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

[Raskolnikov]

Davos felt his brows climb up his forehead. "He put horns on his own king?"

Click to shrink...

Poor Jamie, the dude had only slept with one woman - Cersei. Meanwhile she had been fucking everyone, mayhaps even moon boy himself.

 

[CelestialNorth]

I'm sorry, I don't remember. Who's the prisoner?

 

[Raskolnikov]

I'm sorry, I don't remember. Who's the prisoner?

Click to shrink...

Kettleblack brother, Osney or Oswald? One of those. Cersei spread her legs for him around the time of Stannis Invasion, and she offered to spread her legs yet again provided he seduces Margarey causing a scandal, with the end goal of an annulment I would assume.

 

[daoistnextchapter]

I love Davos, good chapter. I hope we get back to Sansa soon, its been four months and you left that off on a huge cliffhanger.

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 35: Sansa II

It took all the Lords of the Vale a little more than a few weeks to arrive.

That much made sense, at least. The roads between many of the keeps were narrow, and infested with hill tribes. Many of the lords arrived to the Eyrie itself with tales of repelled ambushes and buried guardsmen.

For the most part, however, Sansa kept clear of them.

Ever since the revelation of her identity, her whole world had been thrown into a tense silence. Petyr had denied her identity, of course, but the Lords Declarant would not accede. So concessions had been made to avert the possibility of conflict. One of their guards stood besides one of Petyr's, the men eyeing each other almost as much as they eyed her. For now, Sansa maintained the pretence, but she could tell they did not much believe her. Hells, the keep itself seemed even more suspicious than the guards.

So for the meanwhile, Sansa - Alayne - had confined herself to her apartments in the Maiden's Tower. By all measures, it was not a bad prison. Her rooms were larger and more lavish than anything she'd known in the Eyrie when Lady Lysa had been alive. She had a dressing room and a privy all her own, a balcony and a bedchamber and another room besides, one in which she might receive guests. Most of all, it was that room Alayne spurned.

The balcony, as ever, called to her.

Over the ledge she could see the many mountains of the Vale. The air was cold, stinging her extremities and buffeting her hair, but Alayne did not care. The view was enough to make anyone forget their troubles, if only for a moment. The Eyrie had seven great towers, of which she was in the eastern-most, and it provided a clear vision of the land around. Forests made thick carpets of green on the mountainsides, individual trees indistinguishable in the distance. Rivers and streams cut through sheets of rock and carpets of golden wheat and trees, winding their way down. Snow-capped peaks glinted in the golden sunlight.

From here it looks like one of the Seven Heavens made real, Alayne thought. But below the reality below would be quite different. The men who made these lands liveable led hard, short, brutish lives. Growing food on the slopes was difficult. Frequent hill-tribe attacks ruined families and endangered towns and villages. Avalanches and rockfalls were common enough hazards to be wary of. Mountain lions and leopards roamed unchecked. The vision she was presented with masked the reality of what lay below.

And above it all, falcons soared - the sigil of House Arryn - majestic in the roaring wind.

Would that I had wings as well, Alayne thought. I could leap off this ledge and just... fly, leave all my troubles behind.

Alayne leaned forwards and rested her hands on the ledge, peering forwards over the edge. The wind blustered through and blew up her skirt, travelling up her whole dress to deliver a chill all over her body, but Alayne ignored the sensation even as her skin reddened and rose with gooseflesh. Her hackles rose in anticipation. The drop from here was substantial, easily a few hundred feet - certainly more than enough to kill her on impact.

And really, what was the harm? She had lost her family - neither her parents nor a single one of her trueborn siblings still lived - and she had lost her friends as well. Men had died, given their entire lives, for her. A war had been waged and lost for her. And now it seemed Petyr might be next to suffer for her sake. Everywhere I go death and despair seems to follow, Alayne thought. Mayhaps it's better that House Stark should die with me, so at least all those who are ready to give their lives for me and mine can stop suffering for a false hope.

Yet as much as the abyss called to her, Alayne stood frozen. As she gazed at the drop before her, she stayed rooted in place, her head spinning, her arms gripping the ledge so tight her fingers turned white. She might have lacked much desire to live, but she also lacked the courage to die.

Suddenly, Alayne felt very dizzy, and she stumbled back from the ledge and fell onto her hindquarters. Slowly, Alayne lifted herself back to her feet, finally shivering after so much time spent out in the cold as she herded herself back indoors to the relative warmth of her rooms. One more day, she thought. I'll take one more day for myself. And then will come my time to fly. Here, without the wind, the silence was even more cloying, yet what choice did she have but to bear it? The alternative was to be gawped at and spied on by strangers.

But her solitude could not last long. Hunger rumbled her stomach, and she would soon have to emerge from her den of silence, if only to send for a servant. And a girl such as Alayne would not be so cavalier with making use of servants. If she were to maintain the ruse of her identity she would have to venture further out into the rest of keep and face the wandering eyes and questioning looks.

But before she could muster the courage, a sharp knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," Alayne called out, curious.

One of the guards came through the doors, gently pushing them apart to reveal his helmeted face. "My lady, I'm here on behalf of Lord Robert. He... He refuses to eat, and demands to see you."

Alayne quirked an eyebrow. It was true enough the little lord had become attached to her over the course of her stay at the Eyrie - almost uncomfortably so, she thought. Honestly, that he had not called for her sooner surprised her. Alayne sighed. No matter. The gently-bred bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish would not refuse such a request from Lord Robert - now her liege lord. "Take me to him."

The guardsman briefly nodded, gave a hesitant little half-bow that made it clear to Alayne that he thought the Lords Declarant told the truth, and led her from her chambers. Down the winding steps and through the halls and passages of the keep they went, her slippered feet padding silently on the stone floors behind the loud thumping of a guardsman's boots. Even now, with all the Lords of the Vale assembled, Alayne was struck by the enormity of the Eyrie.

It was easily the most sparsely populated keep in all the Seven Kingdoms, save perhaps for Harrenhall. The few servants that did wander the halls were old and knew to keep themselves quiet so as to not agitate their young lord. There were no horses in the Eyrie, no hounds either. There was a training yard, but with the wind and the cold few of the arriving knights and lords deigned to use it for very long. Only the wind broke the silence, whispering between the gaps in the stone and making the walls moan and hiss from time to time.

Lord Robert sat alone in his chambers when she arrived, his legs swinging off the edge of his chair as he pushed a spoon listlessly through a bowl of quickly-cooling porridge. "I want bacon," he said. "And eggs. Lots of eggs."

"You can have all the eggs you like in a little while," Alayne promised him. "But with all the lords here, eating all the Eyrie's food, we haven't any to spare for the moment. We'll have some more in just a few days time."

"It isn't fair!" Robert whined. "It's my castle! My food! Why do they get to eat it? Why do they even have to be here?"

Alayne pursed her lips. "I wish they weren't here either," she said quietly after a moment's thought. "But they are your subjects, and they are here for a purpose. It is a lord's duty to hear the complaints of his subjects, to host them as well when necessary. And a lord needs to be big and strong, which means he has to eat, even if it means eating something he may not like all that much."

The lord was unappeased. "I am the lord! I want eggs! I want bacon! I want beef! How am I supposed to grown big and strong if I can't have that?"

"You'll grow big and strong by eating what you're given," a third voice interjected. Alayne whirled around - it was Petyr. "You could do a great deal worse than porridge and honey," he said, lowering a small cup of it down to the table.

Alayne nodded, grabbed the cup, and proffered it to Lord Robert. "Please?" she said. "For me?"

Lord Robert gazed at her suspiciously - as though she were offering him poison - but eventually his sweet tooth won out, and compelled him to take the cup and dump it into his still-warm bowl of oats, tasting it gingerly with his spoon to see if it was to his liking. Before she could ask if he was satisfied, Petyr placed a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him even as he gently pulled her away from Lord Robert and into a corner of the room.

"What is it?" she asked in a low voice, noting that for the first time in what felt like weeks she was alone with him - save for Lord Robert, of course.

"The trial is tomorrow," Petyr began.

"Are you ready?" Alayne asked.

"Ready enough," Petyr said. "I've been making preparations, currying favour with the right lords to build enough of a base of support. Lord Royce, it seems, has neglected to do the same."

"So either he is a fool or else he knows something more," Alayne said, her brow creased with worry.

Petyr smiled. "Lord Yohn is a fine enough knight, but all those years spent being beaten over the head with training swords seems to have blunted his cunning. Not that it matters what he knows or what he doesn't. The outcome of this trial hinges on your testimony."

"I know," Alayne said. "And I'm to say you didn't push Lady Lysa through the Moon Door, but rather that the singer Marillion was the killer."

Petyr nodded. "Exactly. Lord Yohn's tale is so fantastical that all the lords of the Vale are incredulous of it. A simple lack of evidence ought to be enough to force the Lords Declarant out of our hair."

The tale Lord Yohn tells is the truth, Alayne thought. "And what about Cersei?" she asked.

"The Vale lords do not answer to Kings Landing," Petyr assured her, hands raised to cup her cheeks. "In the Eyrie we will be safe, no matter what Cersei Lannister - or the Iron Throne - has to say about it. And one day you might even find one of those same Vale lords to your liking. With the full backing of the Knights of the Vale, it ought not to be too hard to retake your old home. A bright future awaits you, my darling daughter."

"So long as we win this trial," Alayne said.

"Remember what you need to say and say it," Petyr said. "I will handle the rest." He pulled her close and pressed another kiss to her lips, equal parts passionate and reassuring. When his lips parted from hers Alayne felt her face flush, snakes writhing in her stomach. "I'll not allow you to be hurt." Alayne nodded. Petyr gave her another peck on the lips, and then let her head go. "Now go," he said. "We mustn't be seen to be conspiring like this."

Alayne left Lord Robert's rooms in something of a daze, wondering back to her own apartments almost without noticing, the guardsman escorting her back, all traces of hunger in her stomach forgotten. When she came through her own doors, she observed the balcony through her windows, but did not venture back out onto it. Instead she stood gazing through the window out into the middle distance, deep in thought.

How did Lord Yohn know? she asked herself. It seemed clear to her that he had received something from the capital. You say you can count on the crown, but I wouldn't be so certain of that, Lord Yohn had said. But if so, how did the crown know? Are there eyes in the Eyrie? Alayne thought. One of Lord Varys's little birds? Or else did some piece of news wind its way down south, enough to direct the suspicion of the crown to the mountains of the Vale? If so, it seemed likely that it had been either Lord Tywin or Tyrion who had managed to piece the truth together. They were the only ones with the brains for it.

The hours passed in thought, till eventually the light through the window faded down into darkness. Alayne dressed in her nightgown and settled down into her bed, laying wide awake for hours as she alternated between pondering her condition and playing through the various things she would have to say during the trial tomorrow. Sleep came with exhaustion, and when Alayne awoke it was with her back aching something fierce.

She bathed, made use of her privy, and dressed herself all in silence. Today was the trial. Judging by the position of the sun in the sky, it had already begun. So when would her time to speak come? Alayne noted a meal had been sent to her room whilst she had prepared herself, but it was all she could do to take a few unenthusiastic bites and force them down to keep up her strength. She felt sick. At any moment she could be called down to offer testimony before all the Lords of the Vale, and she would have to stand before them all and lie through her teeth.

What does Lord Yohn know? Alayne asked herself again. Could he catch me out in a lie? Condemn me right besides Petyr?

Alayne nervously flattened the creases in her dress. Petyr had given her access to Lady Lysa's wardrobe after her death; a wealth of silks and furs and fabrics far beyond anything she had ever dreamed, but since the arrival of the Lords Declarant she had not touched so much as a single garter. She observed herself in the mirror - yet another luxury - the gown she presently wore more than adequate. It was a brown dress - brown had become her colour, now that she was Alayne - embroidered with periwinkle blue silk, but nonetheless it was a respectably drab design. She checked her hair - the black dye held strong, but Alayne felt a short moment of panic when she brushed her hand through her hair and saw her roots red.

If she settled her hair to the side it was not visible, even up close, but what happened when her hair grew out yet more? The Tyroshi dye was strong, but it couldn't colour hair that hadn't yet grown. And Alayne could not be caught colouring her hair black, lest it reveal her to be anything other than Lord Baelish's bastard daughter.

Nevertheless, it would suffice for today.

Alayne sat and waited, occasionally pacing, occasionally sat. She dared not leave her apartments, and so the normally vast rooms suddenly seemed tiny - like a cage. Every so often she would shoot nervous glances at the door, and then venture to her privy, her stomach unsettled. Her chest felt tight. What was happening out there?

And so when her time finally came, Alayne could not help the swell of relief in her chest. The guardsman offered the same half-bow as before, and led her down to the High Hall in silence. Gods, why didn't anyone speak? The silence was fast becoming intolerable.

When she arrived, Alayne was greeted by the sight of all the lords of the Vale flanking the sides of the High Hall, standing tall, shoulder-to-shoulder. Every eye fell one her as she walked, their gazes critical. Petyr stood to one side, Lord Royce to the other. Marillion was on his knees in the corner, still clad in irons. Alayne presumed he had just finished giving his own testimony. Now it was her turn.

"Do you know why you are here, girl?" Lady Anya Waynwood began.

"To offer my testimony?" Alayne said.

"Regarding the death of Lady Lysa Arryn, aye," she agreed, shooting a look Lord Yohn's way. He turned from his place and walked her way. "Now," Lady Anya continued, "I want you to know that whatever you say, none of us will hurt you. I swear that to you. On my mother's grave. You mustn't feel compelled to say anything you know to be a mistruth."

"My daughter is no liar," Petyr chimed in.

Alayne observed the lords. Their critical gazes suddenly seemed a great deal more compassionate. It seemed they leaned towards siding with Petyr, but that knowledge did little to settle her stomach. Alayne knew just how fickle some men could be.

"I never said she was, Lord Baelish," Lady Anya retorted. "I was just making sure she knew she was safe. That no matter what none of the lords in this room would allow an innocent girl like yourself to be hurt."

"I know," Alayne answered. "You won't hurt me."

Anya offered a soft smile just as Lord Yohn arrived behind Alayne, a crumpled piece of parchment in his hand. He offered it to Lady Anya, who in turn pressed it into Alayne's hand. "However, before you give your testimony, I would like you to read this."

Petyr frowned. "What is that?"

"A letter from Kings Landing," Lord Yohn supplied. "Worry not. I'll have it read out to all of us once the girl is done with it, so you can be assured that nothing untoward is occurring, and that nothing is being done to compel an answer from your daughter."

Petyr did not seem placated, but had little choice but to plaster a smile on his face and nod his assent. Alayne met his gaze, and he offered her a reassuring look. Beside her, Lady Anya smiled as well. "Go on, my lady. Read the letter."

Alayne observed the parchment in her hand. It was still sealed with the sigil of House Baratheon. Unopened. So none of the Lords Declarant had read it. Which begged the question of why they were offering it to her. Or perhaps they had read it and had resealed it. Alayne took a deep breath, and pulled apart the seal, unfurling the letter. Her fingers ran over the parchment. Her eyes ran over the letters on the page, slowly reddening. Suddenly, the ink on the page went blotchy in a spot, then in another.

Tears were falling down her cheeks, Alayne realised. She was crying. Arya...

Alayne - Sansa - briefly wiped the tears from her eyes, on the verge of sobbing, and ran her gaze over the script again. ...I forgive you... you had a hand in killing Joffrey... Tommen's king now... hide me from his mad bitch of a mother... Jeyne Poole... raped and whipped and forced to whore for him? There was no mistaking the chicken-scratch, nor the foul language. My sister is alive, Sansa thought, fingers trembling. I'm not alone anymore.

Below, Petyr's placid face had become a confused frown. Disbelief mingled with a happy relief, fear, desperation, confusion and a sudden surge of venomous hatred in her mind when she met his eyes from across the Hall. He's kissed me more than once, Sansa thought. Does he mean to make me whore for him too? Using sweet lies instead of stinging lashes to take me to bed? Lady Anya placed a comforting hand on Sansa's back, rubbing in soothing circles. "Well?" she asked in a soft tone.

Sansa nodded, sobs wracking her body even as she clutched the letter tight to her breast. Suddenly, the future Petyr had proposed to her didn't seem to possess the same appeal that it had just a day ago. And before she knew it, the words came spilling from her lips.

"It was him..." she confessed. "It was Petyr... he killed her... he killed Aunt Lysa..."
------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

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

 

[nomster]

Ah yes, Petyr, time to die. No more squeezing out of this.

 

[Z3r0Sama]

Ah yes, Petyr, time to die. No more squeezing out of this.

Click to shrink...

Time to go flying like the bird on your Houses coat of arms, you slippy fucker

 

[Qwerty1234]

I'm thinking there's no way Littlefinger doesn't have an exit plan in mind, or at least some contingencies planned.

 

[Nathaniel Carrion]

Thus, Tommen has really outmaneuvered and checkmated the Mockingbird. This's a great example of why the pen is so often mightier than the sword.

 

[Solar_High_Tide]

I'm thinking there's no way Littlefinger doesn't have an exit plan in mind, or at least some contingencies planned.

Click to shrink...

I mean, to this day Petyr genuinely believes Catelyn to be secretly, madly in love with him. And as his delusions for Catelyn have slowly developed into delusions for Sansa - I could totally see it being inconceivable to him that Sansa would betray him.

 

[alec_potter]

While everyone is writing his eulogy, I won't be convinced that Petyr is out of the game till he hasn't been decapitated and body burned. If he goes to prison to await trial or anything then highly likely that he will escape.
But nice twist, wonder if Sansa will return to kingslanding.

 

[Xodarap]

But nice twist, wonder if Sansa will return to kingslanding.

Click to shrink...

The Vale lords absolutely won't give up such a fantastic piece for the North to the Lannisters especially after she was implicated through Petyrs fiction in the murder of Lysa along with Arya's letter revealed hand in Joffrey's death.

 

[daoistnextchapter]

While everyone is writing his eulogy, I won't be convinced that Petyr is out of the game till he hasn't been decapitated and body burned. If he goes to prison to await trial or anything then highly likely that he will escape.
But nice twist, wonder if Sansa will return to kingslanding.

Click to shrink...

Its more likely Robert has him thrown from the Moon Door immediately.

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thank for the chapter. Great story.
Petyr whole operation got dismantled by a letter to a emotionally compromised woman. Delicious irony

 

[Raskolnikov]

Thank for the chapter. Great story.
Petyr whole operation got dismantled by a letter to a emotionally compromised woman. Delicious irony

Click to shrink...

And people say women aren't capable of thinking rationally, without being influenced by emotion... oh wait.

 

[Cabrio9f]

A chapter of his moon door demise

 

[BreezyWheeze]

Fantastic chapter! This story continues to delight. As always, thanks so much for sharing it with us.

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 36: Jaime IV

A horn cut through the cluttered air.

The riders were already dismounting when Jaime emerged from within his tent; the sounds of hooves and boots and armour mixing in with all the others noises of camp. It seemed to be a half-dozen knights, with two-dozen other men in tow. "Jaime!" roared a shaggy-haired man from the front of the lot, the Lannister sigil proudly emblazoned on his surcoat in all it's red-and-gold glory atop his ring-mail. "We feared for you after the Whispering Wood," he said, clasping Jaime by the arms and pulling him into a brief hug. "Heard Stark's direwolf tore out your throat."

"Did you weep for me, Daven?" Jaime asked, a smirk on his face.

Daven snorted and shook his head. "I don't weep," he said. "I rage." Then his gaze softened and turned pitying when he saw the gilded hook at the end of Jaime's arm. "So it's true," he said. "The bastards took your hand. Which one was it?"

"Hoat," Jaime said. "Don't fret, he's long dead. And don't worry for me. I find there's much to recommend having one hand. Fewer urges to scratch my arse, for one."

Daven's smile returned with roaring bark of laughter. Jaime couldn't help but grin back. His cousin's laughs were infectious. But alas, the moment could not last. He had his duty to do, and wolves to watch out for. Jaime straightened himself. "Come inside, cousin. We have much to discuss."

Daven nodded, and followed him behind the tent-flaps. In the corner, Pia was mulling wine for them, occasionally chattering with some squire from his retinue. She shot him a look, and Jaime refused to meet her gaze. Another pang of guilt hit him, then disappeared again. He was here to decide the fate of an entire kingdom, not fret over the feelings of some smallfolk girl. And so, with the wave of his hand, Jaime sent them both away.

"I need to know what awaits me," he began once they were alone.

Daven shrugged. "The siege drags on. The Blackfish sits in his castle, refusing to bend, and we sit in our camps and threaten day after day to kill his nephew. Bloody useless, if you ask me. And boring. I'm itching for a fight. Tully ought to plan some sort of attack. And kill some of the Freys whilst he's at it. Like our own Lord Emmon," Daven spat the name like a curse. "Seven save us, that man. Still angry about not getting Riverrun. He's been a pain the whole time."

Jaime nodded and fetched the cups of wine once they had been heated. His mind was awash with thoughts as he pushed one into Daven's waiting hands and took a meagre sip from his own. "You were speaking of Freys you wanted dead..."

"Ah, there's some good ones too," Daven blustered. "But some of them are right whoresons, I tell-"

"Can I trust you?" Jaime cut in. Daven's eyes widened, his brow furrowed. "To keep my secrets, I mean. I know all too well you'll watch my back in the heat of battle. But I have orders from His Grace, and to see them completed it is imperative they be kept secret. I can ill afford loose lips."

Daven's look of outrage softened somewhat at that. Then his face hardened and he nodded curtly once. "You can trust me."

"His Grace wants the Freys dead," Jaime said. "Not all, but enough to atone for the Red Wedding."

Daven frowned in confusion. "His Grace? These commands are from Tommen?" he asked. "Not your father?"

"His Grace issued the orders, my father merely approved them."

Daven nodded, looking perhaps a tad surprised at that, and then asked: "But why?"

"Politics," Jaime said. "After the Red Wedding the Freys will not last long as Lord Paramounts of the Riverlands. The other Riverlords won't wear it, nor should they have to. So, to strangle any future notions of rebellion in the cradle, the source of the discontent must be removed. And it will help to bring the Vale lords and the Northerners back into the fold, too. To see justice done for Robb and Catelyn Stark, and all the lords and ladies who died fighting to protect them. We'll not be slaying innocents, mind. Just those who partook in the slaughter, those who broke guest right."

"I... I suppose I can understand that. So what am I supposed to do?"

"Nothing, for now at least," Jaime said. "The first priority for the moment will be bringing the Riverlands back under the crown's control. But once all the sieges have been ended and all the keeps have been captured..."

"We march on the Twins," Daven finished.

Jaime said nothing, but let the silence speak for itself.

"Seven save us all..."

"Give the gods some time," Jaime said, swallowing that last dregs of wine in his cup. "If His Grace has his way, they surely will. Now you must come with me to the camp. Time is being wasted that we can ill afford to waste. We can speak further as we ride."

Daven nodded, swigged the last of his wine and made to follow. He eyed Jaime strangely as they pushed past the tent-flaps. "You've changed, coz," he said.

"I know," Jaime said quietly. "Hopefully for the better."

"You seem more like your father," Daven said as they approached the horses. "Certainly cleverer than when I last saw you. Colder, too. But perhaps more dutiful."

Jaime felt his expression sour a little at the comparison to his father, but ultimately he kept his peace. His hook ached where his hand should have been. But, truth be told, he did not mind it much. He liked this life. At least he liked it more than King's Landing. Walking among the soldiers, between the tents, blending in among all the other men at the warcamp. There was a certain simplicity to it he liked. Like living among northerners, Jaime reflected. No time for backstabbing or treachery or conspiracy with a common enemy to rally against. For them the enemy is the cold, for us the Riverlords. And perhaps the ladies too...

Jaime suppressed the shiver that threatened to creep up his spine at that thought as he approached a mount and leapt onto it's saddle. Beside him, Daven did the same and the pair soon set off towards the great Tully castle, soldiers rallying behind them all the way to the siege. The rest of the warcamp would come tomorrow. "Be wary," one of the men warned. "There are wolves about." Jaime nodded. He already knew. They went some way in silence, before Jaime opted to call Daven over with a look.

"Tell me, in greater detail, the state of the siege."

Daven shrugged. "What is there to tell?" he said. "I've been having them building rams and siege towers, but we have yet to chance an assault on the walls. Meanwhile, Ser Emmon has raised a set of gallows. Every day he takes Edmure Tully out before the walls and threatens to hang him. Every day he returns back to camp with Edmure still alive. He wants to kill him, but so far I've been keeping him under control. I reckon he thinks that if the Tullys would be gone he'd get Riverrun back. But there's no chance of that now. His wife is pregnant, did you know?"

Jaime frowned. Another indication of the accuracy of his nephew's premonitions. "I know. He bedded her during the Red Wedding."

Daven's brows climbed up his head at that - at Jaime knowing such a specific detail - but after a second he seemed to accept it. "Well, Lord Westerling is of the mind that nothing ought to be done to Lord Edmure. He makes arguments of honour, but his wife and daughter - the one who was briefly Robb Stark's wife before he was slain - are hostages within the walls of Riverrun. Most likely he fears they'll be hurt if anything happens to Edmure."

"The Blackfish would not stoop so low," Jaime said. "Now I've gotten the facts, tell me your own opinion."

Daven cocked his head in thought. "We have the castle well encircled, but not much else. Half our host is made of Riverlords who came our way after the Red Wedding. I don't trust them to watch our backs in an assault. And even if it weren't so, we haven't the strength to storm the keep and guarantee a victory. Nor can we afford to starve them out. The Blackfish stripped this land clean and expelled all useless mouths before he closed the gates to his castle. He could hold quite comfortably for years. We... probably couldn't. The Freys have food coming from the Twins, but they claim not to have enough to share. And though we have fish for the men caught from the rivers, the horses are quietly going hungry. I send men out to forage, and half don't come back. Some desert. The others... We find them days later. Hanging from trees, mauled by what look like dogs-"

"Or wolves."

Daven nodded. "The shipments from the Reach helped somewhat, but most the grain went into the ground for the autumn harvest, so..."

"In other words, we have to find a way to end this siege, and quickly."

Daven nodded in agreement. "That would be my advice."

"I'll treat with them," Jaime said. "I mean to offer them generous terms."

"You are welcome to try, but I'd be surprised if it worked."

"Worry not, cousin," Jaime said, thinking of the orders burning a hole in his pockets, and of his oath to never again take up arms against a Tully. "I'll have this mess sorted one way or another."

"Hmm."

From then on, their journey continued more or less in quiet, till eventually Riverrun hoved into view. The grand Tully castle rose from the waters of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone like some great stone dromond with it's prow pointed downstream. It's walls suddenly seemed higher and thicker than Jaime had remembered them to be. If it does come to an assault, Jaime thought, then it will be a bloody one. But Tommen instructions, written as they were on the letters in his pockets, seemed plenty confident that Riverrun would fall. Jaime's stomach threatened rebellion at the thought of what he might have to do.

And if the Blackfish doesn't listen? Jaime thought. If that were the case then Jaime supposed either he'd have to truly become like his father, or else admit defeat and lead the assault himself. And then he would have to contend with the wolves...

No, Jaime thought, squaring his shoulders as they arrived and strengthening his resolve. I must have faith. Tommen's dreams have not misled me yet.

Looking around, Jaime saw for himself the state of the siege Daven had described. Riverrun was encircled by a fast-flowing moat, river water coming in one end and rushing out the other. So the siege was divided between three camps. Ser Emmon's seemed the most prominent, headlined by a set of gallows, a faintly bored-looking Edmure standing below the noose. Banners surrounded him. Mooton, Peake, Vance, Goodbrook and many more. But there were also banners missing. The Mallisters had not made an appearance, nor had the Brackens. And among those Riverlords assembled, few besides the Freys seemed enthusiastic.

This will be harder than even I expected, Jaime gloomily predicted as they rounded this side of the siege to Daven's own camp. Our new friends are no friends at all. Here was the command tent, the Lannister sigil proudly displayed. Jaime dismounted his horse, letting some stableboy lead it away as he pushed aside the tent-flaps.

"Here at last, are you?" Genna Lannister boomed, a slight grin on her face. She was a fat woman, but somehow she seemed more shapely than slovenly. Her breasts threatened to overflow her bodice, despite the fact that her waist was no longer as pinched as it once had been. Birthing four children had seen to that. Her face was broad and smooth, red in the cheeks, her neck thick as her head, her hips wider than her shoulders. Without words she pulled Jaime into a hug with surprising strength, planting deliberately sloppy kisses on his cheeks. "How are you?"

"Well enough," Jaime demurred. "What are you doing here?"

"Emmon had to come when he'd heard we'd been granted Riverrun," Genna said. "I thought it was a stupid idea, giving my fool of a husband such a great seat, but you can also imagine my displeasure at discovering that the castle was taken from us almost as quickly as it was given. Emmon was beyond irritating for a good long while."

"King Tommen takes a greater interest in the affairs of the realm than his brother ever did," Jaime said diplomatically. "He decided it was best that House Tully should survive this war, if such a thing were possible."

Genna's eyes narrowed in understanding. "He means for the Tullys to keep Riverrun?" she asked, incredulous. "But they won't accept House Frey as their overlords in a thousand years. It would only sow the seeds for more bloodshed. How could my brother have allowed this?"

"It was decided that the Freys would not last long as Lords Paramount no matter what we did," Jaime said. "The moment Lannister forces withdrew from the Riverlands the fighting would start again. The other lords would hardly bear being ruled by men who break guest right."

"So what is the plan?"

"As far as seats go, how satisfied do you think your husband would be with Harrenhall?"

Genna's eyes widened. "Very satisfied, I should imagine. Why?"

"Enough to turn his back on Lord Walder at the Twins, and bring some of his more honourable relations with him?"

Genna frowned. "Jaime... Gods be good... Are you saying...?"

"It was decided that dispensing justice for the crimes committed during the Red Wedding would serve to hasten the process of bringing the Vale and the North back under the authority of the crown. The Tullys did well to spread their influence to those kingdoms. We can use that goodwill to our advantage. And better that the Crown should be seen to be the arbiters of justice. It will help to increase His Grace's legitimacy."

"The grain shipments... They weren't just for a winter harvest, were they? They were to get the other lords to turn a blind eye."

Jaime nodded. "And when all is said and done, stability in the Riverlands will be secured in the same way as in the Reach. Carefully arranged matches between the surviving sons and daughters of the Riverlords, tying them together and conveniently to the Crown in turn. Needless to say, this is to remain a secret."

"Needless to say," Genna cackled in a delighted agreement as she shook her head. "This smacks of your father. Ambitious. The work of the kind of man who comes along once in a thousand years, indeed."

"It was Tommen's idea," Jaime interjected. "Not my father's."

At that Genna paused and cocked her head. "Is it true what they say about him?" she eventually asked. "Another Tywin?"

Jaime shook his head. "No. I don't think so. I think he's better."

Genna's brows climbed up her forehead. "High praise," she remarked.

"My father seems to agree," Jaime said. "I'd describe him as a mix of the best of all of us, muddled in with precious little of the worst. Dutiful. Cunning. A tad too soft-hearted, some might say, but never to the point of ruin. He still has a lot yet to learn, but he's learning fast."

"I remember when he was just a little babe, scared of his own shadow," Genna said. "I should go and meet this new king when I can. Get his measure for myself."

"You should," Jaime said. "But first Harrenhall. You'll have to go there once the siege is done. I left a good contingent of Lannister men there for you. They know to answer only to you. And once I'm done with the rest of the Riverlands I'll head north. Think you can keep your husband and sons from doing anything stupid when they hear?"

Genna waved her hand dismissively through the air. "I can handle my husband well enough," she said. Of course she could. Even after all these years, Genna Frey was still a Lannister in all but name. "More important is the siege. How are you planning to end it?"

"I'm going to treat with the Blackfish," Jaime said.

"That won't work," Genna immediately retorted.

"I mean to offer him good terms," Jaime said. "And I won't be alone."

Genna eyed Jaime carefully, eyes running up and down, flicking to his hook and then back to his face. "Terms require trust," she said. "The Freys broke guest right. And you, well, you are the Kingslayer. It might have been the Mad King you broke your oaths to kill, but you broke them all the same."

"I'm not the Kingslayer anymore," Jaime said.

"So I heard," Genna said. "But do you think the Blackfish will believe you? Do you think he'll care?"

"He won't have to," Jaime said. "Where is Edmure?"

"Out there, somewhere," Genna said, gesturing to the tent-flaps. "He should be back from the gallows, now. Why?"

"Edmure has been threatened with death already," Jaime said as he turned and made to leave, "so I'm going to go threaten him with life instead."

Jaime set off at a swift pace, marching stiffly across camp, making for Emmon's half of the siege. He made surprisingly quick time on his feet, and before he knew it he was across the river and wandering amongst Freys and the other Riverlords. Among the tents he wondered, till finally he saw it: The Lord of Riverrun.

His feet were caked with mud and his legs were bared. His hands were bound tight behind his back. Only a long silken tunic bearing the sigil of House Tully hid his manhood from view, long since sullied by mud and dust. He looked defeated, utterly broken. His head hung low. But when he heard Jaime's footfalls, he lifted his gaze from the ground and his eyes narrowed in recognition even as he licked his bloody lips to speak, his beard caked in filth.

"Kingslayer," he said, no doubt using the name to irk him in some stupid show of defiance.

"Edmure," Jaime acknowledged him, refusing to react. From within a nearby tent Lord Emmon emerged. With nervous, wandering hands, he seemed a fretful man. Even clad in mail and a little plate he looked small. Like a boy wearing a man's clothes. He was an eminently pitiable person, or perhaps contemptuous. In his old age, only a few white wisps still clung to his head. Time had only reduced him, and Jaime was sure that marriage to a woman like his aunt had not helped much. "Lord Emmon."

"Ser Jaime," Emmon greeted him reservedly, almost regarding him with suspicion.

"What is this business with Lord Edmure?" Jaime asked.

"I gave the Blackfish warning," Lord Emmon explained. "I told him his nephew would die he refused to yield. The same trick worked against Jason Mallister at Seagard. But it seems that Ser Brynden Tully is of a colder sort."

"You threatened to kill his nephew if he refused, and he refused. So then why haven't you killed Lord Edmure yet?" Jaime asked.

At that Emmon hesitated, reddening slightly. "If we kill Lord Edmure then we have no hostage."

"And if you don't kill him you prove your words to be a lie," Jaime said.

"I meant to preserve the lives of our men," Emmon said.

A likely story, Jaime thought scornfully. More likely our Lord Frey meant to weasel a way to take Riverrun for himself. "A noble goal," Jaime said. "But not practical. Go fetch a maid to run a bath and fetch some proper food for Lord Edmure here, and then go see your wife. I have already spoken to her. I need to speak to our prisoner alone."

Emmon nodded and set off. Edmure's gaze remained fixed on Jaime's face. "Why?" he asked.

Jaime knelt down to Edmure's level. "Emmon's mistake was trying to bargain with the Blackfish. Brynden Tully is an old man. Valiant, yes, but old. He has no children to care for, no wife to weep for him. The best he can hope for is a warrior's death. But you... You are yet young. Your wife is pregnant. You could have a future. And you are the rightful lord of House Tully. Which means that the fate of Riverrun is in your hands."

Edmure licked his lips again. "The fate of Riverrun..."

Jaime nodded. "I mean to treat with your uncle, and I mean to bring you with me. I'll send you back to him. Convince him to yield the castle and nobody dies. Your smallfolk will be allowed to continue their lives as before. The garrison will be allowed to go free, so long as Brynden takes the black. Your child will have a good match arranged for it. And you... You will be allowed to keep Riverrun along with most of it's lands for yourself so long as you swear vows of fealty to the crown, though you'll not retain your title as Lord Paramount of the Riverlands."

At that Edmure balked. "I don't believe you," he said after a while. Jaime could understand that. To Edmure it must have seemed too good to be true.

"When I was your sister's captive she made me swear to never again take up arms against House Tully," he said. "I'd rather not break that oath if I can avoid it." Edmure still seemed sceptical. Jaime reached down and pulled one of Tommen's letters from his pocket. "But you need not believe me. I have the writ from His Grace right here."

Edmure's eyes flicked over it, not quite reading it as much as observing it. Jaime folded the parchment back up and pressed it into Edmure's hands for him to peruse later on at his own pleasure. "And if I refuse to yield?" he asked.

"Then all that I'm offering you goes away," Jaime said. "Don't forget that I'm the son of Tywin Lannister. I am just as capable of cruelty as I am of kindness. We'll storm the keep. We'll show no mercy to anyone. And if your wife should birth your child before the siege is over, I'll be sure to send the babe to you. In a catapult."
--------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

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

 

[Spearow]

I hope that in the next chapter we will get more updates in regards of Tommen's health, he is happily married and all his plans are working very well, he should have gotten used to westeros already.
I also hope that he will be able to make a real spy network by this point, maybe something like shadow garden, with little finger out of the game he might be able to take over his brothel intelligence network, have tyrion manage it and get reports from there.
Its a good idea.

Oh and i believe that everyone is waiting to see Jaime fight the werewolf lady undead;

 

[alec_potter]

Well played Jamie.
He is playing his role well and enjoying his life for a change.

 

[nomster]

What a way to end the chapter with that last line... Such an image.

 

[hawakii37]

The saids make the dialog between Jaime and his aunt a bit awkward.

 

[Gerstahl]

I'm absolutely loving this, I may well have read it four or five times now. Is there a particular update schedule you try to keep to, or is it more freeform time wise? Also, side note, but I cannot wait for Cersei to get her just deserts, she, along with all the characters, I'll be honest, are written excellently, and I can't wait to see more.

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 37: Cersei V

"Her saddle girth burst whilst she was riding," said Ser Balmar.

Lady Falyse looked like she was about to cry. "Mother's hip shattered in the fall. Maester Franken did all he could, but to no avail. So now all we can do is pray..."

Cersei plastered a sympathetic smile on her face to hide her contempt for the simpering fool of a woman before her. "Of course, my lady. I shall add your poor dear mother to my prayers tonight."

"Your Grace is most kind."

I am more bored than kind, Cersei thought. A pity I am not supping with Lady Merryweather. Taena would be with one of Oberyn's impudent bastard girls tonight, and though Cersei knew it was best not to interrupt them, she could not help the urge when she felt it. Making pleasantries with these people was torture. Still, Cersei thought bemusedly, if all goes well this should have proven a fruitful evening indeed. Another thorn in my side removed... another tool in my hands...

Or so that had been the plan originally.

"How was your journey?" Cersei asked as though she did not already know, if only to break the silence.

"Uncomfortable," complained Falyse. "It rained most the way, and we were at one point accosted. Ser Balman dealt with them quick, but it was scary for a while."

Ser Balman nodded sagely. "Right ruffians, they were. Filthy, unkempt, with hide shields and stars on their foreheads. The Seven Pointed Star, in spite the evil looks in their eyes."

Cersei tutted in false commiseration. "It must have been terrible, my lady."

Falyse sniffled slightly uncomfortably and shrugged. "They were lice-ridden," she said. "But elsewise it was not so bad. Ser Balmar saw them off quick enough."

"Then I must commend his valour and bravery," Cersei said, laying it on thick. "I feel terribly guilty. After all you suffered on the road, I made you wait so long before granting you the simple courtesy of a meeting!"

Falyse flushed and shook her head. "Think nothing of it, Your Grace. The capital has been a pleasant enough place for us to stay for these past few weeks. Dare I say it seems cleaner and more orderly than when I was here last? And certainly safer, ever since the Mad King's wildfire was removed. To think he could do such a thing..."

"The Mad King had his name for a reason, my lady," Cersei simply said.

"Aye," Balmar said. "Year after year we seem to find evermore reason to be grateful to the late King Robert for rebelling. And His Grace has of course availed himself."

"High praise, ser," Cersei said. "Though I do agree. Tommen will make a good king when he comes of age."

Ser Balmar nodded and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Your Grace... An awkward matter yet... lest bad feeling linger between us, I should think you ought to know that neither of us had a name in the naming of Lady Lollys's bastard child. She is a simple creature, and her husband given to black moods. I told him to choose a more fitting name. One that would not offer insult upon your family. He laughed."

Cersei sipped her wine and studied the pair before her. Why must you tempt me so, Ser Balmar? Here was the perfect opportunity to be rid of her son's spymaster, and yet she could not say a word for fear of being revealed. No matter how subtle, how careful she was, Tommen's dreams...

Cersei shook herself from her reverie and plastered another false smile on her face. There is no single catspaw in all Seven Kingdoms that could hide my hand from my son's accursed sight. "My brother is known for his good sense of humour," she said, biting her lip. "And he and Bronn were close before the latter was rewarded for his brave service at the Blackwater and became Ser Bronn. I am certain he will not find it an insult."

Ser Balmar opened his mouth, thought better of it, and then pursed his lips in thought.

"And yet," Cersei said, unable to help herself, "Ser Bronn is well known as ever a tricksy sort. It would not be unwise to keep a close eye on him. Or, at least, that is what I would suggest. A burst saddle girth..."

Falyse balked. "Your Grace... Are you suggesting it was cut or tampered with in some way?"

"No, not at all," Cersei assured the pair. She might not be able to dispose of the sellsword, at least not so brazenly, but it was the least she could do to make his life a little more difficult. "I am certain Ser Bronn would never be so brazenly treacherous. But these are strange times. I mean, just a few years ago if anyone would have told you that Stannis Baratheon of all people would rise in rebellion against his own nephew, would you have believed them?"

Both Falyse and Ser Balmar shared a look. "We will take your advice to heart, Your Grace. Caution."

Cersei offered another smile and nodded, slowly standing from her seat. "It has been a great pleasure to sup with you both. I will be sure to keep Lady Tanda in my prayers tonight. And now if you can forgive me, I must be off."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Cersei turned and departed at a quick pace, eager for something besides boredom, allowing her pleasant demeanour to fall away as soon as she was alone. She marched through the halls and passages of the keep with purpose. Her gait made her feel like some great lord, an army at her back. Thoughts of Taena, and of the girl she was presently occupied testing, plagued her mind.

Nymeria Sand dreams of glory in war, she thought. Alas, the poor bastard whore was born a woman.

But that did not mean that the girl's life would be without purpose. Through the queen, she would attain power beyond her wildest imaginings. And for a brief moment before she lost her usefulness, she would have the ear of some of the most powerful people in the world. Her and her sisters both.

Bastard girls were often whores, were they not? Especially Dornish ones. And Nymeria certainly looked the part. She was slim, waif-like with straight black hair pulled back into a single long braid, breasts protruding proudly from a rib-lined chest. Large dark eyes blinked prettily, lashes batting. Lips full and luscious and red, more than fit to wrap around some lordling's cock. A violet gown covered her body, loose in some places and tight in others.

Yes, she thought, this one will make a far better slut than soldier. Not that her ambitions weren't in some sense admirable. Cersei had once desired to wield a blade and stand beside her father in battle in her youth, but such was not a woman's place. The bitch Brienne was the exception. An ugly freak. Beauty was a woman's best weapon, and wielded properly it could be more deadly than any blade.

A look from Taena affirmed her hopes. The girl is eager enough, the dusky woman was saying with her gaze. That was good, though Cersei still felt a certain hesitance. Oberyn Martell was a fiery man, after all, and Myrcella was still far away in Dorne. But in light of Tommen's dreams, Cersei would have to be more careful, and so she would need not one catspaw, but many. And having Nymeria in her circle would enhance her power regardless of how Cersei used her. The threat of the spears of Dorne would go some way in helping curb the Tyrell's power at court. It was a worthwhile risk. Especially if Cersei could pull Arianne Martell away from the Maid Margaery. The two had been getting far too close for comfort as of late, or so went the court gossip. Close enough, perhaps, to hint at scandal. Certainly close enough they might pose a threat to Cersei's already precarious position.

That was unacceptable.

And so long as she remained blatant about her intentions, Cersei reckoned, she retained the freedom to act. If she presumed that he knew everything that she knew, Tommen could not catch her unawares.

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

But these matters were best left for another day. For now, Nymeria Sand was first and foremost her informant. A remarkably useful one, as it came to be.

"Ser Osney is away to the Wall," she said. "His Grace had him in the Black Cells for a good while, or so some of the men tell me, but now he is well and truly away. Evidently they were told not to call him by name. His Grace greatly feared being found out - understandable, given Ser Osmund wears the white cloak."

"Hmm," Cersei grumbled, noting the news and disdaining it once she knew how ultimately useless the revelation of Ser Osney's fate was to her. "And Lyra? The girl?"

Nymeria shifted in her seat. Whether her discomfort was true or feigned, Cersei could not tell.

"There are... rumours, Your Grace," Nymeria began. "Here men were far tighter with their tongues, even when faced with my finer tricks. What I did learn was often confusing. One claimed she was the king's paramour. Another proclaimed her exactly as she was: his baseborn half-sister. Another claimed she was both, that His Grace has developed Targaryen inclinations in matters of the flesh, and that the girl would often leave his chambers beaming, dishevelled as though from some rough bout of love-making, or else with eyes brimming with tears. Some proclaim her Sansa Stark in disguise. Others declare she is secretly a boy, prevented from squiring to a true knight due to some grave failing, who put on the airs of a girl to win the Dame Brienne's favour as a last desperate ploy for knighthood."

Cersei frowned. This reeks of the Imp. Her son, for all his cleverness and foresight, tended to be blunter with his schemes. There was an assuredness in his movements, a certain straightforwardness that made one feel a fool when the simplistic truth was revealed - even in his grandest plots and plans - that spoke of either supreme confidence or else childish arrogance. This cloud of confusion seemed to suggest something more. That the rumours were not natural, that they were designed to confuse, to excite, to obscure the real, more plain truth beneath it all.

And then there was the outrageous element to it. A part of what she'd heard made her jaw clench, her hands tight with fury. Tommen is fucking his half-sister... Is this the dwarf's idea of a jape? Yet her fury fast morphed into fear. If someone wants to pit lion against lion than this would be the way to do it, she thought. Her disdain for her dwarf brother was well-known. The lesson of Baelish had been burned into her mind. You were so distracted by your hatred of each other that you failed to spot the real danger, sat just a scant few seats away, Tommen had said.

Her distraction, her disdain had cost her Joff his life. She could not allow herself to be led astray again, lest her last remaining son suffer the same fate. For the moment at least, she would have to swallow her pride.

I shall have to keep a closer eye on Lyra, Cersei resolved. Rash decisions at this time would only serve to weaken her. And with Tommen's dreams, Cersei struggled to see how he might be duped. He had taken this girl into his own personal confidences, and so quickly. Did he know? Was he using her, playing some hidden game for some unknown purpose? Or was he behaving his age, taken in by a little impish girl who reminded him of more innocent times? The seeds of envy stirred in her heart at the thought, a black simmering hatred that she had to work hard to keep hidden.

"And finally," Cersei said, "comes the question of your cousin."

Nymeria shifted uncomfortably in her seat, looking bashful. "Your Grace..."

"You said you wished to enter my confidences, yes? That you wished to become more than Oberyn's baseborn girl, to win some fame and glory for yourself? To perhaps even be made a dame? You said these things, and Lady Taena listened, did she not?"

Nymeria Sand seemed to wage a war with herself, hands fidgeting in her lap, eyes flitting about nervously. "Yes, Your Grace," she finally said.

"Well, I can make that happen for you," Cersei said. "But first I must ask you tell me of your cousin's plans."

"Arianne doesn't have a plan as such..." Nymeria trailed off. "She intended at first to seduce His Grace, but has grown frustrated after he repeatedly rebuffed her. Now..."

"Now what?" Cersei asked, leaning forwards.

"I'm not certain," Nymeria warned. "She could simply persist in her efforts."

"Guess."

"...The princess is a hot-blooded woman, you must understand," Nymeria explained cautiously. "As are all Dornishwomen, I suppose, but none moreso than her. She is rarely rebuffed. The Prince of Dorne was loathe to deny her anything, and has seldom punished her for her acts of defiance or daring." I'll need to correct that, Cersei thought. "And so now that she is finally faced with some resistance she is driven to evermore extreme measures to get her way."

Cersei felt herself tense. "So if not my son then who?" she asked. Who do I need to dispose of?

"If she can't have His Grace's heart," Nymeria said, squirming, bashful, "then I believe she reckons the Lord Hand's will suffice."

Cersei at first blinked in shock, then balked, then burst out with laughter. "My father?" she asked. "Ha! Let her try. Lord Tywin Lannister has not been stirred into lust since the death of my lady mother. Hells, it may well do him some good to share his bed with the Princess! As it is Arianne would be better off trying to get blood from a stone."

"That's just my guess, Your Grace," Nymeria was quick to assure her, in spite of sharing Cersei's look of bemusement. "I could well be wrong. For all I know the princess still intends to pursue the heart of His Grace. In this matter she has not taken me into her confidences. Not yet, at least."

The princess is not likely to be any more successful with Tommen than she is with Tywin, Cersei thought. Not if she has already tried and failed to win his affections. Yet she could not deny the part of her that still harboured doubts. I need to see my son.

Cersei shot a glance at Taena, and made to leave, slowly standing from her seat. Keep a close eye on this one, she said with her eyes.

Of course, Your Grace, Taena answered with hers.

"Well done, Lady Nym," she said. "You have won my confidences. Serve me well and I will see to it you are properly rewarded for your efforts."

Nymeria Sand inclined her head with respect. "Anything for Your Grace."

Cersei offered the baseborn girl a brittle smile. "Of course," she said, and turned on her heel and walked out of her solar. She passed through the passages of the Red Keep swiftly, but this time without urgency. A storm of thoughts and worries plagued her mind as she wandered. Even still, it was not long before she found herself standing outside Tommen's chambers.

At this hour, her son was fast asleep, Ser Loras standing vigil at his door.

She found him sprawled on his bed, his little wife missing. On occasion the king liked to sleep alone, more often than not it seemed as of late. In place of a little queen Tommen had little kittens adorn his bed. There was Ser Pounce, Lady Whiskers, Boots. Yet they kept their distance, sleeping on the corners. Tommen looked fitful, face furrowed and strained with worry, skin slick with sweat. He is having one of his dreams, Cersei realised.

Those same dreams that had so stymied her, ended her hour in the sun before it could truly begin. A surge of resentment rose through her gut. I could strangle him now, she thought, and all his dreams would be for naught. All notions of the Others would die with him.

Yet she did not move to wake him, simply observing for a long second. Her old love for her son was gone. He was no more her sweet little boy. He had not been since that accursed day when her eldest, her dearest, had been so cruelly murdered. Yet even Cersei had to admit the age looked becoming on his visage, much as she loathed what it had done to his character. His face reminded her of Jaime in his youth, yet untroubled by death and disfigurement, unburdened by the weight of the white cloak.

Tommen was about that age. That age when she and Jaime had shared their first kisses, their first embrace. He was older, even. His face reminded her of the days of Jaime's dogged pursuit, when he would accost her seemingly at random and press her against a wall in some distant corner of Casterly Rock and push and push till she had no choice to but to pretend to break, to pull him into her, hinting but never truly revealing that that was what she had wanted all along.

I fucked my brother, Cersei thought in a moment of impetuousness, why shouldn't I fuck my son? Is one truly any worse than the other? For all his dreams told him, it seemed likely that he would nevertheless be caught entirely unawares by such a move, left completely at her mercy. It would doubtless be pleasurable for her too, at least going by all the stories the Maid Margaery had made sure to spread around of her new husband's prowess. Yet though Jaime had made mock of himself for her many times, something told Cersei that Tommen would not be so pliable. It was better to be patient, play the doting mother, the concerned counsellor. To worm her way back into his close confidences. And if in time a opening presented itself she could act, but not a moment sooner.

Gods, Cersei cried to herself, half in lament, when did I become such a coward? The old her would have gone to any lengths. Even Joffrey, strong-willed as he was, caved to her more oft than not. That Cersei would have grasped Tommen by the cock as she had done to Lancel and offered no apologies for doing so. Her charms most certainly would have eclipsed anything his little wife was capable of. The most beautiful woman in all Seven Kingdoms is seldom spurned, she thought. She leaned over him, hesitant as her eyes flicked again over his features, half tempted to grab his face and press her lips to his, but again fear and doubt prevailed. She sighed, lowered herself to the edge of the bed, kissing his forehead as she gently jostled his shoulder.

Tommen started awake, eyes opening with a jerk, a moment of violent resistance to her touch, and then calm when he realised who it was holding him. "Mother?" a groggy voiced asked.

"You were having a nightmare," she explained, cradling his head.

"As I do most nights," Tommen said. "Yet I am not often awoken. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, sweetling," Cersei said, affecting her most compassionate tone. "I just wanted to see you, and I couldn't stand to see you suffer."

Tommen's face looked confused, half-torn between sympathy and suspicion. "That is kind of you," he said. "Yet suffer I must. I don't mind it much. The horrors I see are often distant, unlikely things. And to be forewarned is to be forearmed."

"Yet still I mislike it," Cersei complained. "Perhaps you could lighten your load? Tell someone what you see in greater detail?"

"Like you?" Tommen asked, with a glint in his eyes.

Cersei cynically shook her head. "Like anyone that you can trust. Like that Lyra girl. Or like your grandfather."

Tommen winced. "Best not Lyra," he said. Good, thought Cersei. "With Uncle Jaime gone, you are the only one who knows. I would sooner keep it that way."

"Then why not me?" Cersei pressed.

Tommen seemed hesitant. "I... I want to," he finally said. "But after all I have seen, how can I trust you? You, with all your plots and pettiness? You forget I have seen the ugliest sides of you, mother."

Cersei felt hatred and heartbreak make war in her chest. "I... I will be better," she said, forcing herself, the words emerging bitter on her tongue.

"You might well mean that," Tommen said, "but deep down I know you still want your hour in the sun."

"I do," Cersei confessed. "Yet sunlight can be shared. Is Queen Alysanne not still revered? Are not Visenya and Rhaenys? Yet still, Jaehaerys and Aegon ruled as great kings all the same, and are remembered as such. Sharing your light would not diminish it, sweetling."

Tommen smirked. "The power behind the throne, eh?"

"Would that be so bad?" Cersei asked. "To allow me to be known as the woman standing beside you, in that place, who helped you to your pride and glory?"

"No, it would not be bad at all," Tommen conceded, smirk growing to a grin. "So long as you could bear to share that place with Margaery."
-------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

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

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thanks for the chapter. Great story.
Still think that Cersei should suffer an "accident" there must be more sane and useful pawns to produce infighting among his nobles so he retain control

 

[Prognostic Hannya]

"No, it would not be bad at all," Tommen conceded, smirk growing to a grin. "So long as you could bear to share that place with Margaery."

Click to shrink...

And that is why Cersei will always be a threat to Tommen's reign. She is pathologically incapable of sharing the spotlight with any other woman (and is barely capable of sharing it even with her own son), and so will never rest until the Tyrells are brought low. She brings nothing to the table, and is a constant risk of alienating and threatening the crown's single greatest ally. I genuinely wouldn't be surprised if she tried to help foment a pro-Stannis Florent-led rebellion in the Reach solely to weaken the Tyrell's power, and thus their grip on court.

 

[Daubeny show yourself]

She brings nothing to the table

Click to shrink...

Yeah but that Golden cunny seems to be playing tricks tbh if this were a more porn focus fic I could see the act of getting rid of that kingsguard donny as one of possessiveness and as a way to draw her to going towards Big T for gratification

 

[DKottar]

Oh yeah! That's what I'm talking about!!

 

[Xodarap]

Well Bronn has his seat secured now to wait for more batman comparisons.

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 38: Jon IV

In the granary were oats, wheat, barley, and barrels of coarse ground flower. In the root cellars lengths of onions and garlic and turnips and radishes dangled on strings from the rafters. Bags of carrots and spuds and barrels of corn lined the walls. On the shelves were large slabs of salted beef, mutton, pork and wheels of cheese so massive they took two men to carry from place to place. There were casks of pickled apples and pears and cabbage and all other sorts of sundry still immersed in brine. Nuts and spices aplenty. Huge jars of olive oil. Smoked salmon, venison, and other sorts of wild game.

As they moved from one tunnel to another, the sheer extent of the wealth stashed away became apparent.

"The king's bounty is indeed generous, my lord," Bowen Marsh announced. "It's not much at the moment, but with Stannis's men no longer being such a drain on our supplies, what little empty room remains should quickly be filled up. Plenty to see the Watch through winter."

"And the wildlings?" Jon asked.

Bowen Marsh suddenly seemed uncomfortable. "My lord... There are a thousand mouths to feed in Mole Town alone. And there are more besides. It was a long summer, my lord, and I have no reason to expect winter will be short. These rooms may seem stuffed with food today, but you would be surprised how quickly they can be emptied if we aren't careful with the rations. Settling the wildlings on the Gift may be well and good, but it is too late this far north to plant crops. They'll stay dependent on us all through winter, and who knows how long that will be? Or whether His Grace's generosity will last that long?"

"Worst comes to worst we could always hunt. There's still game in the woods."

"Game, aye, but also darker things," Bowen retorted. "I would not send out hunters where they could be taken down. Even as our ranks swell, it takes time to train skilled men. We can scarcely afford such risks."

No, Jon agreed. Yet you would have us close our gates forever and seal them up with stone and ice. Half of Castle Black concurred with Bowen's view, Jon knew. Mercifully, the other half seemed to see sense in keeping the gateways open. Elsewise Jon's job would have become a great deal more difficult.

"Then we best hope His Grace's generosity is not exhausted," Jon said, feeling bitter even as the words came out. Here he was, calling the Boy King on the Iron Throne His Grace. Yet what else was he to do, when Arya was down in the capital in the Boy King's custody, and all the hopes of the Watch rested on the continued flow of Tommen's ships? "No matter what, the wildlings must be fed, and so must the remnants of Stannis's men. We still lack the swords to fight them."

Bowen seemed worried. "My lord..."

"Enough," Jon said as he turned stiffly on his heel and made to leave.

"It'll be dangerous," Bowen warned. "We already have men coming from down south. We don't need the extra numbers."

Jon ignored him. He'd heard all Bowen's objections before. "Have the wagons been prepared?" he asked as he ascended the steps.

"Aye," Bowen answered tiredly. "Corn, flour, pickled fruits and all the rest."

Jon nodded even as he emerged into the blinding light, the snow glowing in the morning sun. The wagons were already arranged, bursting with the king's corn, Ghost waiting eagerly for him to emerge. The direwolf wagged it's tail half-nervously and half-excitedly as it bounded over to him and nuzzled by his thighs. Jon reached down and patted it's snout, stroking it's fur, seeking comfort in the loyal creature's steadfast companionship.

The Night's Watch has lost too many of it's best men, Jon thought sadly. The Old Bear, Qhorin Halfhand, Donal Noye, my own uncle...

The last few trips had seen some ugliness at Mole Town, and yet more lives had been lost. And so, as their journey began, Jon did not quarrel with Bowen as he insisted on bringing more guards. Though it had not escalated beyond a few sullen curses and a few resentful looks and a single fight started over a woman that had spiralled out of control, Jon knew better than to take unnecessary risks. And as he did so, he made sure to draft the Lord of Bones into his endeavours, if only to keep a close eye.

And so, as the column set off south down the kingsroad, the line of wagons wending around fords and frozen streams still flowing beneath a thin sheet of ice, a dozen spear-men and archers and a half-dozen swordsmen riding escort. Though Mole Town was best known as a place for those Black Brothers who sought to whet their appetites for women, recent times had turned it into a haven for those wildlings who had taken up Stannis's offer to settle south of the Wall.

Mole Town had always been larger than it looked; most of it buried in the tunnels underground where the residents could be shielded from the cold and snow. That was more true now than ever, as any surface signs of settlement had been reduced to ruins by wildling raids. But in the darkness of the vaults below the residents of the village endured, leading truly miserable lives, huddled and alone with death and destruction always lingering, the corpse of what had once been sitting forever above their heads.

Not today, however. The thick snows had carpeted the ruins, and the peace Stannis had struck - no matter how unsteady - seemed to be holding. For now when their line of wagons rolled forwards they were greeted by the sight of swarming children kneeled in the snow, building snowcastles and having fights and rolling around; giggling and screaming and forgetting for a second the harshness of their lives. Jon ordered his wagons to slow, saddened and comforted by the sight. These children had suffered so much that he was reluctant to disturb them.

But circumstances trumped sentiment. The children saw the Black Brothers and quickly scattered, disappearing down hatches and hidey-holes, turning a wondrous playground into another desolate waste, and a few moments later the faces of their parents poked up from the ground, red-faced and shivering. A few of the men climbed out to greet them whilst the women retreated back into their caves. The stench of unwashed bodies carried on the wind. Down in the vaults there were no baths, no rivers or streams. And even if there had been, the winter cold could render even the briefest dip deadly if one wasn't careful.

Mercifully, it seemed that the cold would be their biggest problem today. These men had by now learned their lessons. As the Black Brothers closed in there were a few moody looks and scowls and muttered japes at each other's expense, but nobody made an aggressive move. By the time the wagons had trundled to a stop, they were arranged in semi-neat rows, awaiting the food. A shout went down - it was safe - and the women and children that previously gone down into hiding emerged again. A veritable flood of them. There were thrice as many women as men, and most men were wounded - crippled and broken. Of the children Jon had seen on his approach only a handful more emerged. Of the women who had carried babies on their arrival to Mole Town, most had none. They'd lost them to cold and disease.

Everyone's faces were the same. Cold, withered, gaunt and haunted. Their eyes lurked, suspicious and angry, exhausted. The men of fighting age formed a ring around their women, but even they were thin and weak and broken. Only the Thenns fared better, clad in their bronze armour and standing apart from the crowd, eyeing Jon's black brothers with more contempt than suspicion. Wolves lurk among these sheep, he reminded himself. Jon shot a glance at Rattleshirt, standing at the back of the caravan. Depending on the way this went, the man - possibly a disguised Mance - could prove a valuable ally in uniting the wildlings or else he could prove himself an enemy and help to deepen their divisions. Only time would tell.

The black brothers began to pass out the food. They'd brought the toughest, worst pieces of meat and fruit and other sundry from their stores, but a great deal of it. A queue formed, and each person got a little chunk of everything. A sliver of salted meat, a small bag of flour, a few pickled fruits, dried beans and turnips, eggs and the like. This trip was more generous than the last few had been, and there were few complaints, but it was still deliberately meagre. How else could he entice them but by making them choose between privation and plenty?

These sorts of tactics roiled his stomach, but Tommen's advice was sound. And if he ever intended to make peace between the Watch and the wildlings, he would have to make use of more than good intentions. Steel, strength and cruelty would have to play a role as well. Deception, too. For the greater good.

Once much of the food had been distributed, Jon clambered atop one of the deliberately empty wagons, and made to speak. "We're doing our best to feed you all," he declared, to much consternation from the assembled crowd, "but a long winter lies ahead, and we only have so much to spare."

"It's not enough!" one woman cried, looking ragged and half-crazed, cradling a bundle that looked like a baby, but a second look revealed it to be a dead one.

There was a round of nodding. "You crows seem to eat well enough," one of the wildling men said. Out from the corner of his eye Jon saw the flash of steel.

Jon scowled. This was not going how he had intended. He peered down to the Lord of Bones waiting uncharacteristically patiently beside him. "Quiet them," he commanded down to the man.

Rattleshirt nodded, advanced to the front of the black brothers shielding Jon, his expression inscrutable behind his skull mask, and bellowed. "QUIET! QUIET! SHUT YER FUCKING MOUTHS!"

"You one of them now?" a wildling man accused. "A crow?" The black brothers drew their bows with bated breaths, nocking their arrows.

The Lord of Bones stared the offending wildling down, towering over the gaunt man, advancing threateningly. "I said quiet," he hissed, drawing a blade from a sheath concealed beneath his bone armour. "And call me a crow again and I'll cut out yer tongue."

The wildling man scowled, spat on the ground, but fell silent.

Jon cleared his throat. That had been too close for comfort. "We eat well because we hold the Wall," Jon explained. "You know the foe we face, you've seen them. Dead things with blue eyes and black hands. Wights and White Walkers. I've seen them, fought them, even slain one with this sword at my hip. They kill without mercy and send the corpses of your brethren to face you. The giants tried to stop them and failed. Same of the Thenns," Jon said, gesturing to the bronze-clad men, "the ice-river clans, the Hornfoots and Mance. And as winter advances the enemy does too. You left your homes and came south to save yourselves, but the only thing protecting you is the Wall, and the only thing protecting the Wall is us. The Watch."

"Saved and starved," the same woman spat, clutching her dead baby tight to her breast, eyes feverish and mad.

"You want more food?" Jon asked. "Well, you have to earn it. That food is for fighters. For those willing to stand against the enemy. For those willing to join us on the Wall or wander beyond it when asked."

The men in the crowd exchanged wary looks. "Fight for you?" a wildling asked. A Thenn, going by his manner of dress. The Magnar of Thenn. Sigorn. "No. Kill you, more like."

Jon shrugged. "And when the wights and Walkers come?" he asked, silencing Sigorn with a scathing look. "What then? Will you have the strength to resist them? Your father was a brave man, but Styr died trying to fight us. Same for Mance," Jon said, again shooting Rattleshirt a look. "You'll fare no better. And even if he had succeeded, then you would all be dead. The Lords of the North would have crushed you. Or else the wights and Walkers would have followed you. The Wall is only as good as the men who patrol it."

"I'd sooner go naked than don one of your cloaks, crow!" the same rabble-rouser shouted, again attracting a glare from Rattleshirt.

"Then strip and we'll have you," Jon japed. "I'm not asking you to swear to our brotherhood, though if you would like to you can. I'm not asking you to betray your gods - I couldn't care less to which ones you pray. Nor am I asking you to kneel to my king. I'm only asking for you to fight for your lives, the lives of your loved ones, and stand beside us against the enemy. It's spears we need. Spears and bows. Any man older than fourteen will do. Able-bodied, but cripples too. There are plenty of jobs to be done. Goats to be milked, stables to be mucked, even more spears and shields to be made."

A wary silence persisted at the proposition. For a second Jon thought his speech had failed, but the reluctance soon broke and the volunteers came. A small lad who looked a tad too young for fourteen was the first, then an older man missing an arm. Misfits and weaklings, but soon even the able-bodied were joining up. Rattleshirt's presence doubtless helped. A spearwife wanted to join, but Jon refused her, citing the need for someone to defend Mole Town itself. But mostly he was worried about the rapes - and there would inevitably be rapes. It would do him no good at such a precarious time to make any more room for conflict between the Watch and the wildlings. Having women at the Wall would only unsettle things, make matters worse.

Still, on the way north their caravan was filled with many more men - a little over fifty of them. There were no Thenns, and few if any looked like fighters, but it was still a hopeful sign. "Are you certain about this?" Bowen asked again, concerned. "Giving wildlings weapons and spreading them amongst our ranks? Would it not weaken us?"

"Against the Walkers they'll stand with us."

"Against the Walkers, aye," Bowen agreed. "But against Tormund Giantsbane? Against the Weeping Man? Against their fellow Free Folk?"

Jon stayed silent for a long second as the continued on, lips pursed. "It's a risk," he eventually conceded. "But it's also our best hope."

"Wildlings follow strength," Rattleshirt growled, apparently having overheard them. His scornful eyes trailed over Jon. "They follow the man. Are you strong enough, boy?"

Bowen scowled at the Lord of Bones, but still nodded in agreement, grim. Familiar words, Jon mused. Mance had told him something similar. The Lord of Bones Jon had known had been a ruthless savage, not prone to offering advice. His words were yet more evidence that Tommen spoke the truth about the Red Witch. Yet more conspiracies Jon was forced to contend with. Yet more secrets hiding in the shadows.

And so onwards they went, till finally they were back at Castle Black. The wildlings were led away to the places they'd be able to stay for the night, black brothers eyeing them suspiciously wherever they went. It'll take a while yet to make these men work together, Jon reminded himself, sullen. Old wounds did not heal quickly. But they did heal, given enough time and treatment. And they would have to. If only to stop the armies of the dead swelling even more.

As Jon entered the castle Sam rushed up to greet him. "I saw your caravan arrive," he explained. "Are these all you could muster? I thought there were three-hundred fighting men at Mole Town? Half these look like cripples."

Jon cringed. "Evidently, I misjudged the wildlings eagerness to work with us."

Sam frowned, settling into step behind Jon as he made for his quarters. "Well, then, what now? Fifty men won't be enough, especially as most won't be good to fight for some time yet. Are you planning on calling on Kings Landing for more aid?"

"Tommen's terms were clear enough," Jon said. "We need a live wight to get any more from him. Elsewise his small council would gainsay him."

"I thought he was king," Sam complained.

"Even the greatest kings don't last long without the support of their councillors," Jon said. "Especially if one of their councillors happens to be Lord Tywin Lannister."

"Perhaps Stannis could lend his aid?" Sam asked as they escaped from the open air and began the climb up the spiral steps.

"Stannis is preoccupied with the North and the fight against the Boltons and Ironmen," Jon said. "He hasn't the strength to spare. And as far as his Red Witch goes... I don't trust her."

"So if neither the wildlings, nor King Stannis, nor King Tommen can help us, then what can we do?"

"With the wildlings we can slowly build trust," Jon said. "It is true I expected more to come with me, but the fact that any came at all is a promising sign considering the contempt the wildlings hold for the Watch, and the Watch for the wildlings. The Thenns may never make common cause with us, but I reckon some of the other clans could be convinced. As for getting more aid from the south... King Tommen made his terms clear enough. We need a live wight."

"If I had one I would be happy to hand it over, my lord," Sam said, half in jest as they entered his chambers and Jon rounded his desk and collapsed into his seat, his breath still emerging from between his lips in clouds of mist, the hearth yet unlit. The room was dark, the only sources of light the thin lines of grey steaming through the gaps in the shutters on the windows, and the warm glow of a couple of candles almost burned out. Sam stayed standing. "How are we going to get one?"

"We're going to get it as we would any other wild animal. We're going to hunt it and catch it."

"A ranging," Sam realised. Jon nodded. "It's too dangerous-"

"Not me," Jon cut in, knowing Sam's words before he uttered them. "I'm not stupid enough to risk myself on such an unsure thing. Fetch Ser Alliser, will you?"

Sam stood still for a moment. "He'll think you're trying to get him killed for opposing you."

"He may well think that," Jon said. "But an order is an order all the same. He can face the snows or he can face my sword, as Slynt did. Now go."

Sam nodded, and the rushed off. Jon poured himself a cup of wine, took a few bracing sips of the ice-cold liquid, and then turned his attention to his hearth. Ordinarily the Lord Commander could call in his steward for the task, but Jon had yet to appoint a steward. He stacked a few logs of firewood, and with a little tinder and the last half-inch of wick from one of the lit candles managed to start a flame that slowly grew into a true fire. Before he knew it warm air was flooding out from the hearth, and Jon pulled off his gloves to hold his numb fingers in the heat, letting the feeling slowly return to his extremities.

Ser Alliser arrived a few moments later, looking tense. Jon told him what he intended. Ser Alliser's expression soured further, even as his mouth twisted into some cruel mockery of a smile that never quite reached his eyes; cold and hard as they were. "So the bastard boy sends me to die."

"So the Lord Commander sends you to do your duty," Jon corrected. "To range; to venture out, find our foes and slay them, to capture one of the numbers of our greatest enemy and bring it home for study and use. I don't doubt you will survive. You are skilled with a blade. You were the master-at-arms first at Eastwatch and then here."

"My duty is protecting the Wall," Alliser argued. "Not running around in the freezing cold chasing after corpses in some fool's quest!"

Jon cocked his head. "Your duty is whatever the Lord Commander says it is. You're a skilled swordsman. You'll survive."

Alliser's smile narrowed into an angry grimace, his hand straying dangerously close to the hilt of his sword. Jon tensed. Would Alliser be bold enough to draw his blade here and now? "Aye, I'm a skilled swordsman," he said, voice tight with outrage, but then let his hand drop away from his pommel in defeat. "I spent half a lifetime teaching others how to swing swords, how to fight and how to kill. Fat lot of good that will do me out in those woods."

"You won't be going alone," Jon assured him. It was strange. Jon would never count Ser Alliser Thorne among his friends, but he was a brother all the same. Nobody said you had to like your brothers. "Other skilled rangers will be going with you. Experienced men who can watch your back. And you won't be the only one. Other rangings will be sent out as well."

Alliser nodded grimly. "I'll be back, boy," he swore, half as a threat and half as a promise. "Even if I have to return as one of those cold, dead cunts rather than with one as my captive, I'll be back."

"I should hope so," Jon said. "Because if the worst comes to pass, the fate of the Watch itself may well depend on it."
------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

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