This story is a Sherlock AU, set in the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, imagined by George R. R. Martin. To enjoy this story, one does not need to have read his works or have watched the HBO television program.
Thank you to my dear friend who helped me edit and plot this idea. Your own writing inspires me, and working with you is always a joy.
K
. . .
"The one in the floral patterned silks – lilac and rose, hair and eyes of brown, unable to keep her fingers from weaving and unweaving – she's yours?"
"There's a hint of disappointment in your voice, dearest elder brother."
"Even from here, I can see her breath getting shorter after glancing at you. With longing, yes, but mostly fear."
"Mhmm."
"She doesn't have the stomach for even the simplest of jobs."
Wind whispered through the greenery of the stone garden. The Red Keep had the terrible tendency of carrying a sweltering heat before the waning of summer. Lord Mycroft Holmes modeled the effects of such temperatures with the clear sheen upon his brow and stains of sweat upon his doublet.
"She's far too frightened to speak of it to her mistress, still, that I am certain. When her use is depleted, I will be sure to replace her," Sherlock drawled in a bored manner. It seemed to be the only tone he could use for some time now.
In judging how close the royal train was at that moment and how fast they were traveling, both men had the good sense to stop in their stroll, as well as their conversation.
At the head was the Royal Highness herself, in all her cold, stern beauty. The wife of the late King Godfrey Norton, Irene held herself with the poise of a swan. Her raven hair matched the color of her gown, and its elaborate needlework matched the crimson of her lips. There was no doubting the hint of gloating in the glance she sent towards the brothers.
An all too familiar choler found its way into the pit of Sherlock's stomach. He regarded her with a respectful nod, but not without feeling a slight nudge against his arm.
Any other recipient would brush it off as an accident, but Mycroft was hardly one to do something unwittingly.
Two gold cloaks flanked her on either side. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Gregory Lestrade, trailed behind the Queen. For a man who had seen years upon years of the bloody battle field, he appeared ill at ease. That much was evident from the way he pinched at his cloak with his index finger and thumb.
Members of the small council followed behind him, including the master of the coin, the master of ships, the master of whispers (at whom Mycroft stared at coolly), the master of laws, and the Grand Maester. One of the two missing members could easily be located, departing in the opposite direction. He was a rather gangly man who had taught himself to walk and hold himself in the sharpest of manners. No matter if his position as master of the print was a rather unofficial one, Charles Magnussen remained highly respected. The blonde serving girl he constantly kept by his side joined him before the two exited the garden.
The most noticeable absence, however, was that of the Hand of the Queen. Lord Moriarty, who claimed the second highest position in the whole Seven Kingdoms, and his personal bodyguards were nowhere to be seen.
A small collection of handmaidens ended the train. They kept close together, whispering and twittering amongst themselves – save for Lord Hooper's eldest daughter, Margaret. In passing the Holmeses, she fixated her eyes upon the floor.
The sounds of muddled footsteps and the sweeping of fabric dimmed once the party took to a canopied walkway towards the Great Hall. The magnanimous oaken door only sighed as it was opened and shut. Then all was quiet once more.
"I wager she'll find you before we sup."
"And then you'll hear about it right after, won't you?" Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, agitatedly trying to shake a few strands of hair away from his eyes.
"Come now, we share a common goal. My little birds have always been yours as well."
The younger man did not need to hesitate. "You often feel unobligated to tell me of your own schemes. Why should I tell you mine?"
"Because, as you've just demonstrated, you have a touch of sentiment." Mycroft let out a good-natured chuckle, much to his brother's chagrin. "It bars your mind from higher thinking, making it more deadweight than anything. Because I work much more proficiently, I can use whatever latent arcanums you're gathering to their full potential. You do want to leave, don't you?"
Sherlock's lips drew into a straight line. The heavier man was developing an annoying penchant for speaking of the same matter, which stemmed from his fondness for the Capitol. Mycroft thrived off secrets, lived off of scandals; each whisper was a fly, and he, the Spider, gathered it all within his net to devour. He had never seen such a feast as the one presently before him, but the delicacies were softening his memories of injustice. Home was an idea that needed repeating, else the thing he coveted most of all would fade from his mind, supposedly.
Traitor, thought Sherlock, and not for the first time. Instead, he said, "The Watson knight should be arriving this evening."
"Life is full of ironies, don't you think? It's as if he's arriving to watch the festivities." Mycroft could translate for himself without difficulty, and responded, knowing precisely how his brother felt. "There's simply nothing like watching a family member be decapitated."
The silence that met that remark seemed to make the surrounding roses appear greyer.
Another breath of wind skated through the air. The world seemed to sigh in much needed relief, though the Spider did so literally.
At last, the younger Holmes muttered, "Lady Hooper will deliver her report to both of us if your little birds or whatnot visit Lady Watson in the dungeons." Some sacrifices were worth making.
"You think I'm not bright enough to send them there myself?"
"Yes, actually. I think your fat is delaying your mind's processing. You actually haven't sent any spies to question her yet, have you?"
Mycroft made to look wounded. "You have such little faith, dear, dear—"
Sherlock cut in with a sharp tongue. "Don't think I'm blind. You've been wasting your energies on Lord Magnussen who has nothing to do with this series of occurrences. While I'm sure you'd be revolted to hear that you share qualities that vile man, he's simply here to witness the bloodshed. Besides, he's too far away from the goings on there. He's been spending all of his time in the brothel behind Rhaenys's Hill." At that, he tossed a hand into the air.
"Hudson's, they call it, I believe. And how do you—"
"You can smell it on him. The stench of it all. He reeks of perfume and… bodily fluids," he near spat. "The constant changing of his clothes, it doesn't do much. The overwhelming scent of lavender combined—"
"Ah," Mycroft suddenly smirked, and oh how it tested Sherlock's patience. His brother was well aware, and he glowed in it. "That would be the maid he keeps. The blonde Braavosi girl. He feels no need to hide his personal affairs from anyone."
Both of them stopped at the edge of the garden.
"But then—"
"Why would he need to visit Hudson's then? What an excellent question. It's precisely what I've been asking myself." The Spider leisurely struck his hands into his pockets and began to depart towards the gates. "My little birds say he just disappears in there, you know. He enters and never leaves, only to show up in the Great Hall on the morrow. Of those I sent to search the foul place, none reported anything out of the ordinary, even after asking the old woman herself."
Sherlock remained where he was, willing himself not to be fascinated until his brother had left. His brow furrowed. "You've never spoken of this before."
"The last thing I want for us is to be found treasonous against Her Majesty, and, as I said, a slow mind increases those chances," he shrugged, rocking back upon his heels. "After the royals claim one's manhood, there becomes a lack of body parts to choose from. They have little choice but to remove one's head next. We can't have that."
Mycroft smiled that smile that made bile rise in Sherlock's throat. He turned, slowly, and pushed open the door. "'Ta for now. Rest assured that I will seize this opportunity and keep it under control."
And just as silently as he arrived, the man left.
. . .
J O H N
. . .
The door didn't simply slam open. It exploded and threw itself at the wall in a desperate attempt to escape the entering visitor. The noise could make a man jump out of his skin.
Unmistakable stomping soon followed, quickened by running and intensified by armor.
From that, it was clear to see he was a knight. Be that as it may, he was not one of a great house. The sigil upon his shield, with its three dogs upon a background of forest, would be unfamiliar to one without moneyed education. All the same, it belonged to the Watsons of the North – though, at that moment, the man was behaving in a manner unaccustomed to his people.
Tears streaked his weathered face, contorted in anguish.
He made no effort to hide this fact. Perhaps he was simply too preoccupied to care.
The room he entered was moldy and windowless, divided in two by a curtain. The only light came from the candles that were scattered upon empty shelves. Each wall was lined with a bookcase, neatly packed with books, which diminished the space further.
A petite woman spun around at the sound with the agility of a dancer, clearly prepared to yell at him. Then, after a moment, her hazel eyes sharpened.
"I – I need to talk to Lord Magnussen. Now. Please," he gritted out, between a clenched jaw. Ragged breaths sent tremors through his body.
After a pause, the blonde woman gestured to the curtain at the rear end of the chambers, speaking with a tongue unmistakably foreign, "He's right there, Ser Watson."
"Yes, er..." He followed her hand, only to lose himself for a brief moment. The salty taste of his own snot brought him back to reality, briskly wiping his nose with the heel of his palm. "Thank you."
If John could have slammed the curtain open, he would've. Instead, he elected to roughly push it aside and bring the piece of parchment to the table with a bang.
Each word sliced the air in separate, vehement strokes. "What is this?"
"Sorry?"
A man at a desk barely reacted to this visitor. He was a slender man with bits of grey within his goatee. His garments were of fine worth, no matter their simplicity, and the magnifying stone he held could guarantee that suspicion of wealth. There were lines upon his face that could suggest age, but a childlike glee in his eyes suggested otherwise. His mouth spread into a smile to match upon registering the man before him.
John blinked once. Twice. Three times before clumsily smoothing out the notice for him to read. "This– this tidbit, this thing, this – information disgracing my sister even in her death!"
Lord Magnussen never let his eyes stray from the knight's face until his hands ceased their unbounded movement.
Even after the torn sheet agreed to lie flat, John repeatedly thrust his forefinger at it, as if to puncture the document through its heart. "Can you not remember what you wrote of her?"
"Of course I can. It printed several hours ago." The man set aside the transparent stone and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. He spoke evenly, delicately, "I simply wrote as I was commanded by our Queen, dear fellow. Many of those words came from the verdict of the trial, spoken by the High Septon himself."
The Northerner waited.
"In that case, think of this—" Magnussen tapped the edge of the material, "as the word of the Gods."
After swallowing the lump developing in his throat, John managed, "She kept the old gods. They… they had no right."
"I'd tell you to take your complaints about the trial to the Great Sept, or even to the Queen herself, but as I'm sure you're well aware, not much can be done for your sister now."
The knight felt inclined to laugh in the great, bitter way madmen were ought to do. He was more aware of the fact than anyone else; Harriet was beyond his aid forever. Standing in this cramped, dry space, he could still remember leading his horse through the city, his hopes set on a nice bed and a warm meal. But before he could reach anything of the sort, he passed the nailed-up notice.
He would never be able to forget the rush of terror so raw and strangling that struck him moments after. Nor would he ever have the ability to un-see the image of a long empty square and blood on supposedly holy steps. Or the accompanying nausea and encompassing, frenzied anger.
He had to carry all of it. It would be his punishment for the rest of his life.
"Have you been ordered to produce more of these?" he asked, tongue as stiff and dry as sandpaper.
Magnussen's grin subdued into something that John could only describe as far more sadistic. "She wants the entirely of the Seven Kingdoms to know of this, I'm afraid. A ship is being sent to carry the word across Westeros."
John bit down on his lower lip, clenching his fists, and turning away. Knights were sworn to honor, and he could not forsake that with an outburst. That was why he chose to stand with his back facing the master of the print. Though, in truth, it didn't help much.
"Has it left already?"
"I understand that it has, yes. Again, this is a matter you should discuss with her Highness."
The knight was no simpleton. He was certain the Queen did this all deliberately, before he could arrive to intervene. He would find little success in whatever he did now or even after the sun rose. In fact, it would probably be a long while before he found success in anything he did.
John forced himself to meet the man's unsettling gaze. The tight reign he held over his own words was slipping.
"I won't let you bring this sort of shame upon my house—"
"What house, good Ser?" Magnussen quirked a brow as if he had asked a completely harmless question. "To my knowledge, you seem to be the last of your name, and that wife of yours didn't last very long, now did she? Not long enough to mother an heir?"
The corner of John's mouth twisted while under his leather gloves his knuckles turned white. Before he could retaliate, however, the man in the chair was promptly distracted.
"Maryae, dear, see that we have enough wine for the evening."
"Yes, my Lord," the woman's voice replied from the other side of the curtain.
Magnussen waited for a short while, obviously delighted by his guest's inability to say anything of value, before commanding, "And do come here a moment, please."
"Yes, my Lord."
No matter the fact of the curtain opening behind him, John grabbed the parchment from the desk and read with a weakening voice, "Queen Irene of House Adler, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, hereby wishes to send a warning to all those who… defy the laws of nature, the land, and the Seven."
He paused as the blonde woman stood and glanced between himself and Lord Magnussen. Her master soon slid his hand about her waist and pulled her in to sit on the arm of his chair. All the while, her expression remained void of any emotion.
"Those with the perverse minds of… of…" John cleared his throat, "It's unnecessary and crude and—" After spotting a new phrase on the piece, his face turned a few shades redder. "You can't compare her to a bloody murderer!"
"I'm only a messenger, Ser. Only a messenger," murmured Magnussen, who then proceeded to press several kisses up the maid's arm.
The knight tried his best to hold onto the wrath that brewed and bubbled inside of him, as if it could bring him to a satisfying resolution. That rage was dying, though. It was melting betwixt his fingers into grief, weakness, and despair, and those never won battles.
"But you go forth to attack her personally, as if this claim isn't enough already! Lady Harriet of House Watson, a woman of such… filth, had a long history of such disgusting sins against the Seven. She was f-found disrespecting and dishonoring the Crown by seducing a maid of the Queen's—"
John glanced up from the sheet, having seen the Lord raise his hand in his peripheral vision. Now staring directly at his audience, he could clearly see that Magnussen's other hand was inside the top of the woman'sloose-fitting dress.
She just blinked her wide, owlish eyes at the visitor.
The printmaster languidly lowered his other hand to rest upon her knee. "Forgive me for not stopping you sooner, but I couldn't help but notice your choice of words. You called my publication a mere claim, yes?" He let out a single, throaty laugh. "I assure you that it is all quite factual."
Before the completion of the sentence, the parchment drifted to the floor. John was already retreating, a new wave of repugnance in his gut.
He didn't bother with the curtain or the door this time.
. . .