SbiperNot too sore, are you?
Joined:Feb 6, 2018Messages:459Likes Received:45,847
Tyrion XVIII
"This, this is....strange do you not think father?" he asked, pausing in eating his meal to say what had been on his mind, taking a sip of wine to wet his throat. Just a sip mind you, seeing as how he was living under his father's roof again the Old Lion not only disapproved of his drinking, but actively restricted his access to wine, spirits and beer.
"How so?" asked his father in response, the rather dim candle light in the small dining room casting his father's face into half shadow.
Jamie was not present, as was usual. Despite having been removed from the Kingsguard he showed little inclination to commence his duties as heir to Casterly Rock, and his father seemed equally uninterested in having his first born assume this role. Which was a definitive change in the Old Lion's previous obsession with Jamie as his heir, and which confirmed Tyrion's belief that the Old Lion had indeed cast aside Jamie as his heir. And him also he noted sourly, he was effectively removed from the line of succession by having been named Lord of Rosby, with his wife the Lady of said same seat.
"This....no longer living in the Red Keep, you no longer Hand, all of us under, how did you put it? Oh yes 'House Arrest'?"
"The surroundings are comfortable enough and certainly of sufficient standards for you?" came the usual growl of a reply.
The house where the Lannister clan in Kings Landing now resided was their usual Town House, with the Starks being housed in one of the properties formerly owned by the late Master of Coin, Lord Baelish. The property where the Starks resided was much larger and more luxurious than the property that the Lannister's had owned for nigh on three centuries in Kings Landing, and was actually secretly owned by them following the dismemberment and absorption of Baelish's empire by him, with his father's tacit support. That not all of Baelish's ill gotten gains had been made public had allowed him and his father to siphon off quite a bit of Baelish's wealth. At first Tyrion had not understood why his father had done this, the Lannister's in general and his father in particular were leagues wealthier than Baelish, and had no need of the sums or properties Baelish had accumulated through graft, theft and deceit. But those funds of Baelish were separate from the acknowledged sources of Lannister wealth, and could come in handy in an emergency, such as like now.
He considered his next words, before deciding that it did not really matter one way or the other.
"We sit here, effectively trapped, while our new Queen listens to the words of her Small Council, none of them friendly to the Lannister's, indeed her Hand, Prince Oberyn is actively hostile. How can you be sure that Daenerys will not renege on her words father? Or that Prince Oberyn will not decide that he has had enough of waiting for his vengeance, and don't fob me off with the heads of Lorch and the Mountain; he won't be satisfied until he has your head!"
His father continued eating, seeming to ignore him until he said "tell me again Tyrion what happened in the Great Sept of Baelor two turns of the moon ago?"
"Daenerys of House Targaryen was crowned the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
"And?"
"And? All present bent the knee to her...."
"Before that Tyrion, what happened before that, what allowed the girl to be crowned Queen, and for her subjects to kneel?"
He noticed the specific emphasis his father put on the word subject. "Daenerys of House Targaryen acknowledged her father's sins and absolved all the Houses involved in Robert's Rebellion from blame..."
"You are leaving out the most important bit Tyrion...I wonder why?" asked the Old Lion, his voice low, yet carrying the menace that his very being seemed to radiate.
"Daenerys instructed that all be bound over to her peace as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And that none shall break it to settle any slights, oaths or claim vengeance resulting from any acts carried out during the Rebellion."
"Good, you do remember...."
How could he forget he mused, the great and the good assembled in the Great Sept, the smell of incense filling the air, cloyingly sweet, almost gagging so heavy was the air with its scent. All of them watching as a slip of a girl was crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the sounds of her dragons roaring and screeching in the air above Kings Landing clearly audible inside the vast, cool, echoing, marble clad space of the Great Sept.
Said Dragons had set up shop as it were in Kings Landing; the largest one Drogon had made the lower bailey of the Red Keep its lair, to be near its mistress no doubt. The green hued one, Rhaegal now nested in the ruins of the Dragon pit, its varied previous occupants removed by a combination of the beasts own presence, its dragonfire, and by the Unsullied for the more stubborn, or stupid salubrious former residents of the vast, ruined structure. The third Dragon, Viserion, who had a distinctly blue tinge to his scales and wings, seemed to prefer to roost among the towers and arched rooftops of the Great Sept itself.
Apparently the High Septon was none too pleased with this, but was terrified to say anything, from what Tyrion had gathered the Great Sept appeared to be able to accommodate the beast's weight, at least for now anyway.
And yes, oaths had been spoken, vows had been said, but Tyrion did not trust mere words, even those said in a Sept, before crowds of Lords....But his father seemed to think it was sufficient, and maybe it was. If Daenerys broke her word she would lose the support of many, and with the North, the Riverlands and the Westerlands now tied together by marriage, she should be wary about moving against his father. But she had the Reach and Dorne behind her, a powerful Army in the form of the Unsullied and the Dothraki, both of whom were beholden to her and her alone. And that was before one factored in her Dragons...as he had oft reminded himself, the Blackfyre rebellions only started a generation after the last dragons had died out.
But something was nagging at his mind, something whose shape and meaning remained stubbornly elusive – his father was not, as he was wont to remind people, an 'honourable man', and Tyrion could not see the true course of action his father was taking. He did not believe for one second that his father was taking the words said under oath before the High Septon and the Most Devout on face value, the Old Lion had to assume that these would be broken. As to when they would be broken, by whom and under what extenuating circumstances he could not say – though he had his own strong suspicions on that matter.
And now with Lady Sansa having pupped her twins a mere three weeks ago, his dear father had two more heirs of his body. Small enough things, two boys, strong lunged though, both green of eye, the eldest blonde of hair while the younger sported a darker coloured mop of wispy hair atop his head.
The twins were named Patryk and Brynden, strangely non-Lannister names he mused, but no one had the wit, inclination, or stupidity to remark on this in his father's presence. Lady Sansa had not gone 'into confinement' as some had proposed, including his father's personal Maester, who had been removed from his post as acting Grand Maester even before the Dragon Queen's arrival. Olenna Tyrell had Lord Mace's uncle Gormon Tyrell installed as Grand Maester shortly after the 'Four Wedding's after a Funeral' that some wags referred to the events after Joffrey's death.
But the Old Tyrell hag's victory had been short lived, Grand Maester Gormon had been recalled to the Citadel under mysterious circumstances and Grand Maester Marwyn replaced the Tyrell stooge.
Tyrion liked the new Grand Maester, he was a fine conversationalist and he shared his passion for all things dragon, as well as being quick of phrase and of mind. Unlike Gormon who had seemed terribly dull, and as much a Tyrell lickspittle as Pycelle had been a Lannister one.
The Lady Sansa was still recovering from the ordeal of birthing, but she was up and about and though she had not formally returned to her duties as the Lady of the Westerlands, it was likely that she would do so very soon. Like most new mothers the girl had seemed a little overwhelmed by the whole thing at first, but that hidden steel that the girl had soon came to the fore. Unlike his dammed Frey wife, who seemed to spend her days either crying and shutting herself away or dotting on their son, denying, or at least trying to deny him access to the boy. And with no job to occupy his mind he was bored senseless, though the expectation that they would all be murdered in a spectacularly gruesome way, maybe even by dragonfire, did give him some respite from the boredom.
The army of Red Cloaks that had backed up his father's power as Hand was gone, dispersed back to the Westerlands and replaced by the Unsullied and the newly recreated Gold Cloaks, with Lord Randyl Tarley as their Lord Commander. That was yet another coup for the Reach, already having Garth Hightower as Master of Coin. Varys of course retained his position as Master of Whispers with Adrian Celtiger filling the position of Master of Ships. Barristan the Bold was the Lord Commander of the Queeensguard, though that institution was only three knights strong currently.
At least his father was called to the Red Keep regularly enough, to discuss the preparations for what was being referred to as the 'second war for the dawn', and of course he had his duties as Warden of the West and those of a father to newborns to occupy him.
"And how is my goodmother, the Lady Sansa?"
"She is fine, she is young, healthy and strong, she will be back to fulfil her duties soon."
"And my little half brothers?"
"Doing well also, Sansa insists on feeding them herself, something which I approve of."
"Oh?"
"Wet nurses are an expedient when needed, but the milk of its mother is best for a baby. I don't want the milk of some smallfolk chit being all that nourishes my sons when they are babes."
"Speaking of children.....I hear rumours that our new Queen in barren....."
"Do you now?" replied his father, barely condescending to give him the merest glance. Tyrion's mind whirled at this response, did his father give credence to the rumours, or did he have proof he wondered?
When his father said no more on the topic, and looked like he would not be drawn further Tyrion he returned his attention to his plate and finishing the meal before him. Typical Westerlander fare this time, a good, rich porter and beef stew, thickly sauced and filled with hearty vegetables and good chunks of tender beef. Roasted potatoes and freshly baked bread accompanied the meal, along with beer and wine, though so little wine he lamented, the carafe of red was small, barely enough to fill his glass twice, maybe three times.
His father was drinking a pale golden beer, apparently Bealish had owned the largest brewery in Kings Landing and his father, as its new owner had been experimenting with different types of beer. The beer his father was drinking went by the strange name of Urquell pilsner, and it was apparently selling in such quantities that the brewery could not keep up with the demand.
He had sampled the product and it was to his liking, refreshingly tart yet not too bitter and with just a hint of sweetness. The foamy head it displayed upon pouring made it very distinctive, as did the fact that the beer could retain this foamy head much longer than other beers. He had taken a tour of the brewery with his father once, marvelling at how the Old Lion could converse with the Master Brewer on such subjects as decoction mashing, Lautering and other such ridiculous sounding terms that obviously related to brewing.
For desert there was a selection of fresh fruit, peaches, figs, plums and apricots. Tyrion passed up on the fruit, while his father took several of each to consume, eating in that deliberate, slightly fastidious way of his.
"Out with it Tyrion, you are glowering, something troubles you" Tywin said after finishing his fruit and pushing the small plate with the assorted stones and discarded skins.
"You, you are plotting something.....I know it..."
"This is the Great Game Tyrion, one is always plotting, if one wants to survive...."
"No, there is...there is something more to this...this time. These, these wights and what you believe is coming..."
...."I don't believe it Tyrion, I know it!" hissed his father, interrupting him.
"Nevertheless, though they complicate things, they do not alter the...fundamentals of the Great Game. There is more to this than I can see. And I hope for your sake, and all our sakes, that our enemies cannot see what is so plainly obvious to you father."
"What drives me Tyrion, what motivates me, above and beyond anything else?" his father asked him, the Old Lion's face neutral and composed looking, but his eyes glared with their usual frightening intensity.
Tyrion decided to be flippant, not knowing why the sudden urge to throw caution to the wind came over him. No, that was untrue; he knew what was making a sour lump of bile sit in the back of his throat. It was the birth of Sansa's twins and what he knew they represented, one of them would inherit Casterly Rock. His hopes were forever dashed by their birth, even though he had been confirmed the Lord of Rosby, and by none other than Queen Daenerys herself, it was not the same.
"To be right all the fucking time, and to make everyfucking body aware of it....."
"Really? I prefer to think of it as putting the interests of House Lannister first, before my own, selfish desires and wants."
Tyrion could not stop his face from twisting into the veneer of a smile that was more a grimace in truth "Only it's easy for you to be utterly devoted to family, when you are making all the decisions!" he retorted, irony and sarcasm dripping from his voice.
"Easy for me, is it?" asked his father, his voice strangely harsh.
"When have you ever done something, anything, which was not in your interest, but solely for the benefit of the family!" he spat back, a reckless courage making him feel slightly light headed.
"The day that you were born!" his father replied, every word harshly bitten off, anger and something Tyrion could not quite recognise harshening and roughening the Old Lion's voice.
"I wanted to carry you into the sea, and let the waves wash you away. Instead, I let you live, to honour your mothers last request that I not kill you. And I did that, I brought you up, because you're a Lannister!"
Tyrion wanted to recoil from the sheer anger and pain projecting from his father, noticing that his eyes were moist, though they lost nothing of the intensity of their customary glare.
He sat there stunned until his father got up from the table and picked up his chair, moving it and setting it down right beside his. Tyrion gulped involuntarily, not knowing what was about to happen, his mind awhirl with terrifying thoughts.
"Let me tell you a tale Tyrion, a tale of a rebellion based on a lie, of a bastard who never was, and of a Prince that was promised" whispered his father.
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SbiperNot too sore, are you?
Joined:Feb 6, 2018Messages:459Likes Received:45,847
Okay - I have a confession to make - this chapter should have been posted before Tyrion XVIII
Apologies, my bad, anyway, here's the chapter;
Jon II
Jon resisted the urge to pull at his collar, sweating in the heat, despite the shade provided by the crimson canopy above him. His new clothes, a gift from his sister Lady Sansa of all people, though light, comfortable and of better quality than anything he had ever owned, made him feel, well, conspicuous. It was not helped by the fact that Ser Loras Tyrell had started making eyes at him, just like Sansa had predicted!
He cast his mind back to yesterday, keen to take his mind off the seemingly interminable wait for this supposed Dragon Queen and her three magical beasts.
After arriving in Kings Landing by sea, and with the unique stench of the city seeming to clog his nose, he had met the notables of the Red Keep, and then swiftly they were shown the wight, along with Lord Tywin explaining his role in its capture.
Afterwards he had been shown to the quarters assigned to him, bigger and more lavishly appointed than anything he had ever experienced before. His awe at the place was broken by the entrance of his sister Sansa, who was accompanied by a gaggle of servants carrying bundles of what appeared to be cloth. The great, scarred bulk of the Hound gave him a look that seemed to indicate pity and a little amusement, before he left and no doubt took up station outside his door.
"Sansa?" he asked, giving her a bow worthy of her station, for she was no longer just his sister anymore, that girl was gone and replaced by what looked to his mind every inch a southron Lady.
"Jon" she replied evenly, her tone cool and formal.
"What can I do for you my Lady?" he asked, suddenly very wary for some unexplained reason.
"None of this 'my Lady' Jon, you are my brother, I am your sister, we are not in public and do not need to maintain the expected norms..." Sansa replied, a mischievous smile suddenly twisting her lips.
"erhhhh, ummmhhh..." was all he could say in reply.
"Now, to business, we cannot have you meeting the Hand of the King looking like that!"
"Like what?" he asked, surprise making his voice rise in pitch and tone.
"This is Kings Landing, you will be at Court while you are here, as a brother of the wife of the Hand of the King, there are certain standards to be maintained..."with this Sansa gestured to the servants, what Jon had originally thought to be bundles of cloth turned out to be clothes instead. And more clothes than Jon reckoned he had ever owned in all his life "Sansa...I cannot..." he said, his voice sounding lame to his own ears.
"You can and you will, I paid for all this from the allowance Tywin gives me, it's the least I can do, and it makes sure that Tywin does not get into one of his moods when he thinks he is being slighted...."
"Tywin....." Jon said, the name strange on his tongue, he looked at Sansa, the query writ upon his face.
His sister quirked up a delicate eyebrow, despite her belly being swollen with child, or with two of them in this case, Sansa still retained enough of the looks of that little girl he had last seen in Winterfell. Robb had told him of all that had happened to her, of her admission of guilt in the matter of his father's death, and of how she had insisted on punishing herself for this, with her marriage to Lord Tywin.
Sansa did not look like she was being punished much to Jon's mind; his sister was dressed in clothes that probably cost more than some whole villages in the North would see in a year of honest work. She was married to arguably the most powerful man in Westeros, carrying his heirs in her womb, no; Sansa had done alright for herself. Maybe it was not the fairytale that she had dreamed of but still...
"Yes Tywin Lannister, the Old Lion....not that old though" she smiled, letting her gaze fall to her pregnant belly, Jon feeling colour rush to his face.
"Anyways, take these clothes in the spirit they are offered, wear them, they will be more practical and comfortable than anything you have now, especially those furs you seem so fond of. It will make you fit in much better at court, and will be sure to set the young maidens tongues a wagging....and to catch the eyes of a certain 'Knight of Flowers!"
"Sansa!" he stuttered in reply, not knowing what to say.
"Hush now Jon....and don't dawdle, the Lord Hand is waiting for you."
"He is?" he asked, his voice coming out as a squeak despite his best efforts.
"Yes, best not to be late, Lord Tywin does not like it when one is late..."
And so he had found himself in the Solar of the Lord Hand, wearing his new clothes, and feeling nervous. As to what he had to be nervous about he did not know, he had faced the Night King, killed wights, wildlings and Others, why did he feel nervous standing before the Old Lion, who was busy writing at his desk.
Looking up Lord Tywin bid him sit, as the Lord Hand finished his missive, he then rose, poured Jon and himself a goblet of well watered wine, before seating himself behind his desk.
Silence stretched between them, Jon feeling the increasing pressure to say something, anything, until finally he cracked "My Lord Hand, on behalf of the Nights Watch I..."
"I've never met a man who rose from the dead before" interjected Lord Tywin, his voice low yet powerful, reducing his rushed babbling to silence, though Jon could not escape seeing something briefly flash across the face of the Old Lion, something strange, wistful even.
"My, my Lord?" he stuttered in reply.
"Lady Melisandre says she did not bring you back, that her god of fire did, but nevertheless, you were dead, killed by your own traitorous brothers, with the scars of your stab wounds under your shirt to prove it...and yet here you are before me...."
"My Lord, I...."
"There is nothing to say young Snow, I know what happened to you, I know of the wights, the Army of the Dead, the Night King, the coming Long Night...I know it all" the Old Lion said, his voice rumbling and powerful, the voice of a man used to command, a man used to having his every word listened to and obeyed.
"Is that...is that why you supported the Nights Watch, sent us supplies?"
"Of course, it's why I ended the stupid war that was tearing Westeros apart as soon as I humanly could, with a cost to me that many fools thought was too high. I am bound to House Stark, as Houses Stark and Tully are bound to me, House Tyrell might even stop its ceaseless plotting for the merest scrap of advantage and also join with House Baratheon. For the Great War is coming Jon Snow, and we will either beat the dead together or lose separately."
Jon nodded his head at this, still amazed that this man believed in things that he had previously not seen, and who he was in debt to, much as it pained him to admit.
"The Red Witch is not the only one gifted with visions of the future young Snow, I was struck down by a vision myself, probably from the Old Gods, as I travelled from Harenhall to Kings Landing to confront Lord Stannis. I saw many things Jon Snow, things from the future, things from the here and now, and things from the past...."
Jon suddenly found himself tensing, the very air in the room seemingly to be charged with something, something of terrible import.
"As my wife is fond of telling me, I am not an honourable man" at this Jon hissed in his breath, noticing that a small smile briefly lit Lord Tywin's face at the mention of Sansa "but what I am is a man who cares for his family, and for what family represents Jon Snow. And I am prepared to do whatever it takes so that my family survives, my sons, my relatives, and my wife, your sister. Understand this young Snow, if you understand nothing else....and so we come to you, and who you are...."
"I'm a bastard..." he replied automatically, almost without thinking.
Lord Tywin moved his head to one side, seeming to consider him; his gold flecked emerald gaze holding him like a lion would hold its prey, staring with an intensity that made Jon want to flee the room.
"What do people say of Lannister's Jon Snow?" he eventually asked, the Old Lion's voice steady and even a little quiet in the silence of his solar.
Jon thought about it for a second or two "that you always pay your debts?"
"Indeed.....though I may not be an honourable man I swear on the blood of my unborn children that I will never ask of you anything dishonourable Jon Snow."
He sat there for a second or two, his mind spinning and whirling, unable to make sense of what the Old Lion was saying.
"I have need of you Jon Snow, to work with me, to help us defeat the Night King and his Army of the Dead, to turn back the Long Night. But though I need your strong sword arm and you skill as a warrior, we first have to unite the seven Kingdoms. And for that we will need politics, a skill which you Starks are sadly lacking in. I will need you to do my bidding on several matters, without others knowing that you answer to my command in this respect. And in return, when you have completed your tasks on my behalf I will tell you the name of your mother...."
A distant screech broke Jon's train of thought; another answering screech quickly followed the first, and then a third. He had never heard such a sound before, the crowd gathered under the canopy of the pavilion stirred and shifted in their seats. Outside a shriek of "dragons!" tore at the air, an instant hubbub of voices rapidly soared to a mad scramble to get out from under the tents crimson roof and see for themselves. He spied Lady Olenna Tyrell swiping about her with her walking stick, to clear herself a passage to the open air, others equally undignified in the race to spy the legendary beasts of Old Valyria.
The party of Daenerys Targayren did not move at the sound, likewise the Old Lion stayed seated, not even a muscle moving in response to a new series of bellowing roars as in the distance before the tent three dragons alighted on the ground. Upon landing the three beasts roared out what seemed to Jon like challenges, daring anyone to dispute them the right of being the supreme beasts of war.
In truth Jon near swooned at the sight, real, actual dragons.... from the central one, a hulking black and red brute a tiny, silver haired figure dismounted and strode towards them. Behind the girl the three dragons launched themselves back into the air to the accompaniment of deafening roars and screeches, and three gouts of flame, one from each dragon.
As the girl drew closer Jon studied her, she was tiny, petite, yet despite her obviously young age she had the figure of a woman, in near perfect proportions for her stature. The nearer she got the more Jon could see of her features, their almost unearthly perfection, the sculpted planes of her face, her plump, red lips. Large violet eyes blinked as she looked around, her face showing only cool interest, her silver golden hair done up in a complicated braid arrangement. She wore riding leathers that clung to her legs, a long woollen coat that reached to mid thigh covering her torso. Without stopping she took her place among her people, a sash of silver links, looking to Jon's eyes like dragon bones was worn across her chest, from her right shoulder to her left hip, the clasp at the top of the chain that held her dark red cloak was fashioned as three dragon heads.
Servants scurried around with platters of bread and salt, offering everyone to partake in the tradition of guest right, which everyone did.
With this ritual completed the servants beat a hasty retreat, leaving the assembled Lords, Ladies, Knights, King and potential Queen to stare at each other uneasily.
Lord Tywin broke the silence "we have been here for some time" he remarked, his face stony and unreadable.
"My apologies" the Targaryen girl replied, her voice liquid and as beautiful sounding as her face was looking. Jon scolded himself, he was a bastard, best not to let his thoughts fixate on this Daenerys of House Targaryen, but there was something about her that drew his attention, something he could not help but feel. And below this, a snarling, wild rage at the thoughts of this girl being forever denied to him by virtue of his lowly birth.
"We are a group of people who do not like one another, we have suffered at each other's hands, though some more than others I will admit. If all we wanted was more of the same there would be no need for this gathering. Daenerys Targaryen seeks to reclaim the Iron Throne, with three Dragons and almost the same number of troops as her illustrious forbearer, who would dare stand against her? Who would risk their life, their legacy to another 'field of fire'?"
"And yet here we are Lord Tywin, meeting with the supposed intent of settling our differences and all living in harmony afterwards?" asked the Targaryen girl, her voice strained and angry, but at the same time its timbre was strangely appealing to Jon. He knew of what Lord Tywin Lannister did to Princess Elia and her babes, and he would not begrudge the girl her vengeance were he in her place. Even with the promise from Lord Tywin to reveal who his mother was. And on that very point, why was Lord Tywin waiting to tell him, his mother was likely dead, probably some smallfolk lass, or maybe even a whore, why was the Old Lion holding it over him? Before his mind could ponder this more the Lord Hand spoke again.
"This is not about living in harmony; it is just about living. The same thing is coming for all of us. A general you cannot negotiate with, an army that does not need food or shelter, that does not leave corpses behind on the battlefield. This city contains a million souls, give or take a few thousand, and they are about to become a million more soldiers in the Army of the Dead."
"I imagine that for some that might be an improvement?" quipped the dragon girl, her face twisted into a snarl, which made her even more beautiful in Jon Snow's eyes.
"This is serious, I would not be here if it were not serious" growled the Old Lion in reply.
"I don't think this is serious at all, I think this is a trick, some convoluted delaying tactic on your part Lord Tywin. You have asked me here, to discuss matter of state, to have the usurper who currently sits on my throne step down, to allow me to take 'peacefully' what is mine by rights?"
Jon felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up at this, as the sounds of dragon roars reached his ears. Something in him screamed at him to run, to get away, but he could not, he was rooted to the spot, observing the staring match between the slip of a sliver haired girl and the Old Lion. Neither was willing to break eye contact, both glaring at each other with a hate and anger that seemed to almost be a physical thing.
"There is likely no conversation that could erase the last half decade.....but we have something to show you" said the Lannister Lord, who gestured with his hand, his hard gaze never leaving the Targaryen girl's eyes.
At this Jon stepped forwards and out into the space before the assembled High Born of Westeros to play one of his roles as ordained by Lord Tywin.
"And who is this?" asked the girl, eyeing him coolly, her gaze finally averted from Lord Tywin's by his movement.
"This is Jon Stark, perviously Jon Snow and also former Lord Commander of the Nights Watch."
"Former Lord Commander? And how does that work exactly" asked the tiny form of Lady Olenna Tyrell "the vows of the Nights Watch are for life, are they not?"
"During the recent unpleasantness in Westeros Lord Rob Stark, as King in the North and the Riverlands signed a decree that legitimised Jon Snow, absolved him of his vows to the Nights Watch and made him his heir. As Lord Robb is no longer a King and has an infant son the second part of that same decree is now null and void. The first and second parts however still have legal force, and there is precedent from before the time of the Iron Throne whereby a Stark King can revoke the oaths of a Black Brother" replied Lord Tywin to the Queen of Thorns, who looked sour and pinched at the reply she received.
Eight men carried the crate that the wight was imprisoned in into the tent, wildlings and Black brothers, setting it down in the middle before all. Tormund gently slid the restraining bolts back from its lid, before giving it a quick kick to tip it over towards were the Targaryen girl sat.
The wight burst out from its confinement to the shocked gasps and screams of the assembled crowd. Well at least those who were not aware of the things existence. Screching and hissing it launched itself towards Daenerys, Tormund and several Black Brothers grasping at the chains that led back from its sprinting form, pulling it up short with a jerk before it reached the silver haired girl.
Screaming and waling the thing thrashed about in a frenzy, before turning back to rush at the men holding its chains. Tormund drew his axe and as it went to leap at him, hands outstretched like claws he swung his weapon, bisecting the wight. If it had stunk before, the stench as its rotten bowels emptied was simply horrendous, he heard several people gag and retch at the reek emanating from the thing. It still wriggled and thrashed about on the ground, hissing and screeching piteously, trying to drag its torso along towards the nearest living being.
Ser Davos stepped out of the crowd, handing him a burning brand, he took it and set the wights lower torso and legs alight, its limbs burning with a strange fierceness, rapidly consuming the leathery flesh of the wight.
"We can destroy them by burning them, and we can destroy them with Dragon glass" he said, his eyes finding the purple ones of the Targaryen girl, holding them with his gaze, never wanting to tear his eyes away from hers, drowning in their violet depths. "If we don't win this fight, then that" he gestured behind him to where the remains of the wight trashed and hissed "is the fate of every person in the world."
Taking two steps back and to the side he reached down and grabbed the wights arm and lifting its torso up he stabbed it with a dragon glass dagger, instantly cutting of its waling. Dropping the corpse to the ground Jon advanced towards the girl, his eyes once more finding hers and feeling their magnetic pull.
Coming to a stop a mere two feet from Daenerys Targaryen he nodded to her, before saying "There is only one war that matters, one struggle that we should concern ourselves with, The Great War, and it is here."
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Think an SI into Ned Stark with a Homo Drakensis twist sounds like fun? Well the Black Wolf [NSFW] is the story for you then!
What would you did if you woke up in Westeros and discovered you had been subjected to an enforced gender change? See the adventures of The Littlest Lioness for all the delightful details...
Ever fancied being Tywin Lannister? Well now you can find out, courtesy of The Lion in Winter
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Threadmarks: Sansa XX
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Sansa XX
Sansa glanced over at her husband, noticing his eyes rove back and forth, back and forth, ignoring what was going on around him, his eyes fixed on the sight before them.
Winterfell loomed in the distance, atop the hill that allowed it to dominate the slightly rolling countryside it sat in. Before them in the middle distance Wintertown straggled, its untidy assemblage of rather variegated buildings looking, well, untidy to her eyes. An unexpected feeling of embarrassment crept up from the depths of her mind, at the rather poor look of Wintertown, how it looked ramshackle, its appearance made worse by a sea of Wildling tents and lean-to's that seemed to cover the snowy land around Wintertown.
Beyond this Winterfell proper sat against a slate grey sky, dark and brooding, looking every inch the plain, severe fortress that it was.
Winterfell was no southern keep, for it made little concession to style or ornamentation, it was designed to survive winter and be a defensible home for the Starks, nothing else. It was no fancy statement of wealth or power, no glorified Toll House or barracks to control fertile plains; no Winterfell was something else entirely.
Tywin had been studying the plans of Winterfell on the trip north, often muttering to himself long into the night, pouring over plans, elevations, and maps of the environs of Winterfell. Tywin was a military man and he was obviously making sure he knew the strengths and weaknesses of Winterfell to withstand a siege.
But this had confused Sansa at first, though she was no expert on military matters she understood that what confronted them was not a normal Army, and it was one that had no use for territory as such, and even less for castles or keeps. If they holed up in Winterfell all they would be doing was asking for the Night King and his Army to starve and freeze them to death.
She had voiced this to Tywin one evening in their tent; he had turned to her in the semi darkness and had whispered "how long did it take you to figure that out?"
"Not, not long Tywin. This, this seems like madness, like we are walking into a trap?" she had whispered back, unable to keep fear from her voice, cuddling into Tywin to huddle against his warmth, his bulk.
"We are, walking into a trap that is, but we have our own trap, inside the trap the enemy hopes to set for us...."
Tywin refused to be drawn further on this matter, much to her frustration, so she had dropped the matter entirely. The Stark contingent that had been forced to remain in Kings Landing was also marching north with them, now that she was also a mother her and Cerenna had deepened their friendship further. The former Lannister girl was a no-nonsense, practical young woman, with a lively wit and sharp enough tongue when it suited her. Her brother Robb was obviously content with his southern wife, as was her uncle Edmure, who had joined then in the northern Riverlands, again with his wife and newborn children in tow. His wife had born him twin girls, and Edmure did not seem too disappointed that his wife had yet to provide him with sons and heirs.
Unlike her, for she had provided her Lord husband with two fine heirs, her sons were in the care of their nannies and wetnurses a way back, riding in a carriage and probably fast asleep. She did feed them herself, at least twice a day, and often rode in the carriage with them, but she preferred riding beside Tywin if she was honest. Clad in riding leathers, cloaked in crimson, now lined with fur to ward off the chill of the North, Sansa liked having the chance to spend time with Tywin. She found that as they had journeyed north he had become more talkative, more likely to make 'small talk' and less likely to just talk about matters pertaining to either the Lannister family or the upcoming conflict.
They had been nigh on six weeks on the road now, with Queen Daenerys, her Small Council, her Unsullied and Dothraki, her dragons and an increasing number of the bannermen of various Lords. It was the Army that was to fight the so called 'Army of the Dead' and its numbers seemed to swell every day they marched.
Conspicuously absent were the Lords of the Westerlands and the Red Cloaks, they were either coming by sea or were at least a week behind the main body of the Army. This was on deliberate orders from the Small Council and the Queen, ostensibly to prevent any 'trouble', but Sansa knew it was a slight to House Lannister.
The Tyrell's were absent, ostensibly having gone to raise their banners in the Reach, but she suspected otherwise. Tywin was strangely uncommunicative on the matter of the lack of Tyrell's present. But she knew enough of her husband's moods to know that he was not one bit impressed with their absence.
Also absent were the Dornish levies, they were coming by ship and would land at White Harbour and march to Winterfell from there.
Lord Tywin was accorded a small measure of respect due to the work he had done in preparing the realm for this new and terrible war, not least his provision of dragonglass for their army. Spears, pikes and arrows were having their iron heads replaced with those of dragonglass, simple wooden cudgels with shards of dragonglass embedded in their heads were another weapon being distributed among the troops.
Many scoffed at the idea of exchanging their steel with dragonglass, but the persistence of her husband on this point beginning to pay off, if slowly. The Red Cloaks following behind were exclusively armed with weapons to defeat these so called Others and their Army of the Dead. Before they had left Kings Landing Tywin had demonstrated these new dragonglass weapons, along with improvements to the Red Cloaks armour to make them more durable against the expected hordes of the dead. Also displayed was a 'repeating crossbow' and an attachment for Longbows that Tywin called the 'instant Legolas'.
Many had grumbled in envy when they saw these things, but Tywin had arranged for these to be made available to any who wanted them, at a price of course. The crown had repudiated its debt to House Lannister shortly after Daenerys had assumed the Iron Throne, and though Daenerys and Tywin had exchanged some cross words on this matter, a fair price was quickly agreed upon for any who wished to purchase these new weapons from Lord Tywin's arsenals. Also agreed was that the crown would assume the position of sole supplier of dragonglass when the Lannister's ran out of the supply they had mined from Dragonstone.
The North on the other hand had been gifted enough of these to equip all the Stark Men at Arms who wanted them along with hundreds of sets of a simple partial plate armour for the Stark household guard.
"So that's Winterfell" Tywin eventually said to her, turning his head to look at her, he was wearing his armour this time, with a heavy crimson cloak wrapped around him for additional warmth.
"Yes husband, my childhood home" she replied. They were in company and she had to observe her niceties, though when alone Tywin seemed not to care anymore, something that had become more pronounced the nearer they had come to Winterfell.
Her husband's desires had also increased the further from Kings Landing they rode, not that she objected to them, not one bit, feeling heat come to her cheeks at the memories of their near nightly couplings on the journey North.
They slowed to a halt and waited for the Queen and her procession to assemble for the entrance into Winterfell proper, after a seemingly interminable amount of jostling and settling or precedence they moved off again.
The Lannister contingent was at the very rear of the Queens party that would enter Winterfell, and Sansa bristled at the slight being done her House. She risked a glance at Tywin, noticing the way the muscles of his jaw were tight and clenched. A scant six turns of the moon ago none would dare insult the Old Lion so, but now?
"You know they call you the 'toothless lion' japed Jamie, who was for once riding with them, probably for the express reason to see his father humiliated like this. The relationship between father and elder son was almost completely sundered, the two men barely tolerating the sight of each other. Despite this Sansa felt no malice towards her from Ser Jamie, he seemed to be utterly uninterested in her, or her sons for that matter. The former Kingsguard spent all his time practising with his left arm to regain something of his skill at the sword, and had little interest in conversation or company. If he sought company at all it was with Lord Bronn, the woman Knight Brienne of Tarth, or with his younger brother Tyrion.
From Tyrion Sansa did feel hostility, which seemed to wax and wane to no apparent rhyme or reason, Lord Tyrion had also resumed his usual drinking habits, annoying his father further. When they had lived in the Lannister Manse in Kings Landing Tywin had restricted his younger son's drinking, something which she knew Lord Tyrion resented.
Lord Tyrion's wife and son were also accompanying them north, indeed Sansa could not help but notice that most of Lord Tywin's bloodline, and that of the Stark's and Tully's was accompanying the Dragon Queen North. Jamie was convinced it was so that they could be murdered more conveniently, and was not shy about expressing his opinion on the matter. Her husband did not dismiss his son's concerns out of hand, and this terrified Sansa greatly, for the thoughts of her sons being murdered in their cribs horrified her, along with drawing a raging anger from deep inside her that she did not know she had.
"Lions do not care for the opinion of sheep" replied Lord Tywin, his voice even, almost offhand sounding.
"Do you think consorting with a seer cripple and a Red Priestess will save you?" laughed Jamie, insistent for some reason on carrying on a verbal feud with his father. "You seemed to favour the company of that odd pair in Kings Landing to an extraordinary extent father. Why if I did not know you better I would think that you intended to convert to the Faith of R'hllor!"
"Or that you were having an affair with the Red Witch!" quipped Tyrion, whose face dropped its grin when his father's glare was unleashed upon him.
"I'm only repeating what several wags were saying!" the little Lord replied, his voice meek and slightly scared sounding.
"Tyrion....." his father growled.
"Yes, yes father I know...."
"Even your bannermen, a spineless lot at the best of times, think you have had your claws pulled by this Dragon Queen, and that you are just meekly waiting for the headsmans axe to fall!" interjected Ser Jamie, seemingly keen to draw his father's ire from his younger brother.
Sansa did not know what to make of the comment about Tywin being unfaithful to her, on the one hand she highly doubted it, nothing about him even suggested that he would either do such a thing, or that he did not find her company fulfilling. The Red Priestess was a beautiful woman though, with a full figured woman's body, which she was not shy about displaying in a wanton manner. Before her train of thought on this annoying matter could continue it was broken by Tywin's next words.
"You have seen what is coming Jamie, and yet you still jape and concern yourself with things of little real import. Just like your sister you are too selfish to see beyond your nose....and don't you start either!" he snarled at Lord Tyrion, who was about to say something.
The younger son snapped his mouth shut, and then reconsidering, opened it "Jamie does have a point you know, seeming to be weak....well it can be seen as the same as actually being weak...."
Tywin breathed heavily through clenched teeth for several seconds, before replying "if we live though this, then, then we will see who still thinks the Lions are weak" and with that he spurred his horse on and through the great gatehouse of Winterfell, disappearing into the gathering gloom.
Sansa shivered uncontrollably and turned her mount to follow Tywin into her girlhood home.
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Think an SI into Ned Stark with a Homo Drakensis twist sounds like fun? Well the Black Wolf [NSFW] is the story for you then!
What would you did if you woke up in Westeros and discovered you had been subjected to an enforced gender change? See the adventures of The Littlest Lioness for all the delightful details...
Ever fancied being Tywin Lannister? Well now you can find out, courtesy of The Lion in Winter
Sbiper, Sep 6, 2020Report
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Tywin VIII
Winterfell, he was finally in Winterfell, the home of the Starks and in reality quite similar to that idiotic slapdash 'castle' that the show portrayed with hardly an ounce of irony or historical sense. Tywin thought the place a hovel, though he did approve of the defensive measures that the castle was replete with. Double walls for one, and of a proper height thankfully, heavily reinforced with round towers and with sturdily constructed interior buildings and a welcome and logical arrangement of covered walkways so that access inside the keep could be achieved without going outside. Which made sense given the multi-year winters and severe cold that this place was supposed to suffer from. The Inner keep was a further stronghold of stout walls, round towers and formidable gates. The Godswood was off to one side a la showverse, with but a single ring of walls surrounding it, and it was three acres in extent as I expected and so about one third the size of Winterfell proper. Which made Winterfell a giant among castles back on earth, but apparently only mildly impressive by the standards of Westeros. What however was impressive was the size of the blocks of stone that Winterfell's walls were made from, huge and regularly shaped stones that individually must have weighed hundreds of tons each. Ditto for the Main Keep and some of the other interior buildings, which looked like they had been built only yesterday, obviously the result of whatever magic had built Winterfell in the first place.
We had been studying Winterfell and its defences against the Army of the Dead intensely since almost the moment Tywin and I had been introduced to each other. He had laughed hysterically at the show's portrayal of the defence of Winterfell, but had approved of the Defence in Depth YouTube video criticising the show's portrayal of the Battle of Winterfell. And it was on this very YouTube video that Tywin had come to posit his ideas for the defence of Winterfell, except that the outer defensive works would fully encircle Winterfell and which Robb had already made a start on when we had arrived. More than a start if we were being honest, the other barrier at 250 yards from the walls was almost complete with only the southern bit around Wintertown and the Kings Road needing to be completed. Inside the outer barrier work had started on the inner ditches and the chevron like fortifications. The smallfolk sheltering in Winterfell were hard at work, and had been joined by the Unsullied without complaint, and by the Dothraki with quite a bit of complaint, who took exception to actually, well, working. Eventually the Dothraki had quit their grumbling and the forests in the immediate vicinity of Winterfell rang with the sounds of trees being felled and Dothraki curses and shouts as they used their mounts to pull chopped trees back to Winterfell.
Here the trees were either incorporated into the outer defensive barrier/wall, where smallfolk toiled away sharpening every branch to create an impenetrable, defensive faschine of sorts. Well impenetrable as impenetrable went against ice zombies, its job was to hold up the Army of the Dead and force it to bunch up, where it would hopefully be vulnerable to the trebuchets, scorpions and varied ballistae that were being even now assembled on the walls and in the outer courtyard of Winterfell.
Beyond this the Alchemists were busy burying wildfire 'mines' to act as tripwires to give us warning to the approach of the Army of the Dead. I fully expected them to arrive in the midst of a snowstorm and/or at night, and we could not reply upon dramatic, if poorly though out narrative to warn us if their approach now could we?
Speaking of poorly thought out narrative Bran, or the Three Eyed Raven was sure that he could track the approach of the Night King and his army of Others, zombies and Ice Spiders, yes, because they were apparently a thing. I mean it was not as if we were not already royally fucked now was it? We were betting everything on a gamble, on the word of The Three Eyed raven that the Night King had to come to Winterfell and he had to kill Bran 1st. As to why this was the case, the lad himself was surprisingly reticent, giving only vague hints and frustratingly obtuse explanations, which Mel and Kinvara lapped up, but which irritated Tywin no end. Not that I blamed him, here we were, all in, stakes raised as high as we could, all life in Westeros riding on, well on a hand of fucking jokers...
I pushed down Tywin's rising annoyance and turned my mind back to the additional defences of Winterfell.
Inside the outer barrier was a deep trench at arrow range from the walls, with a tangle of sharpened stakes at its base and then inside that the ring of redan style earthworks. Bristling with crudely fashioned abates and designed to be packed with Unsullied Spearmen backed up with archers these should further breakup the 'wall of zombies' tactics of the Army of the Dead. We would not be allowing our forces to be 'dog-pilled' as they were in the show, not a fucking chance. The wildfire trench was just beyond these earthworks, it would not be filled with the substance until the last moment, the Alchemists guild having accompanied their product north with sufficient care and attention to not blow themselves to kingdom come.
A coterie of Red Priests and their guard, the so called Fiery Hand had arrived in the last few days, that Israeli chick Kinvara at the head of them. Her and Melisandre seemed to be rather cool towards each other but when they had said that they had magical means to enable the wildfire to burn for much longer than normal I was instantly suspicious. Magic in Westeros usually meant blood magic, especially with this lot, and I hoped that this would not be more trouble than it was worth, like I don't know, the Red Priests asking to tie sacrifices to the Weirwood tree and setting it and them alight maybe?
Tons of dragon glass, which was definitely not obsidian, or at least not the obsidian of earth, because it could be smelted and cast....which was pretty much impossible as far as I knew, was being prepared for the coming battle. Knives, spear heads and arrow heads were being produced in their thousands, both at Winterfell itself and on Dragonstone and being shipped to Winterfell. I wanted every spear tip to be dragonglass, ditto for arrowheads, and given a few more days that looked to be achievable. As there was not enough time to smelt and cast all the stuff I was also relying on traditional 'knapping' methods, several hundred women and children were hard at work creating sharpened dragonglass using this method, this was then embedded into the various wooden barriers of the outer defences, and festooned over the multiple interior barriers that were being created in Winterfell itself. A careful examination of the interior of the Keeps and towers showed that the design was heavily biased towards interior strong-points that could control and limit access once an enemy gained entrance to the Keeps or towers.
And finally, nobody was going to shelter in the crypts, instead said crypts exits were blocked with rubble and wooded obstacles reinforced with dragonglass. The civilians who would be inside Winterfell would be assigned to carrying projectile ammunition, assisting the wounded and the rest were armed – nobody would be slacking or hiding, all our asses were on the line here.
Huge stockpiles of oil, the only slightly less famous Dornish Fire and loose stones were being built up, all to strengthen the defences of Winterfell. The gatehouses of Winterfell were formidable defence structures on their own, and should the Army of the Dead breach the outer gates they would find themselves drowned in boiling oil, immolated by Dornish Fire or crushed under a barrage of rocks from the countless murder holes that dominated the space between the outer and inner gates.
The inner and outer courtyards were dominated by the huge trebuchets that were zeroed on the space just beyond the outer barrier, with piles of ammunition growing daily beside them. Both the courtyards were also strewn with faschines and abates, breaking them up into defensive mazes that would hopefully never have to be used. Because if the outer walls were breached then we were all well and truly fucked....
Other smaller siege engines adorned the walls, Winterfell fairly bristled with Scorpions, Ballistae and Ongars, all to make sure that the Army of the Dead was whittled down before it made it to the walls, you know, like military logic would dictate Dan and Dave? You useless pair of cunts...
Despite the fact that there were nearly one hundred thousand troops in Winterfell I still did not give us more than a fifty/fifty chance of winning, while that sounds like a lot of men, given the length of Winterfells walls the actual concentration we could achieve was a tad concerning. We were relying on Smallfolk to provide much of the crews for the ranged weapons, and they also made up the bulk of the defenders of the outer wall. The Dothraki were a mobile reserve whose job it was to react to any breakthroughs of the outer barrier, using speed and mobility to pinch off any breakthroughs. That was the theory at least, the Unsullied were holding the defensive works just inside the wildfire trench, with the Red Cloaks, and the assorted bannermen of various Lords from the Crownlands, Riverlands and the North holding the walls. The walls of the Inner Keep were held by House Stark Men at Arms along with Westerlands bannermen. Two out of every three knights were concentrated into several reserve forces whose job it would be to reinforce threatened points on the walls. The rest of the Knights were either spread out among the defenders or were concentrated as a final, last ditch reserve force, who would also assist with defending the New Keep as needed.
Then there were the assorted 'special forces' as I had christened them, much to Tywin's disdain. The Red Priests were set up in the Courtyard of the Inner Keep, they had built a massive pyre and they would 'pray' around this to sustain the wildfire trench when the time came. Their Firey Hand would guard them and contribute to fighting any wights etc. that made it into the Courtyard of the Inner Keep.
And then there was the 'Gods Wood Squad' – Bran, Melisandre, Jon Snow and a coterie of guards, our 'bait' for the Nights King. The walls of the Godswood were deliberately not as well defended as the rest of Winterfell's, though not overly so; no sense in making our trap too obvious now was there?
And last, but certainly by no means least, were the three dragons and that tiny, feisty little Queen. Despite his obvious fascination with Daenerys and her Dragons there was no way I was letting the secret of 'She's Muh Queen's' heritage out of the bag, well not just yet anyway. So The Mother of Dragons and her winged fire breathing children were our airborne reserve, to be directed against the Army of the Dead as needed. I was fully committed to using them to their fullest extent, straffing the shit outta the zombies as they bunched up against our defences, especially the outer ring of obstacles. Tywin had ironically pointed out that such a strategy risked the Dragons being injured or killed by our own defensive fire, and congratulated me on finally learning the lessons of the Game of Thrones properly. I told the old prick to fuck off, inadvertently killing Daenerys Targaryen was not part of my plan, though should we survive this her death would certainly be advantageous to all concerned, well to us mainly.
And well, let's be honest Melisandre had been dropping enough hints about Azor Ahai, Lightbringer and Nissa Nissa that the tragic demise of our new Queen was not an unforeseen possibility. And of course Tywin had a plan for this all ready and waiting, because we are a cunt.
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Think an SI into Ned Stark with a Homo Drakensis twist sounds like fun? Well the Black Wolf [NSFW] is the story for you then!
What would you did if you woke up in Westeros and discovered you had been subjected to an enforced gender change? See the adventures of The Littlest Lioness for all the delightful details...
Ever fancied being Tywin Lannister? Well now you can find out, courtesy of The Lion in Winter
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Robb X
They were gathered in one of the rooms of the Great Keep, a group of Lords, Ladies, Wildlings, Fire worshiping fanatics and their new Targaryen Queen. Robb wondered if Winterfell in all the millennia it had stood had ever seen a group such as this inside its walls. Or equally as important, had such a group ever assembled to face a threat such as they faced?
They all stood around a large table, upon which was a map of Winterfell and its immediate environs, which was marked with the symbols and notations of their proposed defence of the Castle from the oncoming Army of the Dead.
And coming they were, The Wall had fallen, apparently it had collapsed close to Castle Black, rumours were confused, but the surviving Black Brothers spoke of a haunting sound, like a terrible, mournful horn blowing before the wall had started to crumble.
Everywhere north of Winterfell was being either abandoned or evacuated, with orders for fighting men to assemble at Winterfell and smallfolk to flee as best they could. Those that were close to the coast were being directed to head there and the Royal Fleet and as many merchant ships as could be hired were busy picking up these refugees and shipping them south.
Last Hearth was probably already overrun, though they had no absolute proof of this, instead he was assuming its fall based on the rate of progress that had been agreed that the Army of the Dead could make. After some wrangling and to Robb's mind pointless arguing it had been agreed that they would assume that the Army of the Dead could advance at four times the speed of a normal army, based on their lack of need for sleep or provisions.
Robb wondered about this and hoped they were right about this, otherwise they might find themselves overwhelmed before they were ready. His goodbrother Tywin Lannister had argued that they should ascribe an even faster rate of potential progress to the Army of the Dead, but his opinions had been ignored in the Councils that were held prior to this one.
He dragged his mind back to the present and coughed slightly to hide his nervousness before he started to speak "The Army of the Night King has been confirmed as being at most a week away, mayhaps less even, those preparations that we can still complete in the next few days we will, as many smallfolk as possible that are south of Winterfell have been ordered to head as far south as they can, those in the immediate environs of Winterfell are either already sheltering here or are on their way here. We've done what we can; we are as ready as we can be..."
Robb went on to detail the defensive plans for Wintefell, the role of the outer palisade, the open area between it and the 1st Trench, the function of the redans and the wildfire trench. The additional fortifications inside the walls in the Courtyards and finally the internal defences inside every building, of how windows and internal doors were to be blocked with sharpened wooden stakes tipped and edged with dragonglass.
Outside snow fell in thick blankets, stirred by the odd gusts, according to what they had learned, the wind would grow to howling strength as the Army of the Dead got closer and closer, presaging their assault on Winterfell itself. His guts twisted at the thoughts of what was to come, that they were not ready, that they would never be ready, could never be ready for what was about to break upon them.
Their new Queen had insisted on the families of these Lord Paramount's and Wardens accompany her to Winterfell, many whispered that she did not trust them and that she actually intended to murder than all. Which would be a monumentally stupid thing to do, but then again this was the daughter of the Mad King.
The girl herself was disturbing to Robb, unearthly beautiful but with something disquieting burning in her eyes, something he could not quite discern. On top of this there were the obviously lustful glances that she and his brother Jon were sharing, when they thought nobody was looking. He could scarce contain his mirth at this, his shy bastard brother and the Dragonqueen, even thinking of it now threatened to make a stupid grin break out on his face.
He quashed the smile and set his face to its usual grim visage, the weight of ruling heavy on his shoulders, the knowledge of what was about to happen threatening to turn his insides to ice water and his legs to jelly. How he wished that this was not happening, that this was all a bad dream, one that he would wake up from, maybe with his father still alive and the past several years all nothing but a nightmare.
He thrust these wishful thoughts from his mind, instead bringing his mind back into the room.
"And we are sure that the Night King is coming here?" asked Ser Jorah Mormont, the girl Queen's sworn sword and apparently her advisor on military matters.
"If I understand it correctly, the Army of the Dead needs no food, no rest, no shelter, why would it not just bypass Winterfell and leave us to starve and freeze here?" the Queen added before anyone could reply to Ser Jorah, a rising tone of heat in her voice.
Robb noticed that some of his own bannermen, and the handful of Riverlander Lords also seemed to agree with the Dragon Queen's assessment, if the scowls and worry on their faces indicated such.
The Westerlander Lords kept their faces carefully neutral as always, waiting to see which way their Lord reacted, Tywin he noticed kept his face impassive as usual.
"Because he is coming for me" replied his brother Bran, or The Three Eyed Raven as he preferred to be know as.
"And what would he want with you?" asked the Targaryen girl, one slim silver eyebrow raised in question.
"Stark blood and the magic that is built into the very stones of Winterfell has kept the Night King slumbering and his army quiescent north of The Wall for millennium. This place is a locus of magical power that he cannot ignore, nor can he ignore me and the powers I now command. Through the weirwoods of the North I can not only see him, I can to an extent thwart his plans."
"How so?" blurted out Robb, before he could even think of saying the words they had spilled from his mouth. He dipped his head when the Dragon Queen speared him with a glance that seemed to burn his very soul, feeling his cheeks flush despite his best efforts.
"Yes Lord Bran, how so indeed?" asked Daenerys, her plump lips tugging ever so slightly into the merest ghost of a smile.
"I am not Lord Bran anymore, not really....." replied his brother, before he continued "I can limit the powers of the Night King, limit the range at which he and his White Walkers can control their wights. The number of weirwoods in the North increases my power; the locus of magical power that Winterfell is built upon enhances it further. I can also somewhat limit his ability to raise the dead, not all who he and his army kill will rise at his command, and the further south he travels the weaker his powers will become, unless he kills me first. He must come for me, he will come for me, I have foreseen it."
"Winterfell is a trap your Grace" interjected Lord Tywin smoothly into the silence that threatened to become oppressive after Bran's words.
"But it is not too obvious a trap that the Night King will not fall for it" continued his goodbrother, a title which he still thought of as strange, of Sansa being married to the Old Lion, and the mother of twin boys to boot.
"Then why all the elaborate preparations? Why the toil and effort to strengthen Winterfell, surely that is counterproductive?" asked the girl Queen, he voice slightly heated at having to address Lord Tywin, whom she had plainly little or no time for.
"On the contrary, were we not to prepare, the trap would be so obvious that the Night King would be tempted to avoid Winterfell altogether."
"Lord Tywin is correct" Bran answered the Targaryen Queen's question "The Night King is confident of victory, he thinks he has the numbers and magical strength to defeat us. I will be the bait to make sure he comes..."
"And how exactly will you defeat him?" Daenerys asks of his brother, her voice quick and angry sounding.
"The victory of Azor Ahai is foretold in the flames your Grace" Melisandre replied, the red priestess's voice smooth and silky, seductive in that foreign accent of hers. "But the exact roles we all here have to play are not to be treated lightly, not to be casually talked about. Many will not survive; we the Priests of R'hllor for one know that all our lives are forfeit in the battle to come, as are the lives of our guards, the Fiery Hand."
"I am not comforted by this" snorted the Queen, tossing her head in frustration.
Robb could only silently agree with the Targaryen girl, they were betting the entire fate of the world on what his brother Bran had advised them to do.
He hoped his brother was right.