty mountains, my spies indicate that they are perhaps five to ten thousand at most, but they move to the Fords of Isen which cannot be allowed to fall into enemy hands.”

“What of Saruman the White? Has he done nothing about this threat?” Gandalf asked angrily.

“Saruman told us of their movements of course,” Grima replied, “and without his warning these goblins could have been upon Rohan before Theodred had a chance to muster his men.” Grima gave him a smug smile, “Saruman may have saved Rohan with this information.”

“We will see,” Gandalf said grimly, “I will go to search for a suitable mount then, the situation has grown more dire than I thought…” He turned to Grima, “Will you house my traveling companion until such a time as I can return for him?”

“I will house no friend of yours wizard,” Grima spat.

What is the fool thinking? Tyrion thought, He’d leave me alone in a city of strangers? Still he played along, “Well I take up little space and Tywin Lannister might look fondly upon someone who housed his son…” With any luck Gandalf will be back before he finds out why I’m on the road, “And besides you strike me as a well-read sort Lord Grima, I could use some intelligent conversation after so long on the road.”

Grima chuckled slightly and Gandalf just glared at him, “Very well Lord Tyrion,” Grima said, “I see no reason you could not stay for a short time, perhaps you will come to realize the folly of traveling with a Wizard.”

“Truthfully I think I already have,” Tyrion said, shooting a quick look at Gandalf, when he was sure Grima couldn’t see he gave the Wizard a quick wink, if the Wizard saw he hid it.

“Very well Tyrion Lannister,” Gandalf said angrily, “Stay here and rot with Grima Wormtongue then,” He stormed out.

“I’ll see him out of Edoras,” Tyrion said, “He still has a few of my things I need to collect.”

“By all means,” Grima said smiling, “if he refuses to cooperate feel free to summon the city guard, tell them I have ordered it.” He followed the Wizard out and the false anger between them evaporated as soon as the gate closed.

“So why do you want me to stay here?” Tyrion asked.

“Traveling the gap of Rohan is likely to be a much more harrowing journey than I had originally thought,” Gandalf said grimly, “I have long suspected Saruman, the head of my order, of… something. I am not entirely sure what, but I will go and find out. This army of goblins is troubling as well… but if Theodred has ridden to meet them I have no doubts he can disperse them.” They began walking towards the exit of the city, “I know that in the fields of Edoras there is one of the great horses of the line of Nahor, chief of the Maeras. I will seek him out to serve as my mount.”

“I’m afraid those names mean little to me,” Tyrion said, “So what am I supposed to do here?” he asked, “Sooner or later word will reach Edoras that my family is looking for me, I’ve no doubt my father will put a reward on my head.”

“You’re a clever sort Tyrion Lannister,” the Wizard replied, “By the time such a message has arrived I am sure you can ingratiate yourself with the locals.”

“Are you going to give me some gold at least?” Tyrion asked.

Gandalf sighed and took a small purse from his belt, “Faramir told me your brother left this as payment for me, I didn’t ask for it nor do I need it. It’s your family’s gold in any case.” He handed it to Tyrion and smiled, “Besides where would a Lannister be without his gold?”

Tyrion weighed it in his hand and frowned, “Not much further than where he is now, you’re sure there’s not any more?”

Gandalf chuckled, “I’m afraid not, but men’s loyalty is bought with more than gold, perhaps you’ll learn that.” He paused a moment, “A man like you might do a great deal of good here, if you set your mind to it.”

“With barely enough gold to pay a stableboy? In a city with no friends except the man I’m guessing you want me to work against? You think too highly of me.”

“I’ve been pleasantly surprised by small folk before,” Gandalf said smiling. “Take care Tyrion Lannister.” He walked to the gates of the great city then stopped, looking back at him, “Tyrion… if there is one more thing I’d ask of you it would be that you find it in you to make amends with your brother.”

Tyrion sighed and clenched his fists, “Gandalf… I’m not strong enough to do that.”

Gandalf considered this, “I had the opportunity to read the Seven Pointed Star while in your lands. Most of it was… odd, to say the least, but there is one passage I’ve grown fond of. When the weight of the world all but crushes you, do not pray for a lighter burden. Pray to be a stronger man.” With that the Wizard was gone.

A stronger man, he thought as he walked back up to the hall, I’m not so strong a man to begin with… He walked into the hall and saw that Grima was gone.

One of the guards approached him, “Lord Tyrion, by order of Lord Grima you are to be given full use of the Golden Hall as a guest of the king.”
Tyrion nodded, “All well and good, do you know where I could find something to drink?”

“I will send for a mug of mead for you,” the guard said.

“That will do, thanks,” he replied. He would have preferred wine, but he supposed mead would get him just as drunk.

He found his way to the lounge areas on the sides of the great hall, a woman was seated at one of them, and since that fire was already lit he decided he would join her.

“Do you mind?” he gestured to a seat across the fire from her. He could see now she was a true beauty, with long blonde hair and a kind face. Her eyes were red, as though she’d been crying recently.

“No,” She said with a sniff, “It’s bad for the soul to drink alone in any case.”

I can attest to that, he thought, “What is wrong my lady? Is there anything I can do?”

“No Tyrion Lannister, there isn’t,” she said sadly.

“You know my name?” He asked, surprised.

She smiled now, blinking most of the remaining tears away, “I am Eowyn, lady of Rohan, it is my duty to know of all guests that are to stay in my uncle’s hall.”

“Consider the duty fulfilled,” he said as a servant brought him a drink, “Your hospitality is above and beyond what I deserve… may I ask what has upset you so?”

“My uncle the king… he grows worse every day, today he could not even rise from his bed,” she said. “Grima… he feuds with my brother and my cousin, I worry for the future of Rohan.”

Tyrion nodded, “You are a noble lady indeed to worry for her people so, what do you think must be done?”

She sighed and looked into her cup, “It is not my place to say… My brother has gone to meet with your father, and my cousin goes east to fight the orcs. Grima will have sway here only until either of them returns.”

Until either of them returns… “Lady Eowyn,” he asked suddenly, “The men your brother took, are they… loyal?”

“They are,” she said, unsure of what he meant, “All men of Rohan are loyal.”

“But some are more loyal than others, aren’t they?” Tyrion said, “Surely some lords of Rohan side more with Grima than with Theodred or Eomer when quarrels occur?”

She nodded slowly, “This is true…”

“And which group rode out with your cousin?” He asked before taking a long drink.

“Mostly it was those who support Theodred… but why wouldn’t he take those men most loyal to him? I am not sure what you are implying here Lord Tyrion.”

“When an enemy army marches on the land even disloyal lords send a token force, no man benefits from seeing his country overrun,” Tyrion said, “Unless there is something else afoot.”

“You suspect Grima of treason?” the princess asked, shocked, “That’s impossible! Even he would never-“

“I suspect him of nothing in particular,” he replied, “I only notice that some things seem amiss in his actions. Tell me, do you have men loyal to you here? Men who will follow your orders and not those of any other in Edoras?”

She shook her head, “I have had no need for guards beyond those my father already employs for the hall… do you think there is need for more?”

This one could learn a thing or two from Cersei, he thought, “You are fair to behold and you clearly care for your people, I’ve no doubt they will take care of you in turn. If you'll excuse me...” His cup was almost empty now, and he got up to leave.

“Lord Tyrion,” she called, giving him pause, “Please stay a moment.” He obliged her and sat back down.

“How may I be of service?” he asked.

She put her own cup down, “I am a shield maiden of Rohan… I will gladly fight any enemy for her… but now I fear the enemy is within. This is not a battle fought with a sword or shield, your words have made me realize this.” She sighed, “I do not know what games Grima plays, nor does my brother or my cousin Theodred, it seems you do.”

He shrugged, “I’ve seen it played enough to know it when I see it, yes.”
“I am loathe to ask for aid but… please, help us in this,” Eowyn asked, she spoke with sincerity he hadn’t heard in years.

A man like you might do a great deal of good here, the Wizard’s words echoed in his mind, he laughed suddenly, “I am in your service then, I’ll take payment in wine if you’ve got it.” He thought a moment, “If we’re going to play the game of thrones against Grima we’ll need some muscle, are there any men friendly to your family left in Edoras?”

She shook her head, “They have all ridden with Theodred to war, I am fair with a blade though-“

“No,” Tyrion said, “If it were merely a matter of killing I could do it myself with a dagger in the night… we need a careful mix of intimidation and controlled violence.” He thought a moment, “Did a maester come from my father?”

“Yes, he brought several of the messenger birds and he’s been at work healing the sick and treating the wounded when needed. He’s become quite beloved by the people.”

Tyrion smiled, “I think I know where we can get the men we need. Lead me to where he’s keeping these ravens.”

He followed her outside to a small wooden structure a little ways down the street from Medusheld, “Here,” she said pushing the door open. The maester was gone, which suited Tyrion’s purposes anyways.

The ravens were roosted by which city they were trained to fly to. He saw several for Casterly Rock, two for the Banefort… and one for Minas Tirith. He smiled and grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill.

“Who are you writing to?” Eowyn asked.

“A friend of mine,” he replied, “I just hope he hasn’t left Minas Tirith already.”

Dear Bronn… he wrote, I have found myself in a position where your services are again needed. He paused a moment looking at Eowyn, Rest assured I’ve also found myself in a position where I am able to pay for said services. He left a few other instructions before tying the scroll to the raven and releasing it. The two of them stepped outside the building and watched the bird disappear into the sky.

“What do we do now?” Eowyn asked.

Tyrion shrugged, “I suppose we have a drink.”

Chapter Text

It had taken several days of argument and deliberation but Tywin had finally settled on a plan of action. According to Jaime the steward’s sons believed that Mordor was amassing it’s troops in Minas Morgul for an imminent attack on Gondor. When the attack came he would reinforce the Gondorian lines with his own men and after the force of Mordor was broken he would march on Minas Morgul and burn it down to ashes. He’d sent ravens to Dol Amroth to tell them of his approach, as well as to Minas Tirith. The march had been uneventful, the lands of Western Gondor were mostly small holdfasts and homesteads, after several weeks of marching they came to a shining city on the sea.

He was holding his war council in the central palace of Dol Amroth now. It was a much more mixed group than it normally was, Imrahil, prince of Dol Amroth, sat on his left, he was a tall broad shouldered man with handsome features and a serious demeanor. He’d welcomed Tywin’s host and allowed the use of the palace for their meeting.

On his right was Jaime, in addition to returning alive Jaime had also shocked him by returning with the Valyrian steel sword Brightroar. After the initial shock had passed he’d questioned his son, and found that Cersei had taken it from Gerion’s ship in the initial aftermath of the Arrival. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this, on the one hand he was happy to have the sword back, and he’d heard it had served Jaime well in Minas Tirith. On the other hand it indicated that there were those in Casterly Rock who would keep secrets from him on orders from Cersei… someday that would need to be addressed.

Several others were present as well, Timett, the leader of the Burned Men and now of all the mountain clans, had answered his call to arms. He and his men acted as scouts and foragers for the army, and he’d quickly found a place in the Lannister war councils in spite of the protests from some of the higher ranking lords, not only because of his low birth but because of his burned eyesocket, which he insisted on leaving uncovered. Tywin had heard that the Burned Men had a peculiar rite of passage which involved burning off a chosen body part, Timett had evidently chosen his eye which had greatly impressed his tribe. The story quickly spread throughout the camp and this, combined with his cold demeanor, meant that Timett now commanded fear and respect from most men. This had intrigued Tywin, and he wondered if Timett would perhaps fill certain roles now that Gregor Clegane was dead… he would have to see how the clansman performed during the war to come.

Then there were the usual bannermen, Lord Lefford of the Golden Tooth, Lord Marbrand of Ashemark and his son Addam, who had been awaiting the army in Dol Amroth as a guest of Imrahil, and Lord Brax of Hornvale. Directly across from him was his brother Kevan, lord of nothing but respected all the same. Lord Roland Crakehall was absent, having remained in Crakehall to organize the fleet for war.

“Now that everyone has arrived,” He began, “I believe it would be prudent to go over our strategy for the coming conflict.” He pointed to Minas Morgul, “With the forces being gathered here I believe that Sauron intends to make a move against the city of Minas Tirith. Jaime?”

His son nodded and stood up, “While in Minas Morgul Tyrion saw at least fifty thousand soldiers were present, most of them orcs, but with a substantial number of men from Rhun,” he pointed to a land North of Mordor, “And Harad,” he pointed to the south.

“What of these orcs?” Lord Brax asked, “I’ve heard they’re nothing like men, that they’re beasts that feel no fear and cannot break.”

“They can certainly be broken,” Imrahil said, “it is simply done in a different manner than against a mannish foe.”

“I agree,” the younger Marbrand cut in, “When Jaime and I faced them they held against our charge and even where a similar force of men might’ve broken they held, but when it became clear we did not fear them and would not flee ourselves, that was when they fell apart in earnest.”

The lords murmured and Tywin continued, “Fighting from within the fortifications on the Anduin and alongside men from Gondor I have every confidence that victory will be ours.” He paused, looking around the room. Seeing the nodding heads he pointed to Minas Morgul, “This is the nearest major city to the Gondorian border, depending on the state of their forces following the battle I believe we can pursue them back and lay siege to Minas Morgul and raze the city before they can call for help.”

The Westerlands lords were grinning now, but Imrahil scoffed, “That is folly Lord Tywin, forgive me but there is no chance that even our combined armies could hope to raze Minas Morgul.”

Tywin frowned, “These orcs are numerous, but weak. I've seen their bodies myself, surely every man is worth twice-“

“Orcs are not what worries me,” Imrahil replied, “Those are cursed lands, the nine themselves inhabit that place…” he shuddered, “I have glimpsed it once from afar, no weapon of man will break those walls.” The room was silent at this, Tywin’s lords were unused to seeing any disagree with him, Timett, always quiet, simply stared at the map with his good eye, stroking his chin.

“What would you suggest then, Prince Imrahil?” Tywin growled.

Imrahil thought a moment, “The first part of your plan is good, whatever the forces of Mordor are planning you will likely catch them unawares and even Sauron himself might pause seeing the free peoples united against him.” He moved a small token representing a ship from Crakehall to Dol Amroth, “If our armies and fleets are combined we might blockade Umbar,” he moved the ships to the mouth of the bay the city of the Corsairs sat in. “Then we can retake South Gondor and hold the forces of Harad at the Harad Road crossing.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, “I am not interested in reconquering Gondor’s lost territory, merely in delivering a blow to Mordor that it will not soon forget.”
Imrahil shrugged, “I have told you the best way to do so. If you insist on a foolish attack on Minas Morgul I cannot promise the men of Gondor will march with you.”

The room erupted in argument, Tywin was about to yell for quiet when a loud *thud* broke through the noise. Everyone silently looked to see that Timett had planted his axe in the table, notably cutting through the map right where the borders of Mordor began.

“You Andals argue that we should take this road, or that road, but you have not yet taken the first step that would put you to where you could make that choice.” He pulled the axe free of the table with a creaking sound, putting it back in a loop on his belt, “Timett son of Timett will ride with the lions, they have given his people much and much shall Timett give in return… but he will bear no more of this pointless arguing.”

They were quiet a moment before Kevan spoke, “There is some wisdom in the savage’s words, either target will have to wait until we have defeated Sauron in the field, and we have no idea what his response might be to this defeat. If he truly has hundreds of thousands of orcs in reserve-“

“He does,” Imrahil said firmly, “Though I believe he can only bring so many to bear in any one place.”

Tywin fumed a moment, Kevan has always been afraid to take risks, but if Sauron’s forces truly are so large… “We will see what the response is after we have met his army,” he said suddenly, “If our scouts see movement out of Mordor we will hold a defensive perimeter, if Sauron cowers in fear we shall take his lands.” This seemed agreeable to everyone and after some more discussion regarding food supplies, almost a non-issue with winters being so short in Middle Earth, they began to leave.

“Timett,” he called as the assembled lords stood up, “stay a moment, I have words regarding your… conduct.” The lords all looked at Timett a moment before leaving the room. Once they were alone he spoke again, “Know that I do not wholly disapprove of your actions today, but certain appearances must be maintained.”

Timmet gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, “The lion must lead, Timett knows this.”

Perceptive for a savage, Tywin thought, “Tell me, how have your people taken to the mountains around the Tooth?”

“Compared to what the Arryns left for us what we have been given is bountiful,” Timmet said, “There is much game for hunting and what plants we do grow have been found in abundance.”

“And wives for your men?” Tywin asked, “Few of your womenfolk were with us in the Arrival.”

“We have found women who will live with us,” Timmet replied, “Some come from among you Andals, and Gondor seems to have many widows who have come to us as well.” He paused, “Timmet has found a new wife from among them. She carries his child.”

“I offer my congratulations,” Tywin replied, though he could tell the mountain man did not care much for them, “What I have wondered is whether your people might need a true holding to call their own, you see the Cleganes have proven themselves unfaithful stewards-“

“The Burned Men belong to the mountains,” Timett said forcefully, “and Timett son of Timett belongs to the Burned Men.”

“Very well then, you are dismissed” Tywin said, keeping the disappointment from his voice, At least they’ll never rise against House Lannister… and with them in the hills neither will House Lefford. He walked to a set of a rooms that had been offered for the noble’s use, Jaime was waiting for him, leaning against a wall with Brightroar across his back.

“I do wish you would let me send that sword back to the Rock,” Tywin commented, “To what do I owe the pleasure of my son’s company?”

“I want to talk about Tyrion,” Jaime said, stepping away from the wall.

“He is a traitor. He tried to kill you Jaime, what more needs to be said about this?” He moved to go into his room but Jaime followed him.

“He wasn’t himself,” Jaime insisted, “that ring, it poisoned his mind.”

“Did it now?” Tywin asked, “Are you sure it was not his hatred for his family finally spilling over?”

Jaime was silent a moment, but then, “He knows about Tysha.”

“His first whore?” Tywin chuckled, “What of it?”

“She wasn’t a whore…” Jaime said quietly, “What would you do to any who would take mother from you?”

“He DID take your mother from me!” Tywin roared suddenly, “And if you compare her to one of your brother’s women again I will have you beaten within an inch of your life, my son or not.” Jaime glowered at him and left without another word.

The next day the ravens from Minas Tirith returned, Denethor had agreed to stand in battle with them and provide them with any needed supplies on the way to Minas Tirith. It was an odd task forcing an army to keep the peace on a march, but he found ways of keeping the men in line. At a small village one day out from Dol Amroth word came that a young girl had been raped by five of his men, he’d had them hung and then tied the bodies to horses near the front of the army. Their corpses seemed to send the message and they had no further incidents.

Prince Imrahil had joined them, bringing three thousand men of his own. The knights of Dol Amroth were impressive to be sure, they wore uniform shining silver armor, the swan ship of Dol Amroth fluttering above their column as they rode with the rest of his cavalry.

“An impressive host Lord Tywin,” Imrahil commented, riding next to him. “The people of Gondor will take heart seeing such an army on the move against Mordor.”

“Indeed they shall,” Tywin replied. And they will see what fate awaits any who would trouble the Lion.

Chapter Text

After months of preparation the goblin host was finally ready to march down the Western bank of the river Isen. He looked at the assembled armies, fifty thousand strong at least. Barg, the Great Goblin, had even roused himself to take part in the march. The two of them waited now at the gates of Isengard. He wore his polished black armor and rode atop his wolf, who he’d taken to calling Stark. Next to him the great mass of Barg sat atop a sedan carried by at least a dozen smaller orcs. The Wizard Saruman had also come to see them off personally.

“Be wary my King,” Saruman had said, “Theodred of Rohan rides to meet you, he will likely try to force a battle near the Fords of Isen,”

“I have no interested in Rohan,” Joffrey said indignantly, “What does this fool think to accomplish by waylaying me so?”

“Jealousy perhaps,” Saruman replied, “Of the wealth your kingdom has or the power of you and your allies.”

“Bollocks to him anyway,” The great goblin said, waving his hand dismissively, “A host of goblins this grand hasn’t been assembled since the war with the dwarves, the Horselord will take one look at us and scurry back to his hovel.”

“Why not cross here at Isengard?” Joffrey asked, “We could march down the East bank of the river and meet him head on instead of being forced to fight at the Fords.”

“Bugger that,” Barg spat, “The horsemen would harry us all the way down the riverbank, if they want to stop us from crossing the Fords they’ll have to make an honest fight of it, and I don’t mind losing a few thousand storming some fixed positions.”

Joffrey nodded, it made sense, “How long will it take to march across the gap of Rohan?”

“At least three days,” the goblin replied, “a number of bats swarm above which will allow us some cover if we are forced to march in the sun.”

Joffrey looked up to see hundreds of the flying creatures illuminated by the light of the Isengard bonfires, “They answer to your command as well?”

The big orc laughed, “Oh no of course not, but where goblins go bats follow… there will be enough to block out the light… orcs are meant to fight in darkness young king.” With that the goblin barked something in an orcish tongue and the sedan moved forward into the line of orcs.

Joffrey rode to the side of the lines with a few of the other wolf riders, their mounts snapping at any of the goblins which stepped out of line. He felt the whip at his side, he scanned the mob looking for an opportunity to use it… There! He thought, one of the orcs seemed to be hobbling behind the rest

*CRACK!* “Keep it moving you slugs!” He shouted. With a whimper they picked up the pace, the sun had set a few hours ago and they had a long march ahead of them before it rose again. They kept the pace, with the whip’s help of course, and during the day the Goblins erected a number of hide tents to shield them from the sun while they rested, the bats providing enough cover for the occasional orc to slip from tent to tent. Joffrey stayed in the central hovel with the Great Goblin himself, a great cloth structure that was big enough to ride a wolf into.

Finally after two days of this, they were in sight of the Fords. The light in the Eastern sky was beginning to return, and sunrise would be in a few hours. He stared angrily at a number of campfires just across the river, the men of Rohan had come to block him after all. He rode his wolf towards where the Barg had set up a small encampment.

“We should ride across there and smash them now,” Joffrey said, “They’ll scatter like roaches and we can continue on our way.”

“Patience my king,” The goblin chuckled, his many fat folds jiggling with each laugh, “We have but an hour of night left, we will fortify our encampment and attack them tomorrow night.”

Joffrey seethed, but said nothing, electing instead to ride his wolf around the camp perimeter. He looked to see a small group roasting some meat over a campfire and, feeling a rumble in his gut, rode over to them.

“You there! Grunts! Cut me a bit of that meat!”

They looked at each other a moment, and then at him. Hatred was in their eyes, they’d been marching for two days now and his whip had kissed more than a few of them, they were tired and now he’d come for their food.

One of them stood up, it only came up to his chest but its fists were clenched in anger, “no! You didn’t help catch it! You don’t get to help eat it!”

Joffrey snarled and dismounted Stark, pulling his crossbow out and loading a bolt, “What did you say to me you little peon?”

The orc drew a black grime coated dagger, “I said no! Now unless you want to give us a taste of your-“ He was cut off by the crossbow bolt flying into his chest, knocking him backwards. The other two squealed and drew their own swords, but a growl from his wolf sent them scurrying. With a smug smile Joffrey stepped forward cut himself a flank of the roasting meat, taking a bite right off his knife. He grimaced, he’d always preferred his pork heavily seasoned. He thought about offering some of the meat to his wolf but he turned to see it was already feasting on the dead goblin.

Suddenly a great horn blew, echoing over the fields as the first rays of light came over the horizon. His head whipped towards the source and he was shocked and horrified to see several thousand horsemen in full armor, lances lowered, riding across the river ford.

“It’s an attack!” He screeched, quickly remounting. Some of the goblins around him were grabbing their things to flee, but he unfurled the whip and cracked it in a wide circle around him, “Form up! Form up you maggots!” he shouted, though he could see many were following his orders things were still in total disarray. Few of the goblins had spears, or any weapons longer than their short swords.

The first rank of riders made contact with the Goblins, their bodies were tossed high in the air and trampled under steel shorn hooves, their screeches causing panic to ripple through the camp. More of the goblins were rallying now though, they swarmed from tents and small burrows they’d dug, it was becoming clear in the light of day that the Goblins outnumbered the horsemen by a great amount, and with blood being spilled the bats overhead were worked into a frenzy as they flew to block out the rising sun.

Joffrey could see one column of riders, perhaps two hundred strong, turn towards his group of Goblins on the edge of the camp. He felt fear in his stomach suddenly as he realized that he had nowhere near the forces needed to stop their charge. He was about to turn his wolf around to flee when they hit his goblins, one of them was tossed high knocking him clean off his wolf and to the ground with a hard thud.

Another group of five men broke from the rest and dismounted, with a shock Joffrey could see they were Lannister Redcloaks, “Joffrey!” Their leader cried, “Joffrey you little shit I saw you over here!” His uncle Daven looked terrible, his beard, already long when Joffrey had last seen him, was now down to his waist, and his hair had grown down to meet it. His red and gold armor was covered in scratches, as was the armor of his men, and his drawn sword had a few noticeable notches in it. The worst though was his face, it was covered in scars that he didn’t remember his uncle having, and his eyes were wide open and glinting with a madness that frightened him.

He scrambled to his feet, “To me!” he yelled, and in spite of the chaos he saw a few goblins rush forward to him, jaws clacking and swords drawn.

“You think that’s going to stop me?” Daven ran forward with a laugh that bordered on insane, knocking goblins aside and cleaving clean through those he could not.

Joffrey turned to run back into the mass of orcs, but suddenly he heard a cracking noise and felt something around his leg, causing him to trip into the ground. With horror he looked down and saw that a whip coiled around his foot, following it he could see it was his own and it was in Daven’s hands.

I must’ve dropped it! He thought, “Uncle Daven please-“ he started.

“Cut the bullshit you miserable little bastard,” Daven said angrily as he walked to Joffrey, “When I’m done with you you’re going to hurt worse than-“ but he was interrupted by another horn, this one higher and quicker than the Rohirrim’s. They both looked to see another army approaching from the other side of the Fords of Isen, an army of Uruks bearing the White Hand of Saruman.

A cry of triumph went up from the assembled goblins as they saw that the Rohirrim were now trapped between the two forces. They surged forward with reckless abandon, forcing the horsemen back towards the ford.

“Ser Daven! The Rohirrim are retreating!” One of the redcloaks shouted.

Joffrey looked back to see hundreds of goblins now running towards their position, and he looked back to Daven with a smug grin, “Better get going uncle.”

Without responding Daven dropped the whip and ran towards the horses, yelling and gesturing for his men to follow him. As he mounted his horse he spared one glance back at Joffrey. Their eyes made contact in that moment, and a shiver went down Joffrey’s spine seeing the look of mad hatred his uncle gave him. By now though the goblins had made it to him, and he could see his wolf among them.

He mounted back up and took stock of the battlefield, the Rohirrim had been forced back over the fords, but could not retreat with the advancing Uruks now fanning out. He smiled and rode closer to get a better view of the slaughter. The Uruks carried long pikes which prevented any charges, and their own warg riders ran through their ranks and into the Rohirrim where they caused chaos and prevented the horsemen from going into any formation. Rather than rushing across the goblins were mostly pulling ruined tents across themselves to block what little sun made it through the dense cloud of bats, but enough stood ready that there would be no retreat to the West.

As the Uruks drew closer they pulled swords and the fighting started in earnest, he chuckled at the thought of his uncle meeting his end in that mob. Suddenly a great cry of anguish came up from the men, he could see the white horse banner of Rohan dip low.

“That’ll be their leader,” The great goblin said eagerly, Joffrey turned to see the goblin leader, carried on his same sedan only now with a number of goblins holding cloths on poles to keep him in the shade. “Without him they’ll be slaughtered to the last man.”

Suddenly a great white light appeared to the East, outshining even the sun. The bats scattered and many of the goblins cried out in anguish as the sun touched them, scurrying to get under cover. The orcs on the other side of the river roared angrily but parted like water before the beacon, with a yell the Rohirrim rode as one through the gap this created, escaping the battlefield.

The light continued across the fords and through the goblins, who fled before it. Even the great goblin’s attendants fled, leaving their ranting master covered underneath the tarps they’d held aloft only a moment before. Joffrey tried to shield his eyes, but through his fingers he swore he saw an old man in grey riding on a white horse, a staff held high. As soon as he passed through their ranks the light vanished, and Joffrey saw him racing away to the West.

“What in the Seven Hells was that?” He asked, shocked.

“Another Wizard,” Barg said angrily, holding the cloth over his head and peering out, “Not all are as friendly as Saruman… Tell me boy, what is the state of things?”

Joffrey looked around, seeing most of the army still hidden beneath their tents, the Uruks were marching back north, not even bothering to send anyone to treat with them.

“We can cross the fords,” Joffrey said happily, “They’re gone… they’ll think twice before crossing me again.”

“Well and good,” the goblin said, “Come nightfall we’ll get a proper count and see how many we lost…” He smiled, “We’ve won the day lad!”

Joffrey returned the grin, “That we have, when we reach the Westerlands the rewards will be great.”

A/N: Here's a terrible MS Paint map of the battle http://i.imgur.com/pKneoX1.jpg

Chapter Text

After his victory against Fuinor the people of Umbar had welcomed him into the harbor with cheers, both for the spectacle he’d provided and to welcome him as their new captain. He’d allowed them a night of celebration, and he’d been carried all through the city by laughing crowds. Come morning he’d arranged a meeting with the other leader of Umbar, a man named Salez who bore the title “Steward of the Haven.”

He’d gone to the man’s palace, one of two great white dome shaped buildings in the center of Umbar, one of which he assumed was now his, two of his crew trailing behind him. A pair of guards in full plate mail, a curiosity this far south, ushered him in and towards a staircase which lead several stories upwards. Rather than a great open throne room like he’d expected there was a small room with cushioned chairs arranged around the walls. A number of people were sitting around the room waiting, a few seemed like laborers, dirt covering their hands and faces, while some others wore silk finery and had a regal air about them. A few were reading books or scrolls.

“Where is Salez?” He asked impatiently.

A small chuckle went up from around the room, “You have to wait to see him most days,” one of the better dressed men said, “slaves, captains, Haradrim, he makes all wait in the order they arrived.”

Euron rolled his eye, “That changes today,” he stormed down the hallway to a number of cheers and startled gasps. These fools could learn a thing or two from Balon, he thought absently.

The hallway was ornately decorated with tapestries on either side. They depicted a great city of marble and stone on an island, the next several showed a figure Euron recognized as Sauron arriving and performing miracles, and finally they ended just before the door with a great wave washing over the city. So that’s what happened to it…

Without knocking he kicked the door open, revealing a wide office with an open window facing the bay. Seated at a great desk was a wiry dark skinned man with curly black hair and a pointed beard. Across from him was the same fisherman he’d sent to buy his supplies the day before.

“Didn’t I tell you to buy a warship?” He asked with a smile.

The man looked shocked to see him, “W-Why yes milord, you did… I was merely telling the Steward of your… skill on the waves.”

“Indeed?” he chuckled. “Go, the next time I see you it will be as a raider captain or as fishing bait. The choice is yours.” The man quickly got up to leave, keeping his eyes low. “And I’d better see your sons there too!” Euron yelled after him with a grin.

“So you must be the new Captain of the Haven” the Steward, Salez, said quietly. “I suppose it would be foolhardy to question the “will” of the Eye Euron Grejoy, but I think I shall anyway… what exactly are you doing here?”

He thought a moment, stroking his short beard, “It’s simple really,” he said, “I’m here to bring you to your full potential.”

“Our full potential?” Salez asked skeptically, “We are the foremost naval power in the world, I don't know what you're after but-“

“Let me stop you there,” he said. He sat down across from the steward and kicked his feet up on the desk, brushing several papers aside and knocking a small figurine of a knight over. “You’re too caught up in what you think I want.” He gave a big friendly grin he knew would disarm most men, “The question you should be asking is not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you.” He punctuated the remark by setting the small figure upright again on the desk.

Salez raised an eyebrow, “And what can you do for me? I’ve already determined you did something with pine tar and Sulphur when you killed Fuinor... there are no pine trees in Umbar Greyjoy, and getting a sizable amount would take-“

“Months, years maybe,” he replied, “From what I’ve heard the store I acquired was captured off of a Gondorian ship just outside the mouth of the Anduin. I’ve looked at enough maps to realize you probably don’t have easy access to evergreens.” And I’ve soared above the land like a crow too. “The wildfire, that’s what it’s called by the way, is only one of many things I will bring to Umbar.”

Now he’d caught Salez’s attention, “Are there other such weapons?” the man asked eagerly.

“Indeed there are, though perhaps not as visually impressive,” he pulled his feet off the desk and grabbed a paper from the floor and a quill. He began to sketch out the basic design of an Ironborn longship, “Umbar and Gondor use the same ship designs for the most part, I’ve sunk enough of each to know by now…”

“Though they serve those who cast us down they are of the blood of Numenor as well, and their ships reflect this,” the steward replied with a frown, “What is your point?”

“This works to our advantage, look here,” he finished his drawing and pushed the paper towards Selaz, “This is a ship like my own, speed and maneuverability are key, with one of these a Captain can land right on a beach in all but the most treacherous waters.”

The steward looked over the drawing for a minute, “Somewhat… primitive, isn’t it?”

“It’s fast, faster than anything in these waters,” Euron replied, “and it can land right up on a beach. A crew can disembark in minutes, grab anything a coastal town has of any value, and be back on board before anyone has a chance to do anything about it.”

Salez was studying the drawing carefully now, “So you’d build a fleet of these light boats,”

“Longships,” he said, “and yes, for too long Umbar has tried to match the might of Gondor on the open seas. The time has come to simply take what we can carry and burn the rest.” He smiled, “My family has a saying, We Do Not Sow. I’ve seen it before, navies with great strong ships made useless when they aren’t fast enough to protect their shores.”

Understanding dawned on the other man’s face, “We’ll begin construction right away,” Salez said, excited, “I’ll send for wood from the south, we have enough lumber camps in the jungles to meet this need I think.” He smiled, “When I’d heard you’d defeated Fuinor I was worried that some fool upstart had taken control of my city by manipulating lesser minds… Perhaps you really were sent from the Eye, this is rather more ambitious than what I’d become accustomed to from the Captain of the Haven.”

“I should hope so,” he said, pulling his patch aside briefly, causing the other man to gasp. “I’m aiming to be a bit more than a mere captain.” With that he got up and walked out, readjusting his eyepatch. He passed back through the waiting room where his two crew were standing awkwardly among the rest of those waiting, he gestured for them to follow him.

By the next day the lumber had been gathered to begin construction on the first longship, he’d assembled the shipwrights of the city to join him as he oversaw the work. He’d had Silence sailed into view so he could refer to it.

“It only needs one mast,” he began, “A single great sail to pull it forward with the full force of the wind.” He pointed to black maiden carved on the front of his own ship, “It’s also traditional to carve something on the bow there.” He thought a moment, “Don’t just copy mine though, come up with your own designs.” The assembled shipbuilders nodded, several were taking notes.

After about three weeks of work the first ship was completed, a local carpenter had volunteered to carve a face on the front bow that he said was supposed to be some lost king or another, but to Euron it just looked like a stern fellow wearing a crown. They’d hefted it over the harbor and slid it into the water by the dock where it bobbed with the waves, the first ship of his new Iron Fleet. He raised a wine bottle to christen the ship, but paused looking around at the assembled workers and noblemen of Umbar.

“Who will captain this ship for me?” He called, “Who will sail her home filled with plunder?”

“I will!” A voice called out, he looked to see a tall dark haired man with high cheekbones step forward.

“Your name Captain?” He asked, handing the bottle to the stranger.

“Herumor my lord, Herumor of Umbar.”

He smiled, “Well Herumor of Umbar, what is this ship to be called?”

“Pharazon!” He shouted, smashing the bottle against the ship. The crowd cheered and Euron smiled.

“A fine name Captain Herumor, may Pharazon serve you well.”

The remaining ships did not go quite so quickly, though he’d had unlimited laborers to build the first longship now they were spread over several sites. The lumber situation was also less than ideal, but a steady supply of new trees came on ships from South Harad. After another few weeks he had five completed ships, feeling impatient he he’d decided he would lead the captains in a raid, a first attempt to show the Corsairs how easy and profitable they could be.

Following his orders the five longship captains met him in the bay, each carrying forty men and pushed forward by a great black sail with a golden kraken painted across the center. Herumor’s ship was there of course, and he noted with a smile that the fisherman finally captained a warship, his sons armed and standing behind him. They set out under an overcast sky, rowing towards Gondor. He’d thought at first that they would attack Pelargir, but he didn’t want to take untested men upriver and it was far too large for such a small force anyway. He settled on a town just outside of the mouth of the Anduin holding perhaps two or three thousand people. He gave orders to gather the captains on Silence to brief them on the plan… but first he grasped the Palantir.

He soared over the town they were to attack, there were a few armed men in the streets, but nothing more than a simple city watch. He flew higher and saw a great gathering of men on the road to the north. As he drifted over them he saw the golden lion banners of the Lannisters. It didn’t matter, even with all their strength they would be too far to help these poor fools…

He pulled his hand off the Palantir and turned to see the collected captains gazing at him curiously, “We attack.” He said simply.

Herumor stepped forward, “Lord Captain… where did you get-“

“We attack,” he repeated. There was a distant rumble of thunder and he looked up, seeing stormclouds on the horizon. “We’ll have to go quickly, I’m hoping to have a nice blaze going before the rain starts.”

Herumor nodded, “Are there any other orders?” he asked quietly.

“Take all you can carry, burn whatever you can’t,” he replied. They disembarked back to their own ships and the rowers brought them into loose formation behind Silence. With a grin he pulled a rope, unfurling the sail and displaying the Greyjoy kraken. The sails behind him unfurled and then swelled in unison, carrying them towards the beach of the Gondorian town like the head of some great spear. Soon they were moving so quickly the rowers just pulled the oars up, not bothering to break the choppy surf.

“WE DO NOT SOW!” He yelled at the top of his voice, pulling his sword and waving it high. He heard battle cries going up behind him and suddenly felt as though he were flying again. He could see the people in the streets now, they were running and screaming, children cried and women wept. He smiled seeing a handful of armed and armored men rushing towards the beach. As the ship ground to a halt in the sand he jumped from the ship’s bow, the momentum carrying him down onto one of the men who he stabbed through the throat with a scream.

The throaty roar of his mute crewmen was met with the screams of the Corsairs jumping from their own ships. The men on the beach were quickly overwhelmed and fled back towards the city, Herumor shot one in the back with a great black longbow. The guard tumbled forward, his blood staining the sand.

They ran forward into the town proper, bells were ringing and he heard more screaming as his men began tossing lit torches onto the roofs of nearby houses. Before the raid he’d ordered the captains to give each man a burlap sack, he could see some of the more enterprising men running into shops and homes, coming back out throwing everything from peppers to gold coins into them. One pair of men were tying and gagging a screaming young woman.

He witnessed the bedlam around him and laughed cheerfully, “Burn it down and piss on the ashes!” He saw an old man hobbling down a nearby alley and with a quick motion threw a dagger into his back. Pulling it from the dead man he turned to see Herumor leading a small group of men towards him.

“Captain Greyjoy, a number of people have taken shelter in the town hall, there are armed men in there… perhaps a hundred.”

“Preparing for some sort of counter attack no doubt,” he said, his smiling eye twinkling. He looked about and saw a carriage, the horse laying dead in the gutter with a cut throat. A bag of fruit was in the back and he took a peach out and bit into it, savoring the flavor. “Give the men a last call, we’ll shove off soon.”

“Captain I don’t understand… we’ve got complete control of the town, surely we can defeat-“

“The goal of a raid is not to fight at all if you can help it,” he said, cutting him off, “By now the men will have whatever’s worth having on this side of town… we can come back for the rest another day.”

Herumor frowned but began shouting orders anyway, soon the Corsairs were walking back towards the beach, each man with a sack of plunder over his shoulder. There was much laughing and several men were comparing what they’d taken. Euron looked around and saw the fisherman walking just behind him.

“Fisherman!” he called, causing the man to look up, “What did you get?” he asked smiling.

“A nice fresh watermelon milord!” The man said, pulling the fruit out of the bag.

He frowned, “A watermelon? Surely they had something better than that?” The fisherman seemed embarrassed but drew a silver candlestick out of the bag as well. “That’s more like it!” he said, slapping the man on the back, “We’ll make a proper reaver out of you yet!”

They reached the ships and began pushing them back into the surf, suddenly there was a battle cry from behind them and Euron turned to see perhaps two hundred men, some city watchmen and some just peasants armed with pitchforks and scythes, running towards them. He started laughing and jumped aboard Silence, the rowers already pulling them back out to sea. The rest of the ships were escaping as well, and the men joined his laughter, many stopping to make rude gestures at the men on the shore. One had pulled his pants down and was waving his bare buttocks at them.

“Home to Umbar lads!” He called. He pulled another of the peaches from the cart out of his pocket and took a bit, the juices running down his chin and into his beard. Nothing tastes half as good as fruit bought at the Iron Price.

Chapter Text

Seek for the Sword that was broken:
In Imladris it dwells;
There shall be counsels taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells.
There shall be shown a token
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And the Halfling forth shall stand.

Boromir jerked awake with a start, a cold sweat covering his forehead. He stumbled out of bed and over to his dresser where a small bowl of water sat, he splashed his face. Looking out the window he saw the first rays of light appearing over the horizon. Morning then, or near enough. He sighed and began strapping his sword belt on.

The dreams had started a week ago, every night the same riddle would echo through his mind until it grew so loud it forced him awake. He wasn’t sure what to make of it… Imladris he knew to be Rivendell, and the sword that was broken was Narsil, but surely Isildur’s Bane couldn’t be with the elves? And what could be done if it was? He shook his head rapidly hoping to clear the light headache he’d woken up with, he had many things to do before departing the city. He and Faramir had decided to quarter in Osgiliath with the garrison until the Lannister forces arrived and he hoped to finish his business in Minas Tirith before then.

He left to search for Faramir, he didn’t find him in his quarters nor in the training yard. The sun was fully up when he finally located his brother in the lower level of the Citadel library, candles lit, pouring over some scroll or another.

“Faramir, what are you doing in here?” He asked, causing his brother’s head to snap up.

“Boromir!?” he asked startled, “I’m sorry I came down here to read… what time is it?”

“The sun’s been up for at least an hour brother,” Boromir replied with a smile, “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the books for another day.”

Faramir rubbed his temples, “I’m sorry, I must have lost track of time… I’ve been having these dreams you see-“

“Dreams?” Boromir said suddenly, “What dreams?”

“A riddle, it tells me to seek the shards of Narsil…”

“Faramir” he started, “I… I’ve been having the same dream.”

There was silence for a moment before Faramir spoke, “Two men may by chance tread the same path, but no two men, even brothers, have the same dreams except by the will of Eru Iluvitar.”

“But what does it mean?” Boromir replied angrily, “Are we really to abandon everything we are doing and trek across half of middle earth to Rivendell just to look at a broken sword?”

Faramir shrugged, “Well that was the conclusion I’d come to... but I share your reservations.”

Boromir sighed, “It would have to wait until after the battle at least. We are needed here.”

“Brother, this is a sign from Iluvitar himself!”

“Good, he will deliver victory to us so that we may fulfill his will, but we still need to prepare our defenses.”

“Boromir-“

“Come with me to Osgiliath, that’s an order.”

Faramir’s shoulders slumped, “You’re really going to pull rank on me?” he asked with a small smile.

He returned it, “I’m afraid so, let’s move out.”

The two of them walked through the courtyard, passing the white tree. He noticed a few Lannister redcloaks arrayed around the green. This puzzled him until he saw Lady Cersei, sitting alone on a small bench, sipping from a cup of wine. She seemed sad, the wind whipped at her hair lightly, emphasizing this look.

“We should go say something,” Faramir said, “It’s only proper.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he replied, “The woman hates me anyways, I look too much like this Ned Stark she loathes so much.”
Faramir looked at him a moment, then yelled, “Greetings lady Cersei!”

Damn it all Faramir, he thought, he quickly put on a smile and waved to her. She similarly put on what was obviously a fake grin and waved back. Faramir began walking towards her, Boromir reluctantly followed behind.

“Well met sons of the steward,” her eyes were red and her wine cup was nearly empty, likely the latest of many. Looking to one of her guards he saw a pitcher in the man’s hand. “Where are you off to on such a beautiful late spring day?”

“We’ve got to make preparations for your father’s arrival and for the coming battle,” He said, “If you’ll excuse us-“

“Lady Cersei is… is everything all right?” Faramir asked suddenly.

She gave a low laugh, “My father is coming here to join you in battle… surely you two know what that means?”

The two of them looked at each other, more damned riddles, he thought, “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain it to us, I’d thought it meant only that we had new allies in the war against Mordor.”

She smiled and rolled her eyes, “You fools… when our fathers meet they are likely to hammer out a proper marriage agreement to bind our houses.” She took another drink of her wine, “I’d hoped to avoid doing this again… but I don’t want to see my daughter suffer as I did.”

Suffer? Does she really think so low of us? He thought indignantly, “Lady Cersei, I’ve no desire to partake in this madness either but surely-“

“Every time you speak I can hear Ned Stark’s voice, every time I see you I see the man who tried to murder me and my children!” she seethed, “And now, in order to save my daughter from being married to a man thirty years her senior I will likely be forced to wed and then bed you.” She drank the rest of the cup in a single quick gulp, throwing it to the ground. “Do not compare your mere discomfort to my suffering.”

“Now see here-“ He started angrily, but was cut off by Faramir’s voice.

“Surely our fathers will allow some room for… preference?” he asked hesitantly.

Her eyes narrowed but she nodded, “I imagine so… though my father will prefer a match between the Steward’s eldest son and either myself or my daughter.”

“If my brother’s visage torments you so then a marriage between you two would be an unhappy one,” he said quietly, “If necessary perhaps we could convince our fathers that…” He swallowed and the next words came haltingly, “You and I should be… married.”

Both he and Cersei looked at Faramir, shocked, Faramir you are the best brother any man has ever known. Cersei stood up, her long red dress flowing lightly in the breeze. In spite of her drunkenness he could tell she was giving the issue real thought. She looked Faramir up and down, circling him like a lion.

“You’re easy enough on the eyes to be sure,” She said with a dark smile, “it must pain you to bring your days of fighting and whoring to an end…”
Now Faramir was offended, “Lady Cersei I’ve fought my share of battles true, but I’ll not have you dishonor me with such words.”

She frowned and rolled her eyes, “I’ve outgrown men’s lies Faramir, even if you fools never grow out of telling them.”

“It’s no lie lady Cersei,” Boromir said, “Faramir and I have been at war too long to enjoy such… comforts even if we desired them.”

She looked at the two of them a moment before a shocked expression came over her face, “Gods, you’re telling the truth aren’t you? Have you ever been with a woman at-“

“I’ll speak no more of this,” Faramir said testily, “Do not make me regret this offer… Lady Cersei, will you agree to marry me or not?”

She smiled with a false sweetness, “Isn’t it customary to get on one’s knees?”

“I won’t be doing that, give me a yes or a no,” he replied.

She sighed, “I will, should we tell Lord Denethor of our decision or wait until my father’s army arrives?”

“Let us keep it between us for now,” Faramir said. He looked less like a man who’d just gotten engaged and more like a man who had just found out he’d contracted a fatal illness.

“Well I’m sure your father and Jaime will be pleased to hear it at least,” Boromir said, testing the waters.

Both his brother and Cersei glared at him, “Brother, if I could ask a favor,” Faramir began, “Leave me alone with my wife to be for some time while we settle a few things.”

He shrugged, “Certainly, come to see me at the lower gate when you are finished, we still must prepare for the battle.” He walked down the stairs to the lower levels, a slight spring in his step. He felt bad for Faramir, and truthfully even for Cersei, but he’d dodged the arrow.

He waited and time dragged on, after at least an hour had passed a Lannister redcloak came riding past him, hunched over as if in deep thought.

“You there! Redcloak! Have you any idea if Faramir is still meeting with my sister?”

“They said not to disturb them,” the man growled in a low voice, it sounded almost like he was sick.

“That’s odd,” he said, “Do you know what business they’re discussing that’s taking so long?” the man had ridden past him now, only his back exposed.

“Didn’t say,” the man growled again. Boromir was about to ask another question but the man had continued on and was now out of earshot.
Finally he could take no more, it was at least noon now and whatever they were talking about would have to wait for another day. He stormed back up the citadel to find the courtyard empty. He angrily walked into the empty throne room and down the hall to their quarters. Judging from the redcloaks standing guard by the door the Queen Mother was in her chambers.

“Let me through, I need to speak to lady Cersei,” he said.

The guards exchanged an embarrassed look, “Lord Boromir,” one began, “Your brother is… with the queen.”

“I know, I need to speak to them both,” he said with annoyance.

The other guard sighed, “They are in a... compromising state your Lordship.”

“What do you-“ realization suddenly dawned on him, “That’s impossible! Faramir would never- FARAMIR!” He yelled suddenly, causing the guards to jump.

“Lord Boromir I don’t think you should-“ but the guard was interrupted by Cersei’s voice calling.

“Send him in!”

With a sigh he pushed past the guards and entered the room. Cersei was waiting on a couch, fully clothed with a wine cup in her hand.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to come looking for us,” she said with a smile, “Can I offer you something to drink Lord Boromir?”

“What’s going on?” he asked looking around, “Where’s Faramir?”

“Oh he’s gone,” she said, “Close the door and I’ll explain.” Reluctanctly he did so, seeing she was pouring him a cup of wine he angrily took it.

“What is this?” he repeated, “What have the two of you done?”

She sat upright with a smile, “Your brother is an… earnest man, did you know that?” She took a drink and laughed a little, “He told me a few things as his “wife to be,” he actually felt he owed me an explanation.”

“An explanation for what?” Boromir asked hesitantly.

“Why that he’s going to Rivendell of course,” she said, “He told me you had some idea that he would do so, but that you’d prohibited it.”

Rivendell?! “Surely you jest, Faramir would never desert our army.” The dreams, he’s following the dreams…

“He seems to think it’s important that he go for the sake of the war effort, I can’t say I understand why... from what I’ve heard it hardly sounds like a place of importance.” She shrugged, “In any case I provided him with a disguise to sneak past you and your men… he’s likely beyond the walls by now.”

That redcloak! He suddenly realized the man had been about Faramir’s size and build, “And he’s far too skilled in stealth for any to catch him unless he wants them to…” he finished grimly. “Why would you help him do this?”

“Why love of course,” she said simply. He glared at her angrily before she gave a drunk chuckle, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.” She set her empty cup on an end table, “With Faramir being absent I can hardly get married to him now can I?”

“Then our fathers will simply arrange for us to-“

“No they won’t,” she said with a smile, “I made sure to lead Faramir here past Jeyne Westerling’s quarters, she’s in there sewing with some of those tarts she’s taken to chattering with. By nightfall everyone will be whispering that he’s already bedded me, in the face of that I’m certain that our fathers will accept our “engagement” even in his absence.”

“Did you?” he asked, a morbid curiosity driving the question, “bed him I mean…”

She laughed, “No, of course not… your brother actually gave me an oath that he would not dishonor me by laying with another while he was away. You Gondorians are a strange people.”

She thinks we’re the strange ones? “And where are we to say Faramir has gone?” he asked.

She shrugged, “Does it matter? Say he’s on a mission for you, a mission that requires secrecy.”

“Father will never believe that!” He started, “Faramir has always been… open, to certain ideas and my father will know they’ve lead him down this fool path.”

“Perhaps the word of his love stricken bride-to-be would help convince Lord Denethor,” she said dismissively, “Like I said, it doesn’t matter, he’s gone and we’re engaged now.”

“The two of you have thought of everything haven’t you?” He asked sourly.

“I’m my father’s daughter,” she replied with a smile, “And Faramir isn’t quite the fool I took him to be when we first met either.”

He sighed and left without another word, Faramir, he thought, you leave me on the eve of battle. His mind went again to the dreams, though perhaps whatever you find in Imladris will make up for it.

Chapter Text

Tyrion taken a few days to get his bearings in Edoras. Without the Wizard he felt vulnerable, but after meeting Eowyn he knew he had at least one friend in the city. He’d been staying in the Golden Hall of Medusheld in the guest quarters, comfortable but not quite as nice as he was used to.

After watching the events at court for a few days he determined that Eowyn had been mistaken, there were still men in Edoras outside of Grima’s pull… The most notable was the captain of the Medusheld guards, a man called Hama. Although he was a gruff fellow he clearly cared little for the king’s advisor. This was most notable during an exchange between the two that occurred in the aftermath of a theft, a jeweled necklace belonging to one of the servant girls had been taken. He was sitting with Eowyn in one of the lounges of the main hall watching the affair.

“That is the third item stolen this week, a thief lurks Medusheld and I will catch him,” Hama had said confidently.

“A waste of time and effort,” Grima replied dismissively, “A few baubles saved here and there would not outweigh the costs of keeping so many men here at all hours.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Hama said angrily, “This is the king’s hall! A symbol of all Rohan!”

“And would you bankrupt your king over a symbol?” Grima asked with a smug smile. Hama just gave an angry grunt and stormed off, Grima continued smiling and went about his way too, shooting Eowyn a small look before he left.

“That Hama, he’s the man you need to have on your side,” Tyrion said as soon as Grima had left, “He’s ideal, he hates Grima, he leads armed men, and he’s close.”

“Hama would never disobey a direct order though,” Eowyn said hesitantly.

“Then don’t put him in a position where he has to,” Tyrion replied, pouring himself another cup of mead, “Go to him later and tell him you support his plan to catch the thief, offer him whatever resources he needs from your own pocket. Surely the royal treasury can offer you some gold-“

“Grain,” she said suddenly, “Gold is used for some purchases but the guards here receive a stipend of grain as their wages.”

“Grain?” Tyrion asked quizzically, the he chuckled, “Very well then, see to it that he receives enough grain to keep the men here late at least a few nights.”

“You mean to catch the thief?” Eowyn asked excitedly, “That would win him over for certain!”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, “Frankly I’m of the same mind as Grima regarding the thief, our purpose is to tell Hama that we support and value his efforts while Grima does not.”

She thought a moment, “So we are going to spend wealth and manpower searching for a thief we don’t care about simply to send a message to Hama that we are his allies without outright telling him so?”

He smiled, “Precisely! You’re picking this up rather well.”

She lit up, “You have my thanks Lord Tyrion… though with all this…"

“Subterfuge,” he said simply, “the word you’re looking for is subterfuge.”

She nodded, “With all of this subterfuge, the courts of your land must be maddening.”

He looked into his cup a moment, “You have no idea…”

“Will you go with me to court tomorrow?” she asked suddenly, “The king is to pronounce judgment on a number of matters, Grima will likely make most of the real decisions.”

He shrugged, “It’s what I’ve agreed to isn’t it?” Truthfully even if he hadn’t wanted to go there was little to do in Edoras besides drink and plot. He’d been shocked to find that there were no whorehouses at all in the city, and even if there were he wasn’t sure if he felt up to visiting them again yet. “I’ve yet to meet your uncle, I look forward to it,” he said mildly.

She smiled sadly, “It would perhaps have been better if you had met him in his younger days.”

The next day they gathered in the hall and Tyrion concluded that Eowyn was right. The king was lead out by a pair of guards to steady him, although he knew the king was old, seventy from what he’d heard, he hadn’t expected to see so frail a man. A great white whispy beard covered his chin, his eyes were sunken in his face, and he looked as though every step might break him. They ushered him into his throne where he sat with a great long sigh. He made a waving motion and Grima drew close to him, there was a low whisper and then Grima stood up.

“King Theoden invites any with grievances, disputes, or other matters of the realm to step forward.”

The first few petitioners held little interest for Tyrion, farmers who argued over a boundary dispute, two ranchers claiming to own the same horse, and one particularly drawn out argument between a man and a woman over the parentage of a child. In all these matters Grima seemed, at least to him, to be a fair and capable ruler. Though he often leaned in to whisper with the king it was clear that Grima was steering most of the decisions in the way he felt they ought to go.

This changed when a young man stepped forward, he was almost a child really, spots on his face, and his clothes were a worn and scratchy looking cloth.

“King Theoden, I am Erling, son of Eling, I come to your court in my hour of need to ask for my king’s strength.”

This intrigued Tyrion and he put his cup down, he could see Grima paying closer attention as well, “Speak Erling, son of Eling, what matters trouble you?”

The boy seemed nervous now, unused to so many eyes upon him, “M-my family, we herd horses and sheep in East Emnet. Though we have long lived in peace there our herds have come under attack by wargs, great howling beasts with fire in their eyes!” He paused and looked around again, gulping before continuing, “They have taken many of our animals, and my father fears they will diminish our herds to the point of ruin.” His voice almost cracked now, “I’d ask that the king send men to help us hunt these beasts down, I have four brothers, proud and strong, and my father is an able man as well, but we are not enough to protect the animals and hunt the beasts.”

All heads in the room turned to Grima, who stroked his chin, “Wolves then? You’d trouble your king because of a few wolves?”

“Wargs milord!” he protested, “Wolves we have always had, but these creatures are the size of a horse with the cunning of a man!”

“Superstition has little place in the halls of governance young Erling,” Grima said dismissively, a low chuckle went up among those watching. “We’ve few enough men without sending them chasing… oh what is the expression Lord Tyrion?”

“Grumpkins and Snarks,” he replied grimly from the other side of the room. Though wargs are hardly so harmless.

Grima nodded, giving the boy a condescending smile, “I’m sure we can give you some supplies for your return journey but-“

“Without help we are doomed!” the boy said, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, “They will come for us when the animals are gone!”

Grima chuckled again, “Boy if your father needs men from Edoras merely to hold his lands from the beasts of the field he’s merely a poor rancher, not a besieged maiden in need of rescue.” More in the court laughed and Grima nodded, looking around in approval, “Guards! Remove him!”

“No!” The boy cried, but the men had already grabbed his arms and were hauling him towards the door.

Tyrion sighed, something has to be done… he nudged Eowyn sharply, causing her to look down at him.

“Speak up,” he whispered quickly, hoping to avoid attention.

Her eyes were wide, “Lord Tyrion it’s not my place to-“

“Say something or that boy and his family are dead, they are all dead!”

She stood up and stepped forward, “Wait!” she called, and suddenly all eyes in the room turned to her, the guards stopped in their tracks. She looked around, suddenly self conscious, “I… that is to say…”

Not exactly the second coming of Robert Baratheon, Tyrion thought, Perhaps I should-

She interrupted his thoughts, “I think we must send someone with the boy… to see if he’s telling the truth.”

“Lady Eowyn,” Grima said with annoyance, “I know that your sympathies have perhaps been evoked here, but this is a matter for the King to decide, not one to be commented on by the court at large.”

He turned to the king with a smug smile, but suddenly Theoden’s chest rose with a great breath, “I would…” he wheezed, stunning the room, “I would like to hear what Eowyn has to say…”

“My King conserve your strength-“ Grima began, but was cut off by a hand wave from the king, an unmistakable demand for silence.

Eowyn looked her uncle in the eyes and something passed between them, whatever there is of him in there still cares for her, Tyrion observed. She continued speaking.

“We should send at least five men, they can be to the farm inside a week and determine if these are wargs or mere wolves,” she said firmly. There were murmurs of agreement and the boy fell to his knees.

“Thank you, thank you lady Eowyn! We will never forget this!” the boy blubbered.

“Enough!” Grima shouted, “Very well, if we are to do this thing…” he looked around the room, his eyes landing on Hama, “The doorwarden will make a fine leader for this… expedition.”

He means to send the only swords he doesn’t control out of Edoras, Tyrion thought frantically. He looked to Eowyn but saw that she was nodding, The woman is only thinking of helping those peasants.Hama was not offering any objections either. He sighed, time to join the game again.

“But Lord Grima!” He said loudly, “Surely there is someone better equipped for this task?” The heads in the room turned to him now, and he stepped into the center of the hall where all could see and hear him. Judging from their expressions this was likely the most exciting court session in some time.

Grima cocked his head sideways in confusion, “What do you mean Lord Tyrion? Hama is a stout warrior and an able leader of men.”

“Indeed I am!” the subject of their conversation boomed from the back of the room. A number of people made noises in agreement, and a few even clapped.

That fool doesn’t know what plots are being spun here either, he thought with annoyance, “Indeed you are!” he said with a fake smile, “But this is a matter that will require speed will it not?”

“What are you implying?” Hama asked, a hint of anger in his voice.

“Well it seems that the Doorguards have few fast horses,” he said hurriedly, “and from what I was told most of the fastest steeds have been taken by Theodred for the battle… is there any force remaining that has full mounts and remounts to make such a speedy journey?” He looked desperately to Eowyn, and then to Grima, hoping she would make the connection.

He eyes suddenly lit up and she spoke, “Why yes Lord Tyrion, Grima’s personal guards were granted respite from the draft of horses for Theodred’s ride, some of them could easily go and-“

“Absolutely not!” Grima started angrily, “My guards are needed to maintain order-“

“But couldn’t Hama and his men take over some of their duties?” Eowyn asked smiling, “Or you could relinquish some of your horses…” Grima glared at Eowyn and then at Tyrion, his eyes full of anger. Well my loyalties are clear now, he thought with annoyance. Grima was looking about the rest of the room, many were muttering and others averted his gaze.

“Very well,” Grima said, “I will send five of my men to see to these “wargs,” though I still find this a foolhardy waste of manpower.”

The rest of the session at court went mostly as the first half had, though Grima was noticeably unnerved throughout the proceedings. When things concluded he and Eowyn walked outside the hall on a small path leading to an overlook where the city and the mountains could be viewed.

“That was… that was exhilarating!” Eowyn said excitedly.

Tyrion nodded, “You did well Lady Eowyn. Those at court will come to respect your voice, but do not think all victories will be this easy. We gained little, perhaps some respect among the peasantry and some lords, but we almost saw Hama depart the city and there’s no telling the damage Grima could’ve caused in his absence.”

As if summoned by their words the Doorwarden appeared around the corner, “Lady Eowyn,” he bowed slightly, “Lord Tyrion, there are several men by the main gates asking for you.”

He smiled, “Thank you master Doorwarden, I’ll see to them at once.” He sighed and drained his cup, “Lady Eowyn accompany me please, if these visitors are who I believe they are it will be important for you to meet them.”

The pair walked to the main entrance of Medusheld where he recognized Bronn, still wearing simple chainmail and leathers, though now carrying a sword bearing the white tree of Minas Tirith on the pommel.

He smiled seeing Tyrion, “So we’ve recovered enough to write letters I see. How’s the finger?”

“Ever the gentleman and scholar Bronn,” Tyrion laughed. He held his hand up, the gap where his ring finger used to be had healed over mostly by now, though a thick pink scar still marred the skin.

Bronn nodded, “Well it could be worse. I’ve seen some nasty war wounds, one poor fellow lost most of his nose-“ he stopped seeing Eowyn, “I-I’m sorry milady, I didn’t mean to-“

“Oh where are my manners,” Tyrion started, “Lady Eowyn this is Bronn the sellsword. Bronn, this is lady Eowyn, niece of King Theoden and princess of Rohan.”

Bronn’s eyes widened, “Pleased to meet you your highness,” he gave a poor bow, “Well you weren’t kidding when you said you had a way to pay me then… so what manner of work are we doing?”

They were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a loud argument coming around the corner from the stables.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! And I’ll have you know I’ve ridden with honest to gods simpletons!” a deep voice boomed, one Tyrion recognized.

“You brought Lyle Crakehall?” Tyrion asked, somewhat amused.

“Oh not just him,” Bronn said with a smile.

“Simpletons, Andals, Shagga sees no difference.” The two of them appeared now, Crakehall wearing his plate armor and Shagga wearing a collection of furs that from their look had at least seen a seamstress’ needle. He’d at least forgone the horned helm… Crakehall opened his mouth about to retort when Tyrion cut them off.

“Ser Lyle!” He grinned remembering what he’d heard from Bronn back in Minas Tirith, “Ser Shagga, cease your arguing, there is a lady present! You stand before Princess Eowyn of Rohan.”

The two men stopped for a second and Crakehall went to his knee, “M’Lady I am ser Lyle Crakehall, second son of Lord Roland Crakehall, lord of Crakehall and all it’s lands. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Shagga looked to him and then to Eowyn and clumsily dropped to a knee as well, it was an unpracticed motion and he needed to use an arm to steady himself, “I am Ser Shagga, son of Dolf, of the Stone Crows.”

Eowyn giggled at the display, “Well met knights of the Westerlands and friends of Lord Tyrion. You may rise.” The two of them did so.

Crakehall then turned to Tyrion, from his reaction he might have been drinking with the dwarf just the night before, “Lord Tyrion, you’re a well-read sort, tell the savage that there’s no way a man could outrun a horse!”

Tyrion sighed and turned to Bronn, “I must ask what lead you to recruit them, didn’t my letter say subtlety would be needed?”

Bronn shrugged, “They’re fine fighters and your letter promised gold and glory, I figured I’d take the gold and they could have any glory you were handing out.”

“Lord Tyrion can we trust these men?” Lady Eowyn asked uncertainly.

Tyrion rolled his eyes, “This one will be with us so long as there’s payment,” he said jerking his thumb at Bronn, “those two…” he pointed to Crakehall and Shagga who were beginning to argue about the speed of various breeds of horses, “Well I wouldn’t trust them with a pretty serving girl, anything made out of glass, or an unguarded pie… but yes we can trust them with our lives.”

She smiled, “Good to hear.” Suddenly she raised her voice, “And yes a man can outrun a horse, but only over very long distances.”

The two men stopped arguing, looking embarrassed, “I’m sorry Lady Eowyn, this one’s a savage you see,” Crakehall began, “He doesn’t know a lot of things about the world and-“

“Shagga was the one who said a man could outrun a horse!” Shagga roared, “It was you Andal who said no man could outrun the beast!”

“Enough!” Tyrion shouted, “Let’s get you men settled and then we’ll all have a drink and discuss why you’re here.” The group moved into the great hall, Crakehall nodded politely looking around, and Shagga seemed impressed, but Bronn frowned.

“How much gold does this royal family have exactly Tyrion?” he asked quietly.

“Enough,” Tyrion responded curtly, “They’ve got enough.”

About an hour later, after the men had been given a room and had some time to clean up from the road, all of them met back in the main hall. One of the fires was burning low, a spit of meat hanging above it, Shagga eagerly cut himself a piece as Tyrion explained the situation.

“So we believe that Lord Grima seeks to consolidate control over the land of Rohan,” Tyrion said, “I believe he will move soon, which is why he was so eager to have Hama’s men out of the city.”

“And you’d like a few swords of your own if things go bad, that it?” Bronn asked, taking a drink of mead.

“Yes,” Eowyn said, “Lord Tyrion tells me these things can get… ugly.”

“There’s an understatement,” Bronn replied with a chuckle.

Suddenly the doors of the great hall flew open, Hama led a man wearing mail and bearing the banner of Rohan, the white horse torn clear in two from the deep cuts through the cloth. The man saw Eowyn and ran to her, he was dirty and his eyes were red with a wetness that suggested tears.

“Grimbold, what is the meaning of this?” Eowyn asked, shocked.

“My Lady Eowyn,” He said, lowering the banner and handing it to her, “Prince Theodred has been slain on the field of battle!”

Chapter Text

Shadowfax had taken two days of pursuit, another day of words and signs to tame him, but his speed was greater than any other horse Gandalf had ever ridden. At the Fords of Isen He’d ridden though the Uruk Hai and goblins holding his staff high, the foul creatures screeching and running from the light of the West. He desperately wished to do more for the men of Rohan, but there was far more at stake than the lives of a few thousand riders, he saw that they had fled through the gap he created, that would have to do for now.

He pressed northwards up the old road, The Shire, he thought desperately, I must reach the Shire. He had long suspected Saruman wished for power beyond his station, and the Uruks flying the white hand standard had confirmed it. While distance protected the Shire from Sauron it would provide no such safety against the White Wizard, if Sauron had told Saruman of the ring’s location… he spurred Shadowfax forward.

As he rode he thought briefly of Tyrion Lannister in Edoras, He will need to make his own way for some time, the Wizard thought, He is beyond his father’s reach. That will have to be enough for now. He’d felt great anguish in the man, anger and pain that had been warped by Sauron’s rings into something terrible. He felt the ring even now in his pocket, one of the lesser rings to be sure, but not one that could be left in Gondor lest the Dark Lord find another agent. This one at least could not tempt him… he bore another in it’s place.

He finally came close to Sarn Ford, in the light of day he could see many men working, this puzzled him, though he had expected to find rangers guarding the ford he was surprised to see this many, he noticed there were a number of Hobbits as well. They appeared to be setting some sort of foundation. A cry went up as they saw him and the assembled workers scrambled for weapons. The men he expected this from, but the hobbits... he saw one emerge from a small hut with a bow, fire in his eyes. He hadn’t seen a hobbit so ready for violence since the quest with Bilbo all those years ago...

“Peace! It’s Gandalf!” One of the rangers cried, there was something of a sigh of a relief and many put down their weapons and returned to work.

“Master Ranger,” Gandalf called, riding close, “What is the meaning of this?” he gestured to the construction.

“We’ve been attacked,” the man replied, “Uruk-Hai entered the Shire here and at the Brandywine. We don’t know for sure yet but we’ve heard they hit Bree as well.”

“What?!” Gandalf exclaimed, “How many? From where?”

“Perhaps a few hundred in total,” the man replied, “From where I don’t know, all I know is that they’ve been thrown back, there were a few that escaped into the Shire afterwards but they’ve all been hunted down by us or the hobbits.”

If the orcs reached Bag End… “Do you know how far into the Shire they managed to get?”

The ranger shrugged, “Hobbiton at least, there’s rumors that a few got as far as Michael Delving, but the hobbits are a bit tense right now, probably jumping at shadows.” He pointed to the foundation, “Some of them are helping us build some fortifications here at the ford, it’ll probably start with just a guardhouse, maybe a tower, but in time an entire keep might be built here.”

“And the Mayor approved of this?” Gandalf asked, amazed.

The ranger snorted, “Approved? he all but demanded it, some of them showed up with carts full of stone before we’d even gotten back on our feet yet.”

“Where is Strider?” Gandalf asked suddenly, He’ll know if they found the ring… he’ll know what we need to do next. “is he fortifying the Brandywine?”

“Strider’s gone,” The ranger replied, “He left on some secret business, there’s a hobbit named Robin Smallburrow up by Brandywine Bridge. He was the last person to see Strider before he left.”

If he’s gone perhaps he’s taken Frodo from the Shire, “I’m going to see Smallburrow,” Gandalf announced, remounting Shadowfax.

“Go then, tell those at the bridge that Muradin says the work is coming along well.” He paused a moment, “It’s good to see you again Gandalf, evil stirs even here.” Gandalf nodded with a smile before riding north. The old bloodlines were strong in the Dunedain that remained, perhaps there was still hope for the realms of men.

As he passed through the countryside he noticed a marked difference in demeanor of the hobbitry. It was almost like riding through the Shire in days of old, when the Long Winter and the Goblin Invasions forced them to find their courage and love for one another. Farmers were practicing archery in their fields, and he saw several hobbits practicing swordwork as well. Perhaps the most striking had been the village of Longbottom, in the town square a hobbit was giving a speech to a crowd of at least a hundred.

“You ask why we need to form a militia?” The hobbit said, balanced atop a chair to better see the crowd, “Glory? Ha! There’s enough stories about what the lads in this town get up to on a drunken Yule night to last generations, bugger glory!” He shouted, a laugh went up from the crowd. “We must prepare to fight not so we are remembered in some song, some foolish elven tale, we will fight so that our children may be secure in their beds! So that we can drink in peace again!” Agreement went up from the crowd and the hobbit’s voice built to a fever pitch, “The Bullroarer didn’t care that that they wrote books about him, he cared that he could come back home, tuck in his son, and have a cold pint at his favorite tavern!” The crowd roared and young hobbits surged forward to sign some form in the speaker’s hands, likely some militia rolls.

Gandalf smiled and rode on, a sleeping hobbit has been awoken, he thought, and filled with terrible resolve. He passed further through the Shire, Shadowfax brought him quickly up the road to Frogmorton. The hobbits were pulling down a burnt building, and judging from the piled lumber next to it they were planning to rebuild it soon.

When he arrived at the Brandywine Bridge he saw that construction was underway on fortifications there as well. A wooden palisade had been erected with a gate watched by a pair of hobbit archers atop a wooden tower. Stone was being piled and Gandalf guessed that they planned to erect a stone fort like the one being built at the ford. Robin Smallburrow was giving instruction to a gathered group of perhaps a dozen hobbits, swinging and thrusting his sword. Gandalf had met the hobbit before during his visits to the Shire, but he seemed different now. There was a seriousness on his face and he seemed quite a bit leaner than Gandalf remembered.

“And then you have the option to go for the heart, the lungs, or the throat, depending on what’s easiest for you,” Smallburrow finished, sheathing his sword. He saw Gandalf watching them and smiled, “All right boys, pair up and spar, I’ve got to talk to the Wizard.” The hobbits placed their steel swords on a cart and began picking up wooden practice swords piled next to it. Smallburrow motioned for Gandalf to follow him to a small building by the bridge which seemed to have been hastily thrown up. They entered and it was full of beds, a barracks of some sort, Smallburrow took a seat on one and Gandalf sat across from him. “So then, I don’t suppose you’re here to tell me what in the seven hells is going on?” Smallburrow asked with a smile.

“I’m afraid no-“ he paused a moment, “Seven Hells? That’s an odd swear this far North…”

The Shirriff shrugged, “I suppose I’ve picked it up from Ser Clegane, I imagine he’s involved in all this too isn’t he?”

Gandalf frowned, “Ser Clegane? What is a Westerlands knight doing in this part of the world?”

Smallburrow sighed and began the story, telling of how the boy king had come searching for a ring, how he had been captured one night ransacking the Sackville-Baggins home, and how Ser Clegane had stayed behind rather than return with his former master.

“I suppose he had the wrong Baggins, when the orcs came they went straight for Hobbiton. They killed Lobelia and Lotho then they burned down the Sackville-Baggins home, I guess they didn’t find what they wanted because they went to Frodo at Bag End next.”

Frodo! “What happened?” Gandalf asked anxiously, “Frodo, is he… did he survive?”

Smallburrow nodded and Gandalf felt relief wash over him, “From what I’ve heard the ranger Strider and Ser Clegane arrived right in time to save Frodo and Samwise Gamgee, his gardener. They were too late to save Bag End though.”

That will break Bilbo’s heart, Gandalf thought sadly, “Where did Strider take them? Are they safe now?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Smallburrow replied, “The six of them headed east over the Brandywine and that’s the last I saw of them.”

“Six?” Gandalf asked, puzzled.

The hobbit rolled his eyes, “Well there was Frodo, Sam, Clegane, and Strider, but then Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took ran off with them. We’d caught them in Farmer Maggot’s fields the night before you see, and we were joking about having them tend to the crops the rest of the year, I think they didn’t the joke very well and thought an adventure with Frodo and Sam sounded more appealing. Truthfully I could’ve used them, they held together well at the battle by Maggot’s Farm.”

They’ll be heading to Rivendell then, he thought, “I thank you for your help Shirriff Smallburrow, your news has greatly eased my mind.” He got up as if to leave.

“Now wait a minute!” Smallburrow protested, “I still haven’t got any idea what I’m dealing with here! Whitfoot made me head Shirriff you know, and I don’t know if there’s going to be five more orcs or five hundred, or none at all!” He stood up, “It’s not all swinging a sword around with the lads Gandalf, it’s a lot of work! I’ve got to make sure there’s food for everyone, that the wood and stone are going where they’re supposed to, that everyone’s doing their duties.” He sighed, “They left a lot of things out of the old tales of the Bullroarer evidently, I don’t recall my father telling me how he argued over potato prices with farmers for a day so he could feed his soldiers.”

“Those living a story often find it much different than reading one,” Gandalf replied mildly, “As to whether there will be more orcs… I am afraid Master Shirriff that things will likely get worse before they get better. The final battle is coming soon, and all peoples of Middle Earth will have a part to play whether they would like it or not.”

“I’d worried as much,” the Shirriff said with a sigh, “What are we supposed to do?” he asked in despair, “There are no armies in the Shire, no kings to call on, no heroes of old to lead us in glorious charges into enemy lines…”
“The heroes of old weren’t always known as such,” Gandalf said with a warm smile, “The Bullroarer was once just a hobbit trying his best to save those he loved from danger.”

Smallburrow was quiet a moment, “Gandalf, I will be going to Bree soon with some of my militiamen and a few of the rangers. Queer tales come from the town, they say that gangs of ruffians moved in after the orcs attacked, that the orcs still lurk in the forest and attack all who resist these men. I mean to drive them out. Will you come with us?”

If only there were time, “I must ride on Strider’s trail,” he said firmly, “I cannot say why now, but it is of vital importance. I’m sorry but I cannot go with you.”

He nodded, “I’d worried as much… still, between our boys and the rangers I believe we can settle whatever’s going on over there. Over a hundred archers came down from Tookland, and I’ve got fifty boys here I’ve been teaching some basic swordplay, we’ll have a few dozen rangers with us too.”

“A good start,” Gandalf said, “I’m sure more will flock to your banner when word spreads that you’ve liberated Bree.”

“Banner?” Smallburrow said with a snort, “I’m just a Shirriff, there haven’t been banners in the Shire since… well I couldn’t even tell you when!”

Gandalf opened the door to leave, “Well you’d best get to designing one master Shirriff, you may find in time that the people of Bree are not the only ones who would call on you for aid.” With that he walked outside to Shadowfax and rode across the Brandywine Bridge in pursuit of Aragorn.

Chapter Text

It had been a decade or more since Denethor had worn his full armor, it was snugger around his waist and heavier than he remembered, but he believed it would make him look suitably impressive for when the Lannister army arrived. He stood atop the outer wall now, the work on the Rammas Echor had been underway for years now, but he’d had workers diverted from the North end for a few days to make sure the remaining work on the walls near the gate was completed. He wanted Tywin Lannister to march through a shining white gate, not a crumbling grey one.

“Here they come now,” Boromir said, pointing the standards coming up the road. His son was wearing his finest armor as well, the two of them were watching the approaching Lannister army from atop the gate, a number of other men bearing the standard of Gondor behind them. “Will Lord Tywin be at the front of the column?”

“Father usually moves in the center of his army, Jaime would prefer to lead given the choice, but I don’t think he’ll be far from Father today,” Cersei said from his left. The woman had insisted on accompanying them down to the wall in Faramir’s place.

“I am sure he will react to news of your engagement with just as much joy as I have,” Denethor replied cooly. He had been surprised to hear that the Queen Mother and his son had agreed to be married, even more surprised to hear that Faramir had left on a “secret mission” to spy on Mordor apparently with his future wife’s blessing. He suspected the Wizard was involved, but Boromir would say no more and Cersei just repeated the same lies.

“Indeed, such love as ours is like something out of a tale,” she said sweetly, moving closer to the ramparts. She was wearing a shining golden cuirass that was for show more than protection, he was dismayed to see that she’d added a pair of white tree badges to her shoulders, likely in “honor” of Faramir. “My sons Joffrey and Tommen will be sent for as soon as this fighting is over, I’m sure Faramir will take well to them.”

This war is unlikely to end anytime soon, He thought, And if your sons take after their mother then perhaps Faramir will find his duties bringing him to Casterly Rock rather than Minas Tirith. The woman thought herself clever, but she’d just been swept up in another of Faramir’s flights of fancy.

The army reached the walls and the gates creaked open beneath them. True to Cersei’s words the front rank of knights were all bearing standards he didn’t recognize, meaning they were likely lower ranking houses. After some time the large golden lions of House Lannister appeared, riding in the center was a man Denethor presumed to be Lord Tywin himself, decked in red and golden armor with roaring lions on the shoulders. He recognized Jaime Lannister, wearing his golden plate, riding just behind him. He lifted his hand in a quick gesture and the men assembled atop the gate cheered, the old lion slowed slightly and waved, though he did not smile. Their eyes met briefly before Tywin rode under the gate himself.

Denethor stayed until the remaining men had marched through and then he, Boromir, and Cersei walked down to the gatehouse stables where a carriage had been prepared. The army was to march past Minas Tirith and through the East gate in the great walls where a camp had been prepared outside of Osgiliath for the army. There were several reasons for the choice of site, it would allow easy access to the ruined city, it would provide the army water from the Anduin, and it would separate the men from the townships inside the outer walls and the city of Minas Tirith itself. Though Osgiliath was a ruined city long abandoned it still contained a number of intact buildings, one of which would serve as lodgings for the higher ranking lords of both armies.

They followed the army through the fields, he pulled back the curtain to see thousands of people gathered at the ramparts of Minas Tirith on all levels. Even from this distance he could hear a faint cheering, and there were flower petals being dropped from the higher levels onto the lower ones.

It’s good to see the people feel something like hope again, he thought. He turned his mind to the coming battle. He had seen reinforcements march through the black gate when viewing the Palantir, Easterlings from the look of them, and one of the more well equipped and trained warbands to boot. The rangers of Ithilien had informed him that the army gathered at Minas Morgul was preparing to march, their numbers would be close to seventy thousand. Between Tywin’s army and what forces had been brought up from Southern Gondor they would be met by nearly forty thousand men defending the city. Let them come, he thought, between their armies and the fortifications he was confident that the forces of Mordor would be repulsed.

After some time they passed through the gates on the other side of the Pelennor fields. He’d had his men create something of a road between the site he’d chosen for the Westermen and the city proper. While the larger part of the army split off and marched to the campsite another group, perhaps five thousand or so and containing most of the higher ranked nobles, marched into Osgiliath.

The three of them left the carriage and entered a domed building that they would be staying in. It had served as a palace for some nobleman or another in days past when the city had teemed with life. It suited their needs perfectly, it was large enough to house perhaps two or three hundred people, it was grand enough to entertain foreign nobility, and it was close enough to the westernmost edge of the city that evacuation would be simple if it came to that. He’d ordered a room prepared for Tywin specifically on the top floor of the palace. He was waiting with Jaime when they arrived.

He stood up and held out a hand, “Lord Denethor I presume?”

He clasped Tywin’s hand and the two men shook, each squeezing the other’s palm hard, “Well met Lord Tywin Lannister, I am Denethor the second, Son of Ecthelion, Steward of the Throne of Gondor.” He motioned to Boromir, “This is my son, Boromir, Captain of Gondor and leader of our armies.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow but nodded, “I’m sure my children have told you this but you look very much like a younger-“

“Ned Stark, I know,” he said with a small smile, “I’ve heard that several times now.” Boromir bowed, “it’s an honor Lord Tywin.” He smiled and turned to Jaime, “Good to see you again Jaime, how’s the shoulder?”

“Stronger than ever,” the younger Lannister replied with a grin, “Probably ready to take you on again whenever you’re up for it.”

“Cersei,” Tywin said, “I’m glad to find you safe as well, where is Myrcella?”

Cersei smiled but she seemed somewhat flustered, “I did not want to expose her to the… atmosphere, of an army encampment.” She paused a moment, “How are my sons? Tommen? And… and Joffrey? How is Joffrey?”

Tywin was quiet a moment before speaking, “Tommen is practicing the sword under Ser Benedict Broom, he is taking well to it and has the makings of a natural swordsman. He has become fast friends with his cousins Willem and Tyrek, I can assure you he is quite happy.” He sighed, “Joffrey remains… ill and unable to leave his quarters.” Cersei nodded, lips pursed, before moving to pour herself a cup of wine from a pitcher that had been left in the room by the servants.

Once she had her drink her eyes met Denethor’s and then darted to Boromir, Wondering which of us will tell him of the engagement then. He thought. I suppose I’ll get it into the open.

“Lord Tywin there is some… news, you should be aware of.”

“Oh?” he asked, Cersei saw where the conversation was headed and cut him off.

“The steward’s son Faramir and I have agreed to be married,” she said with a smile.

“Indeed?” Tywin asked, somewhat shocked, “Lord Denethor is this true?”

He nodded, “It is, the two of them agreed to it without my knowledge.”

Tywin looked at Boromir a moment, “Cersei, are you certain that particular arrangement is the most… fruitful choice?”

“The two of us have grown quite close,” she said with a smile, “and after the way things have gone there could be… scandal, if we weren’t married.”

“Evidently there are rumors that they have been… intimate,” Denethor said with annoyance. In truth he’d hoped for a marriage between Boromir and Cersei as well.

Tywin sighed, “Very well, where is Faramir? Does my future son in law fear to face me?”

Boromir stepped forward, “Faramir is… away, on a mission to spy on the enemy.”

“That seems awfully convenient,” Tywin growled.

“It’s true father!” Cersei insisted, “He came to tell me of it before he left, so that I wouldn’t worry at his absence.”

They were all quiet for a moment before Tywin spoke, “I suppose when the war is concluded wedding arrangements will be made… I will pay for the festivities of course Lord Denethor.”

He nodded, “Very generous of you Lord Tywin, though before we plan a wedding I fear we must plan a battle.”

“How long can until the attack comes?” Tywin asked, suddenly all business, “What kind of numbers can we expect?”

“The attack will come within the week by all accounts,” Denethor replied, “As to numbers I believe there are anywhere from fifty to sixty thousand orcs and perhaps a third as many men of Rhun.”

Tywin nodded grimly, “Outnumbered then… these orcs, I have only seen their corpses, savage as they may be they are small and not worth as much as a man on the field of battle. The men of Rhun, I’ve heard little of them, are they skilled warriors?”

“A few of them were present during the… incident,” Jaime said quietly.

“Your brother’s attempt on your life you mean?” Tywin asked sarcastically.

Jaime glared at him but continued, “They seemed skilled enough, but not beyond any knight of the Westerlands.”

“They are fierce to be sure, and some of Mordor’s finest soldiers,” Denethor said, “But their smiths aren’t half as skilled as our own, and they do not inspire the same terror in men as a rampaging horde of orcs does.”

“Do you believe this army will try to storm Osgiliath?” Tywin asked curiously, “Even with such numbers it seems like folly.”

“I do,” Denethor replied, “Mordor has not come against us in such strength in centuries, I fear there is some greater purpose than a mere attempt to take these fortifications, though I do not see it.”

Jaime shrugged, “Well we won’t let them cross here so it makes no difference what their goal might be. We’ve assembled one of the finest armies in the world here, prince Rhaegar himself would turn tail and flee before it.”

Tywin stroked his chin, “Lord Denethor when will we call for a war council?”

“Tomorrow morning if that suits you,” he replied, “Give your men a night to rest from their travels, I doubt they will have much opportunity to do so in the days ahead.”

Tywin nodded, “I will inform my bannermen.”

“Well if that’s concluded, what say we set up a practice yard Boromir?” Jaime asked with a grin, “I’ve been riding for some time and I need to stretch my arms a bit.”


Boromir looked to his father a moment, and Denethor sighed, “Go,” he said with a gesture. The two swordsmen left together and Cersei got up to follow them. “Lady Cersei, will you be returning to Minas Tirith?” he asked.

“I will stay here in Osgiliath at least for tonight,” she said with a smile, “It will inspire the men to see me… and I would spend some time with my family before war calls them away again.”

“Very well,” he replied, “quarters can be arranged, speak with one of the servants on your way out.” She left, a smug smile on her face, leaving Tywin and Denethor alone. The two men regarded each other a moment.

“Is Faramir truly away on some mission?” Tywin asked suddenly.

Denethor sighed, “I do not believe he is, I think he is on some fool’s errand for the Wizard Gandalf.”

“Wizards,” Tywin spat, “Gandalf is the same one who spirited Tyrion away is he not?”

“He is,” Denethor replied nodding, though in that at least he was perhaps correct.

“They are creatures of foul sorcery like Sauron is said to be,” Tywin remarked, “I suspect they may even be his heralds, come to our lands to weaken us.”

“Gandalf… whatever he may be he is no ally of the Dark Lord’s,” Denethor replied slowly, “He seeks to use Gondor as a shield to protect the other lands of the world from Sauron, he cares little for the blood of the men spilled to this end.”

“If you say so…” Tywin said quietly, “Saruman the white is certainly not be trusted. When he came to Casterly Rock he used some magic to twist men’s minds, even my own. I had him expelled from the court.”

“I have not seen Saruman the White since I was a young boy, so I cannot say much about him,” Denethor replied mildly, “I am sure you made the right decision.”

“The ships that have been raiding your southern coast,” Tywin said, changing the subject, “I know who leads them.”

Denethor raised an eyebrow, “Really? A rogue Westerlands lord perhaps?”

“Hardly,” Tywin replied through gritted teeth, “The golden kraken on a black field is the sigil of House Greyjoy, pirates and reavers of the Iron Islands. It seems one of them came with us during the Arrival and has fallen in with the men of Umbar.” Denethor could see that his fist was clenched now, “I believe it is Victarion Greyjoy, he is the only one of that family who could have been in our waters at the time. He burned our fleet at anchor during his brother’s rebellion against the crown… I relish the opportunity to repay the favor. A Lannister always pays his debts Lord Denethor.”

“So what would you suggest?” He asked, “we cannot spare the men to attack Umbar right now, even with your help.”

“Lord Roland Crakehall has gathered our fleet and sails for Dol Amroth,” Tywin replied, “if we force a battle with our combined navies we will have the strength of numbers and this pirate fleet can be dealt with once and for all.”

“It will be done then,” Denethor replied, “If Lord Crakehall is willing to follow our fleet we can bottle them in the Haven of Umbar and either keep them out of the war or sink them outright.”

Tywin nodded, “Good, we can make formal plans at another time. If you’ll excuse me I must see to my men.” He got up and left.

I should inspect our defenses as well, He thought, walking down the stairs and out of the palace. When he walked outside he saw the darkened skies above Mordor lit by volcanic eruptions, the fires always seemed to glow brighter before attacks came.

Chapter Text

A/N: Here's a map of Osgiliath and troop positions at the outset of the battle http://i.imgur.com/6dLRsRG.jpg

Tywin had commanded at many battles throughout his life, but few on the defense. He’d learned some of the difficulties of city fighting firsthand during the Sack of King’s Landing, but there had been few earnest defenders there. Denethor and he had spent an entire morning discussing the best strategy with the commanders of both armies. Though at one time three bridges had spanned the Anduin connecting the two halves of Osgiliath the passage of time and long ago battles had left only the southernmost crossing intact. The gate facing the enemy’s approach had long ago been destroyed, a flimsy wooden one stood there now, but it would not hold against any determined attack, and even the smallest battering rams would easily bring it down. The walls were likewise in poor repair, there were several gaps wide enough for as many as ten men to walk through standing side by side.

It had been clear to him on the first inspection of the defenses that it would be impossible to hold the entire city in a sustained siege, the battle would be fought in the streets and in the buildings. He and Denethor had agreed to a defensive line marked by the southernmost channel cutting through the Eastern half of the city. There were three bridges crossing this channel, all of which were within easy reach of each other and flanked by numerous buildings which would have crossbowmen in every window and archers on each rooftop.

He, Denethor, and Boromir, rode with a small party of guards to the first of the bridges now. The sound of hammers striking stone echoed through the city. Tywin had brought a team of sappers and in conjunction with some of Denethor’s construction crews they were tearing down buildings near the bridge crossings to give archers a better opportunity to fire upon approaching enemies.

Denethor watched solemnly as one three story stone structure caved inward, it’s support columns hammered away, “You know in my youth I’d thought that I would be the one to end all this, to make Osgiliath safe for people to live in again… now here I am, an old man tearing it’s palaces down.”

“In my youth I thought I would live out my days serving as the hand of my friend King Aerys Targaryen,” Tywin said grimly. The structure now had only it’s walls standing, and those were being pulled down by a party of men with ropes and large steel hooks. “Few men live the lives they thought they would as boys, else the world would be populated by solely knights and heroes.” The men were on the final wall now, a large window on what had been the top floor had a beautiful stained glass window depicting one man kneeling before another wearing a crown.

“True enough,” Denethor replied with a sigh. “I have read of your house Lord Tywin, of you… did you ever regret any of it? The things you had to do to return House Lannister to prominence?”

“I find this question in poor taste,” he growled, “But the answer is no. Though I often regretted that certain events came to pass,” Aerys… the name flittered through his mind and then was gone, “I never regretted the decisions I made in response to them.” With a great heave the men brought down the wall, he saw the stained glass window break on the stone street with a shattering sound as the men cheered. “Respect and glory are more important than the methods through which they are attained. Let men speak poorly of my deeds in hushed tones on dark nights if they like, none will dare say such things in the light of day.”

“Pleasant conversation,” Boromir muttered, then louder, “As you can see Lord Tywin we’ve cleared the roads, the cavalry will have full use of every street and alley.”

“Good,” he said nodding, “Where is Jaime?”

“He’s overseeing the far barricade construction, I think Cersei is with him.”

“Is she now?” he hadn’t been entirely pleased with Cersei’s decision to stay in the city until the battle began, she had been unpredictable of late and she overestimated her own cunning. Still the soldiers seemed inspired by her presence, and Denethor had sent a pair of guards to guide her on a tour of some of the more impressive sights remaining in Osgiliath.

The party came to the far barricade where a number of men were stacking stone and placing pikes into the ground facing north. Jaime was there, wearing his golden armor and looking quite bored. Cersei was alongside him, atop a horse with a small parasol and four redcloaks.

“Jaime!” Boromir yelled with a smile, “How are things going here?”

“Well enough,” Jaime replied, “We’ll have this area ready by the end of the day. A few hundred men here could hold off ten thousand.”

“Good, they may need to,” Denethor said grimly.

“Surely it won’t be as bad as all that?” Cersei asked. The glares of all four men seemed to answer the question.

The rest of the preparations went smoothly over the next few days. The buildings on the far side of the channel were all brought down and the rubble cleared as much as possible to allow for the archers to pick off approaching enemies. On the sand bars and small isles nearest to the East bank trebuchets were erected which could bombard nearly anywhere in the city where the battle would be taking place. Great pyres were built on the rooftops of the remaining buildings that wouldn’t be garrisoned, by all accounts the attack would come sometime during the night, and he wanted his men to have visibility. When the enemy entered the city Timett’s clansmen would light each of the pyres before retreating to the city docks where they would await their own part in the battle. Torches had been set everywhere they could be set, and between the fires and the waxing moon even a battle in the dead of night would be fought in light as bright as day.

Finally word came from the rangers in Ithilien that the enemy army was on the move. It was a mere two days march from Minas Morgul to Osgiliath, and the men scrambled to finish their preparations. Tywin watched it all from the great tower standing on the final bridge spanning the Anduin. The top of the tower bore a great domed observation area from which the entire city could be seen, and with the demolished buildings it was possible to directly observe the barricades where the battle would mostly be fought. He’d had a great Myrish spyglass brought with him from Casterly Rock, mounted on a bronze tripod it was arranged in the corner of the tower. A number of large signal flags were stacked in the corner, depending on which one was flown they could mean anything from retreat to calling more reserve troops from the other side of the river.

Boromir and Jaime each commanded at one of the barricades below. The third had been a subject of some discussion, but he’d finally persuaded Denethor to let Addam Marbrand take command in light of the Westerlands larger manpower contribution to the battle. Though there had initially been worries about merging the chain of command for the two armies the few exercises they had found time to do together had gone relatively smoothly.

It was near midnight now, though he felt wide awake. He had gone to bed early in the evening before with the hopes of being fresh and ready for when the enemy arrived, most of the men waiting now in the streets had done so as well.

The torches of Mordor’s army could be seen from the tower now, and he knew that the estimates had not been far off. At least seventy thousand orcs and men marched against them, their torches lighting the night sky. He saw his own men’s lights dotting the ruins, and finally the large bonfires going up as the first group of enemies passed the ruined walls.

“Has it begun?” he turned to see that Denethor had arrived, flanked by a pair of Gondorian royal guards, their winged silver helmets shining in the fire lit night.

“The first group has passed the walls, see for yourself,” he gestured to the spyglass and Denethor approached it and looked outward. Tywin leaned over the rampart to watch himself. The orcs, perhaps two thousand of them, had reached the first barricade and were being bombarded by archers from across the channel. They fell in great numbers and less than half made it to the barricade before being cut down by waiting swordsmen. He heard a small cheer go up when the last of them was killed.

The main bulk of the enemy’s army was arriving in the city now, he saw one group moving towards the riverfront only to scurry back in fear as the trebuchets began launching enormous stones in their direction. Several were not quick enough and Tywin watched with satisfaction while a score of orcs was crushed by the missile’s impact.

“That could be a problem there,” Denethor said, pointing to the barricade closest to them. Tywin looked down to see a group of armored figures with great shields coming together in a square formation, holding the shields high and to the sides they slowly moved forward, the bolts and arrows raining down glancing off the curved steel. “Easterlings, they’re going to be some of the more heavily armored fighters down there. If they reach the barricades they may force a breach.”

Tywin nodded, “That formation needs to be broken.” He gestured for one of the pages to lower a signal flag before looking back out to the battle. Faintly he heard a war cry and he could see the mountain clansmen appearing out of the shadows on the far side of the river. Though there were only a few dozen of them their sudden appearance so close caused panic in the Easterling ranks and the formation quickly moved to counter an attack, but rather than engage them the clansmen killed only the few closest men before fleeing again, the Easterlings being too slow to pursue the men armored only in furs and leather.

With the shields lowered volleys came down on them from every group of archers within range. In desperation one of the Easterlings, carrying a banner Tywin could see even from this distance, tried to lead them forward before a crossbow bolt arced from somewhere into his faceplate. The Easterlings withdrew to a line buildings, Tywin saw hundreds of bodies left behind.

“What of those men?” Denethor said, “Are they not trapped on the wrong side of the channel?” As if echoing the Steward’s words a horde of orcs swarmed in the direction the clansmen had come from, judging from the howls which echoed over the city they were in a state of almost mad rage.

“There are boats down at the dock for them,” Tywin replied dismissively, “They’ll flee there and then row downriver and back behind our lines.”

A short time later a small party of men entered his command area led by Amory Lorch. He recognized a few of the Mountain’s men and recalled that he had put Lorch in charge of the Clegane levys in the absence of a ruler of the keep.

“My Lord,” the fat little knight said eagerly, “We sent a few men over the barricades and we caught one of the fellows in the fancy armor!” He gestured and an Easterling soldier, a crossbow bolt sticking out of his leg, was ushered forward. “I’d thought I’d bring him here for… questioning.” Lorch’s piggy eyes glimmered cruelly. Tywin regarded the captive, knowing that he had to be in terrible pain but yet was remaining silent through some mix of hate and force of will.

“Very well, but go downstairs.” Lorch grinned and with a bark began forcing the man to the lower level.

“I’ll go with him,” Denethor said, “They’ll need someone who speaks the Eastern tongue.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Tywin replied, “Send a page. Lorch’s work can often be unpleasant to witness.” Denethor seemed uncomfortable at the implication but gestured for one of his assistants to go while staying quiet.

A sudden roar turned his attention back to the battlefield, he and Denethor rushed back to the overlook to see a party of four monstrous creatures that he knew from Denethor’s descriptions to be trolls. Tywin felt a sudden spark of panic as he realized they were headed towards the central barricade where Jaime commanded. His hands gripped the railing of the tower tightly as he watched the arrows tear into the creatures, one gave a great deep moan and then fell, the other three descended on the barricade with large hammers in hand.

He moved to the spyglass and frantically looked below for a golden armored figure, the trolls were now smashing the barricade to pieces and any man who rushed forward to try to stop them was tossed high in the air by a swing of those terrible hammers. Suddenly he saw Jaime rushing forward, sword in hand. His heart skipped a beat as the hammer swung towards him, but his son ducked under it and then leapt to the side as the hammer came down again. With a quick fluid motion he saw Jaime run Brightroar across the beast’s stomach, spilling it’s intestines on the ground and causing the creature to howl with pain. The remaining two turned and began chasing Jaime down the street, but men had gathered with pikes now and rushed towards the Trolls, stabbing at them from all angles until they dropped. He breathed a sigh of relief.

The orcs were flowing in a mass through the ruined barricade now, no amount of arrows and bolts stopping them. He knew there were armored swordsmen in each of the buildings that could hold them for a time, but the leak needed to be plugged. Another signal flag dropped and a column of heavy cavalry charged up the street, the infantry quickly scurrying into alleys to make way. They met the orcs like a tidal wave, sweeping them aside and forcing them to flee. A group of perhaps two or three hundred Easterlings had gathered their own pikemen and formed a wall of jagged metal on the other side of the channel, but the horsemen had no intention of crossing it anyway. The lead knights veered around in a great loop and gathered in an open area that long ago had been some manner of garden park, as they did so the infantry returned and by the time any of the orcs or Easterlings could react the barricade had been retaken.

“If this is all that the land of Mordor can send forth then this battle is all but won,” Tywin remarked.

Denethor came to his side and nodded, looking over the carnage below, “They have sustained heavy losses true, but the battle is not over yet.”

Suddenly Tywin saw his men pulling back from the defenses, “What in the seven hells are they doing?” he shouted. Those fools will cost us this battle, what-

A sudden screech echoed over the battlefield that made him feel as though there were a block of ice in the pit of his stomach.

“We’ve got to go, Now.” Denethor said suddenly, his face white. “Sound the retreat, we’ll destroy the bridge once we’re on the far side.”

“Absolutley not,” Tywin said, regaining his composure, “This is some trick of the mind, some illusion!”

The men below were panicking and fleeing back towards the bridge now, he saw the rooftop archers abandoning their posts and from the lower level windows men jumped from their hiding places to join the panicked mass scrambling backwards.

“This is no trick…” Denethor almost whispered. “Boromir!” he said suddenly, drawing his sword, “I’ve got to find Boromir!”

“Where are you going, this can still be salvaged!” Tywin yelled, but Denethor and his men had already begun their hurried descent down the tower staircase. He growled angrily and looked at the assembled guards in the tower, who were looking at him curiously. “Come,” he said simply, “let us go see what can be done…”

When he emerged from the tower it was chaos, thousands of men were attempting to flee across the bridge, knights, peasant levies, riderless horses, all ran together in a chaotic throng. He saw several men trampled underneath the mob when they slowed or tripped.

“Father!” he turned to see Jaime standing near him, his face as pale white as Denethor’s had been.

“What happened?” He yelled angrily.

“We’ve got to go, he’s coming!” Jaime said anxiously.

“I don’t care if the Stranger himself is coming you will rally your men and hold our defenses!”

Jaime seemed embarrassed and then appeared to collect himself, “M-Men of the Westerlands!” he shouted hesitantly, then with growing boldness, “To me! Hold the bridge!”

Tywin drew his own sword and joined his son in yelling, “Hold the bridge! To me!” some of the men, perhaps a hundred in all, turned to follow them against the tide of the crowd back towards the fortifications that had been prepared at the end of the bridge. Tywin saw with dismay that orcs were already climbing over and through the gaps. They’d come through the other side of the retreat now, and he looked back in dismay to see his army still fleeing without even looking back at them. If we can retake and hold those defenses for even a quarter of an hour those men will come back and this battle will be saved.

The first orcs met them and he blocked one of the small creature’s swings before bringing his sword down on it’s ugly head. He hadn’t personally killed a foe since the Reyne-Tarbeck rebellion, but he was still a fair swordsman even now.

The party slowly advanced, it looked like the foe was attempting to root out the remaining men in the buildings across the river, so the bulk of their force hadn’t yet come to the bridge. He looked to his side to see Jaime cutting down orc after orc as they drew closer to the bridge barricade, his fluid motions effortlessly blocking and moving around their wild attacks, the fires of the night reflecting off his golden armor.

“I will have any man that flees flayed alive!” He shouted angrily.

Suddenly it seemed as though all sound stopped, and Tywin found himself breathless. A great black horse trotted slowly through the barricade, it’s rider was a black cloaked figure that even in the dark of night seemed to absorb all light around him. He wore a great hooded cloak over silver mail, and though his face was obscured Tywin could see a pair of horrible fiery red eyes glaring back at him. His mouth open in shock absently he raised his sword. The figure saw this and laughed.

“Burzum agh ghâsh,” his voice was terrible, the sound of a dead tree snapping in winter under the weight of too much ice, Tywin watched in horror as his sword seemed to crumble away like a dry leaf and blow away on the wind.

“Gods above…” he whispered, staring at his ruined blade. Idly he felt pain in his side and realized that one of the orcs had taken advantage of his shock to stab him in his side. He stumbled backward a few paces until he fell, his back against the wall of the bridge.

Sound returned slowly and looking around he saw that the men were fleeing, their swords had been broken too it seemed, and the terror of the black rider overrode anything Tywin could threaten to do to them. He lay there, clutching the wound in his side, taking rasping breaths as he watched the cloaked figure dismount and walk towards him. That laughter made him close his eyes in fear again, and when he opened them he looked up to see those red orbs staring down at him, a sword in their owner’s hand.

“Tywin Lannister…” it rasped, “Seldom do I have the pleasure of meeting so esteemed a lord,” the orcs laughed at this and he raised the blade high. Tywin shut his eyes tight, waiting for the final blow. Instead he heard a sudden howl of pain, opening his eyes he saw Jaime, his golden armor now scratched and dented, cutting his way through the circle of orcs.

“Father!” He shouted, plunging Brightroar through the heart of another of the beasts, “Hold on I’m coming!”

With a gesture from the hooded figure the orcs fell back, leaving Jaime facing him, “Jaime Lannister, your brother said you were a fool and it seems he was right.” Jaime hesitated, his eyes were wide with fear and for a moment Tywin believed he would run, but then he gripped his sword tightly and adopted a fighting stance. A cocky grin full of false bravado lit up his face.

“I’m not half as smart as Tyrion true, but you’ll find no man is my equal with a blade. Stand aside.” The being, for Tywin was sure now that it was no man, just chuckled, each laugh causing the wound in his side to throb.

“No man is your equal, but no man can slay me. You are a knight of Summer Jaime Lannister, and Winter is coming.” The black rider rushed forward.

Chapter Text

“You are a knight of Summer Jaime Lannister, and Winter is Coming” the words almost shattered what little resolve had forced him back to his father’s side. The hooded thing glided towards him with such speed that he almost didn’t raise his blade to block the attack in time. His instincts took over and he shifted the blade to the side, a sudden whirring sound shocked him, as did a strange numbness in the tip of his fingers. He watched in amazement as a shower of green sparks followed the other blade as it contacted the length of the Brightroar.

In his stupor he didn’t notice the hand of the dark figure darting out and grabbing his helm. Before he could so much as struggle it was physically ripped from his armor and he felt a steel boot slam into his stomach. He felt the wind in his hair as he lay on the stone looking up at the dark rider. His helmet was shriveling now as the men’s swords had, and the mailed hand crushed the steel as a man would an egg.

He’s merely toying with me, the thought terrified him even more and as he rose to his feet he considered running… No, he will run me down. The orcs were laughing now, and he saw a few moving towards his father, who had stopped moving. As if sensing his thoughts and despair the thing in the black cloak laughed that horrible laugh again.

“You stand before the Lord of the Nazgûl. As no man can slay me no more can any man hinder me. You have thrown your life away this day.”

In that moment he felt fear and doubt welling within him in a way that he hadn’t felt since he was a small boy. He gripped his sword tightly and desperately thought of ways he could escape. The Nazgul walked towards him again.

Suddenly there was a roar from behind them, he turned to see the Mountain Clansmen coming over the barricades in the same way the orcs had before, Timett at the lead howling like a madman as he brought an axe down on a surprised orc.

How?! He thought, but then The boats! They must have come back to cover the retreat!

“Timett!” He yelled as loud as he could, the clan chief’s head jerked towards him and his remaining eye went wide seeing the black robed monstrosity bearing down on him. He pointed towards his father, “Get him out of here!” Timett nodded and moved with several men towards Tywin while the clansmen engaged the orcs on the bridge.

The lord of the Nazgul turned to deal with the newcomers. They’ll need to come by him to get father away, he realized.

“Where are you going?!” he shouted, “No man can slay you? Ha! You’re nothing before me! The leavings from a chamberpot! The-“

The figure had turned back around now, Jaime saw darkness creep into the edge of his vision and felt his heart slow until each beat was like a hammer dropping. The fires of the city seemed to flare higher but all he felt was cold. Jaime ran, and he felt the terror and chill following behind him.

He looked frantically for a place to hide, but the bridge had been cleared of debris to make the men’s movements easier. A shriek rang out behind him and in spite of his growing fatigue he pushed himself to run faster.

Suddenly just when he thought he could run no more he saw the tower on the side of the bridge where his father had commanded from. He frantically rushed inside, barring the door. He took a moment to catch his breath but he did not have long for the door exploded inward, sending pieces of wood flying into the room.

The Nazgul entered silently, sword held in front of it. Gulping Jaime looked around for another exit but saw only the staircase to the higher levels. He ran up the first flight of stairs and was shocked to hear a familiar voice.

“Ser Jaime! What in the seven hells is going on?” Amory Lorch was barricaded behind an overturned table, a loaded crossbow in hand. Jaime noticed a dead Easterling in the other corner of the room, likely a victim of Lorch’s “interrogation.”

“Hide! When he’s passed get the hell out of here!” he yelled.

“Everyone left! Who’s going to-“ the chill filled the room and Jaime continued fleeing without bothering to talk to the fat knight any longer. Behind him he heard Lorch’s high pitched scream until it was cut off by a wet crunching sound.

He continued up the staircase, he saw a loose stone railing and turned to push it down the stairs, but though several rocks the size of a man’s head struck the dark figure pursuing him none slowed him or staggered him in the least. Finally he came to the top level of the tower, the great open viewing deck where his father had been commanding the battle.

No escape now, he turned to face his death as the Nazgul reached the top of the staircase. He backed away instinctively until he was at the edge of the tower balcony. He looked down to see the clansmen retreating as the full weight of the enemy’s numbers began to bear down on them. He saw two carrying a figure he hoped was his father.

Dawn broke suddenly, the light coming over the black mountains to the east and pouring across the battlefield. One of the golden rays of light landed on Jaime and for a moment he felt warmth return to his spirit.

Surprising his pursuer he rushed forward, roaring like a lion. His dread foe raised his sword and the blades met in another shower of green sparks, the strange vibrating sound echoing through the tower each time they struck at each other.

His offensive ended quickly, the black rider was too fast and even with the extra reach afforded by the greatsword he found it impossible to force an opening. Though he now fought with greater speed and strength than at any time in his life he was still forced to fall back towards the balcony. The sun was climbing higher now, shining through the volcanic ash and gloom of Mordor in a brilliant red and gold sunrise.

A cheer went up from somewhere below the bridge and he realized that the men on the far side of the river were watching his duel with the lord of the Nazgul, rallying even as orcs and Easterlings began to pour over the bridge. He moved away from the edge, but not before seeing one rider, a white tree standard held high, riding against the tide of enemies cutting down all in his way.

The fight moved back inside the tower, and he felt himself tiring and wondering how much longer he could hold off this foe. The very air this thing breathed was a toxic vapor, and when it drew close he felt the fatigue in his muscles deepen, his breaths harder, and the shadows of death at the corner of his eyes danced. They broke again, circling each other, and he found his breath coming in hacking coughs. What warmth and courage he’d felt from the sun vanished as he struggled to regain his breath, he wondered if he would be able to raise his sword at all.

“Jaime!” a sudden voice startled him and both he and the Nazgul’s heads jolted in the direction it came from. Boromir stood there, his cloak torn and blood on his sword. The Nazgul shrieked and though Boromir closed his eyes and gritted his teeth he did not flee.

There was a sudden crashing sound of stone on stone and Jaime saw below that the trebuchets, ignored by the enemy army, had begun loosing stones on the bridge in an effort to destroy it. The cloaked figure of the Nazgul ran to the edge of the balcony, ignoring both of them, but stopped when it was perched on the ledge overlooking the bridge.

He turned back briefly to Jaime and his blue eyes met the cruel red fires of the Nazgul, “Know well your doom Jaime Lannister. Though this was your hour mine is yet to come. We will meet only once more, when the nations of men again call you Kingslayer.” With that he leapt from the tall tower. Jaime summoned the courage to run to the balcony to see where he’d fallen, but below he saw only nine black ridings racing across the bridge, crossing just before a series of stones crashed into it bringing the middle section down. Even though there were only nine riders he saw the forces on the opposite end of the bridge scattering before them.

He breathed a sigh of relief which quickly turned into a sputtering cough. His vision was growing narrow now and his fingertips felt numb. He collapsed against the railing, staring at the sunrise. He felt despair welling within him. In my finest hour I was no match for him, what can men do against such hate? He closed his eyes, What point is there in going on any further? He felt the tendrils of sleep begin to take him…

“JAIME!” the shout startled him back to the land of the living. “Jaime are you all right? I see no wounds…”

“That… that thing Boromir, there’s no way to defeat it,” he muttered.

“The Witch King himself,” Boromir replied grimly, “but he is gone now, we must see to ourselves.” The two of them looked below to see the enemy army roaring with rage at the destruction of the bridge. One of the Easterling groups on the bridge itself pointed up at them and they began marching towards the tower.

Boromir ran to the other edge looking down, “Jaime, how good of a swimmer are you?”

“Fair enough but I’m spent,” he replied with a wheeze, “I… I can’t make that swim Boromir, go without me.”

Boromir had already begun pulling his own armor off, “Nonsense, you’ll find your strength.”

“There is none left,” he protested.

Boromir sighed and walked back over to him. He was down to a pair of cotton breeches and a white shirt now, he gripped the sides of Jaime’s golden breastplate, still dented from where the Witch King had kicked him earlier, and pulled it free with a great tug, snapping the leather straps.

“Jaime, it’s so easy not to try,” he said, “but the man who doesn’t dies a thousand deaths where the man who does suffers only one.”

In spite of himself Jaime chuckled and felt a small bit of resilience still in him, “I’ve got no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but I suppose you can explain it to me later.” He stood up and began pulling his armor off as well. They heard shouting from below and they ran to the side of the tower facing the river.

“The Anduin is calm here,” Boromir said, “Just keep moving until you reach shore.”

The first of the men reached the top of the tower and they leapt together, at least one arrow sped past his ear as they fell. They hit the water with a splash, though there was a brief sting from the impact Jaime quickly swam to the surface and began to summon all his strength to reach the far shore. He knew after a minute or two that he wouldn’t make it, he was absolutely spent and his thoughts turned again to hopelessness.

He felt his head dip beneath the waves, but a strong arm hoisted him back up and air again filled his lungs, Boromir had come back for him yet again and through some great feat of strength now swam towing Jaime with him. The pair finally reached shore, one of the former docks of Osgiliath that had worn away so much over the years that a small semblance of a beach now awaited them. Boromir dropped him on the gravel and sat a moment himself, catching his breath.

“Jaime…” he whispered, “Some foul enchantment hinders you, the man I know would never-“

“He suffers from the black breath of the shadow,” a new voice called, it was beautiful and soft, like running water. The two of them turned to see a new figure approaching, the most handsome man Jaime had ever seen, a perfectly symmetrical face and flowing dark brown hair past his shoulders. Idly Jaime noticed his ears were pointed, and despite the fact that no true light emitted from him he could swear the stranger was glowing. “It will sap his strength, cause nightmares and doubt… eventually he will lose all will to live.”

Boromir seemed a bit taken aback but introduced himself anyway, “Greetings master elf, I am Boromir, son of the Steward, I would offer you a more regal greeting but…” he gestured around at the ruined city, the sounds of battle still echoed from some far parts.

The elf chuckled, “I am no stranger to war, Boromir, son of Denethor… In my long years I have seen far worse than this.” He moved to Jaime, who felt his despair lessening as he drew closer. “I thank you for that Jaime Lannister. I saw your fight up there, your golden armor, that black shadow… it reminded me of better days… of those I’ve lost.” The stranger smiled sadly.

Jaime just groaned in response, enchantment or no he did not want to speak to anyone right now. I think I shall lay here for some time, he thought, maybe forever…

“Can you heal him?” Boromir asked hesitantly, “I’ve heard that Elven medicine can heal anything.”

This made the elf laugh, “As thanks for bringing me some brief happiness I will. Know that you have attracted attention from more than mortal eyes this day Jaime Lannister, and with their blessing even one as accursed as I am may call upon their power.”

Accursed? What does he- the stranger sang a strange song then, a melody in some tongue Jaime didn’t recognize. His hand met Jaime’s forehead and for a moment he felt warmth. He closed his eyes and saw endless meadows, he could smell spring flowers and he wondered where this was… a peaceful music filled the air. Suddenly he saw a woman, blonde and beautiful.

“Cersei?” he called hesitantly. The figure turned now and it took a moment to recognize her, “Mother?” he whispered.

She nodded with a smile, “Jaime… my son.” She moved to him and stroked his cheek, her hand met a tear that had streaked down the side of his face. She wiped it away, “There are many things I wanted to say… but I have been granted only this brief respite.”

“Respite from what? Mother what is this-“

“Hush now,” she said, moving a finger to his lips. “I wept when I saw what had become of my children… of my husband. Today I have found faith that you may yet have the strength to atone for your sins. To be what your father and I always hoped you would be.”

My sins… she knows. A sudden image of Cersei flashed through his head and he felt a great shame wash over him.

“Make things right Jaime,” she whispered, “For my own sake and yours.”

Joanna it is time. A grim voice reverberated through the air and a blue robed figure appeared behind his mother.

“Go Jaime,” She whispered, “we will meet again at the end of all things.”

“Wait!” he called, but he suddenly realized he was back in the drab grey of Osgiliath, sitting up, his hand outstretched, reaching for a woman that was no longer there.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Boromir said with a smile, he grasped Jaime’s hand and pulled him upright.

“That was…” Jaime searched for words. He found none and instead turned to the elf, “Who are you?”

The elf, who had been smiling, frowned, “There is no need for my name…” he sighed, “though I would ask a favor of you.”

“Anything,” Jaime said eagerly.

The figure nodded, “If you should see any of my kin, tell them that though it saddens him the Wanderer’s oath still holds.” Without another word the figure began walking away from them, pulling a harp from his back he began to sing in that melodious voice.

The Witch King’s mire, it did darken the sky.
His shriek fury's fire, and his eyes sharpened scythes.
Men ran and they cowered, and they fought and they died.
They screamed and they bled as they issued their cries.
We need a savior to free us from Murazor’s rage.
A Hero on the field of this new war to wage.
And if Sauron wins, man is gone from this land.
Lost in the cold iron grip of his hand.
But then came a knight on that terrible day.
Steadfast as summer, he entered the fray.
And all saw the clash where he faced his doom.
His gold shining armor cut through the gloom.
And so did he free them from the Witch King’s rage.
Stood against darkness, ushered in a new Age.
And all sang of Jaime, the golden son,
for this story is over and the darkness is gone.

“What was that about?” Jaime asked, “What manner of creatures are these elves?”

“They are… strange.” Boromir replied. He looked back to the other side of the river, “We still have much to do. Those men who stayed behind to operate the trebuchets saved many lives today, I would not abandon them to such a horrid death.” He thought a moment, “The wild man who lead your skirmishers, he had boats did he not?”

“He did yes,” Jaime said. He patted his back and was pleased to discover Brightroar was still in it’s sheath, having stayed with him during the jump into the river and the swim to shore. He felt resolve building within him, “Let’s go!”

A/N: The song is based on "Tale of the Tongues" from Skyrim.

Chapter Text

Cersei had remained in the palace for the week leading up the battle. She’d used her “tour” of Osgiliath as an excuse to remain near Jaime, each day she’d offered some new excuse to explain why she wished to stay just a little while longer until finally Jaime was able to convince their father that on the eve of battle that it would be better for her to wait there in safety in the event the enemy had scouts on the Gondorian side of the river. In truth she’d cared little for studying the old ruins and monuments of the dead city, she was more interested in studying Jaime in her room in the dead of night.

Her time with Jaime, both in and out of the bedroom, helped ease some of her worries, and she had many. She worried for Tommen, back in Casterly Rock alone, and for Joffrey, still lost in the wilds somewhere. Myrcella was safe at least, she was staying with Jeyne Westerling back in Minas Tirith. She wasn’t fond of the little tart but there were no other Westerosi ladies at court there yet, and she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see Jaime.

She worried for Jaime too, not because of the approaching battle, no man could match his blade, but because with her engagement to the Steward’s son they would often be apart in the future. True there would be many visits between the two courts, but it would never be like it was in King’s Landing again. Idly she wondered if there was some way Jaime could find some excuse to remain in Minas Tirith after the war, father would never allow him to remain in the Kingsguard now…

She even found herself wondering and worrying after Faramir, though little compared to the others. Rivendell… she’d been curious enough to seek out more information, but what she’d read only confused her more. At first she’d worried it was some famous city of whores like Yunkai in Essos, she had already decided that in this marriage at least her husband would not so openly shame her, but she’d been relieved to find it was merely a village, almost an outpost really, far in the wilderness. It was more notable for it’s lord. Elrond was an elf, what exactly that meant eluded her, but he was said to be a great warrior and sorcerer, the type of man that other men would seek out for advice on matters of great importance.

She almost wished she had spent more time with Faramir when he’d been in Minas Tirith now, where Boromir reminded her of a young Robert Faramir seemed closer to… well perhaps not quite Rhaegar, but something close. After his marriage proposal he’d asked to speak with her privately, she was fully prepared to give herself to him then and there, but she’d been shocked that he’d instead asked for her help in a scheme to sneak out of the city. It had at least been a novel experience, Robert had seldom asked her for anything except for an unpleasant night in the bedroom or her father’s coin. As for bedding... she had at first wondered if perhaps Faramir was a sodomite, but as he’d entered her chambers she’d noticed a very familiar male gaze upon her. She had not taken a man’s virginity since Jaime’s, if Faramir was indeed being truthful he would never look at another woman again.

She smiled at the thought as she sat on the balcony of the palace in Osgiliath, He could prove quite the useful husband. She turned her attention to the other side of the river, it was rare to be able to observe a battle from safety like this, and she wouldn’t pass up the opportunity. She’d wanted to join her father in his command tower, but he’d adamantly refused, as had Lord Denethor. They would never have forbidden a man from observing… even Tommen would have been permitted to- her thought was interrupted by the drums of the enemy army.

Most of the battle was too far away to see in the dark, she could see the nearest of the barricades faintly by the light of the many torches the soldiers had lit, but Jaime was commanding in the center. She gestured for one of her guards to bring her more wine, only two tonight, most of the redcloaks were with either her father or Jaime.

She felt a strange mixture of boredom and anxiety, she couldn’t see much and battle held little interest for her anyway, but at the same time she knew Jaime was there risking his life and she couldn’t bring herself to look away. Finally she could take no more of the torture and left to go to the lower levels of the palace.

“Have any news of father or Jaime brought to me,” she said, “I will be in my chambers.” She walked to her room where she’d left a book she’d taken from Minas Tirith, Of Thranduil and the Woodland Realm. Minas Tirith had few texts on elves in any language she could read, while Westron and the Common Tongue were nearly the same language the books and scrolls involving elves were in Andunaic, a language that reminded her of Old Valyrian, or in Elvish itself. She poured another cup of wine as she read about the elven realm. Thranduil has ruled the elven realm of Mirkwood since the end of the Second Age, it is second only to the realm of Lothlorien in size and grandeur… She frowned, she knew enough to know the second age had ended thousands of years prior. Perhaps Thranduil was a house name like Tommen or Tytos…

Suddenly her door flew open, one of her guards was there, looking panicked, “Lady Cersei! The battle is turning, we need to evacuate immediately!”

“What happened? Where is father?” she asked, shocked.

“Lady Cersei we have to go now!”

She sighed angrily and got up, “Very well, has a carriage been prepared?”

“Yes, right this way your highness.” They walked down the central staircase of the palace, a few other men were scurrying around below, gathering papers and anything else important. As they stepped outside the scope of the situation began to dawn on her, men were running every which way and shouting, it was so chaotic that it took her a moment to realize the enemy was not upon them already.

She saw her Uncle Kevan leading a group of a few hundred men towards the palace, “Kevan!” She called to him, “What has happened? Is the battle lost?”

He turned to her, his face corpse white, “A great black rider… he came upon us like death itself Cersei, men fled before him.” He took a deep breath and steadied himself, “The barricades are lost, the enemy will soon take the bridge and this side of the river. We will withdraw to Minas Tirith and see what can be done.”

“Where is father? Where is Jaime uncle?” she asked breathlessly

A sudden screeching horse startled them and they looked to see that a man had accidentally released one of the carriage horses which had bolted into the crowd, “Stop that horse!” Kevan roared, sending several men running after it. He sighed and turned back to Cersei, “They were… the last I saw of them they were attempting to retake the bridge fortifications. The enemy commander, he came upon them suddenly and all men fled before him.”

She felt the world fall away from her, Jaime… “The bridge?” she repeated slowly, “They were at the bridge?”

“It is lost now,” Kevan said quietly. “I… I fear that Tywin and Jaime are lost as well.”

“Coward!” She screamed suddenly, she looked around at the shocked men, “Cowards all of you! What kind of men are you that would abandon your lord and his son like this?”

“Cersei please-“ Kevan began, but it only enraged her further.

“If none of you are man enough to go back for Jaime I will do it myself!” she walked forward and made as if to grab a crossbow from one of the watching men, but Kevan grabbed her wrist.

He sighed a moment, “You are right… I will gather men to go back and see if Jaime and Tywin have escaped somehow.” He looked around to the assembled men, “We return to the bridge, form up! Crossbowmen reload!” They hesitated a moment, “Now!” he barked.

“I’m going with you!” Cersei said suddenly Jaime, she looked again to the other side of the river where fires blazeds, lighting the night sky, these fools would leave you to die without my urging.

“No you are not Cersei,” Kevan said firmly, “We will be marching into danger, perhaps death. A battlefield is no place for a woman.”

“You already abandoned father once, I won’t let you do so again!” she replied angrily.

He was quiet a moment, his face red with shame, “Stay close to us, and stay behind the men. We will only go to see if Tywin and Jaime still stand, if they don’t you will come with me back to Minas Tirith.” She glared at him but nodded. They walked back towards the bridge as other men ran around them.

“Peasant levys,” Kevan said derisively, “You there!” he yelled, pointing to one group, “With me now!” the men looked at each other and for a moment Cersei thought they would flee. She thought a moment of the Gondorian soldiers, she’d heard many claim they would die for her… Would men of her own land?

“Fall in line, in battle you may escape death, in flight you will not,” Cersei cried out. Kevan and all of the men looked back to her, shocked to hear a woman speak to them in that manner, but Kevan still repeated her demand.

“You heard her! Fall in line!” They began marching in the column as well, Kevan held back, waiting for her to walk near him. “Cersei…” He sighed, “Mad times… mad times…” He pulled a long dagger from his belt, “Take this, if the men seem uneasy wave it around and say a few words about the family, glory and honor and all that. If need be… defend yourself.” He paused a moment, “Do not believe yourself a capable warrior simply because steel is in hand, if the enemy comes flee, that dagger is for when all else fails you.”

Cersei took the dagger in hand and felt a rush of excitement, but then thought on her uncle’s words, “I’m no fool,” she said, “I am my father’s daughter after all.” Kevan made no reply, the party of men moved towards the bridge in silence as well, the distant sounds of battle occupying any void which speech might have filled.

They arrived at the bridge to see Boromir frantically riding about, holding a white tree standard high, “Hold! Stand Men of Gondor! Of the Westerlands! They must not cross this bridge!”

“Lord Boromir we are at your command!” Kevan called.

Boromir looked relieved to see the reinforcements, and a smile came over his face, “Lord Kevan,” his eyes lingered over her a moment, confusion on his face, “Lady Cersei, Timett of the Burned Men brought lord Tywin over the bridge a few minutes ago. He is wounded badly, but he still lives.”

Cersei felt relief wash over her, “Where is he now?” She asked.

“The clansmen took him to the rear with the rest of the wounded.”

She and Kevan made eye contact for a moment, “What of Jaime?” she asked. As if in answer the sun rose over the mountains, drifting slowly over the battlefield bathing them in golden light. A cry went up from the men and she looked upwards towards the tower on the bridge. A figure bathed in white light battled a fierce dark shape, every time their swords touched there was a green explosion of sparks, and every time it happened the men cheered.

“Jaime!” She breathed, somehow someone had heard her and soon all of the men were shouting.

“Jaime! JAIME!” they cried, the light hit his golden armor in full now and he was like a second sun, shining over the battlefield as he dueled that terrible black shadow.

“JAIME!” Boromir echoed, he turned back to them for a second, his gaze lingering on Cersei and Kevan, “I’m going to him, don’t let them take this bridge!” With that he was off, he rode through the orcs and Easterlings on the bridge, his sword cutting down any who stood in his way.

She suddenly remembered her uncle’s words and held the dagger high, “HOLD THE BRIDGE!” she shouted, He will bring Jaime back, she thought desperately. Seeing her the men rushed forward into the approaching orcs, Kevan briefly walked to her side.

“Perhaps you are your father’s daughter after all…” He pulled his sword from the scabbard and rushed to the line of men holding the enemy at bay, pushing his blade into the visor of one of the Easterlings that had rushed towards their side of the bridge.

Suddenly one of the orcs broke through the line, it made eye contact with her and screeched, rushing towards her with reckless abandon, it’s blade raised high. Kevan saw and rushed to intercept it, his sword just barely blocking the beast’s from striking her face. Without thinking she pushed Kevan’s blade towards the creature, the steel disappearing into it’s chest. She watched in shock as it growled one last time before dropping, staining the blade with black blood.

Kevan looked at her in amazement before smiling, “Your father’s daughter indeed…”

She felt a terrible fear suddenly, a chill in her very bones. Looking to the bridge she saw many black riders coming towards them, the men ran from them leaving only her standing in their way. She tried to raise her dagger, but her fingers grew numb and it fell from her hands. They rode past her on either side, one last one with terrible red eyes seemed to stare at her as it rode by, it slowed to a trot, locking eyes with her.

“A new world for old words Cersei Lannister, give your brothers my regards” with that the dark rider’s horse reared up, neighing loudly, before he rode after his fellows through the ruins city.

The terror subsided as they left, old words, she thought. What does he mean… Maggy? she pushed it from her mind and picked up the dagger again, “Kevan!” she called. Suddenly there was a crashing sound, she looked to the bridge to see a number of flying stones collide with the support columns, bringing the bridge down. A number of enemy soldiers were stranded on their side of the divide…

“Kill them!” She cried, “Kill them all!” The Westerlands men rushed forward, screaming like madmen. The Gondorians hesitated a moment before joining them, running forward with their swords held high.

She sighed watching them and fell backwards against a building, slowly sinking to a sitting position. She stared at the black blood on Kevan’s blade, no, her blade. She looked down to see her golden cuirass with the gems set in it was now splattered with blood, her noticed idly that her dress was covered in blood as well. Ruined, she thought, this dress is ruined. She felt something building within her and she surprised herself by laughing madly, the euphoria of continued life rushing over her. In the corner of her vision she saw Kevan walking to her.

“Cersei… the battle is decided, we must see to Tywin,” his eyes lingered on the stained blade. “Cersei… niece, area you well?”

She felt herself draw a deep breath, “Yes. Yes I am well uncle...” He held out a hand and she grasped it as he pulled her up. The two of them looked towards the broken bridge in silence, the orcs were gathering on the far side, yelling angrily at them. A few arrows and bolts passed between the two sides, but it was a futile and angry gesture for both. A splashing noise drew her attention and she saw two men swimming away from the tower. Jaime… “There they are!” she pointed to the water.

Kevan nodded, “It seems Jaime lives,” he turned to her and said something more, but Cersei was already running towards the riverfront.

She found Boromir and Jaime alone, a strange music echoing on the air. He was wearing nothing but his leathers and smallclothes now, though Brightroar was still strapped across his back. A strange music echoed on the air and in spite of everything she stopped to listen to it for a moment, A harp? The sound brought her a peace she hadn’t known since she was a girl. As it faded she saw Jaime standing on the beach getting his bearings. He said something to Boromir and the two began walking towards her and Kevan.

“Jaime!” she called excitedly, but Jaime would not meet her gaze.

“We must go to the men who stayed behind,” he said solemnly. She saw that at some point he had thrown away his golden armor.

“Forget them Jaime,” she said, “Come to me, to father, he is wounded and would welcome your company.”

He hesitated a moment before Boromir spoke again, “I will go across the river. Jaime, there is no other man I would have at my side.”

Jaime nodded, “The boats, we must find Timett!”

He is exhausted, reason has left him, she decided, “Jaime you will go no further, let others take up this burden!” He looked at her for a moment, sad.

“Cersei…” he collected himself again with a great sigh, “I am going to those men. When I come back we need to talk of… of things.” He looked at he a moment, “See to father.” With that he was gone, running off after Boromir wearing nothing but soaked leathers and cotton smallclothes.

You looked better in gold Jaime, she thought bitterly. Still she walked back up to the side of the river their army controlled. This side of the river at least was peaceful, and she continued on the roads back to the palace alone.

Chapter Text

They’d ran towards the bridge together, the morning summer sun warming them and drying their clothes. The men cheered upon seeing them, an armored figure rushed towards Jaime, Boromir recognized him as Addam Marbrand, the knight who’d first come to Minas Tirith with Jaime.

“Jaime!” he called smiling, “That was… that was something out of legend! Half the men are saying you fought the Stranger himself, the other half are saying the Night’s King has come again and this will be another War for the Dawn.”

“There will be time enough to discuss it later, where is the mountain man? Timett?”

“Timett is here!” a voice called, they turned to see him walking towards the bridge with a small party of Clansmen, “Your father is alive Jaime Lannister, Timett has taken him to your healers.”

“The boats Timett,” Boromir said quickly, “Are they on this side of the river?”

Timett nodded, “Several wounded men were brought back over the river after our first attack.” His eye widened suddenly, “You mean to go back? For the Andals who used the stone throwers?”

Boromir nodded, “They saved our lives by bringing down that bridge, if any still remain I will not abandon them.”

The clansman drew his axe, “follow Timett!” the four of them, for Boromir saw that Marbrand was following now too, ran to a small dock that in the days of Osgiliath’s glory had probably been used by merchants. Docked there were two rowboats, probably large enough to hold seven or eight men each. Looking across the river Boromir could see the men had piled stone and wood to block the final bridge leading to their position, but the enemy was coming for them. He motioned for Jaime to get into one of the boats with him and they began rowing madly for the small isle where the Trebuchets were situated. He could see now that the men had lit them on fire, the tall wooden structures spilling black smoke into the morning sky. The barricades they’d erected crumbled under the weight of the orcs assault just as their boats made contact with the shore, the men saw them and ran desperately towards the sand.

“Come on! Come on!” Jaime yelled, suddenly he pointed to a man who’d taken an arrow to the leg and was hobbling towards them, “Someone get him!”

Boromir saw and jumped free of the ship, running to the man just as the first group of orcs was about to overtake him. His greatsword cleaved through the first, before they could react he’d plunged it through the chest of a second. He was caught off guard by the screaming battle cry of an Easterling, a shield raised to block his strike, in the corner of his eye he saw Marbrand and Jaime helping the injured man hobble towards the boats. The Easterling met his sword and brought the heavy shield around to hit him hard in the side. He cried out angrily and was about to tear the shield from the other man but then Timett came from behind him and planted an axe in the gap between the helmet and the man’s mail. He watched as the man fell and Timett merely jerked his head in the direction of the boats. Boromir nodded and they ran together, snarls and angry yells coming from behind them.

As they reached the sands the two of them jumped into the nearest boat and joined the men in pushing away from the sand with the paddles. They slowly drifted off and frantically rowed away, some of the orcs tried to rush into the water after them, but Timett seized a paddle and with a quick snapping motion jabbed the end of it towards the skull of the closet one, causing a quick cracking noise followed by the creature drifting underwater. They were too far into the water to be caught now, and a number or orcs yelled obscenities at them from the shorefront as they drifted away, and by the time any of them thought to loose arrows they were nearly back again.

When the boats had again docked the sappers helped their injured comrade out of the boat, several murmured thanks but it was clear most were still in awe that they’d managed to escape at all. Boromir looked over the city silently, the East bank was lost, the only bridge destroyed… but the enemy would not cross the river this day. He saw Jaime making similar observations, sharing his relief that they had avoided a total rout.

“Your father Jaime,” he said suddenly, “We should see to him.”

Jaime nodded, breathing out slowly looking back to the tower where he’d fought the Nazgul, “You’re right. He’ll be in the rear with the rest of the wounded.”

“I’ll go to him within the hour as well, I’m sure my report is needed.” Marbrand said reluctantly, from the look of him he’d hoped to lurk away somewhere seeking a drink or perhaps a warm bed. “For now I will see to my men.” Timett said nothing, just watching them go for a moment before walking away to look for the other clansmen.

The two of them walked slowly, the fatigue and weariness of the battle beginning to set in. The men they passed seemed to be in a similar state, with the bridge destroyed and the enemy cleared from this side of the river there seemed to be little to do. Men wandered aimlessly, looking for their lords or commanders, some just propped themselves against the ruined buildings and fell asleep. Boromir felt a small yawn escape his own mouth, with the adrenaline of the fight fading he wondered how long it would be before he had a chance to rest.

They came at last to the same palace they’d stayed at in the week leading up to the battle. One of the guards recognized Jaime and approached them.

“Ser Jaime, your father is in his bedroom being treated by the maesters, Lord Denethor and your sister are with him as well.”

Jaime nodded, “What’s the situation, is he… is it bad?”

The guard shrugged, “I’m sorry Ser Jaime but I know little of such things, but he is awake and he has been yelling for us to find you for at least an hour now.”

Jaime frowned, “Well if he’s trying to order me around already he must have some life in him yet.”

The party climbed the stairs to Tywin’s room. As they entered Boromir saw his father standing to one side of the bed, he nodded upon seeing them. Looking around he also saw Cersei, seated in a chair in the corner of the room, sipping wine quietly. He noticed she’d changed out of the bloodstained dress he’d seen earlier, though she seemed to be in as much shock as anyone else. When they entered they saw a maester and a woman wearing a grey hood and dress which Boromir recognized as the garb of a healer of the Houses of Healing arguing over the best method of treating Tywin’s wound.

“I am telling you lady Loreth, breadmold is quite effective in preventing putrefication-“

“Nonsense you old fool!” She snapped, “brushing honey against the wound is the proper method of preventing a wound from going sour!”

Seeing the three of them enter his father sat up in bed, “I’ve no time for this, do both if it pleases you and then stitch my wounds.” He was pale, likely from blood loss, and his armor and clothing had been cut off him leaving him naked from the waist up, a large assortment of bandages coating the wound in his side.

“Lord Tywin shall I prepare milk of the poppy?” The maester asked hesitantly, the woman had already begun removing the bandages to apply honey.

“No,” He replied, “I must speak with my son and my allies, sew me up without it.”

“Lord Tywin it will be extremely-“

“Do it,” he said sternly. Sighing the Maester began applying the bread mold, following the path of the healer before the holding out a needle for her to thread, on the use of stitches at least they agreed. Tywin winced as the first needle pierced his skin, but otherwise seemed coherent.

“What in the seven hells...” he began before drawing a sharp intake of breath as the healers continued their work, “What in the seven hells was that? The things I felt…” he shuddered involuntarily, “It was no man, that much I know, nor was it a mere Wizard.”

“The Witch King himself,” Denethor replied, “Come to lead Sauron’s armies again, as he did in ages long past. You are lucky to have survived.”

Tywin was quiet a moment, “It’s all true, Sauron really is some deathless abomination…” he seemed to sink in on himself, his eyes staring straight through them, “It’s all true!” he almost shouted, startling the maester.

“Lord Tywin!” the man began, “Please remain-“

“Calm?” He yelled, “The Stranger himself takes up arms against me and you want me to remain calm?”

Loreth stood up and placed a hand on his chest firmly, in his weakened state Tywin was easily forced back to his pillow, “Lord Tywin, if you will take no sleeping drought then yes I am afraid that you must force yourself to remain calm.” He fumed, and Boromir reflected that it was lucky that Loreth was a servant of Minas Tirith rather than Casterly Rock. He slowly adjusted himself to get more comfortable.

“How do we stop him?” he asked suddenly, “Every tale of grumpkins and snarks has something that stops the monster, do we need silver arrows? Dragonglass? Whatever it takes we’ll get it!” he looked to Denethor and Boromir almost desperately.

Boromir sighed, “This is no tale of grumpkins and snarks Lord Tywin, his defeat in the war of the last alliance required numbers that we do not currently possess.”

Tywin's brow furrowed, “The last alliance... forgive me but my study of your history has been mostly more recent events.”

“The Last Alliance of Elves and Men,” Denethor said suddenly, moving towards a chair alongside the bed. “Sauron had declared himself master of Middle Earth, his armies marched in force against all free peoples, men, elves, dwarves… Gondor was a young nation then, the blood of Numenor still strong, and the elves still numerous in their great realms.”

“Oropher, father of Thranduil, was slain during that war,” Cersei said suddenly, everyone in the room looked to her shocked, but she was still staring into her cup. “An immortal warrior beyond any man and still cut down…” She looked up at the sudden quiet and realized everyone was looking at her. “I’ve been doing some reading on elves,” she sighed. “Father, they are immortal as well, beings of light and splendor… of power and magic.”

Denethor frowned, “If I may ask, why do the elves interest you so Lady Cersei?”

“Cersei-“ Boromir began, but it was too late.

“My betrothed goes to treat with them,” she replied, “Faramir seeks Elrond of Rivendell. I can only imagine it has something to do with this war.”

Denethor nodded, “I’d thought as much… pass the wine.” Cersei did so, standing up and bringing him the pitcher, he held out a glass as she poured it to the brim. He took a long drink then sighed with satisfaction, “The wizards and the elves keep each other’s counsel.”

“If need be we can offer these elves anything they could desire, gold, lands-“ Tywin started.

“They care little for such,” Denethor replied dismissively, “They are different spirits from men. If it were a matter of paying them for their help I would have done so long ago.”

“Then what hope do we have?” Tywin replied angrily, “I will not lay back and accept that we are doomed to be worn down until we fall!”

“There is one weapon that may avail us,” The steward drained the rest of his wine, “The One Ring, that foul concentration of all his cruelty and malice… it could be destroyed… or used against him in the right hands.”

“Where is this ring?” Tywin asked, suddenly interested.

“Lost long ago,” Denethor replied sadly, “though with the hosts of Mordor moving again I am sure that wherever it is the ring moves as well.”

Tywin stroked his chin, “Perhaps if we assembled parties to search for it-“

They were interrupted by Kevan Lannister entering the room suddenly, “Tywin I-“ he looked around the room, seeing Jaime and Boromir. “News has come from Casterly Rock,” he said slowly, “This may be something to discuss in private.”

“There are pressing matters we must deal with brother, whatever else there is to be done-“

“Tywin,” Kevan cut him off, “This cannot wait.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow, “Let me see the letter and I will decide.”

Kevan produced a scroll canister of the type usually used by messenger ravens, he stepped past Denethor with a polite nod and handed it to Tywin, who opened it and poured out the rolled paper. He unfurled it and his eyes quickly darted across the page. Boromir saw his eyes grow wide, then the corner of his mouth began to twitch as a furious expression came over his face.

“Lady Loreth, Maester Laren, please leave the room,” he said with a forced calm. The two of them, who had so freely ordered him about minutes before, now saw his face and quickly gathered their things and exited the room.

Boromir looked to Denethor uncomfortably and then to Tywin, “Lord Tywin should we-“

“Stay for a moment, as our allies in this war you should be aware that our homeland has come under attack.”

“What!?” Boromir exclaimed, he saw from his father’s expression that this was a shock to him as well.

“Yes, an army of perhaps fifty thousand orcs has assailed our Northern Border. They have taken the Banefort, though it is said the Baneforts fought valiantly in it’s defense. An army of five thousand men ready for battle near the Crag under the command of Prince Eomer of Rohan, who has rallied my people in my absence. He came to the aid of the Banefort and through his efforts many were able to escape.” Tywin spoke emotionlessly, reading plainly from the scroll in front of him.

“Surely there are more men available to counter this threat?” Denethor asked.

“The orcs…” Tywin sighed rubbing his temples, “This will come out in any event…” he muttered to himself. “They claim to march under the banner of King Joffrey Baratheon, ravens were sent out from the Banefort declaring me a traitor unless I go to prostrate myself before him and this “Great Goblin.” It seems there are a few foolish enough to have declared allegiance to him.”

“They haven’t seen the orcs, these fools think this is just another play in some game of succession,” Jaime said bitterly, “Who is it? Which houses will suffer for this betrayal?”

“There is a man claiming to be the lost bastard of lord Reyne of Castamere leading peasant levys from their old lands, Lord Farmon of Faircastle has also declared allegiance to King Joffrey but has not sailed forth from Fair Isle yet.”

“This is…” Boromir searched for words, “You have my word that I will do all I can to aid you in this dark hour.”

“Mine as well, though what we can spare is limited as you have seen for yourself,” Denethor cut in.

“I thank you both,” Tywin said nodding, “But for now I would ask that everyone leave me alone that I may speak with my daughter…” All eyes in the room turned to Cersei and she looked to all of them, suddenly looking desperate, her gaze lingering on Jaime, then Denethor, and finally on Boromir. As much as he felt he should stay his father’s voice cut through the air.

“Boromir, Jaime, Ser Kevan, I think we should indulge Lord Tywin. Come, we all have much to do in any case.” The four of them slowly filed out. Boromir was last and he closed the door. He felt himself jump as the angry roar of Tywin’s yelling began to fill the room they’d left. Jaime looked back a moment, and Boromir worried he would kick the door open and rescue his sister from their father’s wrath.

“What will you do now Jaime?” He asked quietly.

“Father is wounded, he will not be able to travel nor lead men. I will take a portion of our army back in his stead and end this threat,” Jaime’s eyes never left the door as he spoke, “A bastard of the Reynes…” he chuckled, “The septons were right, the burden of a man’s sins falls upon his children.”

Boromir frowned, “What do you mean by that Jaime?”

He sighed, “Nothing… Let’s go, your father is right, we have much to do.”

Chapter Text

Saruman waited at the top of the tower of Orthanc, the wind blowing his beard back as black smoke rose in twin pillars on either side of the tower. Against the grey sky a single black dot grew ever closer, finally revealing itself to be a bird, a crebain of Dunland specifically. It landed on his shoulder and he heard Grima Wormtongue’s voice.

“The prince has fallen and Eomer is far afield. I have begun preparations for the final move if you only give the order.” Saruman nodded and the bird continued, “The only one in Rohan who opposes me is Tyrion Lannister who acts as counsel to Eowyn, niece of the king. He works against my designs, for his own power or some greater purpose I do not know, but he arrived with Gandalf the Grey. He has brought men loyal to him and another Lannister, Ser Daven, has arrived with Grimbold’s party. I await your decision on what is to be done with them.”

Saruman frowned, he knew from his communion with the Eye that Tyrion Lannister had fallen out of the Dark Lord’s sway, but he had expected the Imp to be a broken man… to have him surface now with Gandalf, and in Edoras no less, was disconcerting to say the least.

“Have the Lannisters seized and executed on some pretense,” He said to the raven, “You have my leave to marry Eowyn and begin the subjugation of Rohan. All houses and holds which do not bow will be swept away by the fury of Isengard.” He made a gesture and the bird bobbed it’s head before flying away in the direction of Edoras. He turned to walk down the stairs into the main tower, a few floors down he came across Qyburn, studying various scrolls and books as usual.

“Prepare the ravens,” he commanded, and the old maester quickly stood up, beckoning the wizard to follow him into an aviary he’d set up in the next room. Though Saruman could speak through the ravens of Dunland he had been communicating with his agents in the Westerlands through the mute birds which could only carry written messages.

“To where shall the letters be sent Lord Saruman?” Qyburn inquired.

“A letter shall be sent to every castle in the Westerlands which we can send ravens to.”

Qyburn nodded, “Would you like me to help you make copies?”

“Yes, let me write an original,” he picked up a quill and paper from a nearby desk.

To the Faithful
Dark times grip this world, foul shadows rise and the demons of the seven hells walk the earth. Soon you will see them. I say to you that only the Faithful will be spared in this new War for the Dawn. This begs the question of who is truly faithful? As the Seven are just and merciful only great sin would bring the armies of evil down upon us, great sin we see now in the actions of House Lannister, those killers of all from babes to Kings! Those who heed no gods nor any bond of fellowship! Let it be known that Tywin Lannister and all who follow him are surely damned!
Saruman the White

Qyburn took the message and read it, “Surely you don’t expect men to rise against lord Tywin on your word alone? I had heard you were respected by the Septons but this is too much to ask of them I think.”

“It is not my word alone that they will heed, there is one who fears the gods greatly in Casterly Rock, one who would be willing to betray his family to curry their favor,” Saruman said, making another copy of the letter. “In any case I merely seek to delay their resistance to Joffrey’s attack. My own armies will march on Casterly Rock soon enough and I would have the goblins cause as much damage as possible before they are stopped. By the time my forces arrive they will be greeted as liberators, peacemakers…” Saruman rolled the letter and placed it in one of the scroll capsules.

“So you never intended for the young king to succeed in his conquest then?” Qyburn asked curiously, rolling another of the scrolls himself.

“Of course not,” Saruman scoffed, “The fool boy will cause endless rebellions and wars, I would rule over the Westerlands, not the rubble where they used to be. Ideally no more damage will be wrought than what is necessary to make it’s people bow before me.” They finished sending the letters out, watching the ravens disappear into the blue sky.

Watching them go reminded Saruman of another matter, “Maester Qyburn, have you created a winged goblin capable of flight?”

“Yes my lord,” the maester said with a smile, “The key was the bones you see! I had taken to opening bats and birds to see if some secret of flight was within them, and the bones are hollow! It took some doing and some creative knife work but I managed to lighten the orc bones enough that-“
“You may explain later, how many have been bred?”

“A dozen, though a few will not fly for reasons beyond my knowledge. Is there some great urgency for their completion?”

Saruman looked off to the Northwest, towards the Shire, “The party I sent has failed in their objective, had they succeeded they would have returned to me by now. I believe those I seek will move towards Rivendell, it is imperative that they be intercepted before they arrive there.”

“With your help perhaps fifty could be prepared,” Qyburn said uncertainly, “Come and see if they will meet your needs.” The Maester and he began the long trip down the tower of Isengard, until finally only a few floors from the bottom they came to another room filled with cells of chattering orcs that silenced as the two of them entered. Qyburn moved to open one of the cages and one of the creatures stumbled clumsily out towards them.

“Whom do you serve?” Saruman asked it, observing it’s movements closely.

“Saruman the wise, lord of Isengard,” it croaked. The wings on it’s back fluttered suddenly, surprisingly large and wider than the creature was tall, with a batlike leathery texture revealed by the torchlight of the room. Saruman walked around it, taking it in. It was a small creature, perhaps three feet tall, with fangs and small clawed hands.

“Is there no way to make them taller?” He asked Qyburn.

“I’m afraid not,” The maester replied, “The larger they are the larger the wings needed, and the less stamina the creature will have. As it stands even these will bear only the smallest weapons and certainly no armor.”

“They’ll have to do,” The wizard replied, “Have them brought down to the breeding pits.”

Qyburn opened each of the cages and the creatures filed out, “You heard the master!” He yelled, his commanding voice had improved over the months of working with orcs, “Get downstairs now!” He made as if to strike the nearest orc and it shrieked, shuffling down the stairs quickly. The rest followed.

“I will meet you below,” Saruman said, gesturing for Qyburn to continue down with his creations, “There are things I must attend to first.” Qyburn merely nodded and left without another word, Saruman suspected that Qyburn knew at least some of the Palantir’s nature, though he had not yet asked the Wizard about it’s use.

As he ascended the stairs back to the room containing the crystalline orb he pondered what would be done when he obtained the ring, Gandalf, he thought, he will have an opportunity to bow, but if he does not… He smiled. He reached the Palantir and drew the cloth from it, placing his hand on it’s smooth surface.

As he looked far afield he saw Osgiliath, that ancient city of the men of Gondor, in greater ruin than before. The men of the Westerlands were dividing up, some marching home, others remaining. They know of Joffrey’s attack then… he turned his gaze to the West, the Banefort specifically. It now flew a standard depicting a black stag on a golden background, goblins stood on it’s ramparts, and the great wall that had been under construction was now abandoned.

“It seems they’ve fallen on difficult times, those Lannisters.” He whirled around to see another wispy figure shimmer into existence, a tanned man of middle age with a black eye patch and a wild air about him. “Saruman the White I presume?”

“Euron Greyjoy…” Saruman replied with a forced smile, “I had wondered when you would approach me, we serve the same master after all…”
“Do we?” He smirked, “How go things on land?”

“Well enough,” Saruman said defensively, “Both Rohan and the Westerlands will soon be under my dominion,” and all Middle Earth with them he thought.

Euron nodded, “Odd that you would fly your own banners and not those of the eye...”

“Do your ships not bear a golden kraken Greyjoy?” Saruman replied, his eyes narrowing.

Euron gave an exaggerated shrug, that smug smile never leaving his face, “It’s different at sea, an admiral needs to differentiate ships… But I didn’t come here to talk about the proper way to fly a standard.”

“Then what did you come here to say?” Saruman asked impatiently.

“I’ve watched you, as you’ve no doubt watched me, and I have certain… suspicions lord Wizard.” They were suddenly overlooking the Shire, where hobbits were now beating plowshares into swords and practicing with spears in the town squares. “I believe you seek the ultimate prize for yourself.”

“And if I do?” Saruman asked, the wind beginning to blow his hair back, a fire lighting in his eyes.

“I only wish to let you know that if you should succeed in your play that you might have a friend in me,” Euron replied, stroking his own beard and watching a pair of hobbits begin a duel.

“And why should I trust one who’s loyalties are so easily swayed?” the Wizard replied. They were suddenly over the seas, where many ships with great black sails were sailing North, golden Krakens embroidered on their sails.

“Whether I serve you, Sauron, or no master at all, I will still be the lord of the seas and master of the storm,” from somewhere far away thunder rumbled, “You contend with two masters for my loyalties, Sauron and myself, the eye has promised me the seas, and I’ve promised them to myself, so long as you promise them to me as well I would be content to follow you should your hour arrive.”

Saruman raised an eyebrow, “I can grant that promise, now begone from my sight.”

“As you wish,” Euron laughed, the foul sound echoed as he faded out of the palantir.

Saruman pulled his own hand off the Palantir, and the room in Orthanc again filled his vision, Greyjoy, he thought, A madman to be sure, but I will need lieutenants in my new order... He decided to consider the matter later.

He walked down to meet Qyburn in the great earthen pits below the tower. Though they were deep underground there was ample light from the fires of the forges and the torches lining the walls. When he arrived Qyburn had already sealed several of the winged creatures in the birthing pits that had been used to create the Uruk-Hai. Seeing him approach the Maester stepped aside as Saruman tapped his staff against the stirring muck and muttered incantions, allowing his power to flow into the earth. Movement stirred and he smiled.

“Let us retire Maester Qyburn,” he said as he entered the elevator back up to the surface. Qyburn followed behind him and soon they were back in the tower of Orthanc. Saruman was about to leave for his study when Qyburn surprised him with a question.

“Lord Saruman… do you seek the ring?”

He stopped and looked at his maester, an eyebrow raised, “Where did you hear of the ring?” he asked suspiciously.

“You gave me full access to your library my lord,” the maester said uncertainly, “I have been reading about more than anatomy, truthfully I had hoped to discover what our goal is.”

Saruman thought for a moment before responding, “It was my place to counsel and work against Sauron and all of his foul works, to that end I have learned more of him and his strength than any of the Wise. It has become clear to me that there is no contesting the will of Sauron save by the possession of the ruling ring.” He paused a moment, “I have worked alongside those who seek it’s destruction, and alongside it’s master… If I can attain mastery over it then all of Middle Earth will be mine as well.”

“And if it cannot be obtained?” Qyburn asked quietly.

“It will be,” he said firmly. He paused, gauging Qyburn’s reaction.

“The die is cast then isn’t it?” Qyburn said with a smile, “I’m sworn to your service in any event.”

Saruman found himself somewhat relieved to hear that, “Maester Qyburn… when I have mastered the One Ring I shall forge others, as the elves and the Dark Lord did in days of old. They will be given to faithful servants…” he let the implication hang in the air.

Qyburn nodded, “I have read a little of the power offered by these rings… pray tell does eternal life come with eternal youth too? I don’t know if eternity is worth it with this back.”

Saruman found himself laughing, and soon the maester joined him, “I’m certain that easing your pain is among the works the ring is capable of,” he said as the laughter faded.

“You know I’ve been offered eternal life before,” Qyburn said absently, “Several times in fact, the first was a Tyroshi trader trying to sell me some manner of ointment… the second was a red priest, but that was of a spiritual nature I believe…”

“My promises are genuine,” Saruman said, “See to your duties Maester Qyburn, I shall be in my chambers.” The two parted ways and the wizard was free to contemplate the coming war with Rohan.

Chapter Text

Theodred was to be laid to rest in the Barrowfield outside of Edoras. It had rained the following two days after Grimbold’s arrival, and to match the skies her eyes had been filled with tears. It had been decided that Theodred would be laid to rest in the Barrowfield outside of Edoras when the skies cleared. While the sun still didn’t shine the rain eventually gave way to a gray overcast. It was under this grim sky that the people of Edoras watched their prince’s body as it was carried to it’s final resting place.

She wore a black dress with a shawl covering her hair as was the custom, idly she realized it was the first time she’d changed clothes since word of her cousin’s death had come. The people of Rohan followed suit, wearing whatever black they had, as did Grimbold, Hama, and even Grima. Tyrion had somehow acquired his own formal attire, likely originally intended for a child, but his cousin Daven Lannister wore a simple dyed cotton shirt and dark breeches. The other members of the Lannister party, Bronn, Shagga, and Ser Lyle Crakehall, were further back in the procession, mixed among the crowd.

The Simbelmynë around the ancient graves contrasted sharply with their attire, the pale white flowers marking each of her ancestor’s resting places. Against a hillside a stone was rolled away to open up a freshly dug barrow, carved on the front in old Rohirric was a short epitaph describing Theodred’s life and death. There was a near silence as he was born into the ground, broken only by the chirping of a few passing birds. She felt herself begin to cry again as the stone was rolled into place.

She wondered if she should say something, but no words came. As she stood there, tears slowly filling the corners of her eyes, the people filed by, each throwing one of the pale white flowers at the foot of the grave.

Daven Lannister approached her, “Lady Eowyn… I didn’t know your cousin for very long, but he was a good man. He took me and my men in when we were lost far from home, and before he fell he saved my own life in the melee.”

She nodded, “I thank you Ser Daven.”

Grima and Tyrion approached her next, each casting their flowers before the grave, “Lady Eowyn I promise to do all in my power to avenge my friend the prince,” Grima said.

Theodred hated you, she thought angrily, “Thank you Grima, I’m sure the orcs who did this will be hunted down.”

“To start with,” Tyrion said suddenly, “But I think we should perhaps question how the men of Rohan could have lost to such rabble, wouldn’t you say Lord Grima? After all these are merely orc bandits aren’t they?”

“All possibilities are being considered,” Grima replied, glaring at the dwarf. He gave a low smile, “Here comes your uncle lady Eowyn.” At his direction four men carried the King of Rohan on a solar where he lay cushioned by a number of pillows.

“Theodred…” he whispered as he was taken past the crypts. She saw someone had placed a flower in his hand, but he hadn’t had the presence of mind to drop it, it remained in his hand until his gnarled fingers crushed the petals. Somehow the sight saddened her almost as much as seeing Theodred put in his tomb. Tyrion and Grima saw this and walked away together behind the King’s procession.

After more comforting words from some she knew and more she didn’t, the funeral came to an end leaving her alone by the crypt. She sighed and turned to walk back to the city. She paused a moment, seeing a lone figure perhaps fifty feet from her, sitting on a rock on the side of the road. As she approached she saw it was a familiar face.

“Greetings Bronn,” She said as she walked past, “May I ask why you are here?”

He stepped off the rock he’d sat on and followed her, “Tyrion thought it would be best if you weren’t left alone.”

“No offense meant, but I would have preferred the company of someone who was close with me.”

Bronn chuckled, “Lady Eowyn, I’m not here to comfort you, I’m here to protect you.”

She raised an eyebrow, “And what protection would you provide in mourners attire?”

Before she could blink he produced a blade as long as her forearm, the point angled towards her, “Never been rich enough for heavy armor anyway, but this ought to let me hold off a few men while a highborn lady escapes.”

She felt a small smile tickle the corner of her mouth. She stepped forward quickly, with a lightning motion her palm struck the bottom of Bronn’s elbow angling the point upward. Her clenched fist flew towards his throat and he barely caught it just before it struck his windpipe. The two separated suddenly, and holding eye contact with her Bronn sheathed the dagger behind him.

“Tyrion may have… underestimated your ability Lady Eowyn,” he said with a smile, “Not that I care, I’m charging him whether or not you get kidnapped today.” He paused, “Who taught you to do that?”

“I practiced with Eomer,” She replied, “When he was away my uncle had Hama train me in in the sword, though he was never as skilled as my brother was.”

They passed through the city gates and walked up the road to Medusheld. She saw that Lyle Crakehall and Shagga were waiting for the pair of them inside the gate. Each man was casually eating a turkey leg, and each man casually threw it aside into the small stream alongside the main road of Edoras as they followed behind Bronn.

“With the King being in the state he’s in you’re the last person in Edoras that might speak against Grima,” Bronn explained, “Tyrion’s worried he’ll have you disposed of somehow.” The four of them continued walking through the city, with the funeral over the normal level of activity was returning, a few children ran and played, and one man was setting up a stall to sell an assortment of vegetables in a nearby crate. Bronn fished a copper out of his pocket and flipped it to the man, who caught it in mid air. The merchant nodded and Bronn grabbed a carrot from the pile.

“Where is Tyrion?” She asked, she realized suddenly that she was hungry, she’d eaten very little over the past several days.

“He’s up in Medusheld talking with Ser Daven, I think he’s hoping to convince him to stay here with us for awhile.”

Eowyn nodded, she remembered at some point over the past several days Tyrion had explained their situation to his cousin. What exactly he was doing in Western Rohan at the time was still a mystery to her, but they were in no position to turn down additional help.

They came at last to the hall, when they entered Tyrion and Daven were waiting for them, “Lady Eowyn,” Daven said, standing up. “I’ve decided to remain here in Edoras for a short time longer.” He paused, “I did not lie when I said Theodred saved my life… A Lannister always pays his debts.”

“I thank you Ser Daven,” she replied, “but I have no desire to discuss these matters today.”

“Whether you desire to or not we must,” Tyrion said grimly, “We need to go somewhere where we cannot be overheard.”

She sighed, “Come, all of you.” She beckoned them to follow her to her own chambers, they were the last on the left side hall of the hold. They were far from other rooms and spacious enough to accommodate them all. A small table with four chairs was arranged on one side near a window. She pulled one out and took a seat, as did Daven and Tyrion. Bronn simply propped a shoulder against the wall. Shagga and Crakehall both looked at one another, then at the remaining chair. Each tried to pick up their pace without breaking into a run, and Crakehall just barely managed to slide into it just before Shagga reached the table.

“Shagga will stand,” the clansman said, folding his arms, “Unlike Andals the First Men do not tire so easily.”

Crakehall’s eyes narrowed, “Perhaps I’ll stand too-“

“Enough!” Tyrion snapped, “I’d trouble lady Eowyn no longer than necessary.” They both seemed embarrassed, but remained quiet. Once he was sure he wouldn’t be interrupted he continued, “Lady Eowyn… I believe Grima conspired to have the prince killed.”

She gasped, “Even he would never sink so low!”

Tyrion sighed, “When I came to Edoras it was shortly after Theodred had left, Grima told Gandalf and I that he went West to fight a horde of orcs which he was warned of by the Wizard Saruman the White.” He gestured to Daven, “Tell lady Eowyn what happened at the battle.”

The bearded man sighed, “I’ll say first that my business in that region is my own, but my men and I had fallen in with Theodred’s company and resolved to join them in battle against the goblins.” He stroked his beard, “The battle was going well, though the enemy had numbers they were fleeing before us, and Theodred’s charge would have broken them but for the arrival of a second force cutting us off from the rear.”

“What standard did this secondary force fly?” Tyrion asked, though she could tell from his tone he already knew the answer.

“A white hand on a black background,” Daven replied.

“Lady Eowyn, when Saruman communicates with your father and other men of Rohan what sigil does he use? what is his seal?”

“A white hand on a black background…” she said quietly. Her sorrow vanished as rage filled her heart, “I will kill him. I will kill him right now!” she stood up and walked to her trunk where she kept her sword.

“Lady Eowyn wait!” Tyrion called, but fire was in her soul and a moment later a sword was in her hand.

Her way was blocked suddenly by Bronn, “Stand aside,” she snarled.

Tyrion walked to her, “And what would happen if you barged into his room right now? Sword in hand? He’s got his men around him at all times now, he’s taking no risks with his plans so close to fruition. Even if you cut them all down somehow what reaction would there be? Grima surely has allies at court, they’d brand you a madwoman.”

She lowered her head silently, it was all true, “What do you suggest then? What justice can be had?”

“We will wait,” he said, slowly taking the sword from her hand and propping against the wall, “When he has gathered all of his supporters together, that will be the time to strike. For now go to Hama, let him know what Grima has done and tell him to be prepared to follow your direction.”
She nodded, “Come with me then,” she thought a moment, “You men,” she pointed to Bronn, Shagga, and Crakehall, “Go to the armory and get the armor of the town guards, you will need to move freely and without suspicion.”

The two groups left the room and parted ways, with Shagga, Crakehall, and Bronn heading down a separate hall towards the armory while she and the Lannisters went to the main hall to search for Hama. As they entered the throne room she noticed Grima was waiting on his advisor’s seat, a number of other men gathered around him. He noticed them and smiled.

“It seems a search will not be necessary, Seize them!” The men rushed forwrd, Daven drew his sword as they surrounded them.

“Lower your blade Ser Daven,” Eowyn said quietly, “Grima was is the meaning of this?”

“My lady these two are outlaws and traitors!” He spat, “Tyrion Lannister is wanted by his father, lord Tywin, it seems he tried to kill his brother, Jaime Lannister, in a bid to secure an inheritance.” He stood up and walked to them, “And this one! “Ser” Daven Lannister led prince Theodred into a trap leading to his defeat at the hands of the orcs.” He shook his head, “For shame, he gave you help in the wilderness and you repaid his kindness with a knife in the back!”

“That’s a lie!” Daven roared.

“Step away from them Eowyn,” Grima said, “They are dangerous men.”

“We will go quietly,” Tyrion said suddenly, “Take us to your dungeons…”

She looked at him curiously, but stepped away as the men were put in shackles by Grima’s guards.

“Bloody great…” Daven muttered, but he didn’t resist. The two men were taken away. She turned to follow them but Grima stopped her.

“Lady Eowyn I have been talking to your father about the future of Rohan, of it’s governance…” He said slowly.

She felt herself recoil from his touch, but tried not to let it show, “And what have you decided?” she asked in a low voice?”

“I have asked your father’s permission to take your hand in marriage,” he said with a toothy smile.

She was quiet a moment, “I accept,” she said quietly, “on the condition that the Lannisters be held until after we are wed, I will not have our wedding marred by more bloodshed.”

He nodded with a smile, “Of course! A reasonable accommodation surely…” he brushed her hair from her face and she struggled not to strike at him or pull away. “I’m glad you’ve decided to be… cooperative my lady. I know things have been difficult of late, but this is for the good of Rohan. In these dark times the people will look to us for leadership. I’ll have arrangements made, we should marry as soon as possible wouldn’t you agree?”

“A week,” she said, “We’ll marry in a week,” and I’ll be long gone by then, she thought. She would not bear to be married to this worm.

His grin broadened, “Eager I see! It will be as you wish!”

“I am pleased to hear it. I must attend to other things Lord Grima, if you will excuse me…” She turned to leave, heading towards the prison cells. As she entered she saw that Tyrion and Daven had already been placed behind bars, a single man stood at attention when she entered. “Leave us,” she said, he bowed and did so without question.

“Lady Eowyn what will-“ Tyrion began.

“Did you really try to kill your brother?” She asked, cutting him off, “Is that why you fled to our lands?”

He was quiet a moment, “I did. There were… other circumstances. I regret what I did now, it was my brother himself who sent me into hiding.”

“So it’s actually true?” Daven asked suddenly, “Why would you try to kill Jaime? He’s been nothing but kind to you!”

He sighed, “Daven, I have a feeling we’ll be in here for some time, I’ll explain it all in detail, but let me please speak with Lady Eowyn.”

“You will have few other opportunities,” she said cooly, “What manner of man have I allied myself with? Would Rohan be served if it were saved from Grima only to be delivered into the hands of a man who tries to murder his own family?” They sat in silence a moment, she could tell Tyrion was searching for the right words.

“As I said I will not deny my wrongdoing, but I have served you faithfully. If you can bear my company I will continue to do so.”

She looked him in the eye and knew his words were genuine, “Very well,” she said with a sigh, “I will find your men and plan our escape… Grima and I are to be wed in a week’s time and I will not suffer his touch.”

Tyrion perked up, “A wedding you say? Has he captured the rest or our conspirators?”

“No,” she replied, “They are still free.”

“I believe we have found our opportunity,” the dwarf said, “All of those who support him at court and at arms will be there, they will be unarmed and unarmored, they will be drunk… they would be at our mercy.”

“Lord Tyrion that’s…” she searched for words, attacking men at a wedding, even men such as Grima, seemed unseemly to her.

“In the game of thrones you win or you die,” Tyrion said firmly, “Explain to me how it is more noble to kill thousands in battle than a dozen at dinner.”

“You said it yourself, we will have them at our mercy,” she said, “If we are to do this thing… I would have any who would surrender taken alive.”

“Fine,” he said in annoyance, “Though I warn you I fear few will take you up on the offer once their treachery is exposed.”

They were interrupted by Daven’s laughter, “You’ve become your father, haven’t you Tyrion?”

“Don’t mention him,” Tyrion growled, “I’m nothing like him.” He turned back to her, “Grima is more than merely corrupt, he is a traitor to all mankind! A monster who will see your people raped and killed for sport!”

Anger welled in her again, “You are right…” she whispered, “I will got to Hama, and I will gather your men as well Lord Tyrion. I will have justice for Theodred… even if it must come through such foul means.” She turned to leave, So this is what it’s come to, she thought. If there is no other way... then let mine be a red wedding.