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The Good, the Bad, and the Surprisingly Competent - ASOIAF SI
- Thread starter Morph-Writing
- Start date
Chapter 27: Sansa
Morph-Writing
Getting sticky.
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Chapter 27: Sansa
"Bronze Yohn knows me," Sansa insisted. "He was there, in Kings Landing, at the Hand's tourney. He saw me in the crowds."
"Ah," Petyr said, nodding as he put a finger under her chin and grazed her lip with his thumb. "But back then you were only a pretty face in the crowd. A man fighting in a tourney has far more to concern himself with. And your hair was red then, not black. My daughter is tall and fair, as Sansa was, but her hair is black, and that will be enough. Men only see what they want to see, Alayne."
Sansa swallowed as Petyr's eyes locked on hers, and then she looked away. The memory of their kiss in the snow still lingered in her mind. The kiss that had killed Lady Lysa...
"Have a servant prepare the solar," he said as he pulled back. "I will receive our Lords Declarant there, not in the High Hall, lest they think I mean to take the seat of the Arryns. A man as low as me should not be seen to have such lofty ambitions."
"So you will give them Robert?" Sansa asked, though she knew better.
"And the Vale?" Petyr asked, amused.
"They already have the Vale," Sansa said.
"They have much of it, I'll grant, but not all. I still have friends in a few places. The Graftons, Lynderly, Lyonel Corbray, and then all the lords around my own seat in the Fingers. Nothing to match the might of the Lords Declarant, of course, but enough to give me leverage."
"But we needn't stay here and suffer the risk," Sansa said. "You still have Harrenhall."
"A seat surrounded on all sides by armies of the crown, far too large and lying in ruins. It'd cost a fortune just to light a fire in every hearth, and that's without even mentioning the curse. I'd put no stock in such things, of course, but I cannot deny there is something ill about that place. Harrenhall has withered every hand to touch it." Petyr shook his head. "I needed a great title to marry Lysa, Alayne, to bring her back into the fold. And now she is gone. My claim could be too easily challenged."
"Then give it back to Cersei," Sansa said. "And let us pray the curse is real."
Petyr laughed and teased her with a little smile as his knuckles brushed her cheek. "There is something to that," he said. "Yet you mustn't fret, Alayne. Cersei's time will come. In this great game we all play even the littlest pieces have a will of their own. Sometimes they'll refuse to make the moves you plan for them. It is a lesson Cersei has yet to learn, one she refuses to learn. You must remember never to make that mistake, Alayne."
Sansa nodded solemnly. "I will."
"Good," Petyr said. "Now, unless I am mistaken, we both have duties to attend to."
Sansa nodded and straightened her dress, and the two of them set off in separate directions. She set upon the food, seeing to it that the wine was mulled and appropriately spiced, and gave commands to the cook to make enough bread and cuts of beef for twenty. She saw to the salt as well, making sure it was only of the finest quality. Once they have taken our bread and our salt they become our guests and cannot hurt us, Sansa told herself. Had Robb thought the same, she wondered, on that night where the Freys betrayed all their oaths and cut their throats?
Yet Yohn Royce was no Frey. She remembered him from the Hand's tourney, resplendent in his bronze plate, brave and valiant and even chivalrous in his victory against the Red Priest Thoros of Myr. No, Sansa tried to convince herself, he would never stoop so low.
Once Sansa had made all the necessary preparations, lighting the hearths in the solar and laying out the table, she went to bathe and wash her hair. Then, once this was done, she went and looked over her choices of clothing. There were several gowns that gave her pause and made her heart flutter, yet a bastard such as she supposedly was would not presume to wear such fine silks and furs, no matter how pretty they would have looked on her. She was no longer Sansa, but instead Alayne. And so she went for a dark brown lambswool dress with a simple cut.
It was modest and becoming, showing only the tiniest hints of her smooth skin with silken embroidery on the fluttering sleeves and tight bodice, yet it was only a touch finer than what a favoured serving girl might wear. It would work well enough as the dress of a baseborn daughter of a minor lord. She forwent much in the way of jewels as well, choosing only a simple gold-threaded choker with a silver clasp that wrapped tight around her neck and blended well with her darker hair and distracted from the Tully blue of her eyes.
I hardly know myself, Sansa thought, perhaps with a touch of melancholy that she quickly quashed. Lord Royce will never recognise me, and that is all that matters.
Emboldened by her new dress, a still somewhat nervous Sansa - nay, Alayne - went down to greet their guests. In Westeros, the Eyrie was the only castle who's main entrance sat below the dungeons. Steep stone steps took guests most of the way, but nearest to the Eyrie the ascent went entirely vertical, and all visitors had the choice of a straight climb up six-hundred feet of wall littered with handholds, or else an ascent in an old wooden basket at the end of a chain, fit only to haul supplies.
Lord Redfort and Lady Waynwood opted for the basket, by far the oldest of the Lords Declarant, and then it was lowered down for fat Lord Belmore. The rest seemed happy to make the climb, and over the course of hours more lords and knights entered the Eyrie than even Sansa had thought fit to prepare for. There were fifty of them, all armed to the teeth. She knew not their names nor their faces, but their heraldry she had made a point of learning.
She greeted each lord and knight after the gruelling climb in the Crescent chamber in Lord Robert's name and served them cups of wine. Last of all came the Royces; Lord Nestor and Bronze Yohn. Yet though Yohn's hair was grey and his face seamed with wrinkles and cracks, he looked about with shrewd eyes, his hands ready at his sides, large and strong enough to rip any man in twain. That face, that plate, it brought the memories all rushing back.
She saw him supping at their table in Winterfell, saw him smashing her father to the ground with a practice sword in hand, and then turning to see to Ser Rodrick as well. He will know me, Sansa suddenly knew, in the pit of her stomach. She considered throwing herself at his feet and begging for protection, but thought better of it. He never fought for Robb. Why should he fight for me? The war is finished and Winterfell has fallen.
And yet, as she approached, she noted how closely Lord Yohn's gaze followed her. She presented him with a cup of wine, her head bowed, and timidly said: "Lord Royce, will you take this cup of wine, to take the cold away?"
Yohn's brows - the bushiest she had ever seen - furrowed over his slate-grey eyes. He cocked his head to the side as he studied her face, and a tense silence seemed to fall over all the other lords as they watched him. Then he nodded and accepted the cup, and silence fell away again to chatter as he took his first sip and asked: "I know you from somewhere, girl. Might I ask your name?"
"Alayne," Sansa nervously supplied. "I'm Lord Petyr's natural-born daughter. And I don't think we've ever met, my lord."
"How old are you, child?" Lady Waynwood interjected, the crows feet around her aged eyes crinkling gently.
"Fourteen, my lady," Sansa said. "A maiden flowered now."
"But not deflowered, one can hope," Lord Hunter said, his bushy moustache bristling as he spoke, even as Lord Yohn and Lady Anya shared a meaningful look.
"Hush, now!" Lady Waynwood said with a scowl. "This girl is young and gently bred, and has suffered horrors enough. Best take us quick to your father, Alayne. The sooner we are done with this the better we will be."
Sansa turned and released a quiet sigh of relief as she fled Lord Yohn's lingering gaze. "The Lord Protector awaits you in the solar, my lords." And together they left the Crescent chamber, climbing up a fight of steps that left some of the older lords huffing and puffing. Once they had arrived the guardsman opened a portcullis that allowed Sansa to lead the men deeper into the Eyrie, round several corners and then through a passage lined with royal tapestries.
At the end of passage was the door to the solar, and as she approached the guards opened it for them. Petyr was sat on the inside at the end of a long table, sipping from a glass of wine and looking intently over some piece of creased parchment. He swiftly abandoned this activity as the Lord Declarant filed in and each began claiming their seats. The lords all sat beside each other, save Lord Nestor who dithered for a second and then chose a seat one away from Petyr, halfway between his fellow Lords Declarant and the Lord Protector. The knights all stood at the edges of the room, leaning against the walls as they watched, helms hiding many of their unfamiliar faces.
"My lords, be welcome," Petyr said as he studied the crowd, the slightest trace of a frown gracing his features before it was gone again, replaced with a calmer, more placid face. "The ascent is wearisome, I know. So I will not waste any more of your precious time. I have been reading this remarkable declaration of yours. Splendid! Whatever maester wrote it must surely have a way with words that eludes me. I only wish you had also invited me to sign."
That seemed throw them. "You?" asked Lord Belmore, still puffing. "Sign?"
"Certainly," Petyr said, leaving the lords and knights at a loss for words. "No one loves Lord Robert nearly as well as I do. And so all these false friends and conniving counsellors that this declaration speaks of must be rooted out."
Bronze Yohn broke the silence. "We do not mean to bandy words with you, Baelish," he said. "Nor did we come for your signature."
Petyr's placid smile soured slightly. "As you wish," he said. "But if we will not bandy then we will be blunt. What would you have me do, my lords and lady?"
"The crown has made you Lord of Harrenhall," Symond Templeton said. "That seems sufficient for any man."
Lord Redfort nodded his agreement. "The Riverlands have need of a lord," he said. "The Tullys remain besieged at Riverrun, Bracken and Blackwood batter each other in all but open war, Frey fingers creep across the land, and all the same brigands and murderers and thieves run unchecked. Unlike here, I should think your presence and influence there would be welcomed."
"A possibility, to be sure, yet I have pressing duties here," Petyr answered. "And then there is Lord Robert to consider. He is so sickly I do not think he would survive the journey."
"His lordship will remain in the Vale," Yohn declared. "He will go to Runestone with me, and learn how to fight under the best swords the Vale has. We will make of him a knight that even Jon Arryn would have been proud of."
Petyr nodded and tapped the table with the tips of his fingers. "Why Runestone?" he asked after a second, his tone hinting at doubts. "Why not Redfort or Longbow Hall?"
"He will visit each in time," Lord Belmore said, his eyes narrowing to show just a hint of anger.
Anya Waynwood sighed. "Petyr, you must think twice if you mean to turn us against one another. Runestone meets all our requirements, and we are all in agreement about it's suitability as the location of Lord Robert's fosterage. There he will meet many a boy his age, certainly more suitable companions for him than the old ladies and sellswords he has at present."
"The need for company I do not disagree with," Petyr said. "Yet I hardly think one could call my Alayne an old woman. Lord Robert loves her dearly. You can ask him of that yourself, if you should choose. And, as it happens, I have asked Lords Grafton and Lynderly to send me a son each, both Robert's age, to serve in this capacity. I think Robert should have an older boy with him as well, to set an example," Petyr said with a glint in his eye. "I hear you have such a boy at Ironoaks, Lady Waynwood. Harrold Hardyng? Perhaps you might agree to send him?"
"Enough," Lord Yohn said, and the table fell silent. "Lord Robert should befriend Harrold, and he will do so... at Runestone."
"Aye," Lord Belmore agreed. "Give us the boy and we'll let you leave the Vale for Harrenhall unmolested."
Petyr gave an exaggerated frown and shot Lord Belmore a reproachful look. "Are you suggesting elsewise I might come to harm, my lord? I cannot think why. My late lady wife seemed to think this was my proper seat."
"You mean the wife that you saw fit to murder?" Lord Yohn said. Sansa felt panic seize her throat, and her skin turn pale as the blood drained from her face. One of the knights shot her a knowing look, and when Sansa saw him she did her best to hide her shock. Perhaps I should just confess, she thought, wringing her hands in her lap. Yet what can I say? I have already lied to Lord Nestor. Petyr was right. They will think me complicit.
Petyr's eyes flashed with confusion. "Now, whatever would bring you to say that, my lord?" he asked innocently, acting hurt, though Sansa knew he was really playing for time whilst his mind toiled furiously to come up with a plan.
"Lysa Tully was the widow of Jon Arryn," Lady Waynwood began, "and the mother of his child. No more. She ruled only as regent. You... let us be frank, you are no Arryn, and Lord Robert is no blood of yours. By what right do you mean to rule us?"
"By what right do you mean to accuse me of murdering my wife?" Petyr asked, his tone rich with an incisive anger. "And if I recall correctly, Lady Lysa named me Lord Protector, not Lord Royce here."
"An awfully convenient occurrence, wouldn't you say?" Lady Waynwood retorted. "We all know how Lady Lysa's mind was damaged by so many stillbirths. I can't imagine it would have been too difficult for a man as capable as you to convince her."
Symond Templeton cleared his throat loudly, and said: "Each of us has a thousand men at the foot of this mountain, Littlefinger."
"Why, are you threatening me with war?" Petyr asked in a flat, unimpressed tone.
"We shall have Lord Robert," Bronze Yohn insisted, in a tone that brooked no argument.
Petyr rose suddenly from his seat and slapped the table so hard that the resulting sound made many of the lords jump in their seats. "By what right?" he hissed. "You come here, to the home of my dead wife, and demand from me my beloved stepson, and slander me before my daughter! You write of defending Lord Robert even as you deny him food. You claim I killed Lysa Arryn, yet you offer no proof of the crime!" Petyr shook his head in feigned fury. "No, my lords, this has gone too far. I am no warrior, but I will fight you if you do not end this siege. There are other lords in the Vale besides yourself, and the crown will support me if needed. If it is war you want, my lords, you must say so now, and I will make the Vale bleed."
"A war we can win well enough," Bronze Yohn simply said, unaffected by Petyr's threats. "And as for proof, we will have the testimony of the singer Marillion."
Petyr stopped himself just he was about into launch his reply, turned to look at Lord Yohn, and then began laughing. His sour look became a smile again. "You mean the word of that scoundrel?" he said. "Very well, then. If you will come to the Eyrie and lay such accusations before me, then instead of a war I will demand a trial. Not just before you, my lords and lady, but before all the rest of the lords of the Vale as well." He thinks to humiliate Lord Yohn, Sansa realised.
Lady Waynwood nodded and looked around the table to a chorus of ayes and other expressions of assent. "I think we can all agree to that, Lord Baelish." She turned back to Petyr, quirked an eyebrow and smiled. "Oh, but there is one other thing we mustn't forget to mention, my lord."
"Oh?" Petyr said, eyes sharpening with surprise. "Pray tell, what is it?"
"You say you can count on the crown," Lord Yohn continued for Lady Anya, "but I wouldn't be so certain of that." He then lifted a large hand in Alayne's direction, leaving his statement shrouded in uncertainty, and extended a calloused finger to point. "And so long as she is here, my lord, Marillion's word hardly matters. Because that girl is not your baseborn daughter, Lord Baelish, and Alayne is not her name. She, as you well know, is Sansa Stark."
---------
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P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future
"Bronze Yohn knows me," Sansa insisted. "He was there, in Kings Landing, at the Hand's tourney. He saw me in the crowds."
"Ah," Petyr said, nodding as he put a finger under her chin and grazed her lip with his thumb. "But back then you were only a pretty face in the crowd. A man fighting in a tourney has far more to concern himself with. And your hair was red then, not black. My daughter is tall and fair, as Sansa was, but her hair is black, and that will be enough. Men only see what they want to see, Alayne."
Sansa swallowed as Petyr's eyes locked on hers, and then she looked away. The memory of their kiss in the snow still lingered in her mind. The kiss that had killed Lady Lysa...
"Have a servant prepare the solar," he said as he pulled back. "I will receive our Lords Declarant there, not in the High Hall, lest they think I mean to take the seat of the Arryns. A man as low as me should not be seen to have such lofty ambitions."
"So you will give them Robert?" Sansa asked, though she knew better.
"And the Vale?" Petyr asked, amused.
"They already have the Vale," Sansa said.
"They have much of it, I'll grant, but not all. I still have friends in a few places. The Graftons, Lynderly, Lyonel Corbray, and then all the lords around my own seat in the Fingers. Nothing to match the might of the Lords Declarant, of course, but enough to give me leverage."
"But we needn't stay here and suffer the risk," Sansa said. "You still have Harrenhall."
"A seat surrounded on all sides by armies of the crown, far too large and lying in ruins. It'd cost a fortune just to light a fire in every hearth, and that's without even mentioning the curse. I'd put no stock in such things, of course, but I cannot deny there is something ill about that place. Harrenhall has withered every hand to touch it." Petyr shook his head. "I needed a great title to marry Lysa, Alayne, to bring her back into the fold. And now she is gone. My claim could be too easily challenged."
"Then give it back to Cersei," Sansa said. "And let us pray the curse is real."
Petyr laughed and teased her with a little smile as his knuckles brushed her cheek. "There is something to that," he said. "Yet you mustn't fret, Alayne. Cersei's time will come. In this great game we all play even the littlest pieces have a will of their own. Sometimes they'll refuse to make the moves you plan for them. It is a lesson Cersei has yet to learn, one she refuses to learn. You must remember never to make that mistake, Alayne."
Sansa nodded solemnly. "I will."
"Good," Petyr said. "Now, unless I am mistaken, we both have duties to attend to."
Sansa nodded and straightened her dress, and the two of them set off in separate directions. She set upon the food, seeing to it that the wine was mulled and appropriately spiced, and gave commands to the cook to make enough bread and cuts of beef for twenty. She saw to the salt as well, making sure it was only of the finest quality. Once they have taken our bread and our salt they become our guests and cannot hurt us, Sansa told herself. Had Robb thought the same, she wondered, on that night where the Freys betrayed all their oaths and cut their throats?
Yet Yohn Royce was no Frey. She remembered him from the Hand's tourney, resplendent in his bronze plate, brave and valiant and even chivalrous in his victory against the Red Priest Thoros of Myr. No, Sansa tried to convince herself, he would never stoop so low.
Once Sansa had made all the necessary preparations, lighting the hearths in the solar and laying out the table, she went to bathe and wash her hair. Then, once this was done, she went and looked over her choices of clothing. There were several gowns that gave her pause and made her heart flutter, yet a bastard such as she supposedly was would not presume to wear such fine silks and furs, no matter how pretty they would have looked on her. She was no longer Sansa, but instead Alayne. And so she went for a dark brown lambswool dress with a simple cut.
It was modest and becoming, showing only the tiniest hints of her smooth skin with silken embroidery on the fluttering sleeves and tight bodice, yet it was only a touch finer than what a favoured serving girl might wear. It would work well enough as the dress of a baseborn daughter of a minor lord. She forwent much in the way of jewels as well, choosing only a simple gold-threaded choker with a silver clasp that wrapped tight around her neck and blended well with her darker hair and distracted from the Tully blue of her eyes.
I hardly know myself, Sansa thought, perhaps with a touch of melancholy that she quickly quashed. Lord Royce will never recognise me, and that is all that matters.
Emboldened by her new dress, a still somewhat nervous Sansa - nay, Alayne - went down to greet their guests. In Westeros, the Eyrie was the only castle who's main entrance sat below the dungeons. Steep stone steps took guests most of the way, but nearest to the Eyrie the ascent went entirely vertical, and all visitors had the choice of a straight climb up six-hundred feet of wall littered with handholds, or else an ascent in an old wooden basket at the end of a chain, fit only to haul supplies.
Lord Redfort and Lady Waynwood opted for the basket, by far the oldest of the Lords Declarant, and then it was lowered down for fat Lord Belmore. The rest seemed happy to make the climb, and over the course of hours more lords and knights entered the Eyrie than even Sansa had thought fit to prepare for. There were fifty of them, all armed to the teeth. She knew not their names nor their faces, but their heraldry she had made a point of learning.
She greeted each lord and knight after the gruelling climb in the Crescent chamber in Lord Robert's name and served them cups of wine. Last of all came the Royces; Lord Nestor and Bronze Yohn. Yet though Yohn's hair was grey and his face seamed with wrinkles and cracks, he looked about with shrewd eyes, his hands ready at his sides, large and strong enough to rip any man in twain. That face, that plate, it brought the memories all rushing back.
She saw him supping at their table in Winterfell, saw him smashing her father to the ground with a practice sword in hand, and then turning to see to Ser Rodrick as well. He will know me, Sansa suddenly knew, in the pit of her stomach. She considered throwing herself at his feet and begging for protection, but thought better of it. He never fought for Robb. Why should he fight for me? The war is finished and Winterfell has fallen.
And yet, as she approached, she noted how closely Lord Yohn's gaze followed her. She presented him with a cup of wine, her head bowed, and timidly said: "Lord Royce, will you take this cup of wine, to take the cold away?"
Yohn's brows - the bushiest she had ever seen - furrowed over his slate-grey eyes. He cocked his head to the side as he studied her face, and a tense silence seemed to fall over all the other lords as they watched him. Then he nodded and accepted the cup, and silence fell away again to chatter as he took his first sip and asked: "I know you from somewhere, girl. Might I ask your name?"
"Alayne," Sansa nervously supplied. "I'm Lord Petyr's natural-born daughter. And I don't think we've ever met, my lord."
"How old are you, child?" Lady Waynwood interjected, the crows feet around her aged eyes crinkling gently.
"Fourteen, my lady," Sansa said. "A maiden flowered now."
"But not deflowered, one can hope," Lord Hunter said, his bushy moustache bristling as he spoke, even as Lord Yohn and Lady Anya shared a meaningful look.
"Hush, now!" Lady Waynwood said with a scowl. "This girl is young and gently bred, and has suffered horrors enough. Best take us quick to your father, Alayne. The sooner we are done with this the better we will be."
Sansa turned and released a quiet sigh of relief as she fled Lord Yohn's lingering gaze. "The Lord Protector awaits you in the solar, my lords." And together they left the Crescent chamber, climbing up a fight of steps that left some of the older lords huffing and puffing. Once they had arrived the guardsman opened a portcullis that allowed Sansa to lead the men deeper into the Eyrie, round several corners and then through a passage lined with royal tapestries.
At the end of passage was the door to the solar, and as she approached the guards opened it for them. Petyr was sat on the inside at the end of a long table, sipping from a glass of wine and looking intently over some piece of creased parchment. He swiftly abandoned this activity as the Lord Declarant filed in and each began claiming their seats. The lords all sat beside each other, save Lord Nestor who dithered for a second and then chose a seat one away from Petyr, halfway between his fellow Lords Declarant and the Lord Protector. The knights all stood at the edges of the room, leaning against the walls as they watched, helms hiding many of their unfamiliar faces.
"My lords, be welcome," Petyr said as he studied the crowd, the slightest trace of a frown gracing his features before it was gone again, replaced with a calmer, more placid face. "The ascent is wearisome, I know. So I will not waste any more of your precious time. I have been reading this remarkable declaration of yours. Splendid! Whatever maester wrote it must surely have a way with words that eludes me. I only wish you had also invited me to sign."
That seemed throw them. "You?" asked Lord Belmore, still puffing. "Sign?"
"Certainly," Petyr said, leaving the lords and knights at a loss for words. "No one loves Lord Robert nearly as well as I do. And so all these false friends and conniving counsellors that this declaration speaks of must be rooted out."
Bronze Yohn broke the silence. "We do not mean to bandy words with you, Baelish," he said. "Nor did we come for your signature."
Petyr's placid smile soured slightly. "As you wish," he said. "But if we will not bandy then we will be blunt. What would you have me do, my lords and lady?"
"The crown has made you Lord of Harrenhall," Symond Templeton said. "That seems sufficient for any man."
Lord Redfort nodded his agreement. "The Riverlands have need of a lord," he said. "The Tullys remain besieged at Riverrun, Bracken and Blackwood batter each other in all but open war, Frey fingers creep across the land, and all the same brigands and murderers and thieves run unchecked. Unlike here, I should think your presence and influence there would be welcomed."
"A possibility, to be sure, yet I have pressing duties here," Petyr answered. "And then there is Lord Robert to consider. He is so sickly I do not think he would survive the journey."
"His lordship will remain in the Vale," Yohn declared. "He will go to Runestone with me, and learn how to fight under the best swords the Vale has. We will make of him a knight that even Jon Arryn would have been proud of."
Petyr nodded and tapped the table with the tips of his fingers. "Why Runestone?" he asked after a second, his tone hinting at doubts. "Why not Redfort or Longbow Hall?"
"He will visit each in time," Lord Belmore said, his eyes narrowing to show just a hint of anger.
Anya Waynwood sighed. "Petyr, you must think twice if you mean to turn us against one another. Runestone meets all our requirements, and we are all in agreement about it's suitability as the location of Lord Robert's fosterage. There he will meet many a boy his age, certainly more suitable companions for him than the old ladies and sellswords he has at present."
"The need for company I do not disagree with," Petyr said. "Yet I hardly think one could call my Alayne an old woman. Lord Robert loves her dearly. You can ask him of that yourself, if you should choose. And, as it happens, I have asked Lords Grafton and Lynderly to send me a son each, both Robert's age, to serve in this capacity. I think Robert should have an older boy with him as well, to set an example," Petyr said with a glint in his eye. "I hear you have such a boy at Ironoaks, Lady Waynwood. Harrold Hardyng? Perhaps you might agree to send him?"
"Enough," Lord Yohn said, and the table fell silent. "Lord Robert should befriend Harrold, and he will do so... at Runestone."
"Aye," Lord Belmore agreed. "Give us the boy and we'll let you leave the Vale for Harrenhall unmolested."
Petyr gave an exaggerated frown and shot Lord Belmore a reproachful look. "Are you suggesting elsewise I might come to harm, my lord? I cannot think why. My late lady wife seemed to think this was my proper seat."
"You mean the wife that you saw fit to murder?" Lord Yohn said. Sansa felt panic seize her throat, and her skin turn pale as the blood drained from her face. One of the knights shot her a knowing look, and when Sansa saw him she did her best to hide her shock. Perhaps I should just confess, she thought, wringing her hands in her lap. Yet what can I say? I have already lied to Lord Nestor. Petyr was right. They will think me complicit.
Petyr's eyes flashed with confusion. "Now, whatever would bring you to say that, my lord?" he asked innocently, acting hurt, though Sansa knew he was really playing for time whilst his mind toiled furiously to come up with a plan.
"Lysa Tully was the widow of Jon Arryn," Lady Waynwood began, "and the mother of his child. No more. She ruled only as regent. You... let us be frank, you are no Arryn, and Lord Robert is no blood of yours. By what right do you mean to rule us?"
"By what right do you mean to accuse me of murdering my wife?" Petyr asked, his tone rich with an incisive anger. "And if I recall correctly, Lady Lysa named me Lord Protector, not Lord Royce here."
"An awfully convenient occurrence, wouldn't you say?" Lady Waynwood retorted. "We all know how Lady Lysa's mind was damaged by so many stillbirths. I can't imagine it would have been too difficult for a man as capable as you to convince her."
Symond Templeton cleared his throat loudly, and said: "Each of us has a thousand men at the foot of this mountain, Littlefinger."
"Why, are you threatening me with war?" Petyr asked in a flat, unimpressed tone.
"We shall have Lord Robert," Bronze Yohn insisted, in a tone that brooked no argument.
Petyr rose suddenly from his seat and slapped the table so hard that the resulting sound made many of the lords jump in their seats. "By what right?" he hissed. "You come here, to the home of my dead wife, and demand from me my beloved stepson, and slander me before my daughter! You write of defending Lord Robert even as you deny him food. You claim I killed Lysa Arryn, yet you offer no proof of the crime!" Petyr shook his head in feigned fury. "No, my lords, this has gone too far. I am no warrior, but I will fight you if you do not end this siege. There are other lords in the Vale besides yourself, and the crown will support me if needed. If it is war you want, my lords, you must say so now, and I will make the Vale bleed."
"A war we can win well enough," Bronze Yohn simply said, unaffected by Petyr's threats. "And as for proof, we will have the testimony of the singer Marillion."
Petyr stopped himself just he was about into launch his reply, turned to look at Lord Yohn, and then began laughing. His sour look became a smile again. "You mean the word of that scoundrel?" he said. "Very well, then. If you will come to the Eyrie and lay such accusations before me, then instead of a war I will demand a trial. Not just before you, my lords and lady, but before all the rest of the lords of the Vale as well." He thinks to humiliate Lord Yohn, Sansa realised.
Lady Waynwood nodded and looked around the table to a chorus of ayes and other expressions of assent. "I think we can all agree to that, Lord Baelish." She turned back to Petyr, quirked an eyebrow and smiled. "Oh, but there is one other thing we mustn't forget to mention, my lord."
"Oh?" Petyr said, eyes sharpening with surprise. "Pray tell, what is it?"
"You say you can count on the crown," Lord Yohn continued for Lady Anya, "but I wouldn't be so certain of that." He then lifted a large hand in Alayne's direction, leaving his statement shrouded in uncertainty, and extended a calloused finger to point. "And so long as she is here, my lord, Marillion's word hardly matters. Because that girl is not your baseborn daughter, Lord Baelish, and Alayne is not her name. She, as you well know, is Sansa Stark."
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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
Last edited:
- Joined
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Hey looks like chapter 14 is missing, or the threadmark is.
Glad to see the story here! It's a really fun read and I always look forward to another chapter.
Glad to see the story here! It's a really fun read and I always look forward to another chapter.
Heros-Venator
Not too sore, are you?
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It requires a lot of skill to defeat littlefinger at intrigue when you are not even in the same kingdom as he.
Spearow
Respect the bird
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What about little finger money? is it still buried bellow the brothels or did he moved it already? Mc can probably pay everything he owns to the bank if he manages to confiscate the stolen money.
Btw, its always great to see him getting fucked, i cant wait to see Jaime killing the zombie Catelyn, maybe capturing her to show all the nobles, prove the existence of undead monsters?
Provide some early proof that the night king is real?
Btw, its always great to see him getting fucked, i cant wait to see Jaime killing the zombie Catelyn, maybe capturing her to show all the nobles, prove the existence of undead monsters?
Provide some early proof that the night king is real?
Pef
Experienced.
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For a self-insert, this story has surprisingly little advancements into anything related to medicine, weaponry and other feats of civilization.
Sure, I expect wildfire being used agaisnt the Others and dragon-glass too, perhaps less asinine tactics than setting the catapults out front, followed by a cavalry charge into a mass of undead zombies. But weapons or tactics aside, an army wins by logistics, and I see no roads, railroads (even horse-drawn trains), fortifications, supply depots, semaphore towers etc.
Even a Crown Bank would have been a nice improvement (especially agriculture loans), plus land distribution and other kingly tools.
There have been some hints of Golden Cloaks being purged, and perhaps a new law system. But why not clean up King's Landing and send the poor to farm? It's not like they contribute anything by starving at the periphery.
Sure, I expect wildfire being used agaisnt the Others and dragon-glass too, perhaps less asinine tactics than setting the catapults out front, followed by a cavalry charge into a mass of undead zombies. But weapons or tactics aside, an army wins by logistics, and I see no roads, railroads (even horse-drawn trains), fortifications, supply depots, semaphore towers etc.
Even a Crown Bank would have been a nice improvement (especially agriculture loans), plus land distribution and other kingly tools.
There have been some hints of Golden Cloaks being purged, and perhaps a new law system. But why not clean up King's Landing and send the poor to farm? It's not like they contribute anything by starving at the periphery.
iceknight90
Generally facetious
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Nice work on this. I enjoyed this rather grounded take on the self insert. No uplifts. No badass fighting skills. Just the clever and judicious use of metaknowledge and scheming.
Chapter 28: Jon II
Morph-Writing
Getting sticky.
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Chapter 28: Jon II
"Can I have his boots?" someone asked, as Janos Slynt's head went rolling across the muddy ground. "They're proper boots, they are, almost new. Lined with fur too."
Jon glanced back at Stannis, and their eyes briefly met. Beside him, he heard the sound of the man taking his refusal to address the question as assent, and soon after the rest of the men descended on the body like a murder of crows, stripping the headless corpse of all but a coarse layer of roughspun. Stannis's gaze flicked over to the crowd, and then after a long moment he turned, shot Jon an approving nod, and disappeared again inside his tower.
Jon braced himself as he turned away from the scene of the execution and made for his tower. Black brothers parted as he approached, nervously leaving him a path. The boots of his guards tromped in the mud behind him. He had killed Janos Slynt for refusing orders, for refusing to serve the Wall and refusing to man Greyguard despite receiving direct orders, but to them death was death.
The man was an oathbreaker, Jon wanted to say to the lingering looks and watching eyes. A deserter in all but name. No man is more dangerous. No man is more deserving of death.
And yet, Jon kept his peace, even as he met the cold gaze of Alliser Thorne in the crowd, ever defiant. I am the Lord Commander now, Jon said with his eyes. This would not be his last beheading. And Janos Slynt was not worthy of his guilt anyhow. He would have to kill better men in the days and weeks and months to come. It was best to spare his remorse for them.
As it was, executions always induced a bout of melancholy in Jon, some more pronounced than others. He who passes the sentence should swing the sword, he remembered his father had said as he climbed the steps. A good way to earn the deference of men if done well, and a good way to earn their disdain elsewise.
Jon dismissed his guards with a lazy wave of his hand as he arrived in his solar. Today was more an autumn day than a winter one. The snows did not fall, and the curly blanket of clouds did not sit atop the sky. The air was cold, but that was all. Jon pushed open the shutters as he pulled himself a seat and poured himself a cup of wine. This would likely be one of the last days of true light the Wall would be lucky to receive in a good long while. He would relish that while he could, before his whole world would be plunged into overcast darkness and bitter chills.
From his window, Jon watched the Wall. The sunlight bounced off the icy construction of the Wall, little teardrops of water rolling down the sides, sparkling like diamonds. He'd seen the Wall from up close, when it was unimaginably vast and so tall as to make one feel like a gnat, but he preferred it like this. It was still massive, but from a distance one could better appreciate the awful beauty of it.
Jon sighed, sipped the last dregs of wine from his cup, lit the fire in his hearth to ward away the cold - even as he left the shutters open to the breeze - and set down to work at his desk. Yet not one minute into his work he was interrupted when Sam came in - cautiously at first, peeking to see if Mormont's raven was still about to peck at his fingers, and then more confidently once he realised he was safe - and pressed a letter onto the table.
"Another from the Iron Throne?" Jon guessed, knowing Sam would not make the trek himself unless it was important.
Samwell nodded and sat himself down, even as he pushed the letter across the surface of the table for Jon to read. With the crook of his finger, Jon pulled off the seal and unfurled the scrap of parchment. He read it once, then twice, then swallowed and asked: "Can you keep a secret, Sam?"
Sam's eyes narrowed with concern, and he nodded tentatively, almost nervously. "Of course I can, my lord."
"It's Arya," Jon said, still looking at the letter, running his thumb over the ink, over the parchment, tears pricking his eyes. "She wrote this letter."
Samwell frowned. "Are you certain? It's not a forgery?"
"I'd know her hand anywhere," Jon said. "I helped her with her letters, when she was struggling with Maester Luwin's lessons. I've seen it a thousand times, and I'm seeing it again today."
Sam frowned. "So King Tommen was telling the truth."
"Apparently," Jon said, his look souring again.
"But we can't turn our backs on Stannis," Samwell said.
Jon shook his head in agreement.
"Then you need to destroy that letter, my lord," Samwell said, a warning tone in his voice. "I know you might want to keep it, but if one of Stannis's men finds it... If they find out that the Lord Commander has a sister held under the thumb of the Iron Throne..." Sam shook his head. "And it won't just be them either. The other black brothers will start having doubts as well."
"I know," Jon said hotly. "And I'm not under anyone's thumb. I do only what is right for the Watch. But I won't destroy it. Just not... Not right now. Give me a day or two."
Samwell nodded and rose to his feet. "I'll leave you be, my lord," he said, his brow still furrowed in concern for his friend as he turned and left.
Jon sat in silence for what felt like hours after that, reading and rereading till the words were burned into his mind and the letters began to blur together. He watched the flames slowly die in his hearth and become embers and when he went to sleep he awoke to wolf dreams again.
He was on his haunches in Winterfell's Great Hall, howling for his pack. Howling and howling, his voice echoing off the cold stone walls. The only light was moonlight, falling in harsh lines on the flagstone floors through the windows. No matter. As Jon's nose twitched the scents pushed him onwards, guiding him, his padded feet soundless. Ahead was warmth, a fire, a good meal, and his family.
Robb would be there with an easy smile, a sword in his hand and an offer to spar. Bran would be there, his legs still working, ever curious, ever climbing. Rickon would be there as well, small and happy and unacquainted with the horrors of this world. So would Sansa, ever prim and proper, and Arya, ever wild and free.
And so too would he find the warm embrace of his father.
Yet so far, all he had was silence. In his deepest heart, he knew it to all be a dream. Yet the tiniest sliver of hope refused to die.
At the end of this hall he would find his family.
Jon advanced further, his fear slipping away, replaced with a surging desperation. A slow walk became a jog, and then a run. Yet the hall did not end. It grew and grew, the ceiling rising, the floor widening, the end somehow further away then when he started. He heard a voice, young and girlish, calling out at first, and then screaming. He knew not the words the voice said, but he recognised it to be begging.
Jon pushed himself even faster, sprinting now, the wind whipping through his fur, making for the screams before they were silenced. A terrible panic seized him as the voice grew weaker, and the stench of fear filled his nostrils. His muscles burned.
Suddenly, he saw it.
A naked girl lying flat on her back; shivering, whimpering, blood leaking out onto the floor from between her legs, her entrails visible through a slit in her stomach. Her face was hidden by a cloak of shadows. A woman was hunched overtop, her back turned, her head covered by a hood; silent, slow, dangerous. She turned, and Jon saw eyes of murky blue like a sky shrouded by icy clouds, set into a shredded face of rotten flesh, a halo of stringy white hair spilling out from under the hood. Blood stained her fingertips and lips and spattered her tattered cloak.
A wight, Jon thought at first, but was soon frozen in fear as he saw the look in it's eyes. Or something worse?
And then he started awake, his chest heaving.
Arya? Ygritte? Sansa? he asked himself. Perhaps, yet I didn't get a good look at the girl. I was too distracted by the woman. Not that that much mattered. Normally during his wolf dreams the halls he visited were empty. Normally all he found was silence, no matter how much he wished otherwise. But today...
Jon sighed, shook away what last vestiges of sleep still lingered, and pulled himself from his bed. The morning chill struck his skin and caused an outbreak of reddened gooseflesh. Across the room, the letter caught his eye. Jon thought back to his dreams, grit his teeth, and snatched up the scrap of parchment. He looked it over one last time, eying the ink, memorising the words, and then flicked the letter into the dying embers still glowing in the hearth from the fire he had started yesterday.
It caught alight quickly enough, and Jon watched it burn in solemn silence as he dressed himself. You're not the only thing that will burn today, Jon thought as he watched the edges of the parchment crinkle and curl and slowly blacken as wisps of smoke trailed up. Despite his best efforts to convince him to the contrary, today was the day that Stannis had determined as the most auspicious for the King-Beyond-the-Wall to die.
And the Red Witch left no doubts in Jon's mind as to how the execution would be conducted.
Shooting one last forlorn look at his hearth, Jon wrapped his fur cloak tight about himself and left his chambers, descending down the steps to find his guards waiting at the bottom, neatly falling in behind him as he trudged through a fresh layer of snow. The day may have been warm and cloudless, but the night had been bitter and heavy. The evidence of that was all around, a thin sheet of white covering every exposed surface.
Through the snow Jon walked, and through the snow Jon rode, all the way to the foot of the Wall.
They brought forth the King-Beyond-the-Wall with his hands bound beyond his back and a noose hanging loosely off his neck. He had been stripped clean, left only a small hemp shirt that left his arms and legs exposed to the cold as he was led to the wooden scaffold raised over the firepit. Behind him, Jon saw the Wall was still weeping, albeit slower than the day before. The winter chill would set the remaining rivulets of icy water in place soon enough.
I tried, Jon wanted to say as he watched Mance stumble. But, alas, all his claims and attempts at convincement of Mance's usefulness had fallen on deaf ears. The law remained plain and simple; a deserter's life was forfeit. And so long as this was true, Stannis's famously iron will would not be shaken.
Beside the prisoner, Jon watched as the Red Witch made her presence known. "We all must choose!" she proclaimed, in a surprisingly loud voice. "We must choose between light or dark. Between good or evil. Between the true god or the false one."
Mance listened to the rest of Melisandre's speech with a smile on his face, his courage unfailing, but when he turned and saw the woodwork his bravery faltered. It was a cage that hung from the scaffold, made from the twisted and gnarled branches of a weirwood tree all woven together. He balked for a brief moment, and then turned away and recoiled at the sight of the cage, his features marked with horror.
"No," he said, shaking his head and trying to back away. "This is not right. I'm not a king, they made me..." His words were cut off when two men grabbed him by the armpits and hauled him forwards towards the frame. "Mercy!" he cried. "Mercy!"
One of Stannis's men pulled on the noose around his neck and choked off his next words, and silently the men holding him tried to stuff him into the cage. They had to beat him to overcome his resistance when he tried to stop himself, and before long the snow on the ground was speckled with blood. With some of his limbs broken, Mance Rayder was half-dragged and half-carried to the cage, and unceremoniously thrown in.
The door shut, a dozen of Stannis's men made short work of gathering around the rope and heaving, the scaffold shaking from their efforts as the cage was lifted off the ground above the pit, which was filled with wood and leaves and kindling. Lady Melisandre watched him rise with icy eyes, not a hint of guilt in her entire body. You could have beheaded him, Jon wanted to say, but instead he bit his tongue to keep the peace.
"FREE FOLK!" she called out. "Here hangs your kings of lies! Your coward king!" She waved her hand and two men came forwards carrying something. "And here is the horn he promised would bring down the Wall!" A lie, Jon thought, or at least that was what Tommen had told him. Jon remembered Ygritte had agreed before she'd died, telling him that Mance had never managed to find the true horn. Looking at it, Jon saw black wood banded with old gold engraved with runes, eight feet long from end to end.
Whatever it was, Jon knew better than to abandon his caution. He'd keep an eye open either way.
Through the stockades, a thousand captive wildling men watched as the horn was hefted high, and then unceremoniously thrown into the pile of kindling below the cage from which Mance still hung. "The Horn of Darkness, I call it," Melisandre continued. "For if the Wall falls then the long night - that night that never ends - will surely come as well! And then we will all freeze. No, the Lord of Light cannot let this happen! And so he has gifted us Azor Ahai reborn!"
Melisandre gestured to Stannis, clad in pale grey plate, his sunken eyes stern and unyielding rather than unfeeling. You can surely still put a stop to this, Jon thought, but knew it would not be so.
"FREE FOLK!" Melisandre cried again. "Behold the fate of those who choose the darkness!" And just like that, the Horn of Joramun burst into flames, and the fire slowly grew to the surrounding kindling. It was a queer fire, green and yellow and purple and red, leaping and spitting and crackling as it slowly grew hot. The stockades shook as some grew angry at seeing their hopes aflame.
Inside his cage, despite his broken limbs and bloodied body, Mance screamed incoherently as he clawed first at the noose around his neck and then at the cage with bound hands. He screamed of treachery and witchery and then he screamed denial after denial after denial.
And then he stopped.
For a moment Jon thought his heart had burst, but just as he was about to send a silent prayer of thanks to the old gods a crazed laughter began emanating from the cage, becoming louder and louder as the fire underneath crackled and grew. Jon watched unblinking as the fire caught the weirwood, forcing himself not to react. A display of squeamishness now would be seen as weakness, something he could ill afford. Instead he affixed his eyes and watched, his stomach slowly roiling as burning wood became burning flesh.
All around him, two hundred black brothers watched with Jon, hoods pulled over their heads to hide who they really were. Greybeards and green boys would not strike fear into the wildlings, and if they were not sufficiently afraid then Jon knew that all they would do once south of the Wall was wreak havoc.
As the horn split in the pit with an almighty crack, Mance clutched at the bars of his cage and did a little dance, lifting one foot away from the flames, and then the other, and then back again. But he could delay the inevitable only for so long, and his laughs became screams again, so loud and raw that Jon feared he would tear his throat and fall silent before he died instead of after.
Jon could not watch any longer. "Now!" he hissed, and three brothers in the crowd set down their spears, strung their bows, and launched three headless arrows into the heart of the cage. Fluttering and jumping, the cage swinging, Mance was no easy target, but the arrows found their mark nonetheless. One took him in the chest, the other in the neck, and the last in the eye. The shafts caught fire in the heat fast enough, but at least the man in the cage was dead.
He slid down to the bottom of his cage, the screams silenced as his body was slowly engulfed in fire. The wood of the cage soon began crumbling, but by then all evidence of their deed would be burned away. Stannis was scowling, but Jon did not meet his gaze. Mance Rayder had once been a brother of the Night's Watch. For all he had gone on to do afterwards, he was still a black brother, and that much alone entitled him to a decent death.
He who passes the sentence should swing the sword...
"FREE FOLK!" Melisandre started, meeting Jon's eyes for an instant before she turned to the crowd. "Your false gods cannot help you! Your false horn is burned! Your false king brought you only death, despair, defeat... yet here stands your one true king! BEHOLD HIS GLORY!"
A false king in more ways than one, Jon thought as he watched the fire.
Stannis Baratheon drew Lightbringer. The blade radiated with light, shifting between red, yellow and white. The colours of the ritual flame, shining as though a second sun. When Stannis raised the blade above his head, men had to avert their eyes for the light was too bright. The still raging blaze of the execution fire seemed to shy away, dimming and diminishing before the light of Stannis's sword. The rivulets rolling down the sides of the Wall seemed to glow in the distance, suddenly sparkling as they had the day before. Is this the power of king's blood? Jon asked himself. Or is this the power of the Red Witch's tricks?
Tommen had been frustratingly vague about that in his letters thus far. It was clear to Jon that suspicion laced every word and caution lined every statement. He wrote in riddles, and rarely revealed anything of substance save warnings and instructions to burn after reading. Yet if what he said was true - and that was still no sure thing - then there was a chance that this man had not been Mance at all...
Yet how could Tommen know the Red Witch's plans? Jon asked himself. He can hardly see into our minds. So if that Mance was a mummer's trick, then how could he know?
Regardless, it was another reason to keep one eye open.
"Westeros has only one king," Stannis said calmly, though his voice carried across the entire way as he eyed the thousand wildlings behind their stockades. "With this sword I defend my subjects and destroy those who might menace them. Bend the knee and I promise you food, land and safety." The Watch's food and the Watch's land, Jon thought sourly. "Kneel and live," Stannis continued, "or go and die. The choice is yours."
He slipped his sword back into it's scabbard, and the world was dark again.
This would be the test. If it was successful, then perhaps peace was possible. If not, then Jon would have to find another way. Stannis's men went to open up the gates to the stockades, ripping up the stakes from the frozen ground. Jon played his part, raising his hand and lowering it, silently instructing his men to part and form a path.
"Come," Melisandre urged, like a mother speaking to a small child. "Come to the light, or else run to the dark. If you choose life, come to me."
And then they came. Slowly, at first, some limping out from their pen. There was an air of uncertainty about them, as though thinking this a trick. One man met Jon's eyes, and Jon offered him a silent nod. Submit and you will not starve, he said with his gaze. More followed soon after, when they saw that no harm had befallen those who had gone before. A few turned for the forest and wandered into the icy shadows however, ever untrusting. Southrons called these men wildlings. It was telling that they did not agree, and preferred themselves the free folk.
But it was not many who rejected the offer of safety for freedom. No more than one in ten went into the woods, away from Melisandre. More wights for the Others, Jon reflected sadly. Much as he misliked Melisandre, she was still by far the lesser of two evils.
Soon enough, they were even kneeling. The Lord of Bones knelt first, and then the rest followed. Jon shivered at the sight. It is too cold for this mummer's show. The free folk despised kneelers. Jon had advised against this particular requirement, but again he went ignored. Now getting the rest of the chiefs to agree to peace would become just that little bit harder. The majority of them were still behind the Wall, and they would hear of this from those who had chosen to wander north. Even among those who chose to stay, much as he looked, Jon found no true loyalty in the free folk as they were herded to warmth and food. Only hunger.
It was Mance they chose, he thought. Offer them food and plenty and you may make them kneel, but they will never make you king. And it would be his men who would bear the brunt of that. The Watch may be able to make the free folk bleed, and we may be slowly growing, but in the end we are still too small to stop them. It was an impossible circumstance, and that was without accounting for the possibility that both Mance and the Horn of Joramun could be hiding somewhere, unburned and unharmed.
And so in the end all we can do is wait, Jon thought resignedly, and make use of this peace as best we can whilst it still persists.
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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
"Can I have his boots?" someone asked, as Janos Slynt's head went rolling across the muddy ground. "They're proper boots, they are, almost new. Lined with fur too."
Jon glanced back at Stannis, and their eyes briefly met. Beside him, he heard the sound of the man taking his refusal to address the question as assent, and soon after the rest of the men descended on the body like a murder of crows, stripping the headless corpse of all but a coarse layer of roughspun. Stannis's gaze flicked over to the crowd, and then after a long moment he turned, shot Jon an approving nod, and disappeared again inside his tower.
Jon braced himself as he turned away from the scene of the execution and made for his tower. Black brothers parted as he approached, nervously leaving him a path. The boots of his guards tromped in the mud behind him. He had killed Janos Slynt for refusing orders, for refusing to serve the Wall and refusing to man Greyguard despite receiving direct orders, but to them death was death.
The man was an oathbreaker, Jon wanted to say to the lingering looks and watching eyes. A deserter in all but name. No man is more dangerous. No man is more deserving of death.
And yet, Jon kept his peace, even as he met the cold gaze of Alliser Thorne in the crowd, ever defiant. I am the Lord Commander now, Jon said with his eyes. This would not be his last beheading. And Janos Slynt was not worthy of his guilt anyhow. He would have to kill better men in the days and weeks and months to come. It was best to spare his remorse for them.
As it was, executions always induced a bout of melancholy in Jon, some more pronounced than others. He who passes the sentence should swing the sword, he remembered his father had said as he climbed the steps. A good way to earn the deference of men if done well, and a good way to earn their disdain elsewise.
Jon dismissed his guards with a lazy wave of his hand as he arrived in his solar. Today was more an autumn day than a winter one. The snows did not fall, and the curly blanket of clouds did not sit atop the sky. The air was cold, but that was all. Jon pushed open the shutters as he pulled himself a seat and poured himself a cup of wine. This would likely be one of the last days of true light the Wall would be lucky to receive in a good long while. He would relish that while he could, before his whole world would be plunged into overcast darkness and bitter chills.
From his window, Jon watched the Wall. The sunlight bounced off the icy construction of the Wall, little teardrops of water rolling down the sides, sparkling like diamonds. He'd seen the Wall from up close, when it was unimaginably vast and so tall as to make one feel like a gnat, but he preferred it like this. It was still massive, but from a distance one could better appreciate the awful beauty of it.
Jon sighed, sipped the last dregs of wine from his cup, lit the fire in his hearth to ward away the cold - even as he left the shutters open to the breeze - and set down to work at his desk. Yet not one minute into his work he was interrupted when Sam came in - cautiously at first, peeking to see if Mormont's raven was still about to peck at his fingers, and then more confidently once he realised he was safe - and pressed a letter onto the table.
"Another from the Iron Throne?" Jon guessed, knowing Sam would not make the trek himself unless it was important.
Samwell nodded and sat himself down, even as he pushed the letter across the surface of the table for Jon to read. With the crook of his finger, Jon pulled off the seal and unfurled the scrap of parchment. He read it once, then twice, then swallowed and asked: "Can you keep a secret, Sam?"
Sam's eyes narrowed with concern, and he nodded tentatively, almost nervously. "Of course I can, my lord."
"It's Arya," Jon said, still looking at the letter, running his thumb over the ink, over the parchment, tears pricking his eyes. "She wrote this letter."
Samwell frowned. "Are you certain? It's not a forgery?"
"I'd know her hand anywhere," Jon said. "I helped her with her letters, when she was struggling with Maester Luwin's lessons. I've seen it a thousand times, and I'm seeing it again today."
Sam frowned. "So King Tommen was telling the truth."
"Apparently," Jon said, his look souring again.
"But we can't turn our backs on Stannis," Samwell said.
Jon shook his head in agreement.
"Then you need to destroy that letter, my lord," Samwell said, a warning tone in his voice. "I know you might want to keep it, but if one of Stannis's men finds it... If they find out that the Lord Commander has a sister held under the thumb of the Iron Throne..." Sam shook his head. "And it won't just be them either. The other black brothers will start having doubts as well."
"I know," Jon said hotly. "And I'm not under anyone's thumb. I do only what is right for the Watch. But I won't destroy it. Just not... Not right now. Give me a day or two."
Samwell nodded and rose to his feet. "I'll leave you be, my lord," he said, his brow still furrowed in concern for his friend as he turned and left.
Jon sat in silence for what felt like hours after that, reading and rereading till the words were burned into his mind and the letters began to blur together. He watched the flames slowly die in his hearth and become embers and when he went to sleep he awoke to wolf dreams again.
He was on his haunches in Winterfell's Great Hall, howling for his pack. Howling and howling, his voice echoing off the cold stone walls. The only light was moonlight, falling in harsh lines on the flagstone floors through the windows. No matter. As Jon's nose twitched the scents pushed him onwards, guiding him, his padded feet soundless. Ahead was warmth, a fire, a good meal, and his family.
Robb would be there with an easy smile, a sword in his hand and an offer to spar. Bran would be there, his legs still working, ever curious, ever climbing. Rickon would be there as well, small and happy and unacquainted with the horrors of this world. So would Sansa, ever prim and proper, and Arya, ever wild and free.
And so too would he find the warm embrace of his father.
Yet so far, all he had was silence. In his deepest heart, he knew it to all be a dream. Yet the tiniest sliver of hope refused to die.
At the end of this hall he would find his family.
Jon advanced further, his fear slipping away, replaced with a surging desperation. A slow walk became a jog, and then a run. Yet the hall did not end. It grew and grew, the ceiling rising, the floor widening, the end somehow further away then when he started. He heard a voice, young and girlish, calling out at first, and then screaming. He knew not the words the voice said, but he recognised it to be begging.
Jon pushed himself even faster, sprinting now, the wind whipping through his fur, making for the screams before they were silenced. A terrible panic seized him as the voice grew weaker, and the stench of fear filled his nostrils. His muscles burned.
Suddenly, he saw it.
A naked girl lying flat on her back; shivering, whimpering, blood leaking out onto the floor from between her legs, her entrails visible through a slit in her stomach. Her face was hidden by a cloak of shadows. A woman was hunched overtop, her back turned, her head covered by a hood; silent, slow, dangerous. She turned, and Jon saw eyes of murky blue like a sky shrouded by icy clouds, set into a shredded face of rotten flesh, a halo of stringy white hair spilling out from under the hood. Blood stained her fingertips and lips and spattered her tattered cloak.
A wight, Jon thought at first, but was soon frozen in fear as he saw the look in it's eyes. Or something worse?
And then he started awake, his chest heaving.
Arya? Ygritte? Sansa? he asked himself. Perhaps, yet I didn't get a good look at the girl. I was too distracted by the woman. Not that that much mattered. Normally during his wolf dreams the halls he visited were empty. Normally all he found was silence, no matter how much he wished otherwise. But today...
Jon sighed, shook away what last vestiges of sleep still lingered, and pulled himself from his bed. The morning chill struck his skin and caused an outbreak of reddened gooseflesh. Across the room, the letter caught his eye. Jon thought back to his dreams, grit his teeth, and snatched up the scrap of parchment. He looked it over one last time, eying the ink, memorising the words, and then flicked the letter into the dying embers still glowing in the hearth from the fire he had started yesterday.
It caught alight quickly enough, and Jon watched it burn in solemn silence as he dressed himself. You're not the only thing that will burn today, Jon thought as he watched the edges of the parchment crinkle and curl and slowly blacken as wisps of smoke trailed up. Despite his best efforts to convince him to the contrary, today was the day that Stannis had determined as the most auspicious for the King-Beyond-the-Wall to die.
And the Red Witch left no doubts in Jon's mind as to how the execution would be conducted.
Shooting one last forlorn look at his hearth, Jon wrapped his fur cloak tight about himself and left his chambers, descending down the steps to find his guards waiting at the bottom, neatly falling in behind him as he trudged through a fresh layer of snow. The day may have been warm and cloudless, but the night had been bitter and heavy. The evidence of that was all around, a thin sheet of white covering every exposed surface.
Through the snow Jon walked, and through the snow Jon rode, all the way to the foot of the Wall.
They brought forth the King-Beyond-the-Wall with his hands bound beyond his back and a noose hanging loosely off his neck. He had been stripped clean, left only a small hemp shirt that left his arms and legs exposed to the cold as he was led to the wooden scaffold raised over the firepit. Behind him, Jon saw the Wall was still weeping, albeit slower than the day before. The winter chill would set the remaining rivulets of icy water in place soon enough.
I tried, Jon wanted to say as he watched Mance stumble. But, alas, all his claims and attempts at convincement of Mance's usefulness had fallen on deaf ears. The law remained plain and simple; a deserter's life was forfeit. And so long as this was true, Stannis's famously iron will would not be shaken.
Beside the prisoner, Jon watched as the Red Witch made her presence known. "We all must choose!" she proclaimed, in a surprisingly loud voice. "We must choose between light or dark. Between good or evil. Between the true god or the false one."
Mance listened to the rest of Melisandre's speech with a smile on his face, his courage unfailing, but when he turned and saw the woodwork his bravery faltered. It was a cage that hung from the scaffold, made from the twisted and gnarled branches of a weirwood tree all woven together. He balked for a brief moment, and then turned away and recoiled at the sight of the cage, his features marked with horror.
"No," he said, shaking his head and trying to back away. "This is not right. I'm not a king, they made me..." His words were cut off when two men grabbed him by the armpits and hauled him forwards towards the frame. "Mercy!" he cried. "Mercy!"
One of Stannis's men pulled on the noose around his neck and choked off his next words, and silently the men holding him tried to stuff him into the cage. They had to beat him to overcome his resistance when he tried to stop himself, and before long the snow on the ground was speckled with blood. With some of his limbs broken, Mance Rayder was half-dragged and half-carried to the cage, and unceremoniously thrown in.
The door shut, a dozen of Stannis's men made short work of gathering around the rope and heaving, the scaffold shaking from their efforts as the cage was lifted off the ground above the pit, which was filled with wood and leaves and kindling. Lady Melisandre watched him rise with icy eyes, not a hint of guilt in her entire body. You could have beheaded him, Jon wanted to say, but instead he bit his tongue to keep the peace.
"FREE FOLK!" she called out. "Here hangs your kings of lies! Your coward king!" She waved her hand and two men came forwards carrying something. "And here is the horn he promised would bring down the Wall!" A lie, Jon thought, or at least that was what Tommen had told him. Jon remembered Ygritte had agreed before she'd died, telling him that Mance had never managed to find the true horn. Looking at it, Jon saw black wood banded with old gold engraved with runes, eight feet long from end to end.
Whatever it was, Jon knew better than to abandon his caution. He'd keep an eye open either way.
Through the stockades, a thousand captive wildling men watched as the horn was hefted high, and then unceremoniously thrown into the pile of kindling below the cage from which Mance still hung. "The Horn of Darkness, I call it," Melisandre continued. "For if the Wall falls then the long night - that night that never ends - will surely come as well! And then we will all freeze. No, the Lord of Light cannot let this happen! And so he has gifted us Azor Ahai reborn!"
Melisandre gestured to Stannis, clad in pale grey plate, his sunken eyes stern and unyielding rather than unfeeling. You can surely still put a stop to this, Jon thought, but knew it would not be so.
"FREE FOLK!" Melisandre cried again. "Behold the fate of those who choose the darkness!" And just like that, the Horn of Joramun burst into flames, and the fire slowly grew to the surrounding kindling. It was a queer fire, green and yellow and purple and red, leaping and spitting and crackling as it slowly grew hot. The stockades shook as some grew angry at seeing their hopes aflame.
Inside his cage, despite his broken limbs and bloodied body, Mance screamed incoherently as he clawed first at the noose around his neck and then at the cage with bound hands. He screamed of treachery and witchery and then he screamed denial after denial after denial.
And then he stopped.
For a moment Jon thought his heart had burst, but just as he was about to send a silent prayer of thanks to the old gods a crazed laughter began emanating from the cage, becoming louder and louder as the fire underneath crackled and grew. Jon watched unblinking as the fire caught the weirwood, forcing himself not to react. A display of squeamishness now would be seen as weakness, something he could ill afford. Instead he affixed his eyes and watched, his stomach slowly roiling as burning wood became burning flesh.
All around him, two hundred black brothers watched with Jon, hoods pulled over their heads to hide who they really were. Greybeards and green boys would not strike fear into the wildlings, and if they were not sufficiently afraid then Jon knew that all they would do once south of the Wall was wreak havoc.
As the horn split in the pit with an almighty crack, Mance clutched at the bars of his cage and did a little dance, lifting one foot away from the flames, and then the other, and then back again. But he could delay the inevitable only for so long, and his laughs became screams again, so loud and raw that Jon feared he would tear his throat and fall silent before he died instead of after.
Jon could not watch any longer. "Now!" he hissed, and three brothers in the crowd set down their spears, strung their bows, and launched three headless arrows into the heart of the cage. Fluttering and jumping, the cage swinging, Mance was no easy target, but the arrows found their mark nonetheless. One took him in the chest, the other in the neck, and the last in the eye. The shafts caught fire in the heat fast enough, but at least the man in the cage was dead.
He slid down to the bottom of his cage, the screams silenced as his body was slowly engulfed in fire. The wood of the cage soon began crumbling, but by then all evidence of their deed would be burned away. Stannis was scowling, but Jon did not meet his gaze. Mance Rayder had once been a brother of the Night's Watch. For all he had gone on to do afterwards, he was still a black brother, and that much alone entitled him to a decent death.
He who passes the sentence should swing the sword...
"FREE FOLK!" Melisandre started, meeting Jon's eyes for an instant before she turned to the crowd. "Your false gods cannot help you! Your false horn is burned! Your false king brought you only death, despair, defeat... yet here stands your one true king! BEHOLD HIS GLORY!"
A false king in more ways than one, Jon thought as he watched the fire.
Stannis Baratheon drew Lightbringer. The blade radiated with light, shifting between red, yellow and white. The colours of the ritual flame, shining as though a second sun. When Stannis raised the blade above his head, men had to avert their eyes for the light was too bright. The still raging blaze of the execution fire seemed to shy away, dimming and diminishing before the light of Stannis's sword. The rivulets rolling down the sides of the Wall seemed to glow in the distance, suddenly sparkling as they had the day before. Is this the power of king's blood? Jon asked himself. Or is this the power of the Red Witch's tricks?
Tommen had been frustratingly vague about that in his letters thus far. It was clear to Jon that suspicion laced every word and caution lined every statement. He wrote in riddles, and rarely revealed anything of substance save warnings and instructions to burn after reading. Yet if what he said was true - and that was still no sure thing - then there was a chance that this man had not been Mance at all...
Yet how could Tommen know the Red Witch's plans? Jon asked himself. He can hardly see into our minds. So if that Mance was a mummer's trick, then how could he know?
Regardless, it was another reason to keep one eye open.
"Westeros has only one king," Stannis said calmly, though his voice carried across the entire way as he eyed the thousand wildlings behind their stockades. "With this sword I defend my subjects and destroy those who might menace them. Bend the knee and I promise you food, land and safety." The Watch's food and the Watch's land, Jon thought sourly. "Kneel and live," Stannis continued, "or go and die. The choice is yours."
He slipped his sword back into it's scabbard, and the world was dark again.
This would be the test. If it was successful, then perhaps peace was possible. If not, then Jon would have to find another way. Stannis's men went to open up the gates to the stockades, ripping up the stakes from the frozen ground. Jon played his part, raising his hand and lowering it, silently instructing his men to part and form a path.
"Come," Melisandre urged, like a mother speaking to a small child. "Come to the light, or else run to the dark. If you choose life, come to me."
And then they came. Slowly, at first, some limping out from their pen. There was an air of uncertainty about them, as though thinking this a trick. One man met Jon's eyes, and Jon offered him a silent nod. Submit and you will not starve, he said with his gaze. More followed soon after, when they saw that no harm had befallen those who had gone before. A few turned for the forest and wandered into the icy shadows however, ever untrusting. Southrons called these men wildlings. It was telling that they did not agree, and preferred themselves the free folk.
But it was not many who rejected the offer of safety for freedom. No more than one in ten went into the woods, away from Melisandre. More wights for the Others, Jon reflected sadly. Much as he misliked Melisandre, she was still by far the lesser of two evils.
Soon enough, they were even kneeling. The Lord of Bones knelt first, and then the rest followed. Jon shivered at the sight. It is too cold for this mummer's show. The free folk despised kneelers. Jon had advised against this particular requirement, but again he went ignored. Now getting the rest of the chiefs to agree to peace would become just that little bit harder. The majority of them were still behind the Wall, and they would hear of this from those who had chosen to wander north. Even among those who chose to stay, much as he looked, Jon found no true loyalty in the free folk as they were herded to warmth and food. Only hunger.
It was Mance they chose, he thought. Offer them food and plenty and you may make them kneel, but they will never make you king. And it would be his men who would bear the brunt of that. The Watch may be able to make the free folk bleed, and we may be slowly growing, but in the end we are still too small to stop them. It was an impossible circumstance, and that was without accounting for the possibility that both Mance and the Horn of Joramun could be hiding somewhere, unburned and unharmed.
And so in the end all we can do is wait, Jon thought resignedly, and make use of this peace as best we can whilst it still persists.
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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
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Red~
Getting out there.
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Why would this be subject to a rewrite? You've got a certain depth to this story I like, it's a great read and I'm always a fan of 'thinker' protagonists with more knowledge than expected, like SI's (best when they meld into the story).
Chapter 29: Cersei VI
Morph-Writing
Getting sticky.
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Chapter 29: Cersei IV
Dragonstone is yours.
What a stupid thing to say, Cersei thought as she sat in the throne room, watching Garlan Tyrell kneel before his king, an irrepressible grin tugging at his lips. Dragonstone is yours. Was that something to be proud of? A piddling stone jutting out of the sea? What was that miserable, windswept rock really worth? Robert had won her a whole seven kingdoms. Jaime had won a dozen true battles, and killed a king with a single swipe of his sword.
By what right can a simple rock grant you glory from a king? Cersei wondered, but she held her peace and let Tommen speak all the way till court wound down to a close. Jaime could have taken it half a day.
Nevertheless, Garlan Tyrell got his glory, and his return from his victory at Dragonstone heralded the arrival of a hellish week.
The usual fare of gold and red and black that decked the halls of the Red Keep briefly turned green, in honour of the success. Tommen was keen to emphasise the first true victory of his reign. Red lions became roses. There was merriment in the mud-soaked streets. Margaery and her hens seemed to never stop clucking, chittering and chattering with the kinds of smiles on their faces that made Cersei want to reach over and slap them back and forth across their rosy cheeks till they were all bloody.
I am a queen who has lost her court, Cersei lamented. I have my pride and yet no power. I sit on the small council and say nothing. And day after day, that whore from Highgarden thinks to take a little more of what I have left.
It was becoming increasingly hard to control her irritation as of late, Cersei found. Jaime was gone, despite her best efforts. Osney had disappeared without a trace, and without being able to account for him she could not rest. All he needs do is open his mouth and I'm ruined. Yet he is not entirely necessary. Margaery Tyrell has a great many admirers, any one of which could wind up in her bed. When she prayed, she switched back and forth between praying for his return and praying for proof of his painful demise. Yet, not even his brother Osmund could offer that.
She came upon him in the yard the day after Garlan's return, as he was sparring with the one remaining Redwyne twin. She sat and watched for while, quietly seething, and then called Ser Osmund aside. "Walk with me a bit," she commanded him, and then once they were far enough away from prying ears she continued, "and tell me the truth. Your brother Ser Osney. Where has he gotten to?"
Osmund frowned. "I don't know," he said. "The king told me he had some task for him, and I haven't seen him since."
Cersei stiffened with alarm. "The king?" she asked, feeling her heart briefly seize in her chest. I've been found out. Was it the dreams?
"Aye," Osmund said. "My brother's a good sword. Not as strong as me or Osfryd, but he's quick enough to the kill."
"Yes, yes," Cersei cut him off before he could continue, suddenly uninterested in what he had to say. Then, she said her farewells and left him, scowling all the way back to her chambers. Up the stairs she went, passing through the passages of Maegor's Holdfast at a quick pace. She slowed as she walked past Tommen's solar, but thought better of it at the last second and continued on towards her chambers.
If he will say nought to me then I need not concern myself with confrontation, she told herself. I will meet his silence with silence. He will come to me of his own volition, when he learns what it truly means to rule. He will learn from my example once he sees my hour in the sun.
Inside her chamber, Cersei found none other than Taena, sat talking with Dorcas and Jocelyn. They stood and bowed their heads when she entered, but Cersei did not deign to acknowledge them. Instead she went for the wine, pouring herself a healthy glass and taking a sizeable swig as she sat herself at her table. Unable to stand the looks that timid Jocelyn was shooting Dorcas, Cersei sent the pair of them away to prepare her a bath. After what felt like an entire day in the company of the Tyrells, she felt the sudden urge to purge herself of the lingering stench of the rose perfume they all seemed to wear.
"Is something the matter, Your Grace?" Taena asked once they were alone.
Cersei felt herself flatten in disappointment. "I am sure you already know," she said. "I will not speak of it further."
Taena nodded. "Undeserved praise, I know, but a victory is still a victory, regardless of what soldier did the fighting. The king's commands cannot be ignored."
"What about the queen's commands?" Cersei asked bitterly.
"You need only say the word, Your Grace," Taena said, her head bowed, her lashes fluttering seductively. "My loyalty is to you and to the little king only. I desire only to serve you, however you might require."
Cersei felt a small smile tug on her lips as her mood suddenly went from quietly apoplectic to contemplative. "I would be ever so sad if you ever betrayed my trust, Taena," she purred like a cat. "I would have no choice but to give you to the King's Justice, though you ought to know I would weep all the while."
Taena shook her head, her curly hair bobbing. "I will never give you cause to weep, Your Grace. And I assure you: Any words you share with me will fall on no other ears save my own without your express assent."
Cersei sipped her wine as she listened to the sounds of the bath being filled by buckets in the adjoining room. When the water stopped, and a sweaty Dorcas came in to announce that her bath was ready, Cersei stood from her seat and gestured for Taena to follow. In the adjoining room, Cersei dismissed Jocelyn and Dorcas before she stripped down and slowly immersed herself in the bathwater, her golden tresses floating on the surface, her breasts glistening half with sweat and half with water as steam filled the room. I'm still beautiful, Cersei knew as she saw Taena stare wide-eyed at her in the water. Jaime was a fool to spurn me.
"Come, Taena," Cersei beckoned. "Join me. I require your service."
Taena nodded almost timidly, and then slowly stripped from her dress and gingerly climbed into the steaming water, causing it to rise and spill over the edge of the tub. As she entered, Cersei watched her. The Myrish woman was beautiful; long-legged and full-breasted with smooth skin and ripe nether lips and huge dark nipples. She looked and smelled of sin, though her usually sultry demeanour had shied somewhat now that she was completely exposed.
Robert would have loved her, Cersei thought, if only for an hour. Even still, she would have been one of his finest whores, and had he chosen her I don't doubt she would have been bred a dozen times over and borne him many bastard children by now.
"Tell me, Taena," Cersei began, watching her bare body for even the slightest hint of deception, "have you seen or heard of Ser Osney as of late?"
Taena shook her head slowly, uncertain, her hair becoming wet in the water, her curls softening. "No, Your Grace."
Cersei felt her eyes narrow slightly with suspicion, but even as her gaze flicked up and down Taena sultry curves, she saw no lie. A sudden fury filled her again as she continued watching Taena shift beneath the surface of the bathwater.
"Regarding Lady Margaery..." Taena ventured, breaking the lingering silence. "I believe there may be another way to... undermine her."
Cersei slid one of her feet between Taena's legs to rub her lower lips, and watched as the Myrish woman's mouth opened with surprise, her lashes fluttering in anticipation of further pleasure. Taena slowly splayed her thighs, bit her lip and began gently caressing one of her own breasts, silently begging for one of Cersei's toes to push forwards into her. What a little slut you are, Cersei thought, briefly distracted.
But alas, there would be nought but teasing today, for her plots took priority over her pleasure, no matter how much she enjoyed toying with the Myrish woman.
"Do go on," Cersei urged with a coy smile that promised rewards.
"W-Well, Your Grace," Taena slowly answered, forcing herself back into full awareness, "as I understand it, the Princess Arianne has expressed some significant interest in His Grace. What better way to loosen Lady Margaery's grip in the absence of Ser Osney than to threaten her position at the king's side?"
And hand my son over to that Dornish whore in the process? Cersei thought, suddenly furious as her smile soured into a scowl. She thrust forwards with her foot to elicit a sharp yelp of pain from Taena, demonstrating her dissatisfaction with the suggestion. That princess is far too daring and far too dangerous, Cersei knew. Especially with my Myrcella all alone in Prince Doran's custody, I cannot humble her for fear of retribution. Hells, even Maid Margaery, insufferable as she is, is a better choice.
"No," said Cersei in a tone that that left no room for argument. "I will not pull my son away from one harlot only to push him into the arms of another. And I will not hear of this again, do you understand?"
Taena nodded silently as Cersei let her fury fade and her focus move onto another matter.
It all began with Bronn, Cersei thought, sliding her second foot into the space between Taena's legs. That insolent sellsword allowed my son to see his dreams done.
"Have you heard anything from Stokeworth?" Cersei suddenly asked, still rubbing with the balls of her feet.
"Yes, Your Grace. Lady Lollys birthed a bastard son not long after her wedding, the one she had sired upon her during the riots."
"You mean when she was raped a half-hundred times?" Cersei asked nonchalantly, jabbing forwards with both her feet to elicit another yelp from Taena.
"Yes, Your Grace," Taena said in a shaky voice, seemingly no longer eager to speak on the subject. "Lady Tanda was thrown from her horse as well, it would seem, and shattered a hip. Maester Frenken remains hopeful, but Falyse does not seem to agree in her letters. She begs we pray for her mother."
How awfully convenient for the conniving sellsword, Cersei thought. "Poor dear," Cersei said without a hint of sincerity in her voice. "I will put her in my prayers the next time I visit the sept." Not that it will do much good. She will be dead by the end of the month. Women as old as Tanda Stokeworth do not survive shattered hips. Still, perhaps there is an opening here. If only Falyse could be convinced her mother's tumble was more assassination than accident...
"I am certain Falyse will be overjoyed to hear it," Taena said. "She has written from the road as well, of being accosted by men she described as 'lice-ridden ruffians bearing holy stars and sharpened sticks with evil looks in their eyes.' Falyse is safe, I am certain Your Grace will be relieved to know, and not far from the city now. Her husband warded the men away, but she nonetheless considers the encounter noteworthy."
"More sparrows, no doubt," Cersei said. "They are a pest."
"Yes, Your Grace," Taena readily agreed. "Though mercifully in Kings Landing they are the small in number and shrinking fast, such that they can no longer clog the streets and fill the air with the awful stench of their unwashed bodies."
Cersei nodded, but in her mind another idea intruded. The High Septon is Tyrion's man, she remembered. Hardly a trustworthy man to lead an institution as important as the Faith, even in light of Tyrion's supposed innocence. The sparrows could have proved useful in that regard, but perhaps there is yet another way... Prince Oberyn's niece may have been too powerful to manipulate without fear of consequences, but perhaps his bastards daughters would prove more pliable. The one always in the white would work best with the High Septon, Cersei thought, especially if she is not quite as pure and pious as her manner of dress might suggest.
Cersei leaned back in the tub and sighed, stewing a little while longer in the now-tepid water, her toes working between Taena's legs. She could have stayed here a great deal longer if she so desired - plotting and scheming and pondering possibilities both outlandish and inevitable - but a small council meeting stood between her and rest. As tedious as they typically were, Cersei was determined not to miss a single one, lest she lose what little true power she still possessed.
"I must go," Cersei suddenly declared as she lifted herself from the rapidly-cooling bath. Water ran down her legs in little rivulets and trickled down her hair. "I need to dress for the small council, Taena. Come, dry me and help me don my gown."
Taena practically leapt from the water, and together the pair of them were dressed, though Cersei revelled in seeing Taena's eyes wander as she rubbed her down and helped lace her bejewelled bodice and do her hair up in elegant braids. Her new gown was green, though the emerald of her eyes instead of the earthy tones of the Tyrells, and made of a shimmering silk cut in tight at the waist and over the bust, with black Myrish lace around the hem and neckline. Myrish lace was expensive, but Cersei refused to bow to Tommen's commands to cut spending on such luxuries. It was a necessity for a queen to look her best at all times, after all.
Once she was dressed, Cersei left Taena with a flourish, headed once again for the small council chambers. Through the familiar halls and passages of Maegor's Holdfast she went, all the way to the small council chambers. Upon her arrival she brushed past Ser Osmund and passed through the doors to find her son sat at the head of the table, many of the lords already arrayed around him. Her father had found his place at the foot, a counterbalance to his king. Tyrion had wound up somewhere in the middle, sat between a very jolly-looking Lord Mace and a somewhat less enthusiastic Grandmaester Pycelle.
Cersei found her seat facing in direct opposition to her dwarf brother, shooting him a briefly venomous look before she turned her attention elsewhere.
Arianne, significantly, seemed absent from this particular session. Likely busy trying to bed the returning champion, Cersei thought. Or even better, his sister. She had become irritatingly close with Margaery's hens as of late. Another problem to look out for? It seemed likely. Perhaps there is something to Taena's suggestion, Cersei thought. That Dornish whore is good only for what lies between her legs. Yet if I can turn her lust into leverage...
Lying with a princess could surely be made into as significant a scandal for the young queen as lying with a knight. It would take only a single drunken tryst between the two of them to undermine Tommen's trust in his new wife. And even better, as Arianne was a princess Tommen could hardly make her disappear, as he had seemingly done to Ser Osney.
And with that thought brewing in her mind, the council began in earnest. It started with another unfortunately hearty congratulation of Lord Mace's accursed seed, and Cersei plastered a false smile over her face as she applauded the Fat Flower of Highgarden for his son's victory as he grinned from ear to ear with pride, red-faced from all the wine he had imbibed. Let the fat fool smile, Cersei thought. So long as that's all he's ever able to do.
Next came the issue of the Redwyne fleet, which was resolved swiftly enough.
A part of the fleet would remain at Dragonstone to maintain shipments of dragonglass to the Wall even as Lord Redwyne returned. On this issue Tommen was curiously unwilling to listen to any objections, though Cersei struggled to see the sense in it. Nevertheless, she considered it a non-issue. What use will a few shards of brittle stone do Stannis or that bastard son of Ned Stark? We have the true steel. And all the better if the Reach's strength is divided. It is only right that the crown should control the seas.
And finally there came the issue of the Faith.
The High Septon may have been Tyrion's man, a puppet, but that did not render him immune from the demands of the Most Devout. And the Most Devout would never accept simply forgiving the debts owed to them by the crown. And yet, many casks of wildfire had been found and removed from under the floor of the Great Sept of Baelor. Casks that the crown had kindly seen to the safe disposal of, acting in accordance with it's duty to serve as the protector of the Faith. In a sense, they all owed their lives to the Iron Throne.
And so, with the High Septon warily eyeing the rest of the council, Tommen calmly and politely began backing him into a corner. The High Septon offered wise words and worthless platitudes, but no matter how much he twisted and squirmed and tried to waggle his tongue, he was helpless to escape Tommen's carefully-woven web.
That boy has a way with words beyond me, Cersei thought as she watched him build his argument with an almost enviable effortlessness. I have just saved the city and your sept from the legacy of the last Targaryen king. I am fighting to defend the Faith as the Warrior would have me do, against heathen pretenders who's greatest desires are to destroy you by burning or drowning. I am rebuilding Westeros at the command of the Smith and relieving the poor and the infirm of their burdens at the Mother's behest. All I ask of you is to help me in this. To help me better serve the Seven.
Listening to the way he told his tale, Cersei could almost have believed her son if he had said he was the second coming of Hugor of the Hill.
In the face of all that, how could the High Septon possibly refuse the king's requests? A debt reduction was a tiny price to pay for such a devout king, especially after the Faith had endured a drunkard and a madman.
And so with the High Septon thoroughly convinced, the small council finally drew to a close.
"Dismissed," Tommen said with a lazy wave of his hand, and all the lords arose from their seats and filed from the chamber. Cersei insolently kept her seat, however, and sat and observed her son as he appeared to age before her eyes, the sparkle in his eyes replaced by a solemnity that she remembered seeing only in the eyes of men more than thrice the age of her son. Exhaustion laced his expression.
His dreams are draining the life from him, she thought.
"I said my councillors were all dismissed, Mother. I do believe that includes you as well."
"A mother can't steal a moment to speak with her son?" Cersei asked.
"A mother can," Tommen sighed, looking up from his sheaf of papers and rubbing his eyes and the ever-developing dark circles underneath.
I should ask him about Ser Osney, Cersei thought, yet when she went to open her mouth, something stopped the words in her throat. Instead she asked: "About Dragonstone..."
Tommen groaned with irritation. "I have my reasons," he said. "And I'll brook no more argument on the subject."
"Does this have anything to do with that Doom of Westeros you spoke of?" Cersei asked, feigning concern even as a morbid bemusement tickled her chest.
Tommen smiled and let slip a harsh bark of childish laughter as he leaned back in his seat. "You must think me a fool. Placing so much stock in a few nightmares."
"Not at all," Cersei cut in, thinking of Maggy the Frog. "I know better than most how unsettling such things can be. I just need to know... Why dragonglass? What's so special about that dull black stone?"
Tommen fell silent, observed her with a strange intensity for what felt like an eternity, and then finally shook his head and said: "It's the only thing that kills them that we can control and safely make use of at scale. Valyrian steel works too, but we haven't enough, and whilst wildfire is another choice, I am not yet desperate enough to consider such a dangerous substance. What we dig out of the ground from the Mad King's plan must suffice for now."
Cersei frowned in confusion. "...them?"
"The Others," Tommen said with a wry wave of his hand. "The grumkins and the snarks. The Long Night come again, an endless winter that will kill us all if we are not ready."
"Cribside tales meant to scare disobedient children, surely," Cersei could not help but scoff. "Or at least long-forgotten history."
"Like the dragons slowly growing in the east?" Tommen asked, with a single eyebrow raised. "Like prophetic dreams? How much difference is there really between then and now?" Tommen shrugged. "Regardless, even if the gods are merciful and I am wrong, it still serves as leverage. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch believes the threat lurking beyond the Wall to be true, and so long as I control his supply of dragonglass I can effectively control his behaviour to some degree. All the better that Dragonstone is the seat of Stannis's power. With it gone, any lingering support for Stannis in the Stormlands will shortly fade away."
"Thereby leaving him even more isolated," Cersei surmised.
Tommen nodded. "And once Lord Wyman's newfound loyalty can be assured, and he has delivered all lords east of the Knife, the Boltons will be removed and my hold over the North will be tightened till any lingering traces of treason are completely quashed. And all without a single battle fought or a single one of my soldiers dead. In this way the enemy of my enemy becomes my ally, and Stannis will find himself completely surrounded. An enemy to the north in the Watch, to the east in Lord Wyman, to the west in the Ironborn, to the south in the crown. Perhaps... Perhaps then I can convince him of the error of his ways."
Stannis will change his mind when the deserts of Dorne become freezing marshes, she thought, but kept her peace. Even if Stannis was not truly Tommen's uncle, it made sense for her son not to be too eager to be seen as a kinslayer, though Cersei suspected this was more a matter of being soft-hearted then sensible. "I thought Lord Bolton was our ally," she remarked instead.
"Lord Bolton is as untrustworthy as Walder Frey," Tommen spat. "Why do you think I've resisted any attempt at legitimising his bastard son? If the Boltons sink their claws too deep into the North they will become too powerful to easily dispose of, and if that happens I can promise you they will not stay loyal to the Iron Throne for long. Best to keep them weak and dependent on us for legitimacy till a more appropriately loyal Lord of the North can be located."
"And your dreams tell you all this?" Cersei asked, a lone eyebrow quirked, still sceptical despite the evidence of her eyes and ears.
"My dreams tell me a great deal," Tommen said, rubbing his reddened eyes tiredly, "most of which is meaningless nonsense. But I also do happen to pay attention when people speak up with knowledge or advice, even if I may not always agree. I'm clever enough to seek out and learn what I don't know from my counsellors, which is what allows me to parse through the possibilities I am presented with every time my head touches my pillow."
Cersei observed her son, two equal twinges of pity and pride tugging at her heart. It was clear he was struggling under the burden of the crown, even if he had taken to courtly intrigue like a fish to water. Joff fared better even with war threatening to break through the gates, Cersei remembered. Tommen had never been so hardy.
"What do you see in your dreams?" she asked, intending to lead him with the tone of her voice.
Tommen's eyes sharpened. "Someone's awfully curious today," he noted.
Cersei shrugged and impudently said: "A mother can't ask questions of her son?"
The ghost of a wan smile tugged at Tommen's lips even as his gaze drifted down from her face to her body, eyes so incisive that Cersei felt as though he was gazing straight through the silk of her gown at her naked flesh. "I see too much, Mother. Far, far too much." He stood up from his seat, gathering up the sheaf of papers before him on the table into a bundle in his arms, wandered around the table and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Yet you mustn't fret," Tommen continued, patting her shoulder. "Ser Osney is not likely to see another summer intact. Your secrets are safe with me so long as from this day forth I can trust your loyalty."
"You can," Cersei hurriedly assured him, pulling him into a tight embrace as she arose from her seat and planted a kiss on the top of his head, even as she felt a spike of annoyance at the tone he had just taken with her. "I acted only with the best of intentions, out of my love for you. I am your mother. I am the only person you can trust."
"Of course!" Tommen agreed, pulling away from her arms, lifting his head from her breast to meet her emerald gaze with his own. "So long as the plots come to a stop."
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I feel like with this chapter the story has become a bit bogged down. I'll try and speed things up from here on out.
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!
P.S. Not quite fully happy with this one. May be subject to a rewrite in the future
Dragonstone is yours.
What a stupid thing to say, Cersei thought as she sat in the throne room, watching Garlan Tyrell kneel before his king, an irrepressible grin tugging at his lips. Dragonstone is yours. Was that something to be proud of? A piddling stone jutting out of the sea? What was that miserable, windswept rock really worth? Robert had won her a whole seven kingdoms. Jaime had won a dozen true battles, and killed a king with a single swipe of his sword.
By what right can a simple rock grant you glory from a king? Cersei wondered, but she held her peace and let Tommen speak all the way till court wound down to a close. Jaime could have taken it half a day.
Nevertheless, Garlan Tyrell got his glory, and his return from his victory at Dragonstone heralded the arrival of a hellish week.
The usual fare of gold and red and black that decked the halls of the Red Keep briefly turned green, in honour of the success. Tommen was keen to emphasise the first true victory of his reign. Red lions became roses. There was merriment in the mud-soaked streets. Margaery and her hens seemed to never stop clucking, chittering and chattering with the kinds of smiles on their faces that made Cersei want to reach over and slap them back and forth across their rosy cheeks till they were all bloody.
I am a queen who has lost her court, Cersei lamented. I have my pride and yet no power. I sit on the small council and say nothing. And day after day, that whore from Highgarden thinks to take a little more of what I have left.
It was becoming increasingly hard to control her irritation as of late, Cersei found. Jaime was gone, despite her best efforts. Osney had disappeared without a trace, and without being able to account for him she could not rest. All he needs do is open his mouth and I'm ruined. Yet he is not entirely necessary. Margaery Tyrell has a great many admirers, any one of which could wind up in her bed. When she prayed, she switched back and forth between praying for his return and praying for proof of his painful demise. Yet, not even his brother Osmund could offer that.
She came upon him in the yard the day after Garlan's return, as he was sparring with the one remaining Redwyne twin. She sat and watched for while, quietly seething, and then called Ser Osmund aside. "Walk with me a bit," she commanded him, and then once they were far enough away from prying ears she continued, "and tell me the truth. Your brother Ser Osney. Where has he gotten to?"
Osmund frowned. "I don't know," he said. "The king told me he had some task for him, and I haven't seen him since."
Cersei stiffened with alarm. "The king?" she asked, feeling her heart briefly seize in her chest. I've been found out. Was it the dreams?
"Aye," Osmund said. "My brother's a good sword. Not as strong as me or Osfryd, but he's quick enough to the kill."
"Yes, yes," Cersei cut him off before he could continue, suddenly uninterested in what he had to say. Then, she said her farewells and left him, scowling all the way back to her chambers. Up the stairs she went, passing through the passages of Maegor's Holdfast at a quick pace. She slowed as she walked past Tommen's solar, but thought better of it at the last second and continued on towards her chambers.
If he will say nought to me then I need not concern myself with confrontation, she told herself. I will meet his silence with silence. He will come to me of his own volition, when he learns what it truly means to rule. He will learn from my example once he sees my hour in the sun.
Inside her chamber, Cersei found none other than Taena, sat talking with Dorcas and Jocelyn. They stood and bowed their heads when she entered, but Cersei did not deign to acknowledge them. Instead she went for the wine, pouring herself a healthy glass and taking a sizeable swig as she sat herself at her table. Unable to stand the looks that timid Jocelyn was shooting Dorcas, Cersei sent the pair of them away to prepare her a bath. After what felt like an entire day in the company of the Tyrells, she felt the sudden urge to purge herself of the lingering stench of the rose perfume they all seemed to wear.
"Is something the matter, Your Grace?" Taena asked once they were alone.
Cersei felt herself flatten in disappointment. "I am sure you already know," she said. "I will not speak of it further."
Taena nodded. "Undeserved praise, I know, but a victory is still a victory, regardless of what soldier did the fighting. The king's commands cannot be ignored."
"What about the queen's commands?" Cersei asked bitterly.
"You need only say the word, Your Grace," Taena said, her head bowed, her lashes fluttering seductively. "My loyalty is to you and to the little king only. I desire only to serve you, however you might require."
Cersei felt a small smile tug on her lips as her mood suddenly went from quietly apoplectic to contemplative. "I would be ever so sad if you ever betrayed my trust, Taena," she purred like a cat. "I would have no choice but to give you to the King's Justice, though you ought to know I would weep all the while."
Taena shook her head, her curly hair bobbing. "I will never give you cause to weep, Your Grace. And I assure you: Any words you share with me will fall on no other ears save my own without your express assent."
Cersei sipped her wine as she listened to the sounds of the bath being filled by buckets in the adjoining room. When the water stopped, and a sweaty Dorcas came in to announce that her bath was ready, Cersei stood from her seat and gestured for Taena to follow. In the adjoining room, Cersei dismissed Jocelyn and Dorcas before she stripped down and slowly immersed herself in the bathwater, her golden tresses floating on the surface, her breasts glistening half with sweat and half with water as steam filled the room. I'm still beautiful, Cersei knew as she saw Taena stare wide-eyed at her in the water. Jaime was a fool to spurn me.
"Come, Taena," Cersei beckoned. "Join me. I require your service."
Taena nodded almost timidly, and then slowly stripped from her dress and gingerly climbed into the steaming water, causing it to rise and spill over the edge of the tub. As she entered, Cersei watched her. The Myrish woman was beautiful; long-legged and full-breasted with smooth skin and ripe nether lips and huge dark nipples. She looked and smelled of sin, though her usually sultry demeanour had shied somewhat now that she was completely exposed.
Robert would have loved her, Cersei thought, if only for an hour. Even still, she would have been one of his finest whores, and had he chosen her I don't doubt she would have been bred a dozen times over and borne him many bastard children by now.
"Tell me, Taena," Cersei began, watching her bare body for even the slightest hint of deception, "have you seen or heard of Ser Osney as of late?"
Taena shook her head slowly, uncertain, her hair becoming wet in the water, her curls softening. "No, Your Grace."
Cersei felt her eyes narrow slightly with suspicion, but even as her gaze flicked up and down Taena sultry curves, she saw no lie. A sudden fury filled her again as she continued watching Taena shift beneath the surface of the bathwater.
"Regarding Lady Margaery..." Taena ventured, breaking the lingering silence. "I believe there may be another way to... undermine her."
Cersei slid one of her feet between Taena's legs to rub her lower lips, and watched as the Myrish woman's mouth opened with surprise, her lashes fluttering in anticipation of further pleasure. Taena slowly splayed her thighs, bit her lip and began gently caressing one of her own breasts, silently begging for one of Cersei's toes to push forwards into her. What a little slut you are, Cersei thought, briefly distracted.
But alas, there would be nought but teasing today, for her plots took priority over her pleasure, no matter how much she enjoyed toying with the Myrish woman.
"Do go on," Cersei urged with a coy smile that promised rewards.
"W-Well, Your Grace," Taena slowly answered, forcing herself back into full awareness, "as I understand it, the Princess Arianne has expressed some significant interest in His Grace. What better way to loosen Lady Margaery's grip in the absence of Ser Osney than to threaten her position at the king's side?"
And hand my son over to that Dornish whore in the process? Cersei thought, suddenly furious as her smile soured into a scowl. She thrust forwards with her foot to elicit a sharp yelp of pain from Taena, demonstrating her dissatisfaction with the suggestion. That princess is far too daring and far too dangerous, Cersei knew. Especially with my Myrcella all alone in Prince Doran's custody, I cannot humble her for fear of retribution. Hells, even Maid Margaery, insufferable as she is, is a better choice.
"No," said Cersei in a tone that that left no room for argument. "I will not pull my son away from one harlot only to push him into the arms of another. And I will not hear of this again, do you understand?"
Taena nodded silently as Cersei let her fury fade and her focus move onto another matter.
It all began with Bronn, Cersei thought, sliding her second foot into the space between Taena's legs. That insolent sellsword allowed my son to see his dreams done.
"Have you heard anything from Stokeworth?" Cersei suddenly asked, still rubbing with the balls of her feet.
"Yes, Your Grace. Lady Lollys birthed a bastard son not long after her wedding, the one she had sired upon her during the riots."
"You mean when she was raped a half-hundred times?" Cersei asked nonchalantly, jabbing forwards with both her feet to elicit another yelp from Taena.
"Yes, Your Grace," Taena said in a shaky voice, seemingly no longer eager to speak on the subject. "Lady Tanda was thrown from her horse as well, it would seem, and shattered a hip. Maester Frenken remains hopeful, but Falyse does not seem to agree in her letters. She begs we pray for her mother."
How awfully convenient for the conniving sellsword, Cersei thought. "Poor dear," Cersei said without a hint of sincerity in her voice. "I will put her in my prayers the next time I visit the sept." Not that it will do much good. She will be dead by the end of the month. Women as old as Tanda Stokeworth do not survive shattered hips. Still, perhaps there is an opening here. If only Falyse could be convinced her mother's tumble was more assassination than accident...
"I am certain Falyse will be overjoyed to hear it," Taena said. "She has written from the road as well, of being accosted by men she described as 'lice-ridden ruffians bearing holy stars and sharpened sticks with evil looks in their eyes.' Falyse is safe, I am certain Your Grace will be relieved to know, and not far from the city now. Her husband warded the men away, but she nonetheless considers the encounter noteworthy."
"More sparrows, no doubt," Cersei said. "They are a pest."
"Yes, Your Grace," Taena readily agreed. "Though mercifully in Kings Landing they are the small in number and shrinking fast, such that they can no longer clog the streets and fill the air with the awful stench of their unwashed bodies."
Cersei nodded, but in her mind another idea intruded. The High Septon is Tyrion's man, she remembered. Hardly a trustworthy man to lead an institution as important as the Faith, even in light of Tyrion's supposed innocence. The sparrows could have proved useful in that regard, but perhaps there is yet another way... Prince Oberyn's niece may have been too powerful to manipulate without fear of consequences, but perhaps his bastards daughters would prove more pliable. The one always in the white would work best with the High Septon, Cersei thought, especially if she is not quite as pure and pious as her manner of dress might suggest.
Cersei leaned back in the tub and sighed, stewing a little while longer in the now-tepid water, her toes working between Taena's legs. She could have stayed here a great deal longer if she so desired - plotting and scheming and pondering possibilities both outlandish and inevitable - but a small council meeting stood between her and rest. As tedious as they typically were, Cersei was determined not to miss a single one, lest she lose what little true power she still possessed.
"I must go," Cersei suddenly declared as she lifted herself from the rapidly-cooling bath. Water ran down her legs in little rivulets and trickled down her hair. "I need to dress for the small council, Taena. Come, dry me and help me don my gown."
Taena practically leapt from the water, and together the pair of them were dressed, though Cersei revelled in seeing Taena's eyes wander as she rubbed her down and helped lace her bejewelled bodice and do her hair up in elegant braids. Her new gown was green, though the emerald of her eyes instead of the earthy tones of the Tyrells, and made of a shimmering silk cut in tight at the waist and over the bust, with black Myrish lace around the hem and neckline. Myrish lace was expensive, but Cersei refused to bow to Tommen's commands to cut spending on such luxuries. It was a necessity for a queen to look her best at all times, after all.
Once she was dressed, Cersei left Taena with a flourish, headed once again for the small council chambers. Through the familiar halls and passages of Maegor's Holdfast she went, all the way to the small council chambers. Upon her arrival she brushed past Ser Osmund and passed through the doors to find her son sat at the head of the table, many of the lords already arrayed around him. Her father had found his place at the foot, a counterbalance to his king. Tyrion had wound up somewhere in the middle, sat between a very jolly-looking Lord Mace and a somewhat less enthusiastic Grandmaester Pycelle.
Cersei found her seat facing in direct opposition to her dwarf brother, shooting him a briefly venomous look before she turned her attention elsewhere.
Arianne, significantly, seemed absent from this particular session. Likely busy trying to bed the returning champion, Cersei thought. Or even better, his sister. She had become irritatingly close with Margaery's hens as of late. Another problem to look out for? It seemed likely. Perhaps there is something to Taena's suggestion, Cersei thought. That Dornish whore is good only for what lies between her legs. Yet if I can turn her lust into leverage...
Lying with a princess could surely be made into as significant a scandal for the young queen as lying with a knight. It would take only a single drunken tryst between the two of them to undermine Tommen's trust in his new wife. And even better, as Arianne was a princess Tommen could hardly make her disappear, as he had seemingly done to Ser Osney.
And with that thought brewing in her mind, the council began in earnest. It started with another unfortunately hearty congratulation of Lord Mace's accursed seed, and Cersei plastered a false smile over her face as she applauded the Fat Flower of Highgarden for his son's victory as he grinned from ear to ear with pride, red-faced from all the wine he had imbibed. Let the fat fool smile, Cersei thought. So long as that's all he's ever able to do.
Next came the issue of the Redwyne fleet, which was resolved swiftly enough.
A part of the fleet would remain at Dragonstone to maintain shipments of dragonglass to the Wall even as Lord Redwyne returned. On this issue Tommen was curiously unwilling to listen to any objections, though Cersei struggled to see the sense in it. Nevertheless, she considered it a non-issue. What use will a few shards of brittle stone do Stannis or that bastard son of Ned Stark? We have the true steel. And all the better if the Reach's strength is divided. It is only right that the crown should control the seas.
And finally there came the issue of the Faith.
The High Septon may have been Tyrion's man, a puppet, but that did not render him immune from the demands of the Most Devout. And the Most Devout would never accept simply forgiving the debts owed to them by the crown. And yet, many casks of wildfire had been found and removed from under the floor of the Great Sept of Baelor. Casks that the crown had kindly seen to the safe disposal of, acting in accordance with it's duty to serve as the protector of the Faith. In a sense, they all owed their lives to the Iron Throne.
And so, with the High Septon warily eyeing the rest of the council, Tommen calmly and politely began backing him into a corner. The High Septon offered wise words and worthless platitudes, but no matter how much he twisted and squirmed and tried to waggle his tongue, he was helpless to escape Tommen's carefully-woven web.
That boy has a way with words beyond me, Cersei thought as she watched him build his argument with an almost enviable effortlessness. I have just saved the city and your sept from the legacy of the last Targaryen king. I am fighting to defend the Faith as the Warrior would have me do, against heathen pretenders who's greatest desires are to destroy you by burning or drowning. I am rebuilding Westeros at the command of the Smith and relieving the poor and the infirm of their burdens at the Mother's behest. All I ask of you is to help me in this. To help me better serve the Seven.
Listening to the way he told his tale, Cersei could almost have believed her son if he had said he was the second coming of Hugor of the Hill.
In the face of all that, how could the High Septon possibly refuse the king's requests? A debt reduction was a tiny price to pay for such a devout king, especially after the Faith had endured a drunkard and a madman.
And so with the High Septon thoroughly convinced, the small council finally drew to a close.
"Dismissed," Tommen said with a lazy wave of his hand, and all the lords arose from their seats and filed from the chamber. Cersei insolently kept her seat, however, and sat and observed her son as he appeared to age before her eyes, the sparkle in his eyes replaced by a solemnity that she remembered seeing only in the eyes of men more than thrice the age of her son. Exhaustion laced his expression.
His dreams are draining the life from him, she thought.
"I said my councillors were all dismissed, Mother. I do believe that includes you as well."
"A mother can't steal a moment to speak with her son?" Cersei asked.
"A mother can," Tommen sighed, looking up from his sheaf of papers and rubbing his eyes and the ever-developing dark circles underneath.
I should ask him about Ser Osney, Cersei thought, yet when she went to open her mouth, something stopped the words in her throat. Instead she asked: "About Dragonstone..."
Tommen groaned with irritation. "I have my reasons," he said. "And I'll brook no more argument on the subject."
"Does this have anything to do with that Doom of Westeros you spoke of?" Cersei asked, feigning concern even as a morbid bemusement tickled her chest.
Tommen smiled and let slip a harsh bark of childish laughter as he leaned back in his seat. "You must think me a fool. Placing so much stock in a few nightmares."
"Not at all," Cersei cut in, thinking of Maggy the Frog. "I know better than most how unsettling such things can be. I just need to know... Why dragonglass? What's so special about that dull black stone?"
Tommen fell silent, observed her with a strange intensity for what felt like an eternity, and then finally shook his head and said: "It's the only thing that kills them that we can control and safely make use of at scale. Valyrian steel works too, but we haven't enough, and whilst wildfire is another choice, I am not yet desperate enough to consider such a dangerous substance. What we dig out of the ground from the Mad King's plan must suffice for now."
Cersei frowned in confusion. "...them?"
"The Others," Tommen said with a wry wave of his hand. "The grumkins and the snarks. The Long Night come again, an endless winter that will kill us all if we are not ready."
"Cribside tales meant to scare disobedient children, surely," Cersei could not help but scoff. "Or at least long-forgotten history."
"Like the dragons slowly growing in the east?" Tommen asked, with a single eyebrow raised. "Like prophetic dreams? How much difference is there really between then and now?" Tommen shrugged. "Regardless, even if the gods are merciful and I am wrong, it still serves as leverage. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch believes the threat lurking beyond the Wall to be true, and so long as I control his supply of dragonglass I can effectively control his behaviour to some degree. All the better that Dragonstone is the seat of Stannis's power. With it gone, any lingering support for Stannis in the Stormlands will shortly fade away."
"Thereby leaving him even more isolated," Cersei surmised.
Tommen nodded. "And once Lord Wyman's newfound loyalty can be assured, and he has delivered all lords east of the Knife, the Boltons will be removed and my hold over the North will be tightened till any lingering traces of treason are completely quashed. And all without a single battle fought or a single one of my soldiers dead. In this way the enemy of my enemy becomes my ally, and Stannis will find himself completely surrounded. An enemy to the north in the Watch, to the east in Lord Wyman, to the west in the Ironborn, to the south in the crown. Perhaps... Perhaps then I can convince him of the error of his ways."
Stannis will change his mind when the deserts of Dorne become freezing marshes, she thought, but kept her peace. Even if Stannis was not truly Tommen's uncle, it made sense for her son not to be too eager to be seen as a kinslayer, though Cersei suspected this was more a matter of being soft-hearted then sensible. "I thought Lord Bolton was our ally," she remarked instead.
"Lord Bolton is as untrustworthy as Walder Frey," Tommen spat. "Why do you think I've resisted any attempt at legitimising his bastard son? If the Boltons sink their claws too deep into the North they will become too powerful to easily dispose of, and if that happens I can promise you they will not stay loyal to the Iron Throne for long. Best to keep them weak and dependent on us for legitimacy till a more appropriately loyal Lord of the North can be located."
"And your dreams tell you all this?" Cersei asked, a lone eyebrow quirked, still sceptical despite the evidence of her eyes and ears.
"My dreams tell me a great deal," Tommen said, rubbing his reddened eyes tiredly, "most of which is meaningless nonsense. But I also do happen to pay attention when people speak up with knowledge or advice, even if I may not always agree. I'm clever enough to seek out and learn what I don't know from my counsellors, which is what allows me to parse through the possibilities I am presented with every time my head touches my pillow."
Cersei observed her son, two equal twinges of pity and pride tugging at her heart. It was clear he was struggling under the burden of the crown, even if he had taken to courtly intrigue like a fish to water. Joff fared better even with war threatening to break through the gates, Cersei remembered. Tommen had never been so hardy.
"What do you see in your dreams?" she asked, intending to lead him with the tone of her voice.
Tommen's eyes sharpened. "Someone's awfully curious today," he noted.
Cersei shrugged and impudently said: "A mother can't ask questions of her son?"
The ghost of a wan smile tugged at Tommen's lips even as his gaze drifted down from her face to her body, eyes so incisive that Cersei felt as though he was gazing straight through the silk of her gown at her naked flesh. "I see too much, Mother. Far, far too much." He stood up from his seat, gathering up the sheaf of papers before him on the table into a bundle in his arms, wandered around the table and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Yet you mustn't fret," Tommen continued, patting her shoulder. "Ser Osney is not likely to see another summer intact. Your secrets are safe with me so long as from this day forth I can trust your loyalty."
"You can," Cersei hurriedly assured him, pulling him into a tight embrace as she arose from her seat and planted a kiss on the top of his head, even as she felt a spike of annoyance at the tone he had just taken with her. "I acted only with the best of intentions, out of my love for you. I am your mother. I am the only person you can trust."
"Of course!" Tommen agreed, pulling away from her arms, lifting his head from her breast to meet her emerald gaze with his own. "So long as the plots come to a stop."
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I feel like with this chapter the story has become a bit bogged down. I'll try and speed things up from here on out.
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!
P.S. Not quite fully happy with this one. May be subject to a rewrite in the future
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The Overlord
SCIENCE! both mad, mundane, and perverted
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As heretical as it is, for once, this is a story I would prefer NOT to have incest.
Xodarap
Versed in the lewd.
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Good thing Tommen Nixed that plot for raping his Queen by Cersei as that would have started a night of knives in the castle where he is vastly outnumbered.
Cersei is the counterpart for female Nymphomania to Robert's Nymphomania just constantly seeking self gratification no matter what gender though say what you would about Robert at least he stuck to one gender.
Cersei is the counterpart for female Nymphomania to Robert's Nymphomania just constantly seeking self gratification no matter what gender though say what you would about Robert at least he stuck to one gender.
iceknight90
Generally facetious
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If only he could have her shipped off to Casterley Rock.
Renko
Look closer ~☆
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I've always seen this one in author notes from FF.net and tags from Ao3.
Can anybody here explain? Is this like something like the author is not sure whether there is going to be explicit material in their story or not?
I mean, they can just ask the mods to move it in thr NSFW section once they decided to add said material to their story.
Right?
islamy96
Versed in the lewd.
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i always thought it as disclaimer.
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This story is excellent. Can't wait for more!
James Archer
Professor of Writers and Technopaths
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Well well well, lets see what happens next. I am quite enjoying this.
Cabrio9f
Know what you're doing yet?
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if there is nsfw content. It be with Margery. The SI isn't stupid cause sex is a dangerous thing in this world. It can cause political upheaval. From rhaenyra and Cristina cole resulting in him feeling used.
rhaenyra bastard children
Aegon the 4th no question
duncan Targaryen ,and Aerys Targaryen breaking betrothals but Duncan actions was more severe
nes stark claiming Jon as his bastard left a bad taste in cat relationship and her hatred resulting in Jon growing up depressed
rhaegar and Lyanna actions no question. Even if consensual. A lack of warning fuck
robert saying Lyanna name while bedding Cersei
cersei and Jamie spawns
sex is dangerous. In this world.
rhaenyra bastard children
Aegon the 4th no question
duncan Targaryen ,and Aerys Targaryen breaking betrothals but Duncan actions was more severe
nes stark claiming Jon as his bastard left a bad taste in cat relationship and her hatred resulting in Jon growing up depressed
rhaegar and Lyanna actions no question. Even if consensual. A lack of warning fuck
robert saying Lyanna name while bedding Cersei
cersei and Jamie spawns
sex is dangerous. In this world.
The Overlord
SCIENCE! both mad, mundane, and perverted
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Sort of, but there is a couple reasons a author might just do NSFW in advance, for example say someone does not want to see a NSFW story, and yes that preference can exist even on QQ, I am a example of this in that I semi regularly go through the creative writing section here for a non-NSFW story and would be a bit upset if one of the stories I have followed there suddenly has porn. Secondly there is a bunch of stuff beyond lewds that might be considered NSFW and alot of sites have very broad and back and forth boundaries regarding such, on SB and SV for example there are stories that have gotten away with some graphic stuff particularly gore, torture etc, while on others it was cracked down on quickly. Third requesting a transfer of a story can be troublesome for some authors or websites for one reason or another and it can become a hassle to get mod support on something. I had a story years ago for example on SB that got closed from further replies for seemingly no reason other then inactivity that I had taken a few months break on I wanted reopened so I could keep working on the story but after contacting different mods nothing came of it and the chapter I had written up I just ended up deleting and I just gave up on that story. In this regard a lack of response from a mod can lead to delays in the story because you dont want to post smut/gore etc until its properly tagged or put in a NSFW category which could potentially take time, that might not be a issue for QQ but a Author could get into the habit of not wanting to rely on the staff of different websites. Finally there is also the fact on QQ in particular your story is gonna get alot more traffic just being in the NSFW section even if its really a SFW story and no one really complains usually about it especially since most stories don't end up lasting very long and many stories that actually did intend to have lewds just never got to them simply because plot came before porn but the plot stopped being developed.I've always seen this one in author notes from FF.net and tags from Ao3.
Can anybody here explain? Is this like something like the author is not sure whether there is going to be explicit material in their story or not?
I mean, they can just ask the mods to move it in thr NSFW section once they decided to add said material to their story.
Right?
That said I have no idea why they have a NSFW for safety tag while the story is in regular creative writing XD
Nathaniel Carrion
NatetheGreat
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"Understand: if you let narcissism act as a screen between
you and other people, you will misread
them and your strategies will misfire." — Robert Greene, The 33 Strategies of War.Well, that was a warning. He cannot actually trust her with any type of actual power or influence if she keeps going behind his back or doesn't stop her attempts at undermining him. So, she isn't as smart as she thinks she is. Is really what he's telling to her face at that moment. He's losing his patience with her and she keeps underestimating him. Soon, he will have to give her the stick rather than the carrot approach. He will stop being so lenient with her after her next plot utterly fails.
LMAO, I doubt this scheme will succeed the way she hopes.
Right…whatever. We all recall that night very differently…
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Cabrio9f
Know what you're doing yet?
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If such content at least do it in a good standard. Not make it porn cause if I was the SI and felt that my story is being read. The hell I want you to know how I'm screwing someone especially if I married in this world. Now unless omnipresent takes over and writes a few things but not make it porn. More like what you see in tudors , got , no naristive but put the balance of what proper to say and not go to explicit