Summary:
You know? Jon may be the hero of our story, but there is a lot of other players involved too. I think we should see what they've been thinking about....
Notes:
1) I just want to start by thanking everyone for their patience. Some of you may know I've been very ill the past few months, include four separate hospitalizations for treatment, which definitely got in the way for everything. I'll tell you though, while I was sick, reading this story's past comments always made me feel a lot happier.
2) Whoever did THIS: https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/FanWorks/ADovahkiinSpreadsHisWings
Thank you and know I will love you forever.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Timeline
283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.302 AC/4E 206: Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18) leaves for KL with Enzo, Ned Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and the royal party.(two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party are attacked while at the Triton.(two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party arrive at King's Landing. (three days later) the Tourney of the Hand begins.(five days later) Serena arrives at the Red Keep.
Cersei Lannister I
(Between Chapter 13 & 14)
'What a cruel trick of the gods to be born a woman.'
The thought burned in the mind of the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms as she stormed through the halls of the Red Keep towards the finest guest apartments. 'It means that, despite ruling Westeros for nearly two decades now, my father still feels he can order me about like a common wench; he even has the gall to make me come to him.'
Servants parted before her, their eyes lowered to the ground in respect. 'They, at least, know their place; so many others could do to learn that lesson.'
The door to her father's quarters was unlocked -out of habit for the man, which meant he knew Cersei would adhere to his wishes- and she let herself in.
"Didn't your septa teach you to knock before entering someone's quarters?" Despite the phrasing, Tywin Lannister did not ask this; at least, not in a way that she was supposed to answer. Cersei gritted her teeth but said nothing, instead just closing the door behind her and locking them tight.
"What did you want to speak of, Father?"
They could speak -relatively- freely here, these were the apartments that had been used exclusively by the Lannister family since the Baratheons had risen to power; the time, effort, and capital that went into ensuring it remained safe was not inconsiderable.
The Lord of Casterly Rock looked up to the documents he'd been examining, his cold green eyes full of the same judgment she'd seen in so many other men. "Oh, many things, but mostly about your complete and utter failure to complete any of the tasks I've assigned to you."
Fury coursed through Cersei's veins and she quelled the fire burning at the back of her throat with a deep swallow of wine, draining the goblet completely. Fingers curled around the cool glass of the wine bottle's neck, she poured herself another, "That hardly seems fair assessment, Father, I-"
Her father cut her off, "You've failed to tie Shireen Baratheon to our family through either a betrothal or a fosterhood; that girl is in a vulnerable position at the moment and gaining a foothold on Dragonstone would be greatly beneficial to us."
"You can't blame me for that!" Cersei defended herself. "Stannis assisted that jumpstart smuggler as her legal guardian and he won't let anyone near that little gargoyle. Add to that her fanatic shrew of a mother and-"
"So you can't even convince an illiterate knight born in Flea Bottom or a hapless, grieving widow?" Tywin inquired, cocking a mocking eyebrow in her direction. "That does not bode well for your abilities. Especially considering I've tasked you with bringing either the Spider or Littlefinger into our service and my personal spies have informed me you've made no progress on either front."
Cersei sneered, "Those two vultures? You can't seduce a cockless man and as for Littlefinger? Well, that man's hunger for wealth will never be satisfied. He'd only ever side with us so long as he could gain something from it before betraying us just as quickly, you might as well trust a scorpion not to sting."
"Is your imagination so limited that you believe the only way to win men to your side is with sex and gold?" Tywin scoffed. "Even your brother knows better than that."
There was much Cersei could silently bare.
That comment was far past it.
"DON'T! YOU! DARE! COMPARE ME TO THAT DRUNKEN IMP!" she roared. "I AM THE QUEEN OF WESTEROS AND I-"
"Cannot even control your own son."
Her father's cold, clear voice infuriated her but his words forced her into a fault. She swallowed her fury and bit out, "What do you mean to imply?"
"I imply nothing," the Lion of Lannister snarled. "I criticize that you are so stupid that you've allowed your son, the future ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and the foundation on which our family's future is to be built on, to get so out of hand that he's killing women in his own home now."
A chill went down Cersei's spine and she gripped her goblet tighter, "How do you know about that?"
Tywin gave a huff, "Know about it? I was the one who cleaned it up, the one who made sure no one asked questions about what happened to those two girls."
"What does it matter?" Cersei muttered, turning away. "They were just servants, meaningless in the grand scheme of things."
"As usual you fail to see the obvious," Tywin shot back, anger being to seep into his voice. "It wasn't as if Joffrey killed a pair of faceless, nameless whores, these were girls with families and histories. More importantly, they both had ties to this castle and to this family!"
'Smug old fool,' Cersei snarled. 'Always flaunting his supposed intelligence and making others feel small. He'd never speak this way to me if I were Jaime.'
Oblivious to her thoughts, Tywin continued, "I've seen this before, Cersei, and I won't stand for it. I won't stand for it because next time it will be Myrcella's ladies-in-waiting or a knight younger sister. After that? Maybe a lord's daughter or maybe even his own wife."
'How much longer does he think I'll suffer these indignities? He's mistaken no matter what but still-'
"Are you listening? Cersei!"
That was her father's voice, so cold and commanding...used to being obeyed without question. He'd be surprised when that stopped being the case. "What would you have me do then? It is hardly Joffrey's fault a few sluts caught his eye."
The anger and disgust only seemed to grow on Tywin's face. "Well for one, you could stop making excuses for him. If you didn't coddle him so much, he may never have gotten so bad."
Her jaw clenched and she could feel her teeth grinding together, "I've taken steps to ensure the future of the Lannisters that you'll never know about! So are you going to offer advice or simply continue to criticize?"
A scowl, "I'll criticize your poor performance as much as I see fit. As for advice? I have none. But I do have a warning. Now, the last time we had this conversation you pleaded for me to give you a chance and, in a moment of foolish mercy, I agreed to give you two years to shape Joffrey into something resembling a decent heir. A year-and-a-half has passed since then, Cersei, and not only has his behavior not improved, it has gotten worse. Now I am a man of my word, so I'll allow those last six months, but after that...actions will have to be taken."
An icy chill settled in the pit of her stomach and the taste of wine grew bitter in Cersei's mouth. "Wh-what are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Tywin dropped his voice into a low, steady growl, "that unless Joffrey's behavior has changed for the better in half-a-years time, I'll have him removed for the line of succession, permanently."
No, no, no…. "What are you saying? You'll kill my son? You'll kill your own grandson?"
In the back of her mind, Cersei noted she sounded hysterical...just like Robert always accused her of being.
"Perhaps, perhaps not; there are several ways to get him out of the way so Tommen can take his place as crown prince," Tywin clarified.
"Tommen?" She all but laughed at the suggestion, "You'd have Tommen rule this Kingdom? He's meek, he's a child, he's no warrior, and he cries when his whipping boy is punished. He's not fit to be a king! Not like Joffrey is; Joff is strong and decisive and-"
"And he kills animals and young women for his own pleasure." Tywin cut her off. "I won't let him ruin our family, especially not now."
"Oh gods," Cersei snarled, rolling her eyes, "for once in your life, Father, speak plainly!"
Such a comment would usually earn her a harsh reprimand but, strangely, rather than tearing into Cersei for her loose tongue, he merely gave a silent pause as he seemed to consider something. After a long moment, Tywin spoke up again, "Do you know how much gold was mined in the Westerlands this past year?"
'Why would I concern myself with such a thing?' The odd turn of conversation caused Cersei to give a dismissive shrug, "I haven't a clue."
"Go on then, give your best guess," her father urged.
Cersei hummed as she imagined the piles of glorious gold unearthed from her homeland, "Pounds, tons, ounces?"
Tywin snorted, "The measurement doesn't matter, the answer is the same: none. Our last working mine ran dry three years ago and our stores have been nearly completely depleted, in no small part thanks to your husband, I might add; though your need for useless luxuries certainly didn't help matters. As it stands the only steady stream of income in from what we make in imports."
The implications of those words had Cersei gasping in horror, "That can't be! You're saying we're out of money? Then how have we been paying for anything?"
Her father let out a deep sigh and, for the briefest moment, Cersei saw him as the old man he truly was. "The crown owes the Iron Bank of Braavos a tremendous amount of money."
"You've always said we were the crown?"
"Exactly."
This couldn't be happening to her, "How many dragons? Is it in the hundreds? Thousands?"
"A tremendous amount," Tywin stressed, even as he remained vague.
'Inconceivable! How could he let it get this far?' She shot her father a cold glare, "There must be someone at the Iron Bank you can speak to, come to some arrangement or deal?"
Her father's returned to its low, tense growl, "The Iron Bank is the Iron Bank; they can not be bribed or threatened or pacified and the only agreement they make is 'pay your debt or we'll back your enemies.' Enemies we will definitely have if your son continues with his current behavior. Do you understand?"
'Back to the demands then? Typical,' she spat bitterly in the privacy of her own mind. "What will you have me do then?"
"Control Joffrey, just like I've been telling, and you can start by finding him a wife. The sooner the better, as well; another backup heir would not be unwanted," her father instructed, sounding not unlike her childhood septa did whilst giving lessons.
"I know Robert fancies the older Stark girl for Joffrey's bride," Cersei offered with a grumble and slight shrug. "She's foolish and pliable, eager to please; she wouldn't be a bad choice."
"The Starks have few ties in the South, binding them to us would be beneficial," Tywin contemplated. "However, in terms of capital and goods, they have little to offer us. The Tyrells are a better choice; you'll arrange a marriage with them, if not with Joffrey than one of the other two."
"You really want to bind our family to the Tyrells? They're nothing but greedy upstarts; that girl is a snake dressed as a rose. She'll never work for the good of our family," Cersei sneered at the thought of the brunette whore.
"That is true enough," Tywin admitted. "But they are rich and if we play our cards right, we can take them for every dragon they have. So, you ensure one of your children's' marital future is tied to one of the Tyrells and I will work on bringing one of the Starks into the fold."
Her father was not a foolish man; so the very idea he'd trust a Stark was unbelievable. "Which Stark are you talking about?"
There was no immediate response; instead, her father settled back down behind his desk and returned to the documents. "You're dismissed; move along, you have work to do."
The dismissal hurt more than just about everything.
Then that pain was replaced by anger.
Slamming the door behind, the Queen of Westeros slammed her father's door behind her and stormed towards her own private chambers. Oh, she had work to do alright, like securing her own future as Joffrey's regent and adviser by removing any possible dangers to his legitimacy. Once she got read of her oaf of a husband, that is.
Tywin Lannister I
(Before speaking with Jon in the Godswood)
'If such things as the gods exist then they are surely cruel for damning me with such incompetent children.'
That was the thought that crossed the Lion of Lannister's mind as he watched confusion play across his oldest son's face.
"Why are you asking about Jon?"
Tywin held back a sigh. It was confounding really, he had three children and not one of them was worth their weight. Cersei was beautiful and could command a room well enough but she wasn't nearly as smart as she believed herself to be. This meant Tywin couldn't trust her with anything more than the simplest of tasks, most of which Cersei still failed anyway and leaving Tywin to clean up her messes.
Jaime was perhaps the greatest warrior in Westeros and looked the part too with the glorious golden hair and gleaming green eyes of all classic Lannisters. But his son, the one who should have been the perfect heir, was slow when it came to anything that wasn't related to the battlefield, doing poorly in the lessons he'd taken with Casterly Rock's maester when he was younger. The maester, Volarik, had once described Jaime as 'barely literate' and suggested that he needed extra lessons; Tywin had him sent back to the Citadel and replaced by Maester Creylen. Many lords never learned their sums or how to read, of course, but that left them open tricky from all sorts and Tywin wouldn't have that happen with his heir.
Then there was the Imp. The drunken hedonistic little beast that had taken his beloved Joanna from him. If he'd never been born than she'd still be alive, alive to instruct Cersei in matters of courtly strength and keep foolish ideas like joining the Kingsguard out of Jaime's head. She'd be alive to give him counsel and guidance like only she ever could.
But no, she was gone and he was stuck with the vile misshapen creature that killed her.
The worst part was Tyrion was by far the most competent of Tywin's three children.
Perhaps he truly was cursed.
"I am always curious about impressive individuals who cross my path. You must admit that this young man has himself an interesting story, disappearing from his home only to return years later with a fortune and name of his very own. He's won the king's favor and your's too, it would seem. I'd just like to know more about him, his character, his abilities, and his standing where he lives."
In all honesty, the boy's character was worth far less than his assets, but Jaime rarely understood such things.
Jaime looked unsure for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other, before eventually nodding. "Jon is an exceptional young man, one of the finest swordsmen I've ever seen and a good head on his shoulders. I know he's apparently held in high regard back in that place he was living-"
"Skyrim, it is on the continent of Tamriel," Tywin impatiently corrected his son.
"Yes, yes, that place. I know that he holds a noble title or two there and has connections with the East Empire Company; they-"
"Trade in exotic goods, I know. They occasionally do business in Braavos; I've reached out to them a few times, trying to bring them into Lannisport. They've always denied me."
Jaime frowned, "Really? That is odd; I overheard that Jon arranged for them to include White Harbor in some of their routes."
That was...interesting. "Oh, I'm sure Lord Manderly is enthusiastic about such an arrangement. He'll be the envy of all the port cities in the kingdom."
There was inevitable bitterness that seeped into the Old Lion voice but Jaime didn't seem to notice, only a brief shrug. "I like Jon; he… he reminds me of his uncle, of Ser Arthur."
Tywin fought the urge to roll his eyes; even after this time traces of foolish idolatry towards dead knights still danced in his son's head. Such delusions were strong enough that Jaime'd bought into the tale that Ned Stark's bastard was born of Ashara Dayne's womb. Perhaps he shouldn't blame his son for that, Jaime was hardly the only one to do so; it was a pretty tale and even Tywin had given it more than one moment of consideration. He'd eventually discarded it however, the timeline was full of far too many inconsistencies. That left the mystery who exactly Snow's mother was but while why Tywin had no fondness for mysteries this was one he ultimately discarded as irrelevant.
'I may have been too hasty in that assessment,' the Lion of Lannister admitted to himself. "Do you believe he'd be a suitable husband?"
"...to who?"
Jaime's confusion was palpable, eyebrows threaded together, and mixed with a touch of wariness.
Tywin was tired of being questioned.
"Your cousin, Joy, is of age to be married and it is my responsibility to find her a suitable match. Her status limits her options, however, even with a more than generous dowry behind her; I'd planned to wed her off to a high ranking guard or into a loyal family, but I believe this Jon Whitewolf might be a better option," he explained, folding his hands behind his back and looking into the Red Keep's godswood where Snow was entertaining his enormous pet wolf.
"I think Jon would be a wonderful husband to little Joy," Jaime smiled then, looking more like the boy who'd first joined the Kingsguard all those years ago, still naive enough to believe in the order and to not realize he was nothing more than a hostage in pretty armor. His smile dropped though, "but how do you even know he'd want her for a bride anyway?"
"Why wouldn't he? Your cousin has a sizeable dowry, has connections to a powerful family, and has been educated in all matters of wifely duties. She is as perfect of a wife as Whitewolf could imagine. He may also feel a sense of comradery with her due to their shared status and want to free her from the shacks of her name."
More importantly, Joy was beautiful.
Young men rarely cared about more than that.
The Old Lion would call this opportunity that had fallen into his lap an amazing stroke of luck if he believed in such things. Tywin finally had the opportunity to be rid of the acknowledged bastard niece he was forced to care for and support. It was all because that fool Gerion broke tradition and acknowledge the product of one of his blow-bys and now that he was… that he was gone, the responsibility fell on Tywin. True, he didn't have to support her but having anyone, even a little bastard girl, with ties to Casterly Rock out there and out of Tywin's control was unacceptable.
The marriage would also provide something Tywin wanted for a long time, a potential foothold in Winterfell. As it stands, there were only five male Starks -one of them a member of the Night's Watch at that- and two females. Also, there were no close, paternal cousins that may provide a potential backup heir if anything were to ever...happen to the ruling Starks. Should the worse occur than the son of a known and acknowledged bastard would not be an unlikely candidate for the lordship of the north. Especially since said bastard has the favor of the king.
Now there was also the possibility of new and exotic trade goods that Snow's connections could bring in… Something to fill up the hungry stomach of Casterly Rock with the gold and riches it was yearning for.
Jaime gave a nod, "That is true, but I also know he'll be leaving Westeros soon. Is there even time to bring Joy from home for a wedding?"
"If Whitewolf decided to take her back to Skyrim with her than so be it, perhaps she'd even be happier there. Don't concern yourself with such things, just go talk to him," Tywin commanded sternly, nodding towards Snow's back.
Jaime shifted on his feet for a moment, still looking uncertain, before finally obeying and walking off. Tywin watched him go, everything was coming together nicely.
Jaime Lannister I
(After speaking with Jon in the Godswood)
'Would it really have been such so difficult of the gods, if they exist at all, to see that my family wasn't at one another's throat for one damned day?'
"-then that withered old bastard dared to blame me for that ugly little gargoyle not knowing what is good for her! She should have jumped at the chance to marry into our family, with a face like that Lancel is better than she'll ever get elsewhere! But no, she insults me by brushing him off and I get blamed for it! Can you believe that, Jaime? Jaime, are you listening to me?"
"Huh? What?" Jaime snapped out of his stupor. 'Is it my turn to speak?'
His sister paused her furious pacing and turned her burning emerald glare onto him, "So now you're ignoring me too? You're just like every other man, just like Robert and Father!"
The comparison left a nasty taste in his mouth and Jaime fought the urge to frown. 'She didn't mean that; she is just upset and overwhelmed.'
Cersei was constantly under immense pressure and Jaime was the only one she trusted to vent to; he should be honored -should be happy- that she loved him enough to be honest and at ease around him. Listening was the least he could do.
He took her hand and brought it up to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it and relishing in the feeling of her soft skin against his lips. "Apologies, my love, I was...distracted, yes, but I was listening. It was not fair of Father to blame you but it also doesn't seem like all of the faults can be put on the little lady Baratheon. It's not as if she's free to choose her own betrothed, correct? It's up to her mother and Seaworth, not her."
Cersei scoffed, tugging her hand free and pouring herself another glass of wine. "The little beast finds herself head of her own house and yet she still can't even choose her husband? How pathetic. I wager she never even brought it up to her guardian, no matter what she told me."
She downed half the goblet in one long swallow, seemingly finally at the end of her rant. Calmer now, she turned to him and furrowed her brow, "You've been distracted quite often recently. Are you still think of that Snow boy? I swear, Jaime, if I didn't know better than I'd think you want to take him to bed!"
"No," he shook his head. "I wasn't thinking about Jon."
Well, not just about Jon, at least. Jaime had been thinking Jon and about his father's plans for him. Did Jon accept the proposal? He hoped so.
'Jon would be a good husband for Joy, kind and wealthy and strong and smart; he is exactly the kind of husband Uncle Gerion would have wanted for her.'
"I was thinking about the boys, Tommen and Joff-"
"Joffrey!" Cersei exclaimed, cutting him off as her lovely face reddened with anger once more. "You won't believe what Father threatened to do to Joff! He threatened to 'remove' him! He threatened my son! Claimed I couldn't control him! It's hardly my fault some sluts got what was coming to them, mine or Joffrey's!"
"What are you talking about, Cersei? What has Joffrey done now?" Jaime asked, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. Did he really want to know?
"Nothing!" his sister snapped, seemingly enraged by the implication that her 'precious son' could do any wrong. "There was just an...incident a few months ago; two serving girls seduced Joffrey and he… he got a bit too enthusiastic with them. It was just an accident!"
Jaime felt his blood run cold, "He- he killed them? By the gods, Cersei! Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it didn't matter!" Cersei hissed back. "They didn't matter, not compare to my son! Not compared to our son!"
His mouth fell open and Jaime tried to form his disgusted thoughts into words before wisely shutting his mouth. No, he couldn't say that here. Instead, he forced a smile and pulled the queen into his arms, "You're right, Love. I understand."
He understood what must be done.
Jaime had never allowed himself to be a father to Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen, never even allowed himself to be their uncle really. He couldn't, less someone suspect dangerous secrets. But he'd watched them, watched and hope they'd be good and healthy and safe.
He'd seen what incest could create, after all.
Tommen and Myrcella grew into normal children, beautiful and sweet, but Joffrey? Jaime knew something was wrong with him since he was barely able to toddle, He hadn't even been able to form full sentences and yet still seemed to take great delight in hurting his nannies, either by biting and scratching their faces and arms deep enough to draw blood or yanking handfuls of their hair out. Years passed since then and with each passing one, Jaime wished more and more that it was Rhaegar who'd emerged victorious.
A second Mad King could not be allowed. Jaime wouldn't allow his greatest deed to be undone by his own seed.
"I've got to go," he mumbled into Cersei's neck, planting a kiss on her cheek. "Selmy will geld me if I'm late to another meeting."
"I can't have that," Cersei nodded, running her fingers through his hair before pulling away. "So many gray hairs...you're getting old, Jaime."
His hand moved to his head instinctively, "Well, it happens to all of us."
The queen just hummed and poured herself another glass of wine, "If you see Cousin Lancel then send him to me, I have a task for him."
Tyrion Lannister I
(Day of the joust)
'The gods surely enjoy torturing me for their own amusement; was it not enough to be born a dwarf?'
Tyrion Lannister, the (official) heir to Casterly Rock, took a shaky breath, pushed himself up to his hands and knees, blinked river water out of his eyes, then thoroughly emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground before him. Once all the sick and river water was out of his body, the imp stumbled to his feet and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I'll forever be in your debt, Bronn; you saved my life and, more importantly, you saved my wine!"
With that Tyrion grabbed one of his wine bottles -the one that thoughtful young Jon Whitewolf had given him before they went their separate ways- and swished a bit of the burning liquid around in his mouth before spitting it out. His companion gave a chuckle from his seat of a boulder as pulled one of his boots off, upturning it to dump out the water and muck that filled it. "And we clearly know which one of those two things was more important, don't we?"
"Rarely have truer words ever been spoken," Tyrion smirked, tossing the bottle to Bronn who caught it easily and took a drink of his own.
"Ooh, that's got a good burn," he remarked, smacking his lips. Rocking back to his feet, the man glanced at the gray, cloudy sky. "We need need to get a move on; it's already midday and unless we hurry we'll be sleeping outside."
"Oh, we won't need to do that," Tyrion responded, slapping the coin purse still thankfully attached to his belt as he started gathering up the few scattered possessions that had gone into the river with them. Opening the satchel he always carried his favorite books in, he let out a breath of relief, he wrapped his tombs tightly and carefully in layers of oilcloth so even now they were mostly intact.
'Perhaps it's a good thing I didn't steal that book,' he thought with a smile. "I still have plenty of coin and there are many inns that dot the roads to King's Landing. We can just stay in one of them if it gets too late; I'll even pay, my treat."
"All those inns will be filled right up, what with the tourney going on,' Bronn snorted. "We'd be lucky to get a pile of hay in the barn with the horses at this point."
"In the barn?" Tyrion couldn't help but gasp. He was a big enough imp to admit he was spoiled little shit, even at Castle Black he'd been given comfortable enough accommodations. On the road, he'd always had guards, attendants, specially trained and fitted horses, and a luxurious tent.
'Now I have none of them though,' he admitted to himself, the severity of the situation fulling setting in. 'My guards and servants are dead, my horse has run off, and my tent ransacked and burned. I can't even count on my name; it may do more harm than good. All I have is a purse full of coin, my favorite books, a sellsword I like but am not foolish enough to trust yet...and my mind.'
He tacked on that last thought after a moment, shivering at a cold breeze that cut right through his wet clothing. 'I always have my mind. Jaime has his sword, Cersei has her beauty, and I have my mind. Sometimes I feel it is all I have.'
"We should start walking," he agreed solemnly, swinging the strap of the satchel over onto his shoulder. "I must tell my father about the attack on our people, about the deaths."
Bronn shrugged but picked up his own bag, "Will the Old Lion even care? He hates you and, from what I've heard, views his own people as expendable."
"Thank you for that reminder," Tyrion grumbled bitterly, unable to deny such a thing. "But you miss one important thing about my father, he's a prideful old man. The death of a few guards won't draw any tears and my own would probably move him to dance a gleeful jig, but someone attacking his own people? That will get him angry. If I am killed, it will be by his own orders."
"Lovely family you've got there," Bronn remarked before clicking his tongue. "Then again, I caved in my own father's face with a piece of firewood so who am I to judge?"
"We really are two peas in a pod," the imp japed before turning serious again. "The real question is, was the attack random or was it planned?"
Bronn hummed, "It is an awfully big coincidence that both the King's party and yours got attacked."
"How do you know about that?" Tyrion asked, eyes snapping to look up at the sellsword in surprised. He'd received a raven about the attack of course, along with instructions not to say anything about it except with the head of the Lannister guards he was traveling with. And he hadn't, burning the parchment after committing its contents to memory.
The taller man threw his head back and laughed, "All you rich folks are the same, always talking but never thinking about who might be listening. Everyone is listening, Imp, always."
"Oh," Tyrion said, the back of his neck prickling, "and what might they be hearing?"
The sellsword peered down with him with a sneaky glint in his bright blue eyes, "Wouldn't you like to know."
Then he turned away, tilting his head back and began to see a merry tune.
Enzo Vlast III
(After joust and before meeting Jon at the feast)
"I think this, Ser, might be what you are looking for."
The tall, weedy vendor presented Enzo with an elegant lariat necklace made from alternating bright blue and pink glass beads with a simple ivory charm of a crescent moon that would hang at its lowest point and strung together with thin yet durable leather cord. He took it in his hand to judge the length and weight; it went without saying that his nephew, Inzo's, soon-to-be bride, Jennenie T'ijem, was far smaller than him, but Enzo possessed a good eye for details and was quite certain it would suit her nicely.
Metal jewelry was not as popular with the denizens of Hammerfell as they were with those who live in cooler climates, the sun could cause it to heat up and scorch the skin. Glass and porcelain jewelry were more common. The necklace would also suit Jennenie's personal taste; she enjoyed colorful ornamentation yet disliked gaudy gemstones. Yes, Enzo was confident it would be an acceptable wedding gift.
"This will do nicely; what is the price?"
Enzo was expecting the man to attempt to haggle with him but, smartly, the vender just offered a rather reasonable-sounding price of seven silver stags. Impressed by both the qualities of the man's wares and his ability to know when to when not to test his luck, Enzo took the time to select several more pieces for different family members: matching sun pins for his mother and father, a necklace of red and yellow beads for Inzo's sister, Suria, an amber and pearl decorative hair comb for Sherya, the wife of his younger brother, Kalrick, and woven leather bracelets for their daughters, Eriley and Tenyina, who were nine and five respectively. He had other gifts planned for his Kalrick and Sherya's son, Karrsek, and Suria's young twins, Cyrden and Davinta. He also, of course, had a special gift planned for Inzo, the deed to a nice plot of land that came with pre-built cottage and plentiful well.
"Is there anything else I can help you, Ser?"
Enzo paused his packing up of all his purchases, thinking. "There is," he admitted. "You see, there is a man I need to find information on. Do you happen a good place to find such a thing?"
The vender scratched his cheek, "Information, eh? Now that is a valuable thing indeed, but what makes you think that I'd know where to find it?"
Enzo bit back a snort before reaching into his coin pouch and pulling out three gold coins. "You work in a business frequented by the rich and we both know the rich rarely watch their tongues in front of those they deem lesser."
He punctuated his point by sliding the three coins, neatly stacked on top of one another, across the counter.
With a dry laugh, the vendor scooped up the coins, "A man after my own heart, Ser. Who are you after information on?"
"He calls himself the Mountain."
The other man when stiff, his eyes widening, "A very brave man too, or perhaps a very foolish one. I'd avoid that matter if at all possible, Ser, should you value your life."
"I paid for your knowledge, not your opinion," Enzo responded coldly. "Do you know anything or not?"
The vendor gave a resigned shake of his head, "Not much myself, but my sister, Rosalynd, works at the Wench's Hall; it is a tavern popular with guards and travelers, all of whom love gossip, especially after they've had their rum and ale. She'll know something."
Now they were getting somewhere. "How do I get to this tavern?"
The other man jerked his head to the left, "It is about five streets over that way, but it'd probably be easier if you just grabbed one of the carts at the bottom of the street. Not sure how many will be there with the rain going but if you manage to grab one they'll take you right there. My sister, she'll be the one with the orange hair and the birthmark on her right cheek."
Enzo nodded and pulled another three silver coins, sliding them to the vender. "Thank you for your assistance; I am glad we could do business."
As far as taverns went, Enzo had seen worse; the roof didn't leak, there were twin roaring fires on either wall, the floor was relatively clean, and there was no one in a corner losing the contents of their meal into a mop bucket. The air did stink of something not too dissimilar to a wet dog but that was more likely due to the tavern's patrons than any fault of the establishment itself.
He folded his bear fur cloak over one arm, rainwater dripping to the ground, and slid past a slight, bald man with a beak of a nose to claim a seat at the bar closest to where the red-headed server was pouring drinks. "You must be Rosalynd."
The woman looked started upon hearing her name, peering at him with equal parts curiosity and wariness. "You know my name but I don't know yours and I doubt I'd forget someone like you."
"We have never met."
A spark of anger flashed in the woman's pale blue eyes, "Was it Arlen who sent you? Did he tell you that I'd just lift my skirts right up? Well, let me tell you, the last man to try that got my knife right up his-"
"Your brother sent me," Enzo cut her off.
Rosalynd's eyebrows shot right up, "Tarver? What about?"
"He said that you might be able to help with a…project I am working on." Enzo leaned forward, unfurling his gloved hand so the half-dozen silver and gold coins just barely flashed in the flickering light. That got her attention. "I want information, your brother said you would be a good source of it."
Rosalynd's lips quirked into a smile, dark red birthmark pulling taut across her cheek, "He's right about that; I've been forced to listen to enough drunken boasting that I could tell you more secrets than any Master of Whispers ever could. What do you want to know?"
Enzo leaned in so they wouldn't be overheard, "Tell me about the Mountain."
The name sent the woman all but reeling back, "I can tell that you should stay as far as possible from that horrid creature."
"That is not going to happen," Enzo shook his head.
Rosalynd gave an angry growl, "I can tell you that he is a monster, an absolute beast and that he deserves to die for all he's done! All the rapes and murders and all the misery…. There isn't a soul in this kingdom that would weep if he were to meet the worst end known to mankind, I can tell you that!"
"That seems to be what everyone says, can you tell me anything else?" Enzo implored.
The woman bit her lip, brow furrowed in thought. "Well," she said slowly, "I've heard that he spends an awfully lot of his blood money at apothecaries buy up Milk of the Poppy; I've heard he apparently buys it by the jugful to treat headaches. Does that help?"
Enzo gave a low hum, "I believe I can work with that, thank you. For your troubles."
He pressed the coins into Rosalynd's palm and rose to his feet, giving her a find nod of thanks. Things were finally starting to look up.
Varys I
(After the joust but before the feast)
It took a strong man to admit when they had made a mistake and, after all these years, Varys was willing to concede that he had handled certain issues of the past...poorly.
Having Aerys' ear put him in an invaluable position, one that was threatened by Rhaegar. The Silver Prince trusted the words of few and to say Varys was not among them would be an understatement; when the direct approach hadn't worked he tried to slither his way into the prince's mind through others, but Rhaegar's inner circle was both tight-knit and tight-lipped. So when he made no progress with the older son and the younger son was too much of an unknown, Vayrs was left to make do with the father and, as he'd done many times before, whispered the right words into the King's ear, words about familial treachery and betrayal.
It wasn't all lies, of course. Rhaegar certainly was planning on overthrowing his father; there was no possible way Lord Walter Whent could have afforded to host such a grand tourney without help. In many ways, Varys actually was quite impressed by the young prince -quiet and solemn yet sharper than the sword he carried- but he couldn't allow such schemes to fester unimpeded. It was not easy to convince the ever paranoid King Scab to leave the Red Keep and travel to Harrenhal, but he'd done it.
Then, as things often do, they fell to pieces due to passion and lust; even the serious, dutiful, and intelligent Silver Prince had fallen for a pretty face and lost his level-head to his lesser desires. The realm burned and people bled, suffering crept into the hearts of many.
And Varys helped it.
'Sacrifices are often necessary,' he admitted to himself, trying not to remember the blood-soaked cloth that covered the body of a once-living little girl with dark hair and a warm smile who loved nothing more than playing with her kitten. 'But I miscalculated then and am now left to deal with what remains.'
Robert was a fat, fool of a king -spending and whoring without thought of the future- but Varys could deal with that easily enough. He could deal with an inattentive king, preferred it to a certain degree, and he could deal with the Lions and the Roses who stalked and crept. It helped that Lord Arryn, a reliable man if there ever was one, was there to reign in Robert's most outlandish exploits. But the Hand of the King would not last for much longer and the realm would lose a major sense of stability once that happened.
Then there was the issue of heirs...or rather, the lack of a solid one.
Joffrey would never do; he was violent and boorish with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. He'd need to be disposed of as soon as possible. Tommen was a likable enough lad without a cruel bone in his body and naive enough that he could be easily manipulated, but his meek disposition would be ill-suited for leadership. The girl was the best of the lot with a solid head on her shoulders, a pleasing personality, and enough personal strength to match her pretty face. Unfortunately, the realm would never accept a little girl as their ruler.
And all of those issues were without the problem of being bastards born of incest and fathered by Jaime Lannister.
Stannis could have made a dutiful king but he died before his time, leaving only a daughter behind. Shy little Shireen Baratheon was smart and unquestionably her father's daughter, but the fact that she was a daughter would always be trouble. There was also the terrifying possibility that the greyscale on her face could reawaken; it was a rare occurrence, but did happen and if it were to happen in the middle of a city as crowded as King's Landing? Absolute chaos.
Renly Baratheon was a vapid child but could be charming enough to the general populous even if it was unlikely that he could be trusted to handle the throne with any more decorum than his elder brother. However, his personal proclivities also could create a problem; there were some men who, despite preferring the company of other men, were able to produce an heir. That being said, Varys wasn't going risk backing someone who could create the same situation in a decade or two and, even if there was a diamond in the rough among Robert's gaggle of bastards, it was doubtful there would be time for Varys to polish it up enough to be an acceptable heir.
Not that Varys had much interest in continuing to support the current regime anyway, but even the decision of who to replace them with was a vexing one.
The untimely death of Illyrio and sweet Serra's son -he allowed himself a moment to mourn the loss of both and lament the pain of his dear friend- also marked the death of his and Illyrio's original plan. But, alas, the dice always fall where they may and, in the end, there was always the spares.
Viserys was dead now, killed by his horse-lord good-brother, and that was no real loss; all the reports show that the boy was ill-tempered and entitled, too much like his father and too much like Westeros' current heir apparent. The girl, on the other hand, possessed...potential. She'd proven surprisingly resilient, ferociously compassionate to the beaten and downtrodden, and capable of swaying the loyalty of others -including one of his most valued spies; Varys' would be lying if he claimed that he wasn't slightly bitter- to bring them to her side. If the other rumors, the ones he worked hard to stop from reaching the ears of the king, proved to be true… Well, they'd cross that bridge when they came to it.
'Would she listen though?'
That was the burning question. The desire to protect the weak and change the world for the better was admirable...but often foolish, especially if it wasn't properly tempered with reasoning and caution, and the ability to crush one's enemies was impressive...but often unsustainable -the Dornish had proven that to the Targaryens- and needed to be balanced with measured words and careful diplomacy.
Simply put, Varys didn't know enough of the girl to trust she could accomplish such things. Danaerys was too much of an unknown, both to himself and to Westeros.
That left…
'The boy,' he considered carefully as he peered in on the young man's conversation with Lord Renly and Ser Loras, 'may suit my needs nicely.'
It did not take him long to put together the truth behind the parentage of 'Jon Snow' and, honestly, it was surprising others hadn't done the same; he may not have as many spies in Winterfell and the whole of the North as he'd like but it was only logical, after all. Rhaegar got a babe on Lyanna then she died birthing and Eddard Stark claimed the child as his own to protect it from Robert's rage at all Targaryens, even newborn bastard one. Varys had considered having the child collected and moved elsewhere to be used at a later date, but ultimately decided to leave it be in Winterfell and simply keep an eye on it.
He was pleased to hear that, as the years passed, the boy displayed no signs of madness and was instead simply a quiet, solemn boy with a talent for swordplay. Intelligent enough and beloved by the majority of his siblings, Jon could have easily been a valuable asset at some point.
Then he disappeared, leaving not a trace behind; Varys had spent a not inconsiderable amount of time and money trying to uncover his location or, at least, what became of him, even asking Illyrio to check the free cities. Yet, despite this, his search turned up nothing, which was both disappointing and extremely frustrating. It was a point of pride to the Spider that his network was able to track down just about anyone and even dead men leave a trail but it truly seemed as if the last living child of Rhaegar Targaryen simply vanished into thin air.
But now, five years later, the bastard once known as Jon Snow was back and a boy no longer, but rather a man with his own name and own reputation.
'And the timing could not be more perfect,' Varys mused.
Robert would not be alive much longer, that was certain. Perhaps the events surrounding his eventual demise were unclear -Would his heart finally give out? Would his liver turn against him? Would he take a drunken tumble down the stairs? Would a scorned woman slip a bit of poison into his drink?- but the Masters of Whispers knew the King's reign would be coming to an end soon.
The unrest such a thing caused would allow for the perfect opportunity to unveil the truth of the royal children and the existence of Rhaegar's lost heir. It would cause a touch of civil unrest, yes, and the Lannisters wouldn't take such a thing lying down, nor would the remaining Baratheons, but Varys also knew some would rally behind the boy.
Obviously, the Starks would support Jon's claim, especially once Robert was gone; Ned Stark's loyalty was to his friend, after all, not the Lannister children who would succeed him. Houses that were Targaryen loyalists, such as House Velaryon, would also be likely cast in their numbers. While the Tullys had no love for the boy, Robb Stark did; the Heir to Winterfell's fondness for his perceived bastard half-brother was well-known. That connection, along with Hoster Tully's own personal ambitions, could easily be leveraged. Then there were the Martells and that was tricky; they hated the Lannisters and Baratheons with enough passion to side with anyone who opposed them but that their potential future king was the son of Lyanna Stark would sour them. More concessions would have to be to sweeten the deal for the rulers of Dorne to ensure their assistance.
Their enemies would be the Lannisters above all, with the remaining true Baratheons as a secondary concern; the best course of action would be to play the two powers off of one another. The Baratheons weren't likely to appreciate the queen attempting to pass off her bastards as true-born stags, after all. The more time and resources they spent fighting one another was time and resources they couldn't spend fighting Varys' plan. The Lannisters had the support of the Westerlands Houses, of course, but there was also the possibility of them hiring a sellsword army to bolster their numbers; if they could afford to pay them, that is.
Houses Arryn and Tyrell were uncertainties. If Lord Arryn were to outlive Robert, which Varys highly doubted despite his best efforts, then he could be counted on to support the Starks as he did in the past. But if he died before… Well, that would leave the sickly, young Robin Arryn as the ruler of the Vale and his mother, Lysa Arryn, as his regent. Lysa Arryn was the current Lady Stark's sister, but she was also, at best, unstable and overly-possessive of her son and, at worse, a killer in her own right. As for the Tyrells, they were opportunists and if a shiny enough reward was dangled in front of them they could be manipulated.
Then there were the Greyjoys but Varys didn't care to give them much thought at the moment.
'But how to tie the boy back to Westeros?'
Marriage was the best answer; a marriage to either Arianne Martell or Margaery Tyrell would serve both to tie Jon back to Westeros and satisfy both families' desire for leverage in the new royal family. Such a plan had its dangers and this 'betrothed' of his was a potential hindrance, but occasionally risks must be taken and obstacles could always be removed at a later date.
Obstacles like-
"Ah, Lord Spider, perhaps you can assist me in an important matter."
Jon's strange companion had proven himself to be an interesting dichotomy; he spoke with impeccable politeness to nearly all he came across and yet was also completely irreverent towards all those in power. This left him as someone the servants liked and were willing to help but who the intimidated nobles left alone. Enzo Vlast was clearly not a man to be taken lightly and wanted all those around him to know it.
But he was also a man who could be incredibly useful and Varys was hardly going to let that opportunity pass him by.
"Ser Vlast, how lovely to see you; I hope you've been finding King's Landing pleasant. How may I be of assistance?" he inquired with a nod of his head and a welcoming smile.
"Jon's… oh, what do you call it here? Ah, nameday! Yes, his nameday is coming up and in all of the recent excitement, I have yet to get him a gift. I wish him something special, something unique, and I have reason to believe you can point me in the right direction." The man's voice was pleasant and his posture was relaxed, but he gave away nothing that he didn't want to be known.
That being said, he did give Varys something to work with. 'The right gift given at the right time could go a long way in winning the boy's trust.'
"I'm flattered, Ser, and if you are in the market for something truly special then you should investigate Tobho Mott's shop at the Street of Steel; he does fantastic work."
That got him a smile, nod, and thanks before the giant of a man vanished down a corridor, leaving Varys to head off in an opposite direction. He had work to do, starting with getting documents signifying Jon's legitimacy drawn up and strategically placed in the Citadel.
'So much to do and so little time.'
Jon Arryn I
(After the joust but before the feast)
'All these years I've lived and I still need more time, just enough to set things right.'
Heavy was the mind of the Hand of the King as he sat in his solar; most would never know what it was like to have the fate of millions and the future of a nation resting on their shoulders and Jon Arryn envied them. He was an old man, he should be spending his final days in his home surrounded by loving grown children and sweet little grandchildren without a care in the world, content in the knowledge that his legacy would live long and proud.
But, alas, that was not the hand the gods saw fit to gift him with.
Instead, he was far from home where his wife kept his sickly only child locked away from the rest of the work while he was here in King's Landing contemplating on what he should do about the heir to the throne of Westeros being not only mad, but a bastard born of incest.
He'd spent months mulling this dilemma over ever since Stannis had brought the matter to his attention, dozens of sleepless nights spent tossing and turning as he considered every action and the many possible consequences that could follow them. Something needed to be done, surely, and his honor, his duty, and his love for Robert urged him to bring the matter to light so it could be set straight. It simply wasn't right.
And yet…
So many had died during Robert's Rebellion.
So many innocent people, smallfolk who had nothing to deal with the squabbles and bitterness or lords and ladies. Not that nobles didn't suffer in their own way, dying in battle or forced to send away their children to foster. It seemed like it was only recently that the kingdom finally recovered so could Jon, in good conscience, subject them to another war?
On the other hand…
Joffrey was a monster, a monster who couldn't be allowed to sit on the throne. Jon Arryn knew evil well, he'd seen it in Aerys, seen it in war, and now he saw it in the crown prince's eyes when he berated a servant or tormented his siblings or kicked one of the King's hunting hounds. For as handsome as the boy may look on the outside, his inside was nothing but poison and hatred.
And that was to say nothing of the corpses of dismembered animals -cats, rabbits, birds, rodents- often found in the godswood and the two young maids who'd disappeared. The rumor was that they'd both run off with secret lovers that their families' did not approve off, but Jon highly doubted that. Three weeks ago, two female bodies were pulled out of the bay down near the dock; the pair had been dumped in the water but not after having their hair shaved and faces mutilated to the point of being unidentifiable. There was no way to prove it, of course, but Jon suspected he knew the names of those two women.
But still…the fall out of revealing the truth of the royal children's parentage would be massive and chaotic; Robert's anger would rage with the fury of a thousand summer storms and at least some of the anger would fall on the children themselves. Joffrey may be a monster but Tommen and Myrcella were completely innocent, they didn't deserve to be punished because of their parents' sins. And, realistically, even if Joffrey did come into power, how long would it possibly last? A decade, maybe two? Hated kings rarely lasted long and if he died without issue than sweet Tommen would be crowned and peace would return.
'But what if he does have a child?' the horrible thought crept into the Lord of the Eyrie's mind. 'What if he has a son who grows to be as bad as he is? What if the son grows to be even worse? What about the things he'll do to the child's mother? Can you stand by allowing that to happen again?'
No. No, he wouldn't allow such a thing to come to pass. Joffrey couldn't be allowed to take the throne. Jon knew it and so had Stannis; Stannis had known it first and now he was dead, dead from what Maester Pycelle had declared an 'infection of the intestine'.
'Please let that be the case,' Jon thought as he rubbed his own stomach; he'd been feeling better for the past few weeks and even dared to hope his suspicions were incorrect...only for his symptoms to return in full-force two days ago. 'Please let me not have gotten Stannis killed.'
As heavy sheets of rain pelted and washed over the windows of his tower, he leaned further over the book he'd been studying. He needed to find proof of his claims before he brought them forward, needed to find a way to protect Robert, to protect Ned and his brood, and hopefully keep the kingdom from plunging back into an all-out war.
'There is still time,' he attempted to reassure himself before his stomach lurched, sending him into a vicious coughing fit; Jon doubled over the table, hands covering his mouth, and when the fit finally ended, he pulled his from his mouth he could only stare grimly at the bright red drops that covered them.
'But how much?'
Thoros of Myr I
(Night of the feast)
"What do you see in the flames, Thoros?"
Thoros tore his eyes from the flames where images of ice and death and fire and sacrifice did a deadly dance and turned them to were his dearest friend stood with a flagon in each hand. Berric flashed his now usual tired smile as he passed Thoros one of the drinks before taking a seat next to him on the bench that was positioned in front of the tavern's main fireplace. He took a deep swallow of his own ale, "Something is coming, Berric; I see fire and ice and death. I've seen a naked woman being devoured and pulled apart by giant rats. I've seen a silver horse galloping through a grassy field, fire trailing behind it. Then there is the boy, I see him too; I see him in the center of it all."
"What boy?" Berric asked, firelight flickering in his one blue eye.
"The one who defeated me in the melee."
Berric gave a dry chuckle that turned into a cough which was smothered by a drink of ale he'd gotten to wet his throat more than anything else. Thoros watched and bit back the guilt that filled him, had he truly done the right thing bringing his friend back from the grave? "Oh, him! The lad was impressive, no doubt about that, but why would you be having visions of him?"
Thoros had an inkling as to why he was seeing the boy but such a thing would be dangerous to voice out loud, even in a noisy tavern almost exclusively filled with his brothers-in-arms. He turned back to the fire, "In some of my visions I see him standing atop a mountain, he opens his mouth to scream only for a great gray dragon to burst his mouth and light the world around him ablaze."
A silence passed between the pair of friend them, a silence like the grave, and it seemed as if even the yelling of the tavern's other patrons went quiet. Berric let out a low, shaky breath, "The dragons are all gone from Westeros."
"They were," Thoros agreed, with a nod, "but perhaps that is no longer the case."
Berric gave him a serious look, "Do you seriously think-"
"The boy didn't burn, Berric," the Red Priest cut in. "The fire of my sword caught on his sleeve and yet, when I was able to smother it, the skin was only pinkened."
"It is only a myth that Targaryens cannot be killed by fire," his friend quietly scoffed.
"I know that!" he hissed back. "I'm merely telling you what I know and I know that boy is important. We'll need him for what is to come!"
"And what exactly is it that is coming?" Berric asked, somber yet again.
Thoros peered deep into the flames, begging them to give him any other answer.
"Death. Death is coming for us all."
Robb II
(Back in the North)
"Fucking hells!"
There were no true words to describe the horror Robb felt as he took in the burning landscape and the disgust the coiled in his stomach when he inhaled the stench of woodsmoke and burnt flesh was strong enough that the icy wind couldn't blow it away and the salt of the sea couldn't blot it out but Torrhen Karstark summed up his feelings well enough.
"Who could do this?" Eddard Karstark wondered aloud, running his palm along the burnt remains of what was once someone's family home. "Why do this? There was nothing of value here, why take the time to...to do this?"
"Since when do animals need a reason?" Theon snarked back, looking to the outside eye like he couldn't care less about the horror that surrounded them but Robb, who knew Theon better than anyone else in the world, could see his attempt to cover his own discomfort.
'This' was the remains of what had once been a small fishing settlement of about eighty people and located about three days ride south of White Harbor. Tucked neatly into the rocky shores and below a series of hills that protected them from the worst of the cold northern winds while also being far enough back amongst trees to it was not immediately visible to the naked eye, the village would have been a peaceful place not but a few days ago; it would have been a simple place, home to simple people living their simple lives.
Not anymore though, now it was nothing but a remembrance of pain and terror.
"Watch your tongue, Greyjoy! In the North, we respect our dead, not that I'd expect a filthy-"
"This is not the time for fighting one another, Smalljon," Robb snapped, causing the giant of a man to fall silent even as he continued to glare at Theon. Greywind gave a small snarl from where he was pressed into Robb's side to emphasis his point. "Everyone, gather up the bodies and see… See if you can find any clue to who is responsible for such an atrocity!"
"A raid, if I had to guess," one of his future good-brothers remarked. "If we don't waste time than we might be able to catch up with the bandits, probably headed south."
"We can't just leave these people to rot or be scavenged by animals! These are my people, Karstark! My responsibility!" roared Wylis Mandery, tears streaking down his face as he clutched the small, frail body of a newborn babe in his arms. Robb couldn't see any injuries on it and hope the cold took the babe in its sleep; cold, at least, killed soft and quiet.
Torrhen looked abashed, "Of course not, Ser Wylis; I meant no offense, just that-"
"We don't have time to bury all the bodies individually," Robb decided and, before Ser Wylis could argue, he continued, "so we'll burn them; we'll gather up some wood and create one giant pyre in the village square so we don't have to worry about the fire spreading. Then-" he looked Ser Wylis dead in the eye- "we'll track down the beasts who did this and make them pay. Your people will be avenged, Ser Wylis, I swear to you on my honor as a Stark."
The Manderly heir said nothing for a moment, instead glancing back down at the dead babe in his arms and holding it tighter before turning his eyes back to Robb and giving him a stiff nod. "Agreed," he said tightly.
So the small party went to work collecting the wood that would have been stored for winter, stacking it in the village center, and then gathering up the bodies, wrapping them in linens, and arranging them on the pyre. Unspokeningly, they all attempted to keep those who seemed to be part of the same family together; Ser Wylis arranging the little babe in the arms of the only woman who'd been found near his crib, sniffling as he did so. It was heavy work and no one spoke as the sun died overhead.
'I don't want to sleep here tonight, but we may have to,' Robb thought morbidity as he wrapped up the body of a young woman, maybe a year or two younger than him, in a dirty blanket. She'd had her throat slit open, as was her belly, and… He owed her some modesty in her death, at least. He tucked her arms to her chest and noticed the dried blood under her fingernails, she fought back.
'Good girl,' he thought, covering her face with the cloth. 'I hope you managed to take out at least one of his eyes. When I find him, I'll finish the job.'
Once the young woman was fully wrapped up, Robb tried to rise to his feet only to stumble and fall to his knees. A wave of grief overtook him and the Heir of Winterfell found himself fighting back the urge to weep. Sensing his distress, Greywind padded closer, nuzzling Robb's face with a whine; Robb wrapped his arms around the direwolf's neck and buried his face into the fur their, trying to regain control of his breathing.
"How does father do this?" he hiccuped. "How does father expect me to do this?"
Greywind gave another sympathetic whine and allowed Robb to cuddle him like a child's stuffed toy for what seemed like a long while before he pulled away, walking to another part of the cabin and scratching at the ground.
Robb rose to his feet, rubbing his face and following his wolf. "What are you doing boy?"
He kneeled down, brushing the snow and debris away to uncover-
"A hatch?" he muttered to himself as he freed the brass handle from the dirt. After a mighty tug, the hatch swung open revealing a black pit; Robb lowered his lantern down into the darkness, expecting to see the usual contents of a root cellar. He shone the light around until- there, a part of boots attached to legs. Robb bit back a sigh as he dropped down into the small room so he could retrieve the body.
It was an older man, likely the young woman's father, with a broken nose and empty sockets where his eyes should have been. Robb's stomach turned at the sight and turned away, searching the small cellar for any sort of tarp or blanket to wrap the man up in.
It was quiet, it was dark, and it was still.
Then something grabbed his wrist.
The scream Robb let out likely could have been heard in White Harbor.
"The Eye! The Eye!" the man gasped. "The Crow's Eye!"
He was still alive, Robb realized in disbelief. Just barely, but the man had managed to survive having his eyes gouged out and then managed not to freeze to death. He scrambled over to the trembling man, "Relax, relax! My name is Robb Stark and I'm going to get you help! You'll be alright but you need to relax!"
The man seemed not to hear him, instead viciously shaking his head. "The Crow's Eye!"
"Is...is that who did this to you?" Robb asked, trying to hold the man still.
The man's sightless head whipped around to face him, grabbing Robb but his doublet, he gave a frenzied nodded. "The Crow's Eye! He came! He came on a ship of black sails! He came! He came like death itself! My daughter, where is she? Enda! Enda, where are you? Enda-"
Whatever the man was trying to say died in his throat as, while Robb watched helplessly, he went limp and quiet as the grave.
Next Chapter: Serana reveals why she's in Westeros, Jon has a few things to answer for, the royal court is left a buzz by the new arrival, and someone learns a secret.
Notes:
1) Okay, so I know this isn't my best chapter but I'd like to go on record and say large parts of it were written when I had a 105-degree fever. So please be gentle.
2) We found out my mom will be having a boy, YAY! I'm so excited.