The young prince's gazing eyes reflected that of his name, dark blue like the sky during a storm and a stare that could be as daunting to his peers as the thunder that accompanied it. The Silent Storm beheld the open fields of the North with pine hills and wild forests dotting the distant horizon, and glowed with a golden tint from the light of the rising sun. The previously gentle wind that caressed his skin and stiffened the hair on his neck was now a strong breeze up on the hill from which he studied the lands before him, sweeping against his crest of black hair. Thankfully, the thin fur coat proved enough for him in keeping the cold at bay from the rest of his body. The greatest feature the sight before him produced proved to be nothing other than the great grey castle walls of Winterfell itself, the ancestral seat of House Stark, erected in the heart of the North by Bran the Builder. Its imposing stature dwarfed its surroundings, the towers like spears piercing the sky, and his eyes spotted a settlement outside its walls, neat rows of log and stone houses littering the roadside. If he remembered correctly, that would be the Winter Town of Winterfell.
Lyonel Baratheon, son of Robert and Cersei Baratheon, shook his head curtly in mild annoyance and disappointment. Had it not been for the drunken oaf everyone calls my father, and King, we would have already been within Winterfell's walls. But it would be foolish to think it would be so easy and uneventful with Robert Baratheon, the Whoremonger King, as the royal party's head. Had it not been for the two flagons of wine that found their way into his great belly, they would have already been done with this godsforsaken journey across the kingdoms a night ago. And the poor beast that had been forced to bear Lyonel on its back for two months was now granted a rare opportunity of reprieve. He held the horse's reins, hands plucking grass which popped when uprooted, and held it up to the equine's mouth. Its hair was as black as coal. Young yet especially strong for its age was the steed, mirroring its rider.
In fact, it would not surprise him if the servants and noblemen and commons began spreading rumours of Lyonel possessing the strength of a great stallions. Most ignorant fools had already begun rumours of his strength matching that of The Mountain That Rides. His younger siblings found it amusing, and he would have, too, had he not despised idiocy. It only served to annoy him, and not once in his fifteen and a half years of life had it proved anything but. Despite this, not even he could deny his impressive strength, for he could already overpower most men. If he was not already as strong as The Mountain, a fact known to him, he would most certainly be so when he had finally grown into an adult, if not surpass him. His simple black tunic belted with leather hid a body that was of robust and muscular build, sinewy, with equal strength in his entire body. Copulation of the body excercises and his natural strength, inherited from paternal blood, was the root of such vitality at his age. Some would even mistake him to be older than his true age, simply based on his appearance. Though he suspected his height to also have factored into the wrong assumptions, despite being shorter than an adult.
Lyonel knew not what men and women considered attractive and handsome, but from what he gathered of ill-veiled whispers and glances he'd received in his wake, most women considered him to be handsome. His head was crowned by a black mane that reached the highest point of his neck, and was pointed by a widow's peak. He would have been mirror image of his father had his face not sported the Lannister cheekbones it does now, high and protruding, and a sharpness equal to his jawline. All features were accentuated by his hollow cheeks, further increasing his handsomeness. He assumed that was what women liked. The reason for his uncertainty and ignorance was simple. He was never interested in women. Or men for that matter. He was… cold to it. Uncaring. He simply couldn't care about anything sexual whatsoever. He was only curious as to how it was done, but after that… nothing.
His indifference ofttimes had him compared to his uncle Stannis. Not only for his callousness to sexuality, but also for his apparent humourless and stern outlook in life. And yet, in truth, he was not humourless, for even he japed at times to make his younger siblings laugh. Even if it was the only reason he ever japed. He rarely spoke, either, never heralding banter or casual talk if not with his loved ones. Almost never; for he found nearly everyone he has met either despicable or simply boring to the point where he does not consider a few words to be worth speaking. And seeing how he viewed most people, his words were as rare as the sight of a Kraken. Thus he earned his nickname, The Silent Storm, ironically reflecting his own namesake, Lyonel the Laughing Storm.
Regardless, it did not seem to diminish women's view of him. Or his handsomeness, at least. Their view of him however, the true Lyonel Baratheon, was a far cry from the former. They all thought him a heartless monster. And he couldn't blame them. They now knew how he viewed himself.
He could recall it like it was yesterday. It was the first time he killed someone. The age of three-and-ten, he was. He remembered everything in vivid detail. He'd snuck away from Maester Pycelle's lesson. Yet another drudging lecture on the Dance of Dragons. A story he had already heard from his uncle Tyrion, though his way telling the tale had been far more interesting. And so, he snuck away. He remembered paying some street urchin for dirty rags, to disguise himself as a coal boy. He had smeared soot all over his face and torso and arms. He was running down an alley, it was in… the Street of Silk. Yes, the alleyway two buildings west of Littlefinger's brothel. He even recalled jumping over a one-legged beggar who had tripped over an out-of-place cobblestone.
He enjoyed doing so, running through the streets, at times even climbing. It often involved him climbing past open windows of men and women gasping in surprise, interrupted from their coupling, their women's moans of pleasure turning to gasps and screams. He had learned to easily avoid thrown candles, and to his disgust, undergarment soiled by something he doubted was piss. At times, though, it was even just some poor woman startled while pouring out the water from a bucket used for her laundry.
Though this time, it was different. He knew it. He could feel it like a nagging voice in the back of his mind. He was being watched. Worse, followed. It had turned out to be a serial murderer and rapist, and as a response for having plagued the city ever since the Sack, he had amassed a bounty of one hundred gold dragons. Many a weeping women had been found wearing torn clothes, a knife mark on the skin of their throat, bites and claw marks upon their breasts and seed dripping down their thighs. The lucky ones were found with open throats. He found this out after he had dragged the ugly, portly man by his hair to the middle of the cobblestone street, and killed him in a most brutal fashion. He began smashing his face into the ground with abandon, yet methodically all the while. It was a disturbing, meticulous sight, the same curt length of pause between each smash. He had not stopped until after twenty five times, each for the man's victims. But he had not done it for them. He did it to show others never to provoke his ire, to attempt to take him away from his few loved ones. By the end of his rage-filled trance, the man's skull was visible through the front of his face, eyes nearly hanging out of their nigh-ruined sockets.
The shame he was struck by was indescribable by mere words.
Most guards could not stomach the sight, and lost their breakfast right there on the street. His mother had been horrified, so much so she had not even beaten him. He did not know his father's reaction, since he did not see him for a week after. But he didn't care. He was glad to not have seen the man.
That was when they all began to truly pay attention to him. And that was the only consequence of what he did that he regretted. He hated attention. He was always comfortable in the shadows, darkness was his ally. Obscurity from social situations, and otherwise. He never understood others. He felt like he wasn't even human himself. So many a things that seemed so natural and even instinctual confused him.
It was not until the incident with the rapist and murderer that he truly realized how hollow he was. For that was the true cause of his shame. Not to have murdered someone so brutally. But to have felt nothing but rage and hatred while doing so.
Lyonel quickly removed the thought from his head. He hated thinking on the subject. He was only reminded of lack of emotions, something he needed no reminder of.
This was when all of the rumours surrounding Lyonel began. And strength was not all men and women spoke of when gossiping. Although some say he is as sharp and clever as his uncle Tyrion, if not his grandfather, the Old Lion Tywin, most think him only cunning in the art of warfare. And such was his intention. It would be foolish to let others know of his true genius, and his skills at intrigue. So much had he learned of the game of thrones from his beloved uncle Tyrion.
He would have smiled, but there was no one to fabricate a mask of emotions for. Only him and his steed was up on that hill. Yet he could not help but feel… content… at the thought of the uncle he was so fond of. He loved him. Or at least, what Lyonel's twisted version of love was. He was more of a father to Lyonel than the Whoremonger King ever was. He taught him to keep his mind acute with books, to never lose its edge and only keep sharpening it. Lyonel already had the advantage of extreme intelligence, yet his true cunning was born from his time with Tyrion Lannister, the Imp. And thanks to him, Lyonel learned to truly make use of said intelligence.
If only his remaining uncles could have been as wholesome. Renly, perhaps the most careless, flippant, flamboyant, and spoiled man he knew. He cared naught more for the man than the man cared for anything but meaningless floridity and sport. A family starves for his expensive cloths and garments, and commons are raped and murdered for the lack of coins to pay guards simply so he could purchase that Myrish lace that caught his eye. Once, during Lyonel's visit to the land of his forebears, Renly thought up a most amusing game to gamble on. He placed Lyonel on the seat of Storm's end for a week, and brought matters of the land and of the vassals to him. To everyone's astonishment, not only had he managed to avoid causing complete mayhem, his bewildering competence in stewardship, for a boy of three-and-ten, was most surprising. Most matters were small, yet once there had been a dispute between a member of House Penrose and Estermont. A wounded pride and poorly disguised insults might have erupted into a blood-feud. It was shocking to Lyonel how fragile people were to words.
Renly was clearly torn between siding with his Castellan's house or his mother's house, all while failing to see the obvious, and most fair, solution. However, Lyonel was not, and with a false mask of youthful innocence, he veiled the answer to their dispute through questions and statements hinting towards said solution. By the end of the day, it had been resolved and the two instigators of this foolish dispute shook hands in front of the court. As they did, Lyonel could see that he had failed to fool the Castellan of Storm's End, and head of his own house, Ser Cortnay Penrose, who stared at him with smiling eyes and a knowing smirk. Afterwards, away from the sights of others, Ser Cortnay introduced his orphaned nephew, and Lyonel finally found a true friend outside his own blood.
Not only did Renly prove more incompetent than his nephew of three-and-ten in ruling, but also diplomacy. This, combined with how flippant, lazy, and spoiled them man was, truly diminished all respect he could ever have hoped to receive from Lyonel.
His last Lannister uncle, however, was few of these things. And Lyonel could not say he disliked him. Yet there were few he was as different to as Jaime Lannister. Arrogant, inappropriately jestful, and without direction, it seemed. To be truthful, he thought little on his uncle, and not in an insulting way. He simply did not care for him. He was indifferent bordering on dislike, but not quite there.
He heard the hooves of a horse clop behind him, and he was broken out of his musing. "My prince," said a voice, wise and kind.
Without turning to face the source, he spoke, and revealed a voice deep for his age, nowhere near as deep as an adult's regardless. "Ser Barristan."
"Your mother was worried to have found you gone without a trace. She well-nigh sent out all the guards search for you."
I'm glad to have worried her, he would have said. But he would not bother Ser Barristan with his own problems. He respected the man far too much to burden him with matters unrelated to him. His silence was an obvious sign that he could not care less about her. With a graceful yet simple flourish, he flung himself atop the saddle of his steed, and without words necessary he finally turned to face the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. And he returned a ghost of a smile in response to the kind one that was sent his direction from Barristan, before they retired from the hilltop and rode their way back to the party. Scant of men there was that he respected more than the knight now beside him on a horse as white as his cape. Both he and Lyonel's uncle, Jaime, had trained him in wielding a blade. They did their best, yet despite their efforts, Lyonel only turned out rather average, barely better than a man-at-arms. Though the fault was far from theirs. It was Lyonel who had spent time training and honing his other skills, among them was the blacksmith's profession. He found at a younger age, his hands were made for the art of blacksmithing. And now, most would consider him a master. It was not surprising. His natural strength, meticulous nature, steady hands, and his master, helped see to it.
Tobho Mott was his name. A Qohorik master of crafts, possessing even the knowledge of reforging valyrian steel. A closely guarded secret, yet a knowledge he deemed prudent in passing on to his favorite pupil, an apprentice he could be most proud of. Lyonel, the Silent Storm. This would, at times, lead to him neglecting his other student. A boy his age. Gendry. Lyonel had not missed the bitter looks he had been sent by him. Yet he paid them no mind, for he didn't become Master Mott's apprentice to earn friends, but to learn. And learn, he did, quickly so. Regardless, there was always a feeling of recognition he felt whenever he looked upon Gendry's face, and met his equal dark blue eyes. He could never shake the feeling, and yet he could not remember where he had seen him before. But, akin to his attitude towards Gendry's bitterness, he ignored these feelings in favour of learning.
Another skill he possessed, and another he had mastered, was the art of the bow. Though, this time, his master's reputation was far from being of note. He called himself Anguy the Archer. Originally but a commonborn from the Dornish Marches, he had arrived in King's Landing during a tourney alongside Lord Dondarrion, several years before. He won the archery competition with ease, and took the prize. After the tourney had finished, Lyonel visited Anguy, who had been visiting a blonde, full-breasted whore in Baelish's brothel. The first words he spoke to his yet-to-be-master at the time caused a laughter to burst from his lips. "Are you a sorcerer?" he asked, with no prior words or context. The blonde he was with giggled, and called him adorable. He may have always been an odd child, yet a child he remained. And at such a young age, the astonishing, almost miraculous display of archery deluded him with theories of sorcery. He misjudged Anguy to be a sorcerer, guiding his arrows masterfully with the use of wind magic. He was only further astonished when he was told it was but pure skill, the outcome of years and years of constant training.
After explaining who he was, to Anguy's surprise, he asked the man if he would train Lyonel as his apprentice. Truthfully, he had not expected Anguy to accept. Even young did he realize the wild nature of some men. They would rather live life for their own sake, wandering with no direction and adapting to where ever they would end up. He was pleasantly surprised when, after a long and scrutinizing stare, Anguy finally smiled and voiced his decision. "Meet me outside the city walls on the morrow, the forest east of here. Bring your own bow 'n quiver, lad. No doubt you've enough coin to buy five scores of 'em 'fore your purse starts feeling a touch light. Then we'll train your eyes 'til they're sharper than Sevenstrings' tongue, here," he said, motioning his head towards a man holding a harp in his hands, surrounded by many a women, enraptured looks in their eyes. If anything, Lyonel thought his nose was sharper than his tongue. The man had thin, almost stringy brown hair falling from his head.
The day after, Lyonel showed up with his own bow and quiver, as asked of him. And he trained for years and years until his aim was impeccable, and his eyes could rival a hawk's. It helped when reading a man's body language as well, but that was another matter. And despite his talent and training, Anguy could yet defeat him, without a doubt in the world. But not without some challenge. During the many years of being mentored by him, Lyonel had grown to respect the man immensely, and even thought him close to a friend. It was a year ago that Anguy departed to return to the Marches whence he was born, "Next time we see 'chother, you'd best keep your eyes sharper than valyrian steel, and your cock wet with a woman's arousal. And you'll tell me every single detail. Until we meet again, princeling." Those were his parting words.
Lyonel promised himself he would do the former. The latter, however, he doubted would happen. If he were to ever get his 'cock wet', it would be with his wife, and one had yet to be unfortunate enough to be assigned such a duty. He refused to be anything like his parents. His father's infidelity was infamous, and he did not intend to hear men and women of the court whisper of Lyonel the Silent Storm inheriting his father's craving lust and infidelity.
It only ired him all the more to hear his father boast of him, that he loved and respected his second-born son, singing tall tales of his skills in smithing or archery, despite having once referred to the latter as a coward's weapon. The most prominent of such tales were of his Baratheon hunt. Every male Baratheon that reached the age of four-and-ten was to have a hunt in celebration of their name-day, his father declared, as Lyonel's grandfather, father, and uncles had done before him. His older brother's, Joffrey, was less than satisfactory for his father. The vainglorious shit was rather fond of crossbows, and as such, Joffrey had chosen one to hunt with. It took four quarrels for him to finally slay it, and even then his father had to deal the killing strike to the heart with a knife. Joffrey had apparently tortured the animal deliberately and needlessly.
Lyonel's was quite the opposite, and their hunts reflected their persons perfectly. They were as different as night was from day, as ice was from fire. And they held no love for the other. One quiet, skilled, sharp and shrewd. The other loud, cruel, without skill or training, and as dangerous as an old toy cudgel with wits to match. And Lyonel proved his superiority of skill during his own hunt. This was one tall tale that struck most as only that, a tall tale; yet it was in truth what rightly happened.
He could see himself there now, surrounded by tall looming trees, their elms turning his sky green with only a few strands of light leftover from the sun piercing past the branches and leaves. He could smell the nature about him, hear the running stream of the river, and sense wild scurrying of startled animals around him. As if before his eyes at that very moment of reminiscence, he saw a stag; and how great it was! Proud and tall, hearty as a horse! Its barbed and spiked antlers crowned the stag's head, and no other crown was there more befitting of such magnificence.
He gripped the spear's shaft tightly, having discarded the bow, if only to avoid his father's tedious bouts of anger at using such "cowardly" weapons. Their eyes met, Baratheon and Stag, dark blue to chestnut brown. Lion and prey. But the stag knew no better. It reared its head, displaying its crown of antlers and powerful frame; a challenge. One the lyon would not back down from. With eyes shut close and grip loosening on his spear, he breathed in through his nose, filling his lungs with nature's gift. At the sound of his spear's muffled fall to the ground, he breathed out, and his eyes opened.
A most peculiar sight was envisioned before him, for no longer was he in the forests. It was a meadow he stood in, and great-elmed trees surrounded the field. Erected in the very middle was a great ashen trunk, a blood-weeping face carved into it, its blood red leaves cascading down from branches that so much resembled the bones of twisted, elongated fingers. Envisaged before him was a manifestation of the gods he followed; the great heart tree of the old gods. Unlike all in the south, he did not follow the Seven. As a child, yet to grow even a single chin hair, he would pray to the Seven. And pray he did, zealously so, for answers to questions which he had not even the whit of a fancy what to do with. All he wished to know was the cause for his mother's hatred, and her abuses. Why was he subject to such cruel and cold stares, and beatings at the smallest provocations?
The answer refused him, and so he refused their faith. He would abandon them as he was abandoned. But it helped not to stave off the hollowness he felt, and the thirst for answers. He looked towards the only other gods whose shrines resided in King's Landing. The old gods. Kneeling before it, he prayed, just as he did before the shrines of the Seven, even the Stranger. Only this time had he heard something. A bodiless whisper, carried on the wind like leaves, brushed against his ears. A faint sound at first. It repeated itself many a times to him, and suddenly, as if knowing he finally heard it, it faded with a final, cryptic sigh. "Lyonel." There were none around him. Only him, and the old gods. Ever since, he followed them, much to the chagrin and displeasure of the High Septon.
"Not once had I heard even an utterance of an answer from your precious Seven, High Septon," he answered, when confronted by the portly, many-chinned septon. "It was the old gods who whispered in return to my prayer, no matter if it aided none to answer my question. A simple whisper is more than your gods ever did."
And here he was again, before a heart tree, a gentle wind carrying his name spoken in a whisper. "Lyonel..." Absentmindedly, his eyes followed the great stag as it appeared before him again. It took him a few second to acknowledge its existence, and he finally recognized it, as it did him. Four times it stomped, flinging twigs and sprigs behind itself, blowing and snorting at him.
It braced to charge him, and Lyonel counted, one, two, three. It lunged itself forward, letting out a its own version of a furious cry, feets stomping against the ground as it quickly began closing the distance between them.
As he stood staring at the great beast charging him, something inside him awoke. An urge, instinct wrested out from within him by a force unknown to him. Slowly, he realized what event would occur here. This stag was his prey, and nothing it could do would stop him from killing it. For that is what would happen, and he knew it. The world around him fell into silence, and he heard nothing but his own heartbeat and breath, and the sound of the stomping hooves of the charging stag. So, with no vision of anything but completing the task of killing the beast, he moved. It was but a shuffle at first, legs slowly wading past bushes and brambles, his feet wading aside broken branches and twigs. And before he even realized it, the stag was suddenly getting bigger and bigger as he got closer.
He was running, Lyonel realized. And an impossibly long time did he run. His lungs burned as if engulfed by a searing flame and he could hear his heart beat just as slowly as it would when he slept. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. It pounded in his ears like a slow, tribal chant. The puling in his ears was accompanied by his running blood, as though it was a flowing river. His own breath matched his heartbeat for speed, and he had yet to feel any exertion bar the one in his lungs.
There was no logic in this, no reason, no thought. It was madness. He knew it.
And he didn't care.
Suddenly, he was only meters away from the stag. It lowered its head before thrusting upwards, intent on gutting him, and Lyonel attempted to block the strike responsively. To his disbelief and shock, its bony barbs pierced his hands, and yet he could feel nothing. His heels dug up dirt as he was pushed back before he asserted his stance firmly. There was no pain, no struggle. It might as well have been attempting to charge a stone wall. Single barbs protruded out the back of his hands, and the stag was stuck like a fly attempting to wiggle itself from a spider's web. Its struggling scarcely budged his arms. He did not even question the clearly abnormal happening in front of his very eyes.
He realized the great beast was at his mercy. His arms tensed, and with a growl he began to slowly bend its right antler and rotating its head with the other. Its neck moved at an awkward angle and prevented it from moving any longer. His growl slowly developed louder and louder, until he finally let out a roar, followed by the snap of the stag's now-broken antler, and the stags pained cries. Lyonel only stared at the shard end of the broken antler for seconds, before he thrusted the antler into its muscled throat. The stag slowly lost strength, its crimson life pouring from its wound in a stream, painting a bloody swath on its fur across its flank. As its struggling faded slowly, he realized it was time for him to finish it off. He gradually rotated its neck to the right as it slowly bled, a most grotesque sight when one realized the stag yet lived, before using his left arm to suddenly pull its remaining antler down the opposite side and his right arm to carve open it from throat to neck with the shard end of the broken antler, snapping its neck and nearly decapitating it simultaneously. Red blood arced through the sky from the open neck wound, and painted the green grass a grim rouge.
He removed its antler from his hand, the barb sinking out before its head landed on the flood with a thud. He stared at the small red hole in his hand before clenching his fist and shutting his eyes once more. Slowly, the sound of his flowing blood and beating heart faded, replaced by a muffled shout. The sound became clearer by the second, until…
"LYONEL!"
His eyes snapped open, and he turned around to see his red-faced father running as fast as his fat would allow him. It was Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime who ran past him, despite the weight of their armour, and arrived first to stare at him in equal shock. He suddenly became aware of the throbbing pain in his hands, and he unclenched his fists. He could feel the warm blood trickling down the length of his fingers in rivulets of red. He became aware of his surroundings not long after. He was in the forest again, and behind him was no heart tree. Only more oak trunks headed by green elms, and past them was the sound of the running river. He looked down and saw the half-headless stag.
He knew his father had finally caught up when he heard the heavy breaths and pants for air right behind him. A hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around. His father looked at him with concern, and anger at his thoughtless actions, "Your hands, boy!" Lyonel slowly held up his hands to present the twin holes the antlers had pierced.
Jaime said, "We saw you twist the antler right off. These wounds should be graver. Have you wrought your own flesh from iron, nephew? A blacksmith even in my sister's belly." He could see the uneasiness in the man's eyes, despite his amazed, almost japing tone.
Suddenly his father let out a boisterous bellow of laughter, scaring off any remaining animals that might have still remained, "A true man kills with his own hands; is such what you're showing us, boy!?" He slapped a hand down on his shoulder, "This'll be a tale to tell for many years to come, lad! Perhaps a belly full of venison ought to sate your pain! We'll have plenty from this one," he said, nodding towards the stag. They carried it off, but halfway back to their camp, he could no longer ignore the piercing pain in his hands when it became worse, almost unbearable. His attempts to hide the pain failed to fool Ser Barristan, who voiced his concern for him. The only one that cared enough to notice.
"My prince, leave the carcass with his grace and Ser Jaime. We must return and wrap these wounds, with haste if you will."
Later that day, his father called for a feast, and served all of their hunt's spoils. Lyonel was allowed the first carve and bite of the venison. When his teeth pierced the flesh, the feast began. Dancers danced and singers sang praises while jesters evoked laughter from the crowd. He cared naught for it, and ignored all who performed before his father, while he sat between Myrcella and Tommen, keeping them company. By the feast's end, he went to bed with a belly full and a headache.
Never had he imagined it possible to hate someone who praised him. Yet here he was, clenching his hand every time his mutton-headed father spoke praises of him as if he had done it himself. Had it been any other than his father or mother, and he might not have been bothered. But they had nothing to do with how he became who and what he is this day. He had no mother, or anything even resembling one, and his two uncles were fathers to him, a dwarf, and a hard, brittle man.
Yet there were no men greater than them, none more cunning than Tyrion the Imp, and none as staunch and firm in his morals and beliefs as Stannis Baratheon. Black and white as they may be. They shared immense mutual respect for each other, and both shared equal love for Stannis' daughter, Shireen. She might as well have been his younger sister, for he loved her as if she was. Her heart was as big and golden as Myrcella's, yet her shyness and innocence had an endearing effect on him. Every moon turn, he would send her books to keep her company in his absence.
Currently, he would give anything to be there now and meet his cousin after so long, instead of this godsforsaken journey, lengthened by the unreliable carriage his mother insisted so zealously to use breaking down. Perhaps breaking is the only thing one could rely on the carriage doing. But he had Tommen and Myrcella, and that was more than enough for him to bear himself through this boredom. They were the reason I had not accompanied Uncle Tyrion to journey ahead. No doubt he had already found a brothel to warm himself in as he waited for their unnecessarily delayed party.
Lyonel and Ser Barristan soon found the party entering their vision, and the knight's words pierced their way past his deep musing, and startled his mind awake to focus, "The carriage seems to have broken down once more."
No doubt Ser Barristan had deduced such from the angered roars of his father, threatening to burn down the 'Pile of broken wooden shit'. "My siblings?"
"They are awake, waiting by the carriage with your mother."
"Gratitude," was the curt reply from Lyonel before his reins snapped and his horse spurred into a galloping speed. It did not take long before he found himself halting his black steed in front of a carriage tilted by a dislocated wheel. His queen mother stood several meters away, flanked by all her children but him, including Joffrey, and glared impatiently at the Lannister men attempting to fix the carriage.
"Good morning, Lyonel!" Tommen and Myrcella echoed each other, and laughed lightly.
He placed a smile upon his lips, "Tommen. Myrcella."
His mother's face was cold, as were her eyes as she spoke to him, "You were not here this morning."
Joffrey sneered at him, "Perhaps for the best. A brute would only help bring headache during mornings."
Despite her cold nature to her second-born, she would sooner remove her own hands before allowing her sons' to turn against each other, "He is your brother yet; I will not hear you speak such words to him."
Let him, Lyonel thought. His words hold no value to me.
Tommen was clearly as impatient as his mother's glare, though not as angry. Anger and hatred was never in Tommen's nature. "When will they be done, mother?"
She placed her hand on his shoulder and brought him close, "Soon, my little lion."
Seeing his sibling's impatience was cause enough for Lyonel to unmount his horse and walk over to the guards to help. "Move aside," he said and squatted between two of the guardsmen, hands gripping beneath the carriage. He counted down from three, and on three, with the guards' assistance, he lifted with the relative ease before one of the men to his flank proceeded to force the wheel back into place. With a silent sigh of relief passing from his nose, Lyonel released his grip.
At the sound of small clapping, he turned around and saw his younger siblings applauding him, and Tommen proceeded to run ahead and embrace him, "Thank you so much!"
He only smiled, and thought upon the luck he had to have been granted a brother of such kind heart. Tommen was grateful for even the smallest things, as Lyonel had intended him to be. He possesses the makings of a great and humble man. One I will be proud to call brother. Would that Joffrey had been crafted of such mold.
But he was not, and the time for making amends had passed when Joffrey's cruel whims involved an infant Myrcella. From then on, he swore to see his brother dead if only to see his younger siblings live life merrily. The last time Joffrey had ever attempted to beat Tommen and Myrcella was during the age of thirteen. This time, he held a knife towards Myrcella for defending Ser Pounce from the very same blade. It was the shouting that caught my attention. And to part doors to find him holding a knife to her had blackened my heart and mind with a red rage. Before he even had time to scream, Joffrey was back against the ground, his face mottled with already bruising wounds and blood pouring from a broken nose as Lyonel raised fists and struck down at him, his own face marred with fury.
He went even further, breaking two of his fingers, and had intended to cripple the weeping little craven cunt had Myrcella's cry not pierced the darkness that befell his mind. Joffrey's saviour is the one he torments. If Myrcella's heart had not been so kind…
Again, he was broken from thought once again by Ser Barristan, though now with Ser Jaime at his side. Lyonel's father summoned him, and despite his hatred of the man, he would be scant of sense to ignore a mere summoning. It would not be worth the disciplinary actions. With this in thought, he allowed his mother and siblings to enter the carriage before mounting his steed again and riding to his father.
He found him ironically on the very same hill Ser Barristan had found him but minutes ago. The cause most like being that it was the best vantage point of Winterfell their position boasted. Once beside the man, the two kingsguards were dismissed. His father was a man great of belly and voice, both enlarged by wine. His big beard hid his many chins, yet his red cheeks were yet uncovered.
"Look upon the sight before you, lad," his father said, arm outstretched towards Winterfell and the town fronting it. "What do you see?"
A meaningless riddle or question? It is meaningless, regardless. "Winterfell."
He smiled, pride and respect showing in his eyes. "Aye," he grunted, nodding slowly. "And the castle that birthed the greatest man I've had the honour of knowing. Ned is a brother in all but name and blood to me, Lyonel. And I intend to have our houses joined. Joffrey is to be king after I pass onto the afterlife, and I would have Baratheon and Stark seated upon the throne."
A curse to your so-called brother, to suffer his children through Joffrey.
Once more Robert nodded towards the castle, "Look. You've read of its history, without doubt. And you know it holds one of the most honorable men I've ever known. What do you think of it?"
Lyonel's ever silent tongue frustrated the man at times, but during most times it only brought sadness, as it did now. He knew his son held no love for him, despite his attempts to mend their relations. If only he had showed such effort of time and love for Tommen and Myrcella. Perhaps then…
A sigh passed his lips as an ever returning ache in his heart was suffered. The prince knew of his father's regret, and yet he cared little. Regret would not undo what had been done to his siblings by Joffrey and his negligence as a father. He held no forgiveness in his own heart for him.
Robert let out a sudden and genuine laughter, "Your silence and brooding reminds me of Ned. Had you not been mine, one could have mistaken you for a bloody Stark!"
He allowed his father his laughter, but his ever-blank expression had now formed contours almost resembling a frown. I have no people but my loved ones. I stand with none but them. I stand neither with northmen or stormlanders. I am whatever and whoever my loved ones need me be. Naught more.
As his father's bellows faded, the king grew serious and frowned, "Call upon your brother! We arrive soon, and I will have you both ride together through the gates of Winterfell. You are both princes and brothers, and you shall act accordingly. There will be no arguing from neither of you."
I learned long ago arguments do nothing to sway your bullheaded mind.
He turned his horse around, and rode off to commit himself to yet another torturous task with Joffrey.
Lyonel
Ignoring a furtively fuming Joffrey beside him, Lyonel's steed carried him past the cheering commoners at a prancing pace. Most of the commonfolk held awe and excitement in their expressions and eyes, and a few keen eyes recognized him, replacing previous excitement with a hint of fear and nervousness. It was a look commonplace after the rumours and stories of his brutality arose into prominence, and was the talk of the court in many a castles. Mayhaps most would have cared what they think of him, had they been in his position. But he strived to change what they know.
A most curious sight shifted his vision to his left flank, amongst the crowd. There, atop a wagon, stood a young girl wearing clothes not of peasant origin. Her face, like most others, held awe and amazement, but she wore a guardsman's helmet that dipped to cover her eyes It was clearly too large for her. Their eyes met, dark blue against grey. Her eyes looked as if they contained mist, like the eyes a woman born blind would have, but fainter, and with the pupil yet visible. Her recognition was given away by the widening of the eyes, yet what happened to them after confused him greatly. Her surprise was replaced by an even more intense form of excitement, causing her lips to break out into a full grin, and he lost sight of her as she jumped down from the wagon.
Mayhaps she has me mistaken for someone else. He shook off the odd exchange of looks, and set eyes before him as they passed beneath the walls into the courtyard after some time of riding. He and his brother paused near the middle, waiting the arrival of the carriage harboring his queen mother and royal siblings, and soon after, his father.
This was when he finally saw the house of Stark with his own eyes. The most prominent, tall figure amongst them was of somber expression and long face, dark hair adorned his head and his eyes were grey resembling those of the girl he saw before, though not quite so misty. Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, son of Rickard, brother of Brandon, Benjen, and Lyanna, if memory is to be trusted, he observed deftly
The woman beside him was beautiful, with a mane of auburn hair and blue eyes playing a factor into her beauty. She looked to be in her thirties. Lady Catelyn Stark, formerly Tully. Lord Stark's wife.
To Lady Stark's flank stood tall a man older than Lyonel, around Joffrey's age. Auburn curls and blue eyes heralded his Tully heritage, and his stern expression spoke of his Stark blood. Robb Stark, firstborn Lord Stark, and heir of Winterfell.
His eyes gazed over to the girl beside Lady Catelyn, a mirror image of her younger years, it seemed. She too sported auburn hair and blue eyes, eyes that sent coy and shy looks towards Joffrey in response to his own suggestive ones. He saw Robb taking notice of these looks, and did not look to happy. Sansa Stark. No doubt like all other highborn girls. Though this one seems more naive. No doubt she will be the main candidate for Joffrey's queen. Not while I yet breathe. She will not fall victim to Joffrey's cruel whims.
His gaze froze upon the younger girl beside her, recognizing her as the girl on the wagon. Once again, Stark grey eyes locked with Baratheon dark blue. Of course. Who bar the daughter of a lord would have access to a guardsman's helmet. Their eyes met once more, and hers lit up with excitement yet again. If it was seeing him again, or having been recognized and acknowledged by him that caused her excitement, he knew not. What is your name?
Beside the girl were two younger boys, neither of which he recognized. Content with his observation, he waited patiently for all to arrive. When his father finally rode inside the courtyard, his dismount was aided by two squires, one he recognized as Lancel Lannister and the other he knew nothing of. His father's belly jiggled as he strode towards the bowing Starks and the northerners behind him. When he arrived in front of his old friend, he gestured them to stand.
"Your grace," Lord Stark greeted formally, now standing on his feet.
In response, he stared sternly and said, "You got fat." A rather awkward silence befell the yard, and all eyes fell unto the two. Lyonel shook his head ever so slightly, already understanding it was no more than his father's antics. His suspicion was proven correct when laughter rumbled from their chests, putting all at ease as the two embraced. The tension melted away like snow before summer sun.
"Nine years! Where have you been all these years, why haven't I seen you?!" he asked with a grin, pulling away.
"I have but been guarding the North for you, your grace. Winterfell is yours."
Graceful, my father is not. I begin to fear Lord Stark another Kevan Lannister, a shit-eating lickspittle. I pray it is not so, he thought dryly.
The king looked to Lady Stark, "Cat!" She embraced him as a mother would a child. A hairy and obese child. Her maternal nature shined even when placed before a king. Family, duty, honour.
He continued down the line of Starks, stopping in front of Robb first, "You must be Robb." The heir of Winterfell nodded with an attempted stern look, clasping his father's hand with unrelenting eyes.
Next was Sansa, "My, you're a pretty one." The girl blushed, and Lyonel could sense the glare his mother sent the king.
Now he arrived before the girl with the guardsman helmet. He noticed his father's ever so slight reaction. It seems she is able to give both kings and princes pause. Just what is your name, girl? As if his thoughts left his father's lips, the king asked, "You… what's your name?"
As fearless as the wolf on her house's banners, she blurted out, "Arya," blunt as a mace.
At last was his curiosity satisfied. Arya. Arya Stark is her name. I shall remember it well.
Robert lingered a fraction of a second too long before he proceeded down the line, and Lyonel learned the names of the last two boys. Brandon and Rickon Stark.
Snapping him out of his musing was his mother, sauntering towards Lord and Lady Stark, the arrogance radiating off her like a reek. She held out her hand for them to kiss. It is you who is beneath them, mother. None are so low as you.
He heard his father call out, "Ned, show me to your crypts. I would pay my respects."
His mother's words were poison veiled behind honey, absent affection "We've been riding for months, my love. Surely the dead can wait."
The king paid her no mind and turned to Lord Stark, "Ned." He walked off with Lord Eddard following, though not before the man sent his mother an apologetic look.
I almost pity him.
Suddenly he heard the voice of a young girl whisper, "Look, there he is!" It was the girl. No, not the girl; Arya Stark. She whispered to Sansa, discreetly pointing towards Lyonel excitedly.
"Shut up!" she rudely snapped in response, yet Arya seemed to not have heard her, for she would only stared at him in wonder. No, not just wonder. But… admiration as well? Only a few glances and she already confuses him like no other. Lyonel understood looks of indifference, fear, or even disgust. But wonder and admiration?
Surely she must have mistaken me for someone of prestige. There was no other explanation. She could not possibly be admiring a man such as Lyonel Baratheon, the Silent Storm. A name he had not even earned through battle. No. No sooner than when the Wall melts are people ever ecstatic at the sight of Lyonel. Why? was the question echoing in his head, left with silence from the absence of answers.
Suddenly, Arya Stark looked as if remembering something, and turned to her sister again, "Where's the Imp?"
"I said, shut up!"
He might have been disappointed in her, but the way she spoke his name held no disdain. It resembled childlike curiosity than anything. Simply another curious child looking to sate her interest.
His mother had apparently heard Arya Stark speak, for she turned to her brother, Ser Jaime, "Where's our brother. Go find the little beast."
Lyonel dismounted once he realized his father and Lord Stark were out of sight, and his considerably deep voice was heard by all in the yard as he spoke, "His name is Tyrion. You would do well to remember him as such, mother."
A cold glare was sent his way, one he met with blank expression. She relented once remembering he had long ago stopped fearing her. She left the courtyard without another word to give to the Starks, his siblings following her. She seemed to have forgotten to introduce her children to them, and was now no doubt intending to coddle Joffrey once more, as she always loved to do. A few in the northern crowd were impressed by his resilience towards his mother's icy glare.
As most dispersed in the courtyard, Arya Stark reluctantly as her protests indicated, he once again kept his horse company and even fed it an apple he kept in the saddle bag, feeling it had earned as much for suffering his weight for months. He felt no connection to it, but was obligated nonetheless, he felt. In the corner of his eyes he saw Robb had lingered with another boy, one suspiciously alike Lord Stark, with a long face and grey eyes; even the somber expression was identical. As he stared he suddenly recalled hearing Lord Stark had sired a bastard by the end of his father's rebellion. Jon Snow.
"Hodor!" a particularly deep and cheerful voice said. He turned to face the source, and was met with the sight of a giant of a man. The hair of his head and beard was brown peppered white, and surrounded an innocent smile. The man before him seemed confused by his blank expression and lack of response. Though he seemed to understand enough to realize Lyonel inquired on his previous statement with an arching eyebrow.
"Hodor!" he repeated cheerfully.
A man, the stable-master Lyonel presumed, emerged from behind his giant silhouette, and Lyonel again was greeted by a nervous face. "Please, f-forgive him, my prince. The poor boy is b-boy is but simple-minded, you see. He has only been able to say 'Hodor'."
He calls him a boy. He has the mind of one, I would think.
At Lyonel's silence, the stable-master nervousness only furthered. Even the large man now looked confused, his previous cheer absent. Again, the stable-master attempted to placate him of an anger that wasn't there. "He only wishes to ask if you've need of assistance with your… magnificent steed."
If I truly meant him harm, flattery would do naught to deter me.
A long stare from the prince was followed by, "There is nothing to forgive." He held the reins towards… Hodor. "And yes, assistance would be most appreciated."
His cheer returned as did his smile, accepting the offered reins from Lyonel's gloved hands. He paused when the prince reached into the purse at his waist to pull out a golden dragon between his finger and thumb. "For your assistance," he spoke curtly. Hodor held out his hand, and his eyes and smile lit up when the palm wrinkled as he pressed the coin into his hand.
"Hodor!"
He bowed his head gratefully and led his horse off to the stables, with the stable-master following, but not before Lyonel warned him, "Do not think to take it for yourself."
He turned around and saw that Robb and Jon spectated him, and were now making their way towards him.
"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, my prince," Robb greeted. "I hope you find Winterfell to your liking. I am Robb, son of Lord Stark." He held out his hand. Lyonel accepted politely but without words. He noticed when the handshake ended that Jon seemed uncomfortable, even out of place, not sure if what to do or if he should remain.
"This is my… half-brother. Jon."
He was spared the decision to leave or not when Lyonel held out his hand to the bastard. He accepted with surprise, and only thanks to encouragement from his sibling, "A pleasure, my prince." His words were curt and his voice quiet.
He looked at them both, "No formalities." He hated formalities during conversations absent a court. Pretentious and unnecessary. Unless the one he spoke to proved boring or unpleasant. Though he scarce believed he would be conversing with such persons.
The statement had taken them both aback slightly, and they glanced at each other before Robb queried further, "Would you prefer us to call you Lyonel?"
He nodded wordlessly.
"Very well, Lyonel. Would you like a tour of Winterfell?"
He nodded with a gesture for them to show the way. He did not miss the glint of pride in Robb's eyes as he passed Lyonel to present him the castle that was his home. First they showed him the training yard, where a stout man with white whiskers instructed his men with clear diligence. "That man there is Ser Rodrik Cassel. There is scant of men more loyal than him, and none as courageous. He has the honour of a true knight, and the wisdom of one."
Prudently, Robb thought it fitting to show him Mikken's armoury. No doubt he heard tales of Lyonel's skill with a forge and anvil. They found themselves in front of a stand where examples of his latest items were on display. His hands gripped the hilt of a newly-forged sword, eyes keenly scanning the sharpened blade.
Mikken, a man whose mouth was shrouded by a great bushy white beard, approached from behind the stand, soot and sweat on his forehead and strong arms. "Is the prince pleased with my work?"
Lyonel's eyes flicked up from the blade to Mikken, and stared before nodding. It could hold nary a candle to Lyonel's work, much less Tobho Mott's, yet it was impressive nonetheless. Good, hardy steel, and fairly well-balanced. It was better than most castle smiths.
After being shown the most eventful places, they finally passed the kennel. Suddenly, two great wolves emerged when Robb and Jon paused and the former whistled. One sported a smoky grey fur, the other snow white with eyes like freshly spilt blood. "Don't be startled, Lyonel. They will not harm you." Lyonel merely turned with calm, and met the beasts' eyes. All of a sudden, the grey wolf sprinted to Lyonel and almost jumped him, instead pawing gently at his chest.
Robb looked abashed and shocked, swiftly ordering the wolf off of him, "Grey Wind, no! Off!"
"Leave him," said Lyonel suddenly, surprising the two. He yet had a blank face, yet his hand began petting and scratching Grey Wind's fur as the wolf panted.
Without a sound, the albino wolf approached from behind, and when Lyonel finally took notice he removed Grey Wind's paws from him softly. He bent a knee to face the white wolf as he took off his gloves absentmindedly, unknowingly revealing the scars of his hunt upon his palms. His open hand reached out to pet the albino wolf. Still it made no noise. Quiet as a ghost. Yet he could tell it appreciated his attention. Their eyes locked intensely.
"Ghost," said Jon suddenly. Lyonel's head shifted quickly to meet his gaze. His shyness was as visible as his inexperience at being a host, "His name is Ghost."
He looked back into the wolf's blood red eyes, his eyes movement not stopping for a second, "Fitting."
He missed their smiles, for his eyes were upon Ghost's features. After a lengthy stare, his hand slowly came to a pause, and finally they saw an expression on his face. His brows furrowed into a frown, and he looked towards them. "Direwolves?"
Their own eyes widened in surprise, Robb's showing in his voice, "You can tell?"
"Their snouts." It was more pronounced than a normal wolf in Westeros' wilderness, and their behaviour was more fitting of a young. He had read Maester Raymun's book on the wilderness of beyond-the-Wall and made mental notes of their differences.
He stood straight, his hand caressing Ghost's head as he pulled his arm back to his side slowly. Grey Wind licked his hand a few times before both of them returned to the kennel. He moved to wipe his hand off against the arm of his tunic when Robb caught sight of the scar in his palm. "It's true, then?"
He looked towards Robb inquisitively.
"The scars on your hand. Are they from the antlers you broke off and killed the stag with?" Lyonel saw that Jon knew not if he should be just as curious or mortified by the rather personal questions. Robb only soon realized the brashness of his question, and blushed in embarrassment, "Forgive me, my prince. I was out of line."
Suddenly, Lyonel's other palm was but inches from Robb's face, startling him slightly and causing him to step back. When he realized the prince was showing him his scars, he stared with fascination, and soon, so did Jon. "No formalities," he repeated once they were finished. They nodded simply. He pulled his gloves back on and looked towards the two brothers, "You both have my gratitude for the tour. Your hospitality is most appreciated. I managed not to fall asleep this time."
They both smiled proudly, knowing the strength of Winterfell would impress all men who laid eyes upon it, and Robb nodded, "Of course, Lyonel. If you ever find yourself in need of anything else, you need only ask."
Jon had settled for his small smile, and proved as wordless as Lyonel. Despite the prince's chronic silence, he was a far from the ruthless and brutal monster they had heard of so much. The truth was quite the opposite. He still managed to be likeable despite the absence of words with but sparse gestures. Perhaps they should not have listened to petty rumours.
"I have but one request." The seriousness was not lost on either of the brothers.
"Of course, name it."
"The king spoke to me of his wish to join the house of Baratheon and Stark. I believe he plans to do so by marrying Joffrey and your eldest sister. No matter what, do not allow this to happen. Warn your father, for mine will not. He is blind to Joffrey's true nature. He may marry anyone else to any of your siblings, but not Joffrey. For whomever it will be, she will suffer by his hand."
The unexpected nature of what he spoke of truly shocked them, and Robb had so many questions swirling in his head like a gale, "What… The crown prince? I don't understa-"
"Nor need you. If you must know, tell Lord Stark to meet me. I shall tell him all there is to know. But no matter what, bring this matter to none but him. And do not let anyone know I spoke of this to you. Do I have your words?"
It took them a while for the shock to dissipate, but when it did, they managed a nod. Even Jon spoke, "We swear to you."
No more words passed Lyonel's lips, only a heads inclination before he turned to walk away, leaving behind two befuddled brothers, and even further befuddled direwolves, tilting their heads in confusion at their masters' shocked expressions.
A/N: Basically, this idea started rather spontaenously and out of nowhere. I loved Hotline Miami and found out it was inspired in some degree by the movie Drive. And so, I wanted to create a sociopathic character. This was how Lyonel was born. This story has gone further than I could ever have imagined and I hope you all loved this and will tag along for the ride.
I'll start here by saying that if it seems like Lyonel is perfect and a Gary Stu, I assure you he will be fleshed out in the later chapters. He will have his flaws like any other character and will run across problems he cannot singlehandedly solve.