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Sean Bean Saves Westeros - Book 1: Sean Lends a Hand by High Plains Drifter
 A song of Ice and Fire & Game of Thrones Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure, Eddard S./Ned, Eddard S., Words: 109k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 737, Published: Jul 22, 2014 Updated: Feb 1, 2015  423Chapter 4
Through the day's march the kingsroad had taken the path of least resistance over the rambling, pleasant terrain of the Crownlands, passing by an ever growing number of villages and holdfasts the closer they came to their destination. A final line of small wooded hills provided the last barrier, but any resistance to their approach by the Lannisters, or simply scouts awaiting them, had long since taken the course of prudence and departed at first sign of the van. The thoroughfare, which had only in the past few days taken on a form that a Roman might not have automatically sneered at, now descended into the wide ranging pastures and farmlands surrounding Westeros' capital and largest city.
"I doubt the Lannisters will be kind enough to leave the gates open again, will they?" Roose Bolton suggested wryly as King's Landing at last came fully into view.
Sean said nothing in response to the Lord of the Dreadfort, the day's designated riding companion. For once it wasn't his visceral dislike of the book tainted arch-traitor that kept his mouth shut tight, but the incredible visage splayed out on the far end of the muddy, hastily harvested plain before him. During his short time in George's War of the Roses fantasy, the actor had visited dozens of working castles, any one of which would have left a medieval historian with a yearlong stiffy. At the start of his odyssey, once he'd stopped slashing himself and started realizing the inexplicable whatever the hell you call it that had happened to him was in fact real, White Harbor had proven a wonder of history come to life. But not even Carcassonne, which he'd once taken an overnight trip to while on holiday in Provence, held a match to this Middle Age megalopolis. All of Carcassonne might fit inside what must be the Red Keep straddling a hill towards the back left. That was no set or CGI rendering of Minas Tirith. No one, not even Peter fucking Jackson, could construct a prop that big!
"I fear our army won't be that lucky, Lord Roose," Catelyn answered politely, covering for her not husband's silence.
Bolton's pale lips frowned slightly. "An attack taking the city walls will raise our banners' humors. I fear their hot blood might lead to a sack. According to Lord Stannis' repute, he would take such pillaging poorly."
"What would you suggest, Lord Roose? A course of leeches to draw out our men's bile?" Sean interjected.
The Flaying Lord's answering smile held no joy. "T'would be preferable, my lord; however, I doubt enough could be found in time to matter very much. Alas, my page only carries sufficient number for my own needs; though I would happily share my meager supply should you ever find a draining beneficial," he answered with his usual dispassion.
Not Ned controlled the shudder that wanted to release itself. 'Mad, he's fucking mad,' the actor thought. But instead of giving into his sentiment, he neutrally replied, "You're generosity is noted, Lord Roose. But now, I would like a generous helping of your cunning generalship. I fear our army is too small to properly invest the length of the city wall. How would you recommend we position ourselves?"
Something dark glistened for a moment in Roose's moon white eyes, then promptly faded as the Leech Lord began to softly expound on how he would keep the Lannisters penned in.
Sean, Cat, Roose Bolton, and the remaining nine hundred men from the Dreadfort found the foot of the vanguard pulled up a half mile or so from the Gate of the Gods, the kingsroad's entrance into King's Landing. The actor had already spied the cavalry elements of Lords Karstark's, Mallister's, and Glover's banners in squadron sized groups off in the distance, keeping a wary eye on the other gates leading into and out of the massive walls. Though none of the trio had fought with not Ned against the bald not Charles, clearly his trust had not been misled in selecting them to lead the army that day; these hard bastards knew war. Whats more, even if they'd proven less able he might have selected them anyway, the Lord of Winterfell couldn't be seen to play Green Fork favorites, no matter the implications of his modified St. Crispin's Day speech, with the headstrong group of pride swollen lords he commanded.
The three lords, their close kinsmen, lieutenants, and notable hangers-on trotted up to greet the Lord Paramount of the North at the head of the first contingent of the long, slowly approaching line of the main column. "Good day, my lords," not Ned called out briskly, trying to hide his nerves. "I hope we're far enough away that a lucky shot from yonder wall won't ruin our little rebellion before we've had a chance to pull the Lannister cub off the Iron Throne?"
Most of the men around him chuckled either with mild amusement or self-serving sycophancy at his small witticism.
"Nay, my lord," replied Jason Mallister, the only one of the van's leadership with any real knowledge of King's Landing and its possible defenses or defenders. "The Gold Cloaks are little better than riff raff, good only for extorting shop keeps and pimps. They're more like to accidentally launch one of their own out of a catapult than actually throw a rock at us."
This cheery assessment of their foes lack of martial ability engendered another round of laughter. To the actor, the walls appeared dangerously tall and foreboding, though he felt reassured by his banners high spirits and apparent expectations of success at the prospect of storming them. They'd be less eager once he shared another Old Gods 'revelation'. Still, he had a few book inspired ideas on how to safely skin the lions hiding in their fortified den.
"Your pardon, Lord Stark," Roose Bolton interrupted quietly, as was his wont. "Whither would you have my men-at-arms form their part of the siege line? I fear if we tarry any longer, Ser Stevron will march his column into the back of mine, sooner rather than the later the Freys are rightly known for."
If another had made a slight jape at the expense of the Freys, Sean would likely have expressed some amusement; instead, he simply craned his neck around to see an oversized flag sporting a pair of blue towers at the front of two and half thousand of old Walder's bastards, real or otherwise, rapidly approaching. Just like the tricky arseholes to stick too close to their brethren in the art of treachery, the Boltons. Still, no time to dawdle, he turned back. "Thank you, Lord Roose. And I will take your earlier counsel." In a louder voice, he then announced, "My Lords, in council we've debated what to do as we lack the numbers for a proper siege. With our new king coming with a mighty fleet that will block up the Blackwater, we shall make our line from here at the kingsroad north by northeast all the way to the bay. If the Lannisters want to flee on the gold road, let them try," he finished with evident scorn.
A few tried to hide sour looks at not Ned's orders, but none squawked at it; for every one of his hairy assed barbarian warlords respected the icy Stark glare the actor could turn on them when he felt displeased or angered.
Satisfied, not Ned continued. "Take your place, Lord Roose, beside the silver gauntlets of Deepwood Motte. I will direct Ser Stevron to form up on the other side of you." Sean had mostly behaved during his day long sojourn with the Leech Lord, but now something snapped inside and the actor couldn't help but try to goad a reaction out of the placid, coldly calculating son of a bitch. "Perhaps side by side, the two of you can soon settle on a marriage contract. 'Tis time you tried to beget another trueborn heir or three."
This unexpected, but juicy tidbit set the surprised nobility to muttering amongst themselves. Roose Bolton, however, didn't appear pleased at the airing of his machinations. Nevertheless, he bowed as formally as he could from his saddle and softly stated, "My Lord is all knowing."
Sean smiled cruelly. "If the Freys offer you your bride's weight in silver for a dowry, I'd choose Fat Walda for your bedding." Three river crossings had ultimately been the old snake's dowry for not Ned's not son. At least the boy seemed happy with his bride; Edmure would never know what he lost out on and Jeyne Westerling would never bring down a kingdom. The actor silently acknowledged he had come a long, dark way in how he treated other lords: whether pledged banners, rivals, or both.
Jabba the Hut; well, his unconscious mind's imaginative rendering of the ridiculously obese Wyman Manderly, lumbered with all possible speed (not much!) off his heavily reinforced throne in the Merman's Court. During the brief time Sean had spent in this too realistic dream, the only thing he'd seen more impressive than Lord Manderly's bulk was the edifice around him. The castle looked and smelled so fucking real. 'Tread lightly,' he cautioned himself, 'Westeros is a nightmare, not a pleasant day dream.'
"My Lord!" the fat man wheezed, trying to bow as far as his fat gut would allow. With a grimace of discomfort the tub of lard straightened his back once he thought decorum sufficiently met.
No, not Jabba the Hut. That was unfair. This was sword and sorcery, not science fiction. An understudy to a cave troll would be more apt, Sean decided.
"We had no word you'd escaped your imprisonment! Lady Catelyn left here just a week ago with my sons, my knights, and my men-at-arms, bound for the gathering at Moat Caillin that young Lord Robb called for."
Hhmmmn, 'interesting' he thought, trying to dredge up where in the story's chronology his dream had put him. 'I, well Ned, might have just been beheaded,' he decided and then suddenly chuckled to himself, realizing, 'Baelor's square would have been a hell of a spot to have arrived in.'
The cave troll warbled some more platitudes, sound issuing forth from his wide gullet like some large creature.
Coo coo cuchoo flitted through his brain. 'No, he's a walrus,' Sean finally realized, then wondered how soon it would be before the blubbery man would morph into a real walrus. Funny how seldom it was he dreamed about a part, maybe because he'd found so few of his characters a mystery. If he could remember later, he'd ask a few of his method friends about their dreams while they were inhabiting a role.
"If anyone could single handedly cut his way out of King's Landing, it's you, my Lord," the figment of his imagination labelled Wyman Manderly blabbered on.
He knew sycophancy. He was a movie star, wasn't he, god damn it! But this seemed more than a little over the top for even a dream. So he simply smiled modestly at the praise and said nothing.
"Will you go join your son and seek justice for good King Robert's death and the Lannisters' treachery?"
Sean pondered for a moment and decided to play along. His under things might be a bit damp. And he did smell too much like urine. But this couldn't be real. Could it? Nahhhh. He would act the hero; he wondered how far he could get rectifying all of Ned's bone headed mistakes before waking up.
"Lord Manderly, I wish I could partake of your famed hospitality, but time is of the essence. The Old Gods themselves have intervened in my destiny; to return me to the North so that I might set right a great wrong and fight against the coming Winter. May I ask of you, Winterfell's truest friend, for a sturdy horse and a company of stout companions to accompany me to my heir and lady wife?"
The blubbery walrus positively puffed up, if that was even possible for such an overlarge man, at Sean's little speech. "Certainly, my Lord," he practically shouted in agreement. And then he did in fact bellow, "Serrrr Tyyyyybald! Horses! My Lord requires a mount and an escort!"
'Well that was easy,' Sean thought.
While lordlings, knights, and freeriders looked after their precious destriers, simple men-at-arms swung picks and shuffles to hastily construct a ditch and rampart before the sun set. The march from Darry had seen a ramshackle approach to making each night's encampment, but not now, not here, so close to an enemy force, even a feeble one. For the few men who scoffed at the need for such hard work at the end of a day's long march, ten survivors of the field works at the Green Fork vehemently shouted down the complainer. Inside the Stark pavilion, quickly raised once Robb marched Winterfell's men into the expanding siege line facing King's Landing, a different sort of work occurred; that of the actor's craft. Here a lad from Sheffield played a role with all his heart, as if his very life depended on how well the audience liked his lines.
As the chatter and arguing of the gathered Northerns and Riverlands filled the tent, Sean wished he remembered more Shakespeare, so far it had worked motivational wonders in Westeros. He'd used it to browbeat those who'd foolishly proclaimed not Rich the King in the North. And the boys had really lapped it up on the Green Fork right before the Westerland knights impaled themselves on the North's pike shafts. But now his classical training failed him. Macbeth, King Lear, Titus Andronicus, Henry V, they all dealt with war, deceit, and death; unfortunately not a one addressed how to prepare men to face magic napalm. Luckily he had other tricks up his mummer's sleeves.
"My lords," not Ned announced. "My lords!" The clamor of voices started to settle. "As poorly defended as the walls are, I fear the Lannisters are not defenseless."
"How so?" some wag called.
"Let the Greatjon show his ugly phiz and they're sure to run away," another shouted, inducing a great many cries of amusement, including one from the Greatjon himself.
The Ned face fell into place in full force. Sean slowly swung his head from side to side, catching the eye of many of the assembled lords. He didn't open his mouth again until silence filled the crowded tent. It didn't take long.
"The Old Gods have sent me a vision," he proclaimed slowly.
Those words never failed to produce a response, even from among the believers of the Seven. Eyes shone brighter. Cruel grins, expecting woe for their foemen, broke out. Anticipation filled the air.
Sean let a pregnant pause draw out the moment. Less was more. Let what passed for his lords' imaginations wonder at the mystery of a gods sent vision. "The false queen … has commanded the city's pyromancers to brew her their dragon draught. '
A low hiss met the pronouncement. The threat of wildfire had promptly doused everyone's enthusiasm for immediately storming the walls, smiles turning to scowls and angry looks.
"Yes, the gold cloaks have jugs of the vile stuff. The fools are more likely to burn themselves than us; still, what casualties might we expect now taking a gate?"
An unhappy silence greeted his question until the Leech Lord opened his quiet mouth. "A thousand," he whispered.
Those soft words broke the quiet and a loud torrent roiled about the tent. "Aye, thousands!" "Others take them!" "Roose has the right of it." "Seven Hells!" Glover, Hornwood, Frey, Tully, Mallister, Mormont, Tallhart, Blackwood, Cerwyn, Karstark, Tully, Manderly, Vance, Ryswell, and Braken all gave voice to their frustration and fear.
Sean rubbed his stubbly beard, 'this isn't going to be easy,' he thought. The grim faces of his barbarian warlords confirmed it; however, the actor played the Game of Thrones with house money, George's printed words. "Quiet. Quiet now," he commanded. "I have no doubt our brave banners could take the walls, but a Trout's life, a Moose's life, an Eagle's life is as precious to me as mine own honor," not Ned said stolidly. "I won't waste them." Then he suddenly grinned like a shark. "Luckily a clever northerner knows how to sweet talk a southern lass out of her maidenhood. And what's more, that false Lannister queen hiding behind those walls is nothing but a cheap whore. We just need to dangle the right coin in front of her and she'll gladly open up her gate."
His loyal group of psychopathic killers shook with laughter. A meager smile of amusement even slightly turned up the corners of Bolton's bloodless lips. Ned would never have japed with them like that, but they seemed to enjoy the new, Old Gods' ordained, friendlier bloke they believed to be their over lord. Sean tried his hardest to always stay in character, but there were limits even for the best actors; sometimes the lad from Sheffield just slipped out. But in the main, the actor did try, if not always succeed, to conform with Westeros' so called code of chivalry and Ned's overly rigid sense of honor.
"First, my lords," the actor began. "First … we must formally announce our presence and demand surrender of the city in the name of the true and only king, Stannis Baratheon, the First of His Name; King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms; and, Protector of the Realm."
A less than enthusiastic muttering of agreement met Stannis's name, Robert's brother as the books amply showed, and this response proved yet again, was not beloved. But not Ned pressed forward with his plan regardless, "Lord Roose, at first light, ride to the Dragon Gate as our chosen envoy and make such a proclamation?"
The bloodless man bobbed his pale face and in that annoying, too quiet voice, replied, "As my Lord requires."
"And if you happen to mention we have the Kingslayer as a hostage, I'm sure word of that will quickly reach the Red Keep."
"Bait for the lioness," Bolton whispered, a calculating look of approval on his face.
"Coin for the whore queen!" the Greatjon shouted gleefully.
Through the laughter accompanying the giant's quip, Sean thought dark thoughts about his designated spokesman. 'Don't get too pleased with yourself, fuck head, I haven't forgotten what you did, will do (?), would have done (?), in the not now. If I'm lucky, some nervous gold cloak will pitch a pot of wildfire at your sorry ass.'
"Do you think they will yield, Lord Stark?" Ser Brynden asked seriously.
"No, Cersei's too stubborn and stupid to yield. If she had any sense the lot of them would've fled the moment they heard of both her father and her brother's defeats. Regardless, honor requires us to give her an opportunity to surrender. The offer must be made."
Several of the Riverland lords bobbed their heads in agreement, while the Greatjon let loose a rude sound in rejoinder that elicited more chuckles from the less knightly.
Sean purposefully iced his face, pulling a Ned; he didn't want the meeting to careen out of control. "Lord Umber, since you so highly approve of the plan, on the morrow you will erect a high platform on which we can display the Kingslayer. I want the false queen to be able to see her brother from Aegon's Hill. Place it opposite the Dragon's Gate, just within catapult range."
The minor chastisement did little to dampen his tallest and strongest banner's good humor. "Happy too, milord," his base voice cheerily rumbled.
"Oh, Lord Roose, another thing," not Ned continued.
"Yes, my lord?"
"Kindly loan the Umbers one of your house's flags. I want the Flayed Man flying above the Kingslayer so Cersei knows what will happen if she doesn't cooperate."
The pale man smiled truly now. "As my lord commands," he replied.
Not Ned nodded back and then addressed the rest of the tent. "My friends, we must not wait solely on a stratagem that relies on the vagaries of a woman. Each of you are to task your stealthiest men to approach the walls and gates tonight, and every night, until the city falls. Work it out amongst yourselves which lord has which stretch of wall. I want your slyest hunters, craftiest poachers, and sneakiest thieves to sweet talk the gold cloaks, sell swords, and whatever other scum the Lannisters have manning the parapets with bribes. Silver, wine, gold, women, writs of amnesty; anything they think might make a turncoat. I want a way into that city that doesn't cost us a sea of blood."
His pack of cutthroats seemed to appreciate that idea. In their own way, each lord did look after his own banners and men-at-arms. Oaths meant something in a medieval world. Here a man's sworn pledge had meaning; well, usually, it was Westeros after all, home of the Red Wedding and other mindless atrocities.
"Ser Brynden?"
"Yes, Lord Stark."
"You're a blackfish. Find a few more likely trouts and scout out along the edges of the Blackwater, both the bay and the rush. The Targaryens built secret tunnels and entrances into the Red Keep." He smiled, looking at Catelyn's bluff, loyal to the core uncle. "Kindly discover one, Ser."
"Gladly."
"Good. In the meantime, the men are to continue building the siege line. I want a score of catapults, a half dozen rolling siege towers, and plenty of very, very long ladders built within a week. I don't intend to assault those walls, but those bastards damned well need to think we're coming. Any questions? No? Good. Then off with you, I've better things to do than look at your ugly faces," Sean announced with a grin. The actor still got a surge of near sexual excitement from the power he held over these hard, dangerous men. He chuckled inside. If only they knew who he really was.
The band of rogues scurried away to do not Ned's bidding, leaving Sean with only his family, both Stark and Tully, present in the big tent. He frequently ended each day in consult with Edmure and Brynden; one for his brains and the other because he was the acting liege lord for half the army.
"Ahem. Father?" asked not Rich.
Robb's resemblance to the young Scot who Sean knew from the set was tenuous at best. Here, he actually bore a true familial look to not Michelle. "Yes, Robb? Something bothering you?" the actor replied, noting the unhappy tone in the lad's voice.
"Do you intend to have Lord Bolton torture the Kingslayer?" he asked uncomfortably.
Sean saw the Blackfish, standing a pace or three behind not Rich, perk up with interest at the question. Cat's uncle had looked askance, though mostly kept his mouth shut about it, at his good nephew's dishonorable conduct in beating Tywin Lannister at the Green Fork. And now he too clearly wanted to take measure of what not Ned intended to do with the Old Lion's king slaying but knightly offspring.
"Only if I have to son," he answered truthfully.
A pained look expressed itself on the teenage boy's face. "But, that … there is no honor in that, ser."
Sean sighed. "No, there isn't," he agreed. "Though you hate the Lannisters, Robb, and I hope too the very act of war, you've fought them with honor; honor they utterly lack. You don't know them, son. Don't know them like I know them. I lived in their cesspool of lies, greed, paranoia, backstabbing and madness for months, until they cut my head off and proclaimed it 'mercy'. There's not a shred of honor in any of them. So tell me, how many more thousands of good, honest northmen must die simply because we would refuse to treat one man, ONE MAN, the way he and all his kin would do, have already done, to a Stark?"
"I don't like it father," Robb answered petulantly.
The actor could clearly see how the boy was being guided by the certainty of youth and his upbringing under Ned 'too fucking honorable for his own good' Stark. From a glance, it at least appeared the Blackfish was pursing his lips in evident consideration of the actor's logic.
Sean sighed again. "I don't either son, but a single life, let alone a thousand lives, is a precious thing."
A thousand men, at least; that many northerners had died delaying Tywin Lannister's pursuit the last three days as they retreated up the kingsroad. On the positive side, far more than that number of Westerlanders had paid the ultimate price. Now Sean would see if his plan, ok, mostly the crew's discussions during filming of what Roose Bolton should have done along the Green Fork, would work. Everybody on set had had opinions, but the smart talk always seemed to focus on the Trident; the possibilities it presented, not the obstacles. None of the talk had ever mentioned the brutal, horrible human cost of war.
He'd swallowed bile the first time he saw a man, unfortunately left behind by his brothers due to a lamed mount, struck down, arm cut clean off, by an armored knight clad in a purple unicorn emblazoned surcoat. He'd barely kept his gorge watching the Boltons spring the first carefully planned ambush, cutting down a few hundred or so Lannister riders in the van of the pursuit. Blood spurted. Limbs fell. Heads rolled. Intestines slid out. Horses screamed. Men shrieked, moaned, cried, and called for their mothers, or mercy, or water.
It was at that moment Sean finally, utterly realized, 'this shit is real!' The crazy, feudal thinking sons of bitches following him around like faithful dogs suddenly stopped being actors and extras merely playing a part until they heard 'cut' and could descend on the food trucks conveniently just out of picture shot. The fact that these smelly, dirty desperate men lived, loved, and died brutally at last sank in, piercing the mental shield the actor had unknowingly erected to keep his sanity. With a supreme effort, not wanting to unman himself before his men, he locked down his face in the pose he thought of as classic icy Ned.
Medger Cerwyn, the lord closest to him at the observation point when war had become more than something watched on BBC documentaries, misread not Ned's reaction. "Oh, it's not so bad as it looks, my Lord. The Dreadfort banners struck early, true, but only a mite. None of those scum will escape, what did you call it earlier? The Bag?" The Boltons had lost some souls in that quick victory. And later the Hornwoods. And then the Glovers. And a day later a few Ryswells, followed by Cerwyns and Karstarks and more Glovers and more Boltons.
Today men sworn directly to Winterfell had already fallen beneath the swords, arrows, and spears of the pursuing Westerlanders. His banners all manfully, dutifully marched and counter marched and charged resolutely to their dooms, not knowing what trick their liege lord intended to at last unleash upon the Lannister horde in order to defeat it. Sean remembered the terms 'operational security,' 'interior lines,' 'strategic offense, tactical defense.' Only the four greatest lords leading this host, Bolton, Hornwood, Cerwyn, and Glover, knew the deception at the heart of not Ned's plan. Unfortunately its greatest weakness lay in that it depended upon the aid of the dark hearted, ancient Lord of the Twins. David, the crotchety Argus Filch of Potter fame, held not one bit of wickedness when compared to the evil that had oozed out of Walder Frey when Sean had bargained his future with the serpent.
"My Lord!" My Lord!" voices shouted urgently behind him.
He swirled his mount around. "What?!" he cried into the oncoming dusk.
"Banners, my Lord!"
"Whose?" he asked, suddenly fearing they'd been outflanked.
"Frey and Tallhart, my Lord!"
He slumped with relief in his saddle. If the pontoon bridge he'd been promised was in place, they'd get the chance to flank Tywin Lannister with the majority of the Northern army. And then the Nazi bastard wouldn't have a clue 'til it was too late.
"Father?" A girl's voice called through the flap leading to the smaller inner room of the pavilion; Sean and Cat's private sleeping quarter.
"The lords are all gone now, you can come out," not Ned answered, a smile starting to break through his outwardly cold demeanor. He missed his daughters; Lorna, Molly, and Evie, frightfully. He'd now have to make do with the wild haired child walking thoughtfully towards him. Sean intended to spoil Arya Stark mercilessly.
"Are you going to get Sansa back?" she asked.
"Your father's going to try his best," Cat answered bravely. The two of them had spent many nights discussing how not Ned would reunite their family.
"You'll trade the Kingslayer for her?" Arya asked dubiously. "I heard rumors that in Riverrun Robb refused to."
"Arya," Robb barked, hurt by the accusation in her voice. "That's not fair. I thought I was head of our House then. I had to decide what was best for all the North, not just our family, no matter how sore it hurt."
Sean knelt down and gently rubbed the disheveled mop of hair above her long face. "Don't blame your brother, he loves Sansa as much as you. We all want her safely back with us. Now not even I could get away with trading Jaime Lannister for just your sister. The Lannisters have hurt too many of our friends. The Karstarks, the Hornwoods, the Brackens, and many other lords would turn their backs on us if I did."
Cat stepped up beside them and laid a hand on each. "Your father is as clever as he is honorable. He has a plan that will work." Her eyes reflected the faith and trust she felt for her not husband.
"They won't like it," Robb grunted, remembering the venom so many of the lords had expressed about the Kingslayer.
"No," not Ned agreed. "But they'll abide by my decision. It's one thing for them to oppose giving up the Kingslayer from Riverrun and another when they can see what he'll bring in exchange when he's got nowhere to flee."
"Most like," Edmure added darkly.
"Oh, they'll agree," the Blackfish snorted with some amusement, knowing more about not Ned's intended targets in the coming exchange negotiations from years of receiving detailed letters rife with court intrigue from Jon Arryn.
"What are you going to do?" Arya asked with evident curiosity, being privy to her father's plans only through snippets of overheard conversations.
"Never you mind, child," not Michelle said sweetly. "It's late, you should all go to bed now … including you brother … uncle." Slowly, reluctantly the tent emptied at last. "Ned," that sweet voice whispered as she leaned her body gently into his.
"Yes, my sweet," he answered, staring into her beautiful blue orbs; feeling her other orbs resting softly on his him.
"It will work, won't it?"
"Yes," he husked, feeling his groin stir. "They fear to discover what 'Winter is Coming' truly means." In response, his passionate red haired not wife, even prettier than Michelle despite the ugly scars on her hands, pressed her warm, moist lips against his. 'Someday I'll wish this shit hole had Viagra,' he thought. 'But not yet thank god.' As he began to blissfully forget the burdens weighing him down, Sean suddenly remembered a trick he'd learned from a costume assistant back in New Zealand. The actor scrambled to remember if there was some honey and a feather in the tent.
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