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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 11
The flap to the main entrance snapped back.
"The requested envoys from King's Landing," the voice of Galbart Glover called out sternly from the chill dusk outside, completing his duty of escorting the trio of unworthies to not Ned.
The first to appear, suspiciously leaning his head forward to check for a trap, hand tight on his sword handle, was the Hound.
Sean tried not to gawk. He'd seen horrible things at the Green Fork, even killed a man himself. Then been forced to ride for weeks beneath the rotting, flesh peeling skulls of vanquished Westerland lords festooning the tops of his triumphant Northern banners' spears. Sandor Clegane's face matched all that for ugliness; the thick pockmarked burn scars oozing a constant slow dribble of light pinkish serum, the missing ear and clumps of hair, the bone showing through the gap in his check, avian predatory eyes, and a permanent, hateful scowl. 'Gods, Rory,' the actor thought. 'In makeup, you look like a cuddly puppy compared to this … this zombie.' The man from earth couldn't fathom how this walking monstrosity hadn't succumbed to a life ending infection.
Mollified by what he saw, the foul brute stepped all the way in. "Come on then," he barked to the dimly shaped figures behind him.
Petyr Baelish strode smoothly, confidently, in next.
'No Aidan this one,' the actor thought. Short and slender, yes. Chin beard and silver sprinkled hair, certainly. Smartly dressed, wearing a mockingbird pendant, of course. Attractive? Even smarmily so? Not in the least. Utterly dull, a drab accountant. Completing his assessment, 'How easy to underestimate him,' Sean thought. But he knew better.
Littlefinger looked as if he didn't have a care in the world. He didn't even stare a split second at not Ned, nor his long yearned for lady love, Catelyn. Not a clue did the slight man betray that he was at all panicked or intimidated being in the presence of a man he watched die; and who certainly must hate him for the rather large part he played in causing said demise.
Varys shuffled in last on quick, mincing steps; each hand tucked fastidiously up the opposite arm's billowing sleeve.
Sean shivered as his goolies begged him to run and hide from this unnatural apparition. A shaved head, a smidge of plumpness, the proper clothes, and Con's brilliant acting still couldn't do justice to the off putting aura of the real live eunuch. The modern, civilized man wondered if this was only an instinctive response to being in the presence of a man who had actually had his meat and two veg chopped off.
"My Lord Stark," the Master of Whisperers announced, his voice coming across as a near shout in the dead silence permeating the tent. Realizing the loudness of his speech, he tittered nervously a moment before continuing sotto voce, "So good to see you … again. And so hale … and vital." More tiny, uneasy giggles followed. "Such an unexpected .. haha … surprise."
'Let this act of the Game of Thrones begin,' not Ned whispered to himself as a prayer, sucking up his courage. "Silence!" he roared angrily, surging out of his chair from behind the table in the center of the candle lit pavilion turned audience chamber.
"I take orders from no man, not even a talking dead one," Clegane exploded defiantly; knuckles whitening on his pommel, prepared to release pitiless violence.
"Which is why I wanted you here most of all, Hound," Sean rejoined, with significantly less heat than his initial declamation.
The scowl intensified, but Clegane's eyes flickered with uncertainty, surprised by not Ned's abrupt change of tack.
"Tell me, Clegane, when Joffrey orders you to beat Sansa. Do you obey like a good dog? Or do you leave it to those other so called honorable, gentle Sers of the Kingsguard to strike my daughter?"
Rage and conflict twisted Clegane's scarred, abomination of a face. His whole body clenched, fighting against itself. "No," he at last choked out.
"She lives?" Catelyn gasped, unable to stay silent any longer; her question vibrating with untold depths of feeling.
"Yes," the brute answered with less emotion, almost relief; regaining some control of his terrible self.
Cat moaned, releasing her pent up fears and hopes. A soft sigh exited the lips of several others in the tent too, Robb most of all.
"Raped?" Sean asked with an icy voice.
Clegane's eyes narrowed and his face clenched; revealing that another struggle was taking place within him, and that something horrible indeed must have happened to not Sophie. But in the end, after keeping everyone on tenterhooks, he shook his head no.
"Praise the Mother," burst not Michelle, openly beginning to weep.
"She's scarred though, isn't she?" not Ned continued. "Maimed."
An uncomfortable look twisted its way across the Hound's evil visage.
"Isn't she!?" the actor demanded in his best, raised not Ned command voice.
"Yes," the Hound growled reluctantly.
Sean simply nodded his understanding; already well knowing anything was possible where the mad beast Joffrey was concerned. "Ser Olvyar," he called softly, now looking inscrutable. "Bring me and my guest here goblets of wine."
"Uh, yes, my Lord. Right away, my Lord," his startled aide responded.
If Olyvar were in fact to marry Sansa; one of the many possible finishing touches Sean had contemplated in his plans for wrapping this vicious, barbaric story up into a neat, pretty little package, then his aide de camp would need to get used to seeing scars very quickly. He walked around the table and stood quietly near the Hound, but not too close, as the brute glared at him all the while with a look that said 'I can kill you anytime I want."
Olyvar arrived quickly and Walder Frey's most worthwhile son offered a cup of red to his lord's guest first. The Hound snatched the goblet and stared into it suspiciously for a moment.
'If only it had iocane powder,' the actor thought with a snicker, accepting his own goblet. Not Ned lifted it and toasted the amoral guardian of his not daughter, "Sandor Clegane, I thank you for my little bird's life and her maidenhead. To Sansa."
In the background Sean saw Baelish roll his eyes at the scene. Varys, however, held a highly interested look as the exchange between the two men approached its curious conclusion.
With the toast, the Hound's scowl turned more wary, until at last he answered, with perhaps the smallest trace of softness, "To Sansa." And in three seconds flat he quaffed the entire cup.
Sean took only a small sip. While he relished the idea of a nip, the present company and dire situation they presented to his plans rather turned his stomach.
Varys started to applaud lightly. "Oh neatly done, Lord Stark. You've leashed Joffrey's favorite pet with a few mere words and the image of your sweet child," simpered the Spider.
"I'll gut you, Eunuch," the Hound blazed.
Varys ignored the killer's venom and continued, "Pray tell, how did you ever discover such a tender, romantic spot existed in poor Sandor's heart for a little bird? And here I thought I was the only one to care for 'little birds.'" He preened. "I don't recall a sweet northern red headed chickadee in my menagerie."
"Tread carefully, Spider, or I'll let the Hound have you, parley or not," the actor said icily.
The Master of Whisperers pouted. "Tsk tsk tsk. Threats? We were such good friends on the Small Council, my Lord. Sharing information. Guiding the Seven Kingdoms with our wisdom."
"Guiding the kingdom to ruin and war. You're nothing but a treacherous liar," not Ned declared with contempt.
The pout took on a deeper level of sadness. "I can understand your thirst for vengeance and distrust of me, Lord Stark. But please believe, the deal we struck to exchange your confession for banishment to the Wall, was made with the utmost honesty and integrity on my part. I was as nearly surprised and disappointed as yourself when impetuous King Joffrey …" Titter. Titter. "so dramatically, so drastically, so irrevocably changed the terms." The look the Spider now gave dripped sympathy and sorrow. "To your detriment of course, unfortunately. But what could I to do once his Grace sprung his little jape and called it mercy?" Then he flashed a cheery grin, "And now, magically, divinely, you've been returned to us. Such a joyous occasion to welcome you back, Lord Stark."
"Oh, shut up," Littlefinger disdainfully interjected. "We both know, Varys, why the dour, honorable Lord of Winterfell demanded the two of us for this meeting. And I have no doubt this icy fellow is who he claims, for he's clearly no imposter, unless he be a Faceless Man. He wishes, from the lofty perch of his miraculous return, to dispense his oh so superior glower of noble disapproval on those he chiefly blames for his fall; no matter 'twas his own inept play in the Game of Thrones that caused his shortened neck. I tried to warn you Stark, teach you; tried to even befriend you. But you refused to listen, let alone abide me, through your unbelievably thick righteous armor of knightly, honorable sensibilities. So be quick with your little show, and give us your terms so we may return to the Queen. I grow weary with your predictability."
"You!" screeched Catelyn, rising from her chair; hate twisting her beautiful face. "Like a brother I trusted you! And this is how you returned my faith, by destroying my family!"
"Cat …" he replied with spread arms, looking and sounding like a smug man appeasing an angry lover.
Sean stepped over. Smack!
Baelish found himself lying on the thick rugs strewn across the floor, rubbing his jaw.
The Hound laughed at the little man's arse over tits predicament. Varys tittered uncomfortably.
"You want terms, you odious wretch?! Then here are the terms. Cersei may have her brother lover back in exchange for my daughter. But that is not all I require, oh no, not at all," Sean ranted. "When she comes, so do you, Littlefinger; and the Eunuch too. You will become my prisoners; to do with however I so please. And it will please me greatly," he hissed.
Both the Master of Coin and the Master of Whisperers suddenly looked very pale; while the scarred man appeared very, very amused.
"Oh, Lord Stark …" Varys started to say with disappointment.
"Silence!" not Ned roared at him, then turned back to the Hound and raised the goblet of red he still held. "You'll want to keep a hand on this pair all the way to the Red Keep. The rest of my 'show,' you see, is for you, Hound; to repeat to Cersei. And if these wretches were likely to flee already, once they hear this next bit, they'll be like rats deserting a sinking ship after."
The brute raised his eyebrows in doubt. "Truly?" his harsh voice asked.
"On my honor as a Stark," Sean replied earnestly.
The amused look turned into an open smile on Clegane's horrid phiz. He too stepped forward and delivered a sharp kick to the reclining Baelish.
"ooof!" And then the jumped up accountant rolled over with a moan and clutched his belly.
The Hound turned toward the Spider, rising up a heavy paw.
Varys let out a pitiful whimper, and cried as he shrank backward, "Please, Lord Stark!"
"Enough," not Ned commanded.
Clegane lowered his fist, only to quickly lift it a second time in order to watch the Eunuch flinch. He laughed at the display of cowardice, but did not lash out after all. "Tell me," the Hound chortled at not Ned.
"Varys is a creature of the Targaryens, always has been. He's toiled for their return since the day Robert foolishly kept him on the Small Council. He works with a longtime friend of his, a fat magistrate in Pentos, named Illyrio. It was this jumped up merchant who arranged the marriage between Daenerys Targaryen and the Dothraki warlord Khal Drogo."
The Hound shrugged his shoulders, unimpressed.
"Illyrio also supplies things to the Eunuch. He proudly mentioned his 'little birds' earlier, always whispering everyone's secrets in his ear so he may better lay his spider's web of deceit. I know who and what his 'little birds' are. My closest banners have been seeking them out, collecting them since I defeated the Old Lion at the Green Fork. Hallis!"
Several members of the Winterfell guard led by their unimaginative nut dutiful captain brought in a score of chained waifs and young vagabonds, looking as if they'd just come from a well-funded production of Oliver Twist.
"Children?" scoffed the Hound, clearly not impressed with the wretches straight out of Dickens.
"Not just any children, Clegane. Pickpockets. Cutpurses. Wall climbers. Lockpicks. Lookouts. Like any you might find in a slum like Fleabottom, but with two devilishly clever differences. First, they all read and write. Who would ever suspect such as those could read the letters and account books of lords, sers, and merchant princes? And second, none of them have their tongues."
"What?!" a startled Hound barked.
"Yes. I wouldn't be surprised if there are a hundred more like these spread throughout King's Landing. Some even in the Red Keep, mutes silently, but watchfully, observing all who come and go. Listening, with sharp ears, through peep holes on all that is said; then scampering through secret tunnels to the Spider's lair and writing out what they learned. Hallis?"
"Come you!" the captain of the guard snapped, dragging forward a dirty, thin, rag clad wretch of a girl no older than ten. "Open your mouth! Show them!" he badgered, poked, and prodded until the child at last responded.
Clegane peered down, taking note of the jagged stump in the child's mouth. "Eh," he said casually, as if unimpressed.
"I'll let you take a half dozen with you. I'm sure, with suitable inducement, Pycelle might have an interesting conversation with one of them using quill and parchment."
The Hound simply grunted in response.
"And we're to believe you didn't mutilate them yourself, Stark," Littlefinger gaspingly accused with a pained voice from the rugs.
Sean looked down at the worm. He kicked him, eliciting another cry of pain. It felt good. "This one," he drawled with scorn. "He was responsible for the poisoning of Lord Arryn. Oh, along with his lover … Lysa Arryn. I wouldn't at all be surprised if her son Robert is actually the fruit of his limp little-finger. Did you think I would not hear the lie you've boasted of for years at court, of taking my fair lady wife's maidenhead? Did you!?" not Ned snarled. He gave the little shit a second boot.
Then, to add fuel to the Hound's fire, "Or I would not discover you coveted my daughter and have plans to spirit her away to the Vale by ship?" 'Well, you would've,' Sean thought with satisfaction, 'if I hadn't come on the scene.' He kicked the lout a third time for emphasis.
The Hound laughed in appreciation of not Ned's unNed-like behavior.
"Though I doubt Cersei would care very much about that; she might even be appreciative. But she'll find this bit interesting, this fuuu …" Sean at last took a breath to calm himself, he'd lost his Ned cool the last few moments. "… this filthy whoremonger told both Lady Catelyn and myself that the knife used to attack her and my son had been won off him in a bet … by a Lannister; which is why my Lady wife grabbed the Imp when she unexpectedly came across him. But that was a lie, like the one he arranged for his lover, Lysa Arryn, to send us. Her secret note arrived in Winterfell right before Robert did. It was her words that spurred me to accept the King's offer and become his Hand. The message claimed the Lannisters had killed Jon Arryn. For his own profit, he purposefully set House Stark against House Lannister.
"You've no proof, Stark," Littlefinger wheezed. "None."
He gazed down at not Aidan, showing no pity in his eyes for the deadly viper. "Oh the Queen," and the actor said the title disparagingly, "will believe it if she knows the accusation came from Eddard Stark. She'll remember the truth and honor I offered her one morning in the godswood." He pivoted back to the Hound. "You should return then, to your master and mistress, Clegane," the actor finally announced. "Though I'm sure Cersei will be displeased if you can't claim to have seen the Kingslayer. No?"
Clegane nodded.
"Jon!" Sean called out.
The Greatjon came through the side flap of the tent, holding tightly onto a shackled, gagged Jaime Lannister.
The Hound took a long look. "Good enough," he grunted. "What about them?" he asked jerking a meaty thumb in the direction of the two cowering members of the Small Council.
"Lord Glover will see that they're tied into their saddles."
"Come on, sheep!" Clegane commanded the pair, turning toward the main entry flap. At the tent wall, he paused, looking back over his shoulder at not Ned with his usual evil glare. "I'll still enjoy killing you when you try storming the walls, Stark," the brute growled.
"So will I," not Ned agreed.
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