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High Plains Robert - The Inevitable ASOIAF SI (Act One) by High Plains Drifter

 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Words: 89k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 1k+, Published: Oct 2, 2017 Updated: Feb 15, 2018 624Chapter 13: Part 12 - Playing a Twin Game

Now that was a fucking castle. Or rather two of them, one on each end. Or maybe three, depending upon how one viewed the Water Tower which rose above the middle of the giant stone bridge across the swift flowing Green Fork. Unlike for poor, love struck, doomed Robb Stark, the walls of the Twins were not currently overflowing with the full levy of House Frey's bannermen. This was a royal visit; war by means other than battle.

"What a dreary place, fits in with the Frey's coin grubby hands," Cersei commented disparagingly.

Coming from the daughter of the gold of Casterly Rock, that last bit was rich. When I proposed this slight detour, I had found that with her father's animosity for his sister Genna's forced marriage to such scum, no "true" Lannister had ever since visited the Twins. I diplomatically refrained from mentioning that that edict clearly didn't apply to her Aunt.

Honestly, there was no surprise to the Lannister line. Tywin was both the paterfamilias and a man of stubborn peculiarities where his house was concerned. Facts and tendencies which I hoped to capitalize on. And the daughter was very much like the father she idolized. "Yet, we will smile and tell them how wonderful it is," I pointed out agreeably.

She simply snapped me her scornful "Duh" look, before continuing on with the mild for her rant. Not enough pageantry (e.g., respect) displayed for a royal visit. Blah, blah, blah. Freys all look like weasels and are sexual deviants. Blah, blah, blah. At Joffrey's name day tourney the pathetic Frey knights were easily defeated not just by the adequate Ser Loras but by a pair of hedge knights. Blah, blah, blah. The food was going to be so bad they might as well just save the effort and poison everyone straight out. Blah, blah, blah.

Cersei kept the running belittlement up until the moment the near two score honor guard of knights whom we had seen ride out the eastern gate of the Twins came within ear shot. Then she smiled and the golden light of the Lannister heaven above shown down upon those same quite weaselly faces.

The oldest of them, a grey beard plum in the middle front of the Frey gaggle, spoke first from a partial bow. "Your Graces, on behalf of my lord father, welcome to the Twins."

"My thanks, Ser Stevron. Many have been the time I wished to visit your noble House. It gladdens my heart that this day has finally come. I hope we will find Lord Walder in good health and fine spirits," I lied easily.

The aging knight smiled back. "He is, he is, your Grace. My lord father has recently arranged a new marriage contract for himself and looks eagerly forward to the wedding day."

I heard Cersei, or maybe just her horse, give a tiny snort. Ignoring it, I answered happily, "Glorious news, Ser. I shall gift him a present before we depart."

The announcement of the upcoming nuptials had not caught me by surprise; aside from mine own memories from the books, a steady flow of the latest "intel" on the Freys had made its way to the royal party ever since we had crossed the Trident. "Robert" was King; thus this caravan was his court. And though it was never hinted at in the books, even a reduced court had flunkies who did whatever flunkies do to ensure they can keep the comfortable sinecure of flunky-dom.

"And I have just the thing for a lord of his stature," I added, a certain Valyrian dagger with a dragon bone hilt that one Cersei free night I had hunted down in my voluminous baggage. Only I could appreciate the irony of my original intended use for it – "giving" it to Littlefinger should he survive Balon Greyjoy. However, gestures like that, unless protected by plot armor, could get a man killed in Westeros, so best to lose the temptation.

"How gracious, your Grace," Ser Stevron smirked back with the faux cheerfulness any mid-level manager gives to a corporate VP or enlisted man to an officer above the rank of captain.

"And will our presence be graced," I played along with the pun, "by my Queen's noble Aunt?" I queried.

An indistinct Frey beside and slightly back of Stevron nudged his mount forward. "Your Grace," he bowed. "I fear my lady mother and lord father are in the Westerlands at the moment." If ever there was evidence that Lannister genes were not the dominant half in the offspring of any normal mating, this one with his classic, unfortunate Frey looks was the poster child.

"Cousin Cleos, a pleasure to see you, nonetheless," Cersei deigned to speak ... politely. Again, Aunt Genna and Emmon Frey's absence had already been reported. "Are lovely Jeyne and your brave boys Tywin and Willem here as well?" she asked politely.

He bobbed his ferret face and weak chin. "Just my lady Jeyne, your Grace. My sons page in Casterly Rock."

The disappointing presence of not so bold Ser Cleos and his wife for company had also been expected. She was a Darry for Christ's sake, and where in SevenHells had we just come from? Of course we knew. Still, certain protocols were required of kings. "That's a damned shame then," I said with "Robert" loudness. I jerked a thumb generically somewhere behind me. "Your cousin Lancel is sure to be knighted in a year. Not too early to start searching for whose boots can fill his at putting my boots on for me," I japed weakly and then laughed like it was the funniest damn thing ever.

Everyone laughed appropriately like the good little suck ups they were to the crown, except for Cersei. I doubted the conniving bitch liked being reminded that her personal spy on me was not all that long for her service. But as with so many of the displeasing tidbits that arose in my conversation with her or around her, I had my reasons.

"Would your Grace care to come share bread and salt and mead with my lord father?" Ser Stevron asked, invoking the call to sacrosanct guest rights.

Sacrosanct my enormous arse! I involuntarily shivered.

There the evil old bastard sat on his intricately carved black oak high lordly throne, one gouty foot raised up to rest on a stool in front of him. "Your pardon, your Graces, if I neither stand nor bow," he wheezed.

Cersei looked put out at the possible display of blatant disrespect.

"Nonsense, Lord Walder," I bellowed. "What matters more is how well your cock works, eh?" I laughed. "Congratulations on your engagement, my lord. What number will she be? Six?"

"Eight. And …"

"And I'm sure you'll put a brat in her belly before the year is out. What?"

"Yes, what hangs between my legs works well enough. My little pudding will have no complaints."

I laughed in conspiratorially delight with the sick bastard. Then extended my authority. "You and you!" I shouted, pointing at a couple of Walder's stouter looking progeny. "Stop disrespecting your father. Grab two chairs and put them either side of him."

Startled, several jumped to it.

"No! The largest ones. And be sure to snuggle them in close to your lord father. Your King and your Queen would have words with our loyal friend."

The wizened weasel licked his lips in uncertainty, seeming wanting to say something as I usurped his authority over his own great hall.

I didn't give him a chance to regain his equilibrium. "Parts of the realm. The Riverlands and the North are not doing their proper duty, Lord Walder. Hells' bells man, even mine own family, aside from myself and my dear queen, are failing in their duty. Come Cersei, we must hear our friend's advice. Move faster!" I then shouted at the louts lugging the chairs.

At least she didn't roll her eyes at me as I took her hand and led her straight up to the low dais and Weasel One. Cersei regally extended her hand. Old Walder knew what to do and leaned forward to give it and her rings a kiss of … submission? Acknowledgement? What the hell does kissing the ring signify anyway? "Good man," I chirped loudly and smacked him on his thin, stooped shoulder. This body could snap that desiccated twig with hardly an effort if I wanted to.

"What duties are they not performing?" he asked in a petulant voice.

I settled Cersei into her chair, from which she leaned over towards the randy goat to say, "They are as my royal husband has explained to me sins of omission rather than sins of commission."

"What is that to me?" he complained as he stared right at her teats. Couldn't blame the lecherous old fart, I did that enough myself. "Sounds like a problem for a septon, not a lord."

As I sat down in mine own high backed chair on the other side of him, I thundered. "If they were treason, I'd have them before the Iron Throne to answer for it. And I'd be glad for the whole realm to hear it." The nearly bald and very pink head snapped away from my wife's chest at my loud words. And then I winked at him while tilting my head obviously about the room.

Walder Frey knew how to take a clue. "Leave you wretches. The King and Queen wish to hear my counsel in private. Out! Out! Out!" he shouted with malicious glee. "You'd all be so lucky as to find yourselves acceptable enough to the King to hold his pot while he pisses in it." Then in an only slightly quieter tone. "They are waiting for me to die, but I keep disappointing them," he chuckled with great satisfaction.

I remembered he had paraphrased those words to Catelyn, probably a stock insult. The room at last cleared. I saw a goblet of wine on a nearby table and wished I'd thought to get one of Clan Frey to serve me before they left. And now I couldn't dare serve myself. It's not always so good to be the king. I licked my lips sadly. Can't think of everything.

"Now what has you so bothered about duty … your Graces? Speak bluntly to me and I'll be blunt back to you."

"My brother Stannis won't plant even a second crop in the field he owns and Renly refuses to even own a field. Disgraceful! Lucky for House Baratheon the Queen provides heirs." HA! AS IF! How I said that with a straight face either right then or when Cersei and I worked out our strategy for tag teaming the ancient wretch, I'll never know. "But there are more dangerous failures of duty in the Realm?" I grumbled.

"House Tully and House Whent are nearly extinct," Cersei added quickly, to direct the conversation where we wanted it to go.

"What's that to me? Never liked Lord Hoster. He never comes to my weddings. He'd rather piss on me than come to this next one. Just you see. Is it my fault his boy, who does not like me one whit better either, won't marry? I suppose he might have a bastard or two lying in some village slut's hovel."

I near snapped the arms off my chair. Why did the shit have to go fucking bastard on me? My Cersei Deathcon Alert System instantly turned a redder shade.

"We want to encourage the Tullys to get busy … planting their seed in ... true born fashion."

"It's all Hoster's fault. He couldn't make his brother marry. What makes you think he can get the boy to? And who did Hoster himself marry? A Whent," he spat in disgust. "Everyone knows there is no soil in a Whent for the seed to take."

"You married a Whent," Cersei pointed out.

"I did, fool me. But I already had thirteen sons. And when my Whent died, I married again. When his did, he stayed put in Riverrun and is still playing with his useless cock for all I know." The insult made Cersei smile, for all she hated the Frey.

"Worse, Edmure Tully is the heir to Harrenhal as well. What think you, my lord, will happen when Lady Shiela dies?" I asked.

The Lord of the Twins was quiet for a moment. "War, most like," he decided. "Bracken and Blackwood will take it as an excuse to fight. They always do. Hoster's too ill to intervene. And no one respects the boy."

"And if Edmure Tully dies before he has a son? What then of the whole Riverlands?"

"More war, I suppose," he begrudgingly admitted, tone clearly showing how little he cared. "That will be your problem," he then snickered at me.

"And who's side will you be on, Lord Walder," Cersei asked sweetly.

"The winning side," he cackled, then perhaps thinking a new. "I see your point with Stannis and Renly. Both bungholes," a cut that drew mirth from Cersei, "who don't know what to do with a woman. Though I don't know that I would want to stick it in that Florent woman either. All ears and beard. Why …"

The continuing slights were amusing but I could see the rabbit hole of Cersei's anger the conversation could drop if the wrong slight were spoken. "About the North," I interrupted.

"What of it?" he snapped. "I thought we were talking of the Riverlands or your brothers. The ice and cold interest me not at all. Though I had a First Woman once, warmed up sweet to me she did."

"There are several major Houses of the North that suffer the same problem as the Tullys and Whents," Cersei offered by way of an introductory explaination.

"House Manderly has only two middle aged sons and two unmarried teenaged granddaughters. House Cerwyn has just a spinster daughter and a barely grown son. House Hornwood has only one son and a pair of Tallhart nephews. House Bolton has only one bastard son," I detailed.

"And you have twenty true born sons," Cersei added meaningfully.

"Twenty two," he proudly corrected.

"And how many grandsons?" I prodded lightly.

"More than your Graces have fingers and toes."

"We need your advice," I said.

"We need your help," Cersei said.

"For the good of the Realm, to avoid pointless wars, we need the North and the Riverlands to breed like Freys. What might you suggest, Lord Walder?" I asked with a verbal wink and a nod.

Walder Frey sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Greedy, clever eyes looked back and forth to the royalty parked either side of his withered form. "Haha. Hoster Tully will shit dust when he hears," he laughed with a satisfied smirk. A long, calculating pause. "There wouldn't be a Baratheon to …"

"No," Cersei icily cut him off; though when we'd discussed our strategy for this meeting, the vindictive lioness had been more than happy to throw Shireen under Walder's bus. I pacified her by saying I'd think about it, but only as a last resort; she knew how pig headed Stannis could be.

"Ah, had to be asked, didn't I?" Walder Frey acknowledged without a hint of guilt at trying to put his House even farther forward. "So what's in it for me?"

The rest was just haggling.

Two days later, when the royal party left the Twins, a raven baring a message sealed with the crowned stag sigil had already flown for Winterfell, commanding Ned Stark to gather a council of Northern Lords. And the royal party itself had been near doubled in size with a bevy of unmarried Freys, male and female, and their servants.FanFiction

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High Plains Robert - The Inevitable ASOIAF SI (Act One) by High Plains Drifter

 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Words: 89k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 1k+, Published: Oct 2, 2017 Updated: Feb 15, 2018 624Chapter 14: Part 13 - The Taming of the Freyspawn

Appealing to Cersei's inner bitch was a tricky thing. She had been receptive to the idea of sticking other houses with "Freyspawn," as she labelled them. And she had played her part quite brilliantly with me in enticing the old pervert/homicidal maniac to play ball. A great, vicious joke to perpetrate on the stupid and unworthy; basically, anyone not named Lannister.

Unfortunately, for her fickle self, that meant co-existing, of sorts, with the low born, jumped up, greedy scum of Walder Frey's seed for the next month and more. That, her lioness pride would barely tolerate. Upon departure from the Twins, without the safety of the wheelhouse to retreat to those first few days, her snubbing of the ten "not-so noble" daughters of House Frey (three actual daughters, two granddaughters, three great granddaughters, and two great grandnieces) was quite blatant.

They were NOT to speak to her. They were NOT to look at her. They were NOT to eat the same food or breath the same air as her. They WERE to be constantly belittled for their lack of looks, poor fashion sense, smallfolk-ish sounding Riverlands' accents, horrible manners, and general stupidity. If Cersei were drowning, she'd rather die than accept a helping hand.

And to have anything to do with Myrcella? Ha! Dream on. Fifty lashes from the Hound to even think about it. Which was too bad for Myrcella, for even though she was five years younger than the youngest female Freyspawns, Arwyn and Zia, the young girl craved new female companionship than the same old same old of the last thirty plus days. Robert's traveling court did not lend itself much to youthful playmates.

However, being treated like shit was a thing the female members of House Frey were quite used to; so being ignored, yelled at, snubbed, and threatened were exactly the sort of waters Freyspawn were accustomed to swimming in. Not daring to show a whit of interest in the girls for any reason imaginable and unimaginable, for fear of Cersei's considerable wrath (I was still mounting my charm offensive after all); I at least was able to get a report on them once a day through my new squire, Olyvar.

He was another point of contention in the ever altering dynamic between scalding hot (both good and bad), lukewarm, and icy cold of the King and Queen. Despite all the obvious advantages being thrown Walder's way by the deal we offered him, the wrinkled old tit's pride would have scotched the thing if one of his ilk wasn't at least made a royal squire or a lady-in-waiting. There was no way in SevenHells that Cersei would have accepted a weasel into her service; and we both knew it. So I gracefully made the "sacrifice," laughing secretly to myself because Olyvar was who I exactly wanted as a middle manager on Team Robert. And did my "sacrifice" earn me any gratitude from the bitch, fuck no; just one more thing to complain about when she felt like trashing me.

Needless to say, the new come presence of all the Freyspawn in the royal party threw an immediate weasel sized wrench in my "romantic" endeavors. So after the first brutal turn down, the wooing of Cersei slipped to the backburner, which was ok with my tentative plans in regards to the "missus." It gave me reason to command pretty boy Lumpy to spend every possible moment with his cousin under the express order to do "whatever" it takes to keep her happy. Hopefully something useful for later application would start brewing there between the too beautiful cuzes.

The second day out of the Twins, I offered an apology of sorts for Cersei's bad behavior to the Freyspawn leadership committee Walder had assigned to accompany his marriage bait. That got a good chuckle out of the top weasel, and Walder's third son, Aenys, "Worry not, your Grace. We all well know Cleos' mother, the Lady Genna. Blood tells." Hosteen, the fighting Frey, and Symond, the Master Frey Whisperer, joined in their brother's laughter. Cleos wisely kept mum about the disparagement of his mum and his cousin.

The leadership committee was not all that I had hoped for. Walder had refused my request to have Ser Stevron come as the senior Frey representative on the grounds of my blatant desire to turn his heir against him. Likewise, I had put my very, very large foot down and forbidden Black Walder's inclusion amongst either the leadership or the marriage bait. All-in-all, they seemed pretty much the infighting, untrustworthy lot I had expected.

It took four days skirting the southern end of the marshy Neck to exit the expanse of Frey territory and rejoin the Kingsroad; where miraculously, the wheelhouse was found safe, sound, and promptly. Hooray, respite from Cersei. That night, around a blazing campfire over which huge hunks of freshly slaughtered meat were roasting, I had a little pre-dinner conversation with both the Freyspawn leadership committee and the ten most eligible House Frey bachelors; Seven help Westeros. Besides myself, the only non-Freys present were Joffrey, the Hound, and the useless Ser Boros.

"Whatever Walder told you to expect from this trip to the North, you can forget it," I announced loudly. This caused much shifting of bodies and exchanging of looks. "One or two of you might find an heiress. Or an unmarried, homely older sister with a comfortable situation in a fine holdfast. I'll do my best for any of you that bring me the scent of the hunt, I promise. But that is not why you are here with me."

"Then .. uh … why are here … uh … your Grace?" a neither old nor young Frey relative named Donnel Haigh asked hesitantly.

"Because no one likes House Frey, that's why," I declared bluntly. No one muttered a contrary peep. "Oh, you are tolerated because your house is strong. And there are those willing to take your lord father's coin when it suits their needs. And that is why you are here. I want the assholes in the Riverlands who aren't doing enough of their duty to see that House Frey has gained my royal favor. I want to scare them, I want to scare them into doing their duty."

"What duty … uh … is that, your Grace?" Ser Steffon, grandson of Ser Stevron, asked.

"Marriage and making sprogs, idiot," snapped Aenys.

"Lord Stark's wife is Catelyn Tully," Symond explained further.

The smarter ones of the lot nodded their heads in understanding at the closing of the circle.

"Now Lord Stark is my oldest and dearest friend. You will all be on your best behavior. Treat the women courteously. No disrespecting their Old Gods. No brawling. No stealing. No intriguing. No lying … within reason. If I hear of someone fucking this up, I will personally crush your cock and balls under my warhammer." That last bit was followed by a menacing glare passed all around the fire.

"What if we are insulted? Can we not defend our honor? I will not be slurred by any man!" Hosteen declared hotly, not bowing to my death stare. Bastard.

"You may demand satisfaction, but only to be done under the eyes of Lord Stark; and with his agreement, under the supervision of his Master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel. Note the Ser. If I think you are in the right, I will grant you the honor of having one of my white cloaks attend you as a Second. Satisfied."

Hosteen's dull face obviously showed the effort of thinking about what I'd said. A few moments of ponderous calculating later, "Yes, your Grace."

"Alright. Now, for those of you who play your parts well, if there is no sweet Northern honey pot for you to find a home with; I promise you a suitable post in King's Landing or the Crownlands when we return. No more living at the Twins under Walder's sufferance, if you so choose."

"What about our sisters, your Grace?" Ser Perwyn chimed in protectively.

"Honorably asked," I commended him. "I suspect we will have better luck finding a horny Northmen wanting some exotic Southern honey for a bride than we will for you sad lot," I joked amiably. They chuckled dutifully along like proper medieval sycophants used to living on the largesse of others. "Now as my wife has been a mean cunt to them, it might take a while longer to find positions out of her sight in King's Landing, but you have my word, we'll find a proper place for any unplucked rose." Very few of them were actually pretty enough to be called a rose. One said what one must.

Most didn't seem to give a fig to my answer, so score a point for Perwyn. Time to return him the favor and rattle the rest of the bastards. "Now you all know I've taken on Olyvar as my squire, so you can spy on me."

Mouths dropped or gulped. A few muttered unconvincing 'Nos.' However, neither Aenys nor Symond, the most senior and the most wily of the Freyspawn, so much as blinked at the accusation. Players. "Which is fine by me. I'd expected nothing else and would have been woefully disappointed in old Walder if he hadn't insisted. But there will be some rules around Olyvar. I don't want to see or hear every godsdamned one of you whoresons pestering him day and night. That'll just piss me off and I'll have to crush a bunch of you with my hammer. Understood?"

A bunch of weaselly faces nodded. Aenys and Symond still showed nothing.

"So pick one of you. I don't care which. He can stop by once a day and collect all the gossip. 'Who did the King get drunk with last night? Which girl's bum did he pinch? What lords has he been cursing in private?' Then its up to that prick to pass it along to Aenys and Symond first, and then to the rest of you bastards as he sees fit. Personally, I'd hold out for bribes, whoever is chosen. Now which of you useless cow's udders is it going to be?!" I challenged.

That got them hopping and shouting and cursing and even resulted in a few shoves. I let it run on for several minutes, enjoying the chaos as I drank from my wineskin. A score of foxes squabbling in a hen house with only one chicken. So good. I winked over at Joffrey, who seemed utterly confused by my approach to the weasels. "ENOUGH!" I finally bellowed. "You're all useless as tits on a gelding!"

I turned to face Olyvar where he stood at the outer edge of the flickering light cast by the fire's flame. He didn't look well. Attention was seldom sought in the Twins, cause it was almost always bad news. "Boy, which one of your house would you normally talk to the most." The shadows weren't enough to hide the nervous bob of his adam's apple. "The truth," I growled.

"Perwyn, your Grace," he acknowledged, anointing his brother and confirming the books' opinion of the young knight as one of the very few "good" Freys.

Excellent. I love it when a plan comes together. I pivoted to the nominee. "You're it, Ser. Any complaints?"

"No, your Grace," the young knight said quickly.

"Any of the rest of you?" I challenged with my loud, impatient Robert voice. There was sure to be resentment. I wanted to see if any were stupid enough to manifest it.

A weak chorus of "Nos" was the less than truthful answer.

"Good. Now Perwyn, I'll be sure to grab a hold of you on one of your visits and bribe you myself. Understand?"

He looked confused. "Nooooooo," he admitted.

"Even better. Have Symond explain it to you some time. Is that roast ready yet? I'm starved."

One of them, Alesander? Tobiat? I couldn't tell, so many of the weasels looked a like in the dim light, leaned forward and sliced into a thick piece of belly. "Almost, your Grace."

I licked my lips, took another sip from my wineskin, and then made one last declaration. "When we are in Winterfell, some lord will almost certainly try to bribe each one of you for information. Probably more than just one lord. Maybe even a lady or two. Let them, but only after the usual haggling over the price of it. Try not to tell them too much. If you can, say you'll get back to them with more. Then pass the news of who, how much, and what they wanted back to me through Perwyn and Olyvar. I'll be sure to double their bribe to you too, but don't be a cheap bastard and not give Perwyn and Olyvar a cut of it. Now serve me, I don't care how bloody the meat is, your King is hungry," I commanded.

"Father, I don't understand. You don't trust the Freys. You bribe them for their service, encourage them to take bribes from others, and then expect them to tell you the truth. They owe you fealty as King. You can kill them if they displease you. If they lie to you," Joffrey said, putting together several different but still related concepts he normally wouldn't necessarily have associated together. Of course, his voice had put the most emphasis on the killing part.

"I trust Ned Stark with my life. I trust Ned Stark with your life. I trust most Freys to do what is in their own best interests. Not all trusts are equal. But if you are clever, you can use both kinds of trust to your own benefit. Learn to tell the difference, Joffrey; it might save your life," I grunted.

"But you are King," he protested.

"Damn!" I'd stumbled as we walked in the dark back towards our tents. "Olyvar," I called to my squire. "Do you trust your family?"

"Uh, some of them, your Grace," he admitted warily.

"But you deal with all of them, right?"

"Yes. When I must."

"Even those you trust the least?"

"Yes, your Grace."

"And how do you deal with them?"

"Very, very carefully."

"The answer to every problem isn't my hammer or Ser Ilyn's blade or Aerys Targaryen's wildfire, Joffrey." Why did I bother? "Go to your tent and think about it before you fall asleep. We can talk more in the morning."

"Good night, father," the punk agreed reluctantly and then sheared off into the black with his Hound on his heels.

"G'night." At least the twerp hadn't asked me about why I'd called his mother a cunt. He'd probably tell her in the morning anyway, I thought with a resigned sigh.

I groaned in relief as Olyvar helped pull my boots off. My belly continued to pose a problem in bending over. The drink hadn't helped either. A little too much again. "Thanks," I muttered, closing my eyes. I felt good. So easy to just relax. So easy.

"Will there be anything else, your Grace?"

"Do you have any questions about tonight, Olyvar?"

"I … that is … no, your Grace."

"Too bad, you should. Don't be shy. Ask away. I won't bite," I prodded, cracking my heavy eyelids open and lifting my thick arms and hands behind my equally large noggin.

"What is it you want from me, exactly, your Grace."

"As much real trust as you can give me. Hopefully, as we get to know each other better, that will increase."

He nodded his head thoughtfully. "I'll do my best, your Grace."

How much. How much. How much. Patience. Don't swamp him yet. He and Perwyn and Roslin are the only Freys worth a shit. No, be fair. There are a fair number of competent ones. But this boils down to trust. "That's all I can ask, Olyvar. Big change this, for you. Have Tyrek and Lumpy been giving you a hard time?"

"Errr, Tyrek has been pleasant."

I chuckled. Good old Lumpy. The Battle of Blackwater Rush and his own incestuous guilt haven't beaten the arrogance out of him yet. And they never would. Excellent. Time to keep the tension going between them. "Well tomorrow when Joffrey gives us our "lesson", you can match up with Lumpy. Don't go easy on him. That would piss me off. Sleep well, lad," I wished, dismissing him.FanFiction

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High Plains Robert - The Inevitable ASOIAF SI (Act One) by High Plains Drifter

 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Words: 89k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 1k+, Published: Oct 2, 2017 Updated: Feb 15, 2018 624Chapter 15: Part 14 - Stretching the Neck

"Anything?"

"No, your Grace," the returning outrider answered.

I pursed me lips to contain the disappointment rising within.

The Neck was one big ass bug invested bog of smelly, oozing crap. We'd been on it, slightly elevated by the worst maintained portion of the Kingsroad I'd yet ridden on, for two days so far. With another eight to ten days on it to look forward to according to those in the know, depending on how many washed out sections we'd need to carefully navigate the also big assed wheelhouse over.

"Ser Aenys! Ser Symond! Attend me!" I commanded, letting my horse continue at a plodding walk.

The call went down the line. Soon enough Weasel One and Weasel Two unctuously greeted their sovereign. It's annoying to be the king sometimes. I had to verbally stomp their sycophancy down before I could get to the matter at hand, "What dealings do you have with the Crannog men?"

The question couldn't have been a surprise to them. I had after all ordered both the van and the rear riders to search for any sign of a swamp man, just one, in order to pass along the fact that I had a message for their lord. Still, for once I would have liked to see something I could read on their poker faces besides the obligatory false fawning which not even Freyspawn seemed immune performing.

"Occasionally they float some goods out of their swamp by raft down the head waters of the Green Fork. Seldom do they come as far as the Twins; selling off their poor wares at villages along the banks to the North of us," Aenys replied.

"Is there any way you have to signal them? To get them to come to a parley?"

"Why would we ever want to speak with the likes of them?" Symond added with a strong current of contempt.

"I first met Lord Howland Reed at the Tourney at Harrenhal. He became a particular friend of Lyanna Stark's and fought alongside Ned Stark as we overthrew the Mad King. The two of them were the only survivors of battle against Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Oswell Whent. Remind me again where you and your house were in those days, and then ask me that question again," I dared them. HULK SMASH!

"Your pardon, your Grace. We did not mean to disparage the noble House Reed." "It's just that the crannogmen keep so much to themselves and we never have any way or reason to journey into the Neck to seek them out for … for … trade or news." Well, discomfort would do for a novel facial expression from these two well trained weasels.

"Go make yourselves useful, Sers," I dismissed them curtly. I'ts not so fun being a disappointed king.

No inns or holdfasts on the Neck, that was for damn sure. Camping every night. Rations, aside from the wine, all rather dull after a while. And with Cersei still in her Freyspawn induced snit, I was seeing little of her. Pros and cons that. Lancel played his part and periodically kept me abreast of her moods. Or perhaps what she wanted me to know of her moods.

Unfortunately, I saw even less of her at night time. No foreplay for "No One" makes "Robert" a cantankerous monarch. Though perhaps a safer one. Also pros and cons that. It did give me time to get to know my new squire a bit better, and vice-versa.

It turned out Olyvar and Lancel were surprisingly well matched at arms. Olyvar a couple years older and thicker about the body, though shorter in height. Lancel tall and willowy, but surprisingly demonstrating some of the Lannister strength the fucking Kingslayer was renowned for. Lumpy had the better combat technique, from what my amateur eye could detect; undoubtedly learned from the better skilled swordsmen hanging about the Red Keep and Casterly Rock, as opposed to the godsforsaken Twins. Olyvar, however, was a true tricky weasel with the blade, often using an exaggerated sloppiness to lure Lumpy into over aggressive mistakes.

At the end of every day's ride, I made sure the pair went at it under the "tutelage" of Joffrey once camp was made. With the pair so close in skill and forcibly thrown at each other, a rivalry of lion born arrogance versus Walder bred spunk developed quickly. Joffrey "helped" things along by constantly taking Lancel's side, egging the Hound to weigh in as well as the situation warranted. "Lannister Uber Alles" as far as my "son" was concerned.

Most nights I mostly kept my mouth shut and wailed away at Tyrek. Nothing more manly than a three hundred pound giant smacking the crap out of a slim twelve year old boy. As a teen, I was a decent athlete despite my slender build and glasses. Hand eye coordination was good. Foot speed and agility were excellent. Endurance not so much. Within my own grade/age group, I seldom lost a hundred yard or shorter distance dash. I made a couple town baseball All-Star teams, though as a strictly bottom of the order supporting player. But this body, Robert Baratheon's, once I got used to it a bit and its girth induced limitations notwithstanding, DAMN!

Of course there was strength. A given. But there was a suppleness of movement and uninhibited range of motion with my arms. And if I didn't think about it, my feet were surprisingly light and quick; though no attempts at any hundred yard dashes. The key I discovered to this body was Zen. Thinking could only hurt the fighting Baratheon Stag. Though it was hard not to think with a blade in my hand when I had never took even so much as a fencing lesson in my life. But little by little I learned to relax some and let go, and my arms and legs began to respond.

"Ahhgg!" Tyrek shouted taking a tumble into the sodden dirt. The weight of my blow had shifted his shield out of the way and he'd taken a mighty thwack with the tourney sword in the ribs. Luckily for him, mostly the flat, not the edge hit him.

"Are you alright, Ty?" I instantly asked. I liked the boy.

He grimaced as he murmured, "Fine, your Grace."

"No, no you're not lad. That's all for you for tonight. Go rest," I commanded.

He didn't seem upset to nod agreement and carefully crawl to his feet.

"Joffrey, how about me and you, boy?" I suggested, still feeling my oats.

My "son" smiled. Joffrey clearly did crave the parental attention I was giving him. And as far as his unhealthy oversized ego was concerned, he continued to do well against me and was evidently eager to have a go at the old stag.

THUD!

The ground reverberated a little. I looked near my feet and there lay a warhammer. My warhammer. The real one with the spike at the end, not the tourney version.

"The Demon of the Trident. Victor over mewling sprogs and snot nosed brats. Stop with your games and face a man," the Hound mocked.

Gulp.

Everything went silent around me. Even the incessant insects and amphibians of the Neck seemed to take pause of their normal croakings and elocutions.

Shit. No fucking way was I going to face him. But I had to do something. Challenge was not supposed to be extended against the King, but it had and it went straight at "Robert's" manhood. This sort of madness was living as far as the body I had stolen was concerned. "Ser Boros, make yourself useful and face me," I commanded the least of my white cloaks. He was at least only a normal man by comparison to the Hound, piggish attributes aside; and even better, sworn to not hurt me.

I bent and picked up the hammer. Not the first time I'd held it. I kept it in my sleeping quarters to maintain my imagined image. When no one was around, I swung it and pretended I actually was Robert … which I was. Fuck me.

Swing. Swing. Swing. I limbered up, testing the weight at full speed. Now how in the hell does a giant fucking mace fight against a sword? Do I choke up on it to make it easier to block blows and counter jab with it like a dagger if I get in close? Or do I just twirl it around and around like Mjolnir and crush anything that comes in its way?

"Two out of three is the victor?" I asked the man about to humiliate me.

"As you wish, your Grace," the oinkish Kingsguard concurred. He didn't look happy about the situation either.

I choked up and marched "bravely" right at the shorter pudgy replica of myself whilst hiding behind my shield.

Clang-clang. Step. Turn. Follow. Clang. Step back. Move forward. Clang. Duck.

"Smash him!" I thought I heard someone yell. Was it Joffrey?

"Stop fighting like a damned cunt!" That was the Hound.

I thought I saw confusion in Boros' eyes. Don't know what to make of my lame-ass improvised style, do you? Good!

Ooops. Too soon. Back step. Shield up. Back step. Shield down. Counter stroke. Too short.

Ahh. Nearly trapped Blount's blade against my shield with the hammer. Yikes. Fist too close to steel. Dulled steel, whatever. I slid my hand lower down the haft.

Turn. Sudden bull rush. Nope, he dodged. Pivot.

THUMP!

Boros staggered. I had landed a solid blow to his shield.

"Get on with it!" More chastisement from the Hound. Conniving bastard!

I started twirling it a bit. Not so fast my "Robert" enhanced strength couldn't jerk it to a quick stop if I needed to … maybe.

Clang-clang. Step. Swish. Counter-step. Clang. Dodge. Turn. Turn back. Clang. Woosh. Clang-clang. Clang. Push forward. Shit!

Swish, the blade went over my shield and just past my T-helm close to my protected ear. Blount was open. I didn't think. Surprising. I swung sideways, and as the hammer arced through the air I let the rest of the haft slide through my palm until I caught the nob at the end. Leverage is my friend!

Crack!

Ser Boros had gotten his shield around enough I didn't break his ribs. But the force was enough and the low upward angle of the hit just so that the impact forced his arm and shield high up in the air.

I spun about. I don't know why I spun all the way around. I just knew to do it. The warhammer whipped around with me, gaining momentum. My arm came up high and then down went this five or ten pound anvil of steel.

SMASH!

HULK (or Thor?) SMASH!

Ser Boros shield was still far up, the right place to catch the blow. A powerful blow.

CRACK!

Unfortunately the thick oak and iron banded piece decided to split on impact. Ser Boros dropped like a stunned cow in a slaughter house.

I stepped back and waited for him to rise. His own shield must have smacked him a hard one in the head. Maybe a doozy of a concussion. Ha, bad enough to make him ride in the wheelhouse tomorrow with Cersei. Take that bitch.

I waited. He didn't move. But the Hound did, to check on Blount. He kicked the broken shield away from the knight's face where it had landed when the jowly man toppled.

"HAHAHAHaHaHahahahahaha!" Sandor Clegane started laughing.

A big shard of oak had broken from the backside of the shield, found the gap through the knight's open faced helm, and been driven by the strength of my blow to lodge deep in Ser Boros' right eye. He was dead.

Guilt

"To Ser Boros Blount, as useless an arse as I ever knew. Still he had the honor of being a Kingsguard. May the Father judge him mercifully," I toasted weakly, raising the skin.

"To Ser Boros," everyone gathered about the hastily constructed, modest sized funeral pyre echoed. No one had wanted to venture very far in the dark into the swamp in search of dry wood.

The wine tasted like dregs going over my tongue and down my bile choked gullet.

Guilt. I had not expected the real guilt to start this soon. We weren't even at Winterfell yet.

"Ser Meryn, speak of your brother," I commanded, not wanting to say another word about the lout myself; a lout and the first person directly dead by my own hand.

"Ahem. Ser Boros was a true knight … blah, blah, blah."

Guilt. Guilt that I didn't feel guiltier than I did.

"Clever with the blade he was. This one time, at a melee in Rosby, why Ser Boros … blah, blah, blah" Meryn continued unenthusiastically.

Guilt. For four years I had started the mental preparations that would see me take another life. Guilt at the relief that that nightmare had now irrevocably passed out of my feeble hands.

Trant finally mumbled his way to a conclusion and eyed my cautiously.

"Well spoke, Ser Meryn," I applauded him and then promptly took another long guzzle. Everyone else did too. When the King drinks in public, everybody damn well joins him. Buuuuuurp. "Ser Arys, what have you to say?"

Guilt. Guilt that I would not see Keira and Charlotte graduate high school. Graduate college. Marry. Have children.

The lad, who as the youngest Kingsguard at twenty seven made him so to my middle aged brain, looked thoughtful a moment. "I remember the day Ser Boros welcomed me to the White Tower. I was cloaked by Ser Barristan at … blah, blah, blah"

Guilt. Guilt that I now felt more alive than I ever had in my old life; when I was just passing time, going through the motions, while waiting for death.

Silence.

Arys had finished and I hadn't even noticed.

"Has anyone any more words they would like to share about Ser Boros?" I asked. Why was I leading this? Hadn't anyone thought to have brought a septon and a septa along on this trip to see after "my children's" moral education?

More Silence.

"Light the pyre," I commanded.

Guilt. Guilt that I would not be there for Rebecca when she finally lost all use of her arms. That I would not be there to assist her, to push her wheelchair, when she could no longer walk.

The wood and grass and moss were damp. The flame spread with a trickle instead of a surging woosh. Would it grow hot enough to render the man down to just his bones? Bones were a thing here. Was there anyone in House Blount who would care that the bones were going to be returned?

Guilt. Guilt that I would not suffer proper anguish when these fictional wraiths turned flesh and blood died at my hands.

"Come, Joffrey. Let us turn in for the night."

"Very well, father." The boy had a thoughtful look on his face as we began walking away from the light.

I stepped closer and draped a thick arm companionably over his shoulders. The little shit had probably seen more death than I had. When was the last viewing I had attended? Twenty years ago? Did putting our family dogs to sleep count as a moral equivalent? My father-in-law had been cremated and the memorial service held two months after his death. We had spread his ashes on Mount Wilson, in the San Gabriels that he had so loved to hike.

Guilt. Guilt that I would not be there when the tumor in her spinal cord grew so large that every waking moment would be an agony.

My hand twitched. I wondered what it would feel like to squeeze the life out of Joffrey. And of everyone else I must kill.

Guilt. Guilt that I would not be there when Rebecca finally acknowledged the inevitable; that she could no longer fight the endless misery. Who would be there for her? Who would gift her the inevitable craved release?

We reached Joffrey's tent together, not having said a word to one another; each comfortably lost in thoughts the other couldn't begin to comprehend. I ruffled his hair, annoying him, just like any teenager would at a parent's invasion of space. "Sleep well," I commanded.

Guilt that I might not actually die a grotesque, Westerosi death and have to live a long life with all my guilt … and that it wasn't nearly enough guilt for all the evils I would perpetrate.

The causeway took one last wide curve through the black bogs of the Neck and then went straight towards an irregular looking (read broken) black as lava wall over which the tops of three leaning to various degrees towers ranged. Those were less black colored and more green. Moss? Algae?

"Moat Cailin," I announced. What else could it be? We were about to truly enter the North. AT – FUCKING – LAST!

"It doesn't look like much," Joffrey whined.

"It doesn't have to be. You can't outflank it through all that muck, can you? I assume there's a moat. What can you fill it in with? And how big an army can you support if you have to haul all your damned food up the Neck? A couple hundred seasoned men could hold that place a damned long time against anything coming up from the South. There's a reason the North was never conquered. Looks can be deceiving, remember that boy."

A mile closer and the lead pair of outriders came trotting back.

"What?" I demanded.

"We spied someone standing on the bridge."

What? Moat Cailin was supposed to be deserted; though I intended to change that. Damned Ironborn weren't going to catch the North with their pants down this time.

I spurred my horse from a walk past a trot and into a canter. The outriders, Joffrey, and my two remaining White Cloaks – Ser Arys and Ser Meryn – followed.

Yes, there was someone there.

At about a furlong's distance I could tell the person was short. A child? But not scared to run off at my party's menacing approach?

Then something in the pit of my stomach reared itself. I felt clammy all of a sudden.

I reined up at the foot of the bridge. It wasn't a child. It was a man. And he neither smiled nor frowned at me. He just stared placidly at me with almost hunter green colored eyes.

"Your Grace, I heard you wished to have words with me."

"Lord Howland," I guessed. My plans were about to change.FanFiction

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High Plains Robert - The Inevitable ASOIAF SI (Act One) by High Plains Drifter

 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Words: 89k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 1k+, Published: Oct 2, 2017 Updated: Feb 15, 2018 624Chapter 16: Part 15 - Antlers, Thorns, and an Imp

The rain which had come down in torrents most of the last seven days had at last relented during the night; perhaps fearful of the Queen of Thorns notorious wrath should it interfere with her coming arrival in King's Landing. While the sun now shone down brightly upon Olenna Tyrell's modest procession approaching the far side of the river, the still backed up gutters and sewers and middens of the city offered up an aromatic miasma most similar to the stuff that fertilized her house's flowery symbol, thought Tyrion.

Normally, he wouldn't have cared a fig about watching the illustrious old lady's wheelhouse loaded on to a barge to cross the fast and near overflowing Blackwater Rush. Well, perhaps as a spectacle, if there was reason to believe the barge might flip. But undoubtedly if it did, brave Ser Loras would single handedly leap in to heroically save dear granny and bring her safely to shore none the worse for wear. The young knight had the natural air of total assurance and utter competence that Tyrion most often associated with his brother Jaime, Ser Barristan, and very, very few others.

It was in fact Ser Loras who had caused Tyrion to waddle to the top of the curtain wall on the southwest facing side of the Red Keep; a wall that he shared at a distance with Renly Baratheon. The lovers had over loudly quarreled that morning over Lady Olenna's instructions that Ser Loras, and Ser Loras alone, accompany her from the edge of the Kingswood all the way up Aegon's Hill. Renly had pouted like the spoiled child he was all the way until Loras had clambered aboard his horse, but the young, fresh faced, extremely pretty knight had not relented; causing Tyrion to reassess for the hundredth time which one of the two was the knight and which the maid in their relationship.

By her legendary repute, he believed the Queen of Thorns would make an effective Mistress of Whisperers. Unfortunately, that bode ill for House Lannister's currently dominating position in the realm. Luckily, nothing of great incrimination had been found among Varys' effects or the written words tortured out of the Spider's captured 'little birds.' And Tyrion had taken care of the scraps of blackmailable information in Littlefinger's possession. Would his family's luck continue to hold? Jaime being banished from King's Landing would help; unless Robert's command prodded his unwise siblings to even greater acts of foolishness.

Be-that-as-it-may, with her instructions, Lady Olenna must already know where her grandson's affections lay. Hence, getting Loras alone first; for a more truthful accounting than could be done elsewise, but likely not wholly truthful. Was that good or ill for Renly? And thus, by reverse extension, the opposite effect for Stannis? Undoubtedly, the new Mistress of Whisperers would be good for House Tyrell, but not necessarily for the desires of the so called 'Knight of Flowers.'

Time would tell. It was remorseless that way. Everything was about to change. Tyrion would do his best to ensure that the Lannisters continued to always pay their debts. A new, competent, and dynamic player in the Game of Thrones was about to enter the Small Council and the King's Landing playing board. What would dear, confusing Robert find when he returned?

'Ahh, I have been spied,' he thought. His stature allowed for a certain level of sneakiness when his waddling style did not betray his presence. The crenel in the parapet, one with a stair up to it to allow men-at-arms easier access for dropping rocks and boiling things on invaders' heads, had been a particularly advantageous place for him to observe things both near and far.

Renly, richly dressed in a dark green velvet doublet, upon which embroidered golden stags could be seen except for where a golden half cape lay elegantly across a broad, strong shoulder, came strolling in his direction.

"Lannister," the King's brother called, a Baelish like insolent smile playing across his lips, as he came to a halt in front of Tyrion. "Stretching your legs?"

Their eyes were for a refreshing change of about of a height. The halfman's perhaps a shade higher, thanks to the battlement. Renly Baratheon, in addition to being well dressed and painfully handsome, was quite tall – just an inch shorter than the King's own prodigious length.

"Not if I can help it, Lord Renly. I've come to catch my first glimpse of the famous Lady Olenna."

"Infamous, don't you mean?"

"Only by repute … from some. Bitter suitors ejected from Tyrell favor, surely. While I have never had the pleasure of meeting her before. Until now, our paths keep just missing: the Queen of Thorns and the Imp. Seems a meeting destined to happen at some point, don't you think, my lord?"

"Seems more destined as the name for some mummer's farce. Or a children's puppet show."

"Thank you for suggesting such, my lord. I shall hire some starving wordsmith to fashion a story out of it; but perhaps as star crossed lovers instead of a farce?"

"A tragedy, if Lady Olenna catches wind of it. Kindly to a fault I have found her, but deadly serious where her family's honor is concerned. Be careful around her, Lannister," Renly warned.

"Then I shall ask the lady myself which type of play she would prefer," Tyrion answered, not wanting to relent on the stag bone he was gnawing to some small effect.

"Good day, Lannister" the bigger man said while nodding a dismissal and stalked off.

"My lord," Tyrion answered to the departing shade.

Unlike with the King's surprise return, this time the Small Council, reduced as it was, waited in the outer yard as the wheelhouse came clanking through the giant bronze gates of the keep's entrance to bring the notable within. Stannis hectoring the cause of it. Interestingly, Ser Loras was not riding beside Lady Olenna's conveyance, but within it. The only thing Loras liked mounting as much as Renly was a horse, at least by Tyrion's latest estimation of the situation.

The large contraption delicately inlaid with the cornucopia of House Merryweather and not House Tyrell's rose screeched to a stop.

Both Stannis and Renly stepped forward. "Welcome to King's Landing, Lady Olenna." "On behalf of the Small Council, welcome to the Red Keep, Lady Olenna." They falsely echoed each other. Like two great beasts the pair incessantly howled past each other, all the while trying to piss their mark; this was no different. Tyrion hoped Ned Stark had the strength and wits to tame them when he arrived as Robert's new Hand. Though the King did frequently seem to enjoy watching his brother's bicker. Tyrion's new, even greater intimacy to the Baratheon brothers' situation certainly raised his appreciation of what Jon Arryn must have dealt with on a daily basis; and that in addition to a drunk, whore-mongering king.

Pages promptly lowered a folding stair and two ridiculously tall guards were the first to disembark.

"Erryk. Arryk. Help my lady grandmother down," Ser Loras pleasant voice called out from within the roofed carriage.

"Keep your hands to yourself, Left and Right. I am neither feeble of body nor mind," the sharp tongue everyone was expecting at some point lashed out from within.

"Yes, milady," the giants placidly murmured together, not in the least disturbed by the contradictory commands. Their faces clearly showed they were long inured to her verbal harassment.

'Mayhaps I'll have a drink with that pair,' Tyrion thought. 'The Titans and the Imp, the second in a collection of plays written by …' His amused musings were interrupted. 'Oh, she's short,' which Tyrion admitted was something coming from him. 'And old.'

"Lady Olenna, please come with us to the Small Council Hall, there is much to discuss," Stannis' deep raspy voice commanded.

"Please forgive my oafish brother, Lady Olenna, there is not so much to discuss as cannot wait until tomorrow, after you have rested and bathed and eaten well," Renly's smoother, amiable bass soothingly reassured.

"Stuff and nonsense, I did not accept Robert Baratheon's invite to simply adorn his Small Council with my beauty. Ha. Time enough for me to rest and be bathed when I'm dead. Move along, Renly, but none too fast," she chided.

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard next bowed to the new come guest hobbling along with aid of an ornate cane.

"A pleasure to see you again, Ser Barristan," she pointedly said as she purposefully broke away from the never ending clash of antlers between the Baratheon brothers.

"And to see you so well, Lady Tyrell," the knight replied nobly.

"I'm old, weak, and tired, Barristan; enough of your noble lies, Ser."

Her sharp tongue did not so much as scratch Ser Barristan's armor. He smiled warmly down at the wee Queen of Thorns. "Yet you are here to serve the King, nine hundred miles from Highgarden; and carrying the same strong spirit I first saw displayed on a sunny field by the banks of the Mander, Lady Tyrell. You are well indeed," the Bold One dared to contradict.

"Few of us are what we once were; though you appear to do better than most. Call me Lady Olenna, Ser Barristan, since we are to share the burdens our lackadaisical King is uninterested in attending to."

Conceding the worth of the knight's sally, the Queen of Thorns had struck back in a fashion to which the honorable Barristan could not respond at all: one would be a lie and the other to speak belittling of his monarch. Perhaps she was tired, perhaps she wasn't. But if she was, an immediate Small Council session could offer a golden opportunity to catch the formidable old biddy in a mistake of some sort.

Tyrion bowed low as she came near him on the way to the Council Hall, "Welcome, Lady Olenna," he said warmly. Painful her pricks might be, but very, very interesting.

"I am Lady Tyrell to the likes of you, Tyrion Lannister," she caustically snapped. "My opinion of you might be higher than the regard your own father holds you, young lord. But until you prove your worth to me and the Realm, you have not earned the right to use my proper name."

Tyrion swallowed hard. "Indeed, Lady Tyrell." At least she hadn't required him to match Ser Barristan's long record of service.

"Left, Right, far enough," The Queen of Thorns commanded her towering guards just outside the chamber. The pair made the heroically proportioned Baratheon brothers and the commanding presence of Ser Barristan seem small by comparison. The peeled off and took station beside the immutable black marble Valyrian sphinxes that guarded the door with their polished garnet eyes.

Tyrion found himself wishing the old lady had tried to bring them into the inner sanctum of the Small Council, just to see Stannis' reaction to someone bringing an armed presence within. Still, he got the sort of reaction he wanted from the uptight stag when Lady Tyrell took the seat around the table to the immediate right of the ornate, royal seat.

"Lady Olenna, that is the chair of the Hand," Stannis immediately complained.

"And we are without a Hand, literally, as we've received no raven from Winterfell announcing Ned Stark's acceptance," Renly promptly countered.

"It is tradition," Stannis protested.

"And it is also tradition to treat ladies of such quality and wisdom as Lady Olenna, with consideration and respect."

"And she shall have the consideration and respect she deserves. I would grant her nothing less," the older brother said in his best honor aggrieved voice.

"I am sure Lady Olenna meant no disrespect, Lord Stannis," Ser Barristan stated simply, acting as peacemaker.

"Given out by the precious thimble full, brother. Magnanimity was never your strong suit," the younger brother taunted, speaking right past the Commander of the Kingsguard.

"And yours is given so generously it barely the worth of the wind you spoke it with, Renly."

"Enough. Don't be children and me your nursemaid," Lady Tyrell announced in a no-nonsense tone as she slowly drew herself out of the seat and shuffled over a chair. "My teats are too dried and shriveled to allow the petty, squabbling likes of you to suckle from."

Stannis squinted petulantly at the Queen of Thorns while Renly simply smiled that smooth, ingratiating smile of his. She sat down. The others moved to take their usual, but typically not set places. Except that is Tyrion, who always sat at the left end of the table; his seat bolstered with pillows to bring him up to proper height.

"Where is the King?" Lady Tyrell asked simply.

Did she not know? Or was she simply playing a part? How much information had Loras passed to her in the four or five hours she had him to herself. In fact, how much information had the new Mistress of Whisperers been able to receive during long journey up from Highgarden?

"By now his Grace has probably entered the North," Ser Barristan answered.

"We last had a raven message from Robert from the Twins," Renly added lazily.

"The Twins? What in the Mother's name was he doing there?" Her face turned to Tyrion. "Is your Aunt Genna there?"

"Gods no. Not if she can avoid it. Walder Frey's next wedding won't be for another three or four months. Apparently his Grace has gathered a bunch Freys and he is taking them to Winterfell with him."

"Robert has commanded Lord Eddard to call a council of the Northern Houses," announced Stannis sternly, wanting to join the mix with what he thought was most relevant.

Olenna Tyrell frowned in evident thought, then, "hahahaha," she laughed with evident, nasty mirth. "I would enjoy seeing Lady Catelyn's face when she heard."

A bunch of blank stares looked back at the chuckling old lady. Tyrion hadn't thought the calling of a council of Norther Houses odd. How often did the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm go North? Odd was Robert's sudden interest in the Freys. But that was fickle, drunken Robert … "Oh," he murmured in surprise. Then "Oh," much louder.

Lady Tyrell's cold eyes caught his. "Who in the King's party has a brain?" she demanded.

"My sister perhaps has half a brain, when she cares to bother. But she wouldn't care about this. Other than her?" the halfman shrugged

"Care about what, Lord Tyrion?" Stannis said in a commanding voice.

"About annoying the Tully's enough to provoke that young fool Edmure into marrying, so he starts producing heirs," the Queen of Thorns chastised like a Maester with a particularly recalcitrant, dull novice.

The other eyes began to flicker with understanding. 'My, my Robert, what has gotten into you,' Tyrion thought.

"You will then be pleased to hear, Lady Olenna, that my brother has at long last, for the second time, performed his duty with Lady Selyse," Renly chuckled sardonically.

"And how is the Lord of Storm's End doing on that front?" the old lady snapped back at Renly before turning her attention to his brother. "Congratulations, Lord Stannis. May your lady wife bear you a strong son. How far along is she?"

"A month," he announced cautiously.

"A month? Then you are a fool, Stannis Baratheon," she lit into him. "I suffered three miscarriages and two stillbirths, around five children who grew up to be only three. Don't count your dragons before they hatch."

The room could hear the grinding of those teeth, which by now should have been worn down to nubs after all these years. Maester Zelladune had sworn that the raven message from Dragonstone had come in with an intact seal, and Stannis had admitted to no complaint about its status; yet somehow news of Selyse Florent's pregnancy had leaked. And poor Stannis with no one to bring to justice for it.

"Do you have any news to share with us, Lady Olenna?" Ser Barristan asked, trying to break the rising tension of the room.

"His Grace warned me that a magister in Pentos, named Illyrio Mopatis, was suspected of having strong connections with our unlamented dead eunuch, Varys. I've started several efforts to gather information on the man. I understand he was a merchant and had given shelter to Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen. Has any mention of this Illyrio been come across in Varys' effects?"

"Yes, actually, Lady Ollena. We captured a score of Vary's tongueless little birds. We've gotten a fair amount of information out of them, they've all come from Pentos. This magister's name has been mentioned a time or two in some of the … questioning," Renly, under his purview as Master of Law, explained,

"Good. Have the torturers had scribes to take notes?"

"They have."

"Send the scroll to me first thing," she commanded.

Renly nodded his head in acquiescence.

"What do you have to share, Lady Olenna," Stannis repeated.

She looked solidly back at the Master of Ship, obviously not intimidated in the least. "The Conclave will elect my goodbrother Gormon as the next Grand Maester," she announced baldly.

"According to Maester Zelladune, the Conclave hasn't even met yet. How do you know this, Lady Olenna?" Stannis accused.

"Because I've bribed enough Arch Maesters to make it happen, Lord Stannis," The Queen of Thorns rejoined without an ounce of shame.

Tyrion stifled a laugh, he couldn't wait for the formidable old lady to ask him what he had discovered of Littlefinger's shenanigans. The realm wasn't six million gold dragons in debt, but closer to seven thanks to Baelish's clever manipulations. He knew for a certainty she would accuse him of collecting a fair share of the former Master of Coins illicitly gained wealth from the Iron Throne. And he had just decided to emulate her and admit the bald fact of it.

Interesting times indeed were come with Olenna Tyrell. Interesting times.FanFiction

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High Plains Robert - The Inevitable ASOIAF SI (Act One) by High Plains Drifter

 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Words: 89k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 1k+, Published: Oct 2, 2017 Updated: Feb 15, 2018 624Chapter 17: Part 16 - The Stark in Winterfell

The huge bull of a man leading the column on horse through Winterfell's East Gate could be none other than Robert. Beside him rode the Lannister woman. Directly behind the married Stag and Lion came a pair of white cloaks. Riders carrying golden banners emblazoned with the Baratheon crowned stag were interspersed throughout, disturbingly with a few jointly showing both stags and lions, making it difficult for Ned to spot any other riders in the royal party that he might recognize.

Next in line came a tall blonde youth, who could only be Prince Joffrey; along with his bodyguard, the terribly scarred Sandor Clegane. Then a pair of children no older than Bran and Arya: obviously Robert's younger children Tommen and Myrcella, both as blonde as their mother, though pleasant enough appearing. After a few more rows of mounted escorts, he next caught a glimpse of and focused on an older, bald headed man sporting the sigil of the Twins on his surcoat.

That surprised and worried Ned. He knew the raven bearing Robert's strange command to hold a Council of the North had flown from Walder Frey's House, but it had made no mention of … Howland? What was his friend doing riding with Robert? Warm feelings and an old dread swelled up within him at the sight of the crannogman.

"Ned!" That familiar, thunderous voice shook down from the heavens above, dragging his thoughts away from Howland and what his presence might imply. The almost stranger carefully dismounted instead of leaping off with the unrestrained vigor Ned well remembered. It had been nine years, during the Greyjoy Rebellion, that they had last seen each other. His once close as a brother friend had grown fat over the intervening years and now sported a moderately kempt beard to hide the jowls.

"It's grand to see that frozen face of yours," Robert proclaimed, pulling him into a hug.

There was plenty of that legendary strength, but also something oddly reticent, in how those powerful arms grabbed him and set him back down.

"Let me look at you. You haven't changed a bit from our days at the Eyrie."

Ned stared up into his friend's face. The eyes were tired, hollow, and showed a reticent as well. 'What has happened to you, Robert.'

"A pity Jon is no longer here to share in our reunion," Robert faltered, more embarrassed sounding than anguished.

Ned summoned up a sad smile and said what his years of lordship told him he must say, "Your Grace, Winterfell is yours."

"Only for a brief time, my friend. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, nothing about a Baratheon. Now let's get these tedious introductions over with, so I can go warm my bones. Snow! Who would have imagined? In the longest summer any man alive has seen?" the giant whom he had ridden out with a lifetime ago to win a throne blustered on while turning back to the horses. Politely Robert held up a hand. "My Queen."

Cersei Lannister smiled at her husband. A curious smile, neither warmth nor ice nor indifference nor mere politeness. And gracefully took his aid in dismounting; careful that her rich, bejeweled gown did not snag on the saddle or drop into the slush and mud of the courtyard. Ned repeated his welcome and dropped to one knee in the damp muck to kiss the Queen's ring.

Robert stepped over to take both of Catelyn's hands and stop her from curtseying very far. "Dear Lady, you have my deepest thanks for hosting my motley court on such short notice," that familiar deep bass rumbled with unaccustomed ... something to Ned's ear. Humility? Uncertainty?

Then the children from both houses were brought forward for introductions. Robert seemed to take a long time with each child, except for Rickon; complementing them and teasing each one with some choice personal detail that the King said he had heard about them. Each tidbit uncannily accurate, he noted. And then Robert started bespeaking Benjen about how things were at the Wall. While there had been no question that Jon would not be formally introduced; for once, Ned felt glad about it.

Finishing his own greetings with Robert's three in quick, but polite fashion; Ned stepped to the side and watched out of the corner of his eye the remnants of the royal party fill up the courtyard. He was surprised to find no sign of the Queen's brothers. He had understood they were to be part of the pack of Southerners. He spied several more Freys, then worryingly even more Freys, and a couple of squires who had the Lannister look to them. No one appeared familiar. No face even from their time together at Pyke.

And then he spied Howland again. The crannogman dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement of his discovery, but kept his face its usual placid self; giving no clue as to how or why he came to be there. The Lord of Winterfell had not even bothered sending a raven to Greywater Watch proclaiming Robert's council, knowing in his heart that the wee man wouldn't bother to come. Yet here he was. Ned trusted Howland with his and his family's lives. Yet ... yet.

As if following Ned's eyes and thoughts, Robert called out, "Come Howland. Come Aenys. Join us in the Great Hall for something to fight this chill off." The King turned and addressed him. "Our friend Howland showed up unannounced at Moat Cailin like some swamp ghost knowing I needed a good haunting. Glad I was to see him. And this is Ser Aenys Frey, old Walder's third son, Ned. Thought I'd bring a passel of the old lech's get up here to the North, see if we can find any brides or grooms for 'em, so they don't overrun the Riverlands. Ha! Did you hear Walder's going to marry again. Ninety years old. Amazing. I made a hundred dragon bet with him on how soon he'd get this young sweetling Joyeuse Erenford pregnant. And another fifty on whether her first born would be a boy or a girl," Robert half laughed and half babbled, as if somehow unsure of his normal enthusiasms.

After a sole mulled wine dedicated to the memory of Jon Arryn, Robert had asked that his family be shown their quarters so that they might rest and clean up prior to that evening's welcome feast. Ned was happy to show them to the Great Keep as even the brief interlude over drink had slowed the ongoing preparations. The royal couple had seemed well enough pleased with their rooms. At one point the Lannister woman had started to say something, only to be quickly interrupted by Robert's whispering in her ear. Whatever it was he said had caused the Queen to fight down a blush.

Leaving them, he found Catelyn instead of Vayon waiting for him in his work salon. "Your friend has changed."

"I barely recognize him," Ned admitted, the man's personality seeming almost as changed as his fat body. "I wondered if he would throw Lyanna in the Queen's face and order me to take him straight to the crypt." It was known that the royal marriage was not a happy one; rumor saying it was worse now than what ill tidings Robert had told him of directly during the Greyjoy Rebellion. Truthfully, while he felt disappointment that his friend had not asked; Howland's presence made the relief at its absence almost equal.

"The Queen may have been surprised as well," Catelyn commented, her words drawing his keen interest. His wife knew him well enough when to continue unasked. "Hide it though she tried, she watched and listened to the King more than she paid attention to us and her own children."

Other than the odd smile the Lannister woman had bestowed on Robert, he had not paid her much attention. Trust Catelyn to notice such clues. "Love? Jealousy?" he guessed a loud, believing the one much more than the other. But jealous of who? Catelyn? Sansa? It made little sense to him.

"Neither. More … curious, I think." Catelyn seemed a little unsure of her own answer.

What was there to be curious of? His friend had spoken knowingly with Robb and Bran and Sansa and … "Do you …? Are they contemplating a betrothal?" he wondered. Sansa would make a great lady one day, but she was only eleven. Or would it be Myrcella? Robert joining his house to my own as he had always dreamed. This lead his thoughts again to Lyanna.

His wife nodded slightly in agreement, mostly following along with his unspoken words. "Perhaps. Kings are not like other men. Nor are Queens, but they are mothers. A betrothal, a mother's concern, that … that was not the look Cersei Lannister was following the King with. More … more?"

Catelyn appeared lost in memory. He gave her a moment to find herself. When Winter came, a Northman learned patience.

"… it was more how my eyes followed you, Ned, when I first arrived at Winterfell," she said, with Jon Snow being the unspoken but implicit part of the statement, "and I learned how to live with my lord husband."

Ned did not know how to reply to that. Respect and kindness had been given and returned. They already had had a son. And love had eventually grown between them. What more was there to it? Catelyn, as the daughter of a Lord Paramount, had already known how to act the part of a great lady. "Marriage to Robert would be a new adventure every day," he chuckled mirthlessly.

His wife scowled at him before snapping. "You knew the man. But he is a stranger to you now. His pride as swollen as his belly. Here, as King, he has brought that pack of weasels and declared he wants Northern brides for them." Her Southron blood was growing hot.

"That was ill considered," he admitted. He knew few Riverland lords, the Tullys included, had love for the Freys. And the banner lords who had fought to make Robert king that were coming to Winterfell would well remember old Walder's late arrival at the Trident. They would not appreciate the Stag's attempts at forced matchmaking. He sighed. "Sadly, there are several houses in need of marriages and heirs."

"And in my own family too," Cat acknowledged bitterly. "Who inherits Riverrun if Edmure follows Uncle Bryden's course?"

Ned felt his face turn icy.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was thick with smoke, the smell of food, and the noise of men experiencing an entertaining feast. A pair of bards, one at each end, strummed their lutes and sang either amusing, frequently dirty ditties or cloying love ballads of knights and ladies. One singer he knew, one he didn't. Orland of Oldtown, House Manderly's resident bard and on loan from New Castle, would play his harp later. Ned stepped back from the main door and turned around. Everyone seemed gathered and properly paired. "Are you ready, your Grace?"

The Lannister woman looked at him in all her beauty. The emeralds in her tiara matched the green of her lovely eyes. The golden dress was of soft velvet interspersed with panels of silk, all of it embroidered with lions – no stags or does for her. Long intricately set hair tumbled artfully over her shoulders and across an expanse of visible flesh, revealing the hint of a substantial and still firm bosom. She smiled a condescending smile.

Ned offered her his arm and murmured, "Jory."

The captain of his household guard slid over to the entrance and whispered a command to the pair of guards just within, possibly the richest or the poorest of poor souls who wither lost the lottery for night duty or accepted significant silver from their brothers who did want to attend. Immediately they slammed the butts of their spears against the stone floor just inside the huge, crowded room.

The noise within started to lower. A warhorn warbled to announce the coming of the King. Ned wondered whether that was appropriate, but didn't let it bother him.

Then the Lannister woman place her ringed hand on his sleeve and the procession began. A third of the way in, by a gaggle of squires, they passed Jon and Ned offered the boy the slimmest of looks. Catelyn had not wanted him included in any of the formal family settings with the King; stating it was so as not to disturb the Queen who was known to be sensitive about natural borns thanks to all of Robert's bastards. Again, Ned thought Jon's absence a good idea. And then he led Cersei up on to the dais and over to her seat in the middle of the long table.

His lady wife and the King came next. Rickon and Bran came after. The three year old did pause by Jon, who along with Bran promptly urged him on. Then came Robb and the Princess Myrcella, followed by Arya and Prince Tomen. And then the last of his children, Sansa, holding the arm of Prince Joffrey.

Ned now firmly suspected Robert would depart Winterfell with a marriage alliance between their two houses. Why come to the North? He understood the loss his friend was suffering from the death of their foster father, but that only went so far in explaining the lengthy journey here; called Council of the North or no Council of the North. The only other reason would be to ask him to become Hand, and Robert knew Ned would never leave Winterfell. He had said as much on his arrival hours before.

Benjen, dressed in his finest yet still plain Night's Watch garb, entered with Ned's ward Theon beside him. And last, and definitely least in the opinion of some, for the high table came Howland and Aenys Frey. Ned wondered whether Catelyn's guess was true. She certainly believed it strongly, causing her already warm Southron blood to grow all the hotter. It was long past time his goodbrother Edmure got married and started siring heirs.

The Lannister woman did not prove an unpleasant dinner companion. But Ned, thanks to Cat's earlier observation, did in fact get the sense that at least half her attention, while well cloaked, was aimed at surreptitiously observing Robert. Odd. Yet was not Robert odd too?

His friend acted unlike the usual, boisterous self that Ned fondly remembered. Except for one funny story related to the whole Great Hall about how he fell gracelessly on his useless royal arse only to be saved by Clegane, for which a toast was mandated, Robert remained rather subdued. He ate moderately. He drank moderately. He didn't so much as look at any of the serving maids, while paying Cersei more than a fair share of compliments. And best of all, he even charmed, or at least mollified, Catelyn by focusing their conversations upon the children.

That only convinced Ned all the further that a marriage alliance was in the offing. But would Robert ask for Robb, Bran, or Sansa? Thinking as a Lord Paramount, and taking his lady wife's suspicions into account, a match with Myrcella laden with the possibility of Bran inheriting Riverrun, Old Gods forfend such a tragedy on his wife's house, would increase the fortunes of House Stark and House Baratheon the most. And Tywin Lannister, damn the man, would be well pleased too.

Yet Prince Joffrey, who sat the other side of him at the high table, also proved an enjoyable companion for the feast. While the lad did set most of his attention to pleasing and complimenting Sansa, on more than one occasion the lad leaned over to ask questions about the War against the Targaryens and stamping out the Greyjoy Rebellion. Oh, he was polite enough to inquire about Lord Stark's exploits; however, he was clearly most interested in hearing about his father. Not a bad sign from a son, or future goodson, Ned thought cautiously.

With the meal at the high table done, though many below the dais were still filling their bellies, all that remained for the feast was drinking and talking and singing and a bit of dancing by the most drunk or daring or both. Orland was plucking at his harp and reciting a ballad that Ned knew infatuated Sansa. The children's eyes, aside from Robb and Sansa, were getting droopy, despite the excitement and being limited to the one glass of wine. Ser Aenys had stepped off to consult with his over numerous kin distributed throughout the lower end of the hall. Ned spied Benjen below too, talking with Jon; for which Ned was thankful. And Howland had slipped away somewhere.

Ned wanted to talk to his banner lord and friend. They had last spoken five harvest feasts ago. Howland usually just sent a deputy to carrying the Neck's traditional tribute of bog iron to Winterfell. Yet here he was, unannounced, having spent two weeks company with Robert on the road. What might they have discussed?

"Lord Eddard!" Robert was standing with a large goblet in his even larger hand. "My thanks to my friend for this fine welcoming feast. The Stag and all the Seven Kingdoms revere the might and wisdom of the Direwolf. May there always be a Stark in Wintefell. To Lord Eddard!"

"To Lord Eddard!" the whole room boomed, with a few howls accompanying the display.

Ned felt his cheeks grow warm. To be praised in his own home for gladly doing his duty to his King and friend? An answering toast was required. He too stood and lifted his own cup. "To the King, long may he rule!" he declared simply.

"To the King!" reverberated throughout the hall, bouncing off walls and support beams and the soaring ceiling.

Robert's unusually hollow appearing blue eyes could barely stay on Ned's grey ones. What was wrong with his friend? Had Jon's death, had the weight of being King, so thoroughly crushed the powerful spirit he had known in his youth?

"Now I fear it is late for tired fat old kings such as myself." Hoots of disbelief greeted this announcement. Robert waved them down. "I will leave the feasting and the drinking and the rogering of the pretty maids to the younger bucks. If you will forgive me, Lady Catelyn?" She nodded her agreement to him. "My queen?" And he offered his arm, to which the Lannister woman actually smiled with some warmth.

Ned and the whole dais stood as the Queen rose. Their three children followed them down to the main axis of the Great Hall and towards the main doors. From behind, Ned could see that his friend's silk shirt was sweat clean through, plastered to his meaty back and broad shoulders.

"Bard," Robert called out, pointing towards a brown-grey haired slender man in a corner with a lute slung over his back. "My feast may be done, but my heart still yearns for music. Entertain me," he commanded.

Off the small royal party departed into the Northern night, followed by two ghosts in white cloaks. "And the mead gets drunk and you get drunker," a bunch of wags began to sing happily.

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