Hello! I hope you enjoy my latest attempt at fanfiction. Will be updated regularly until it is finished-promise. I can normally manage a chapter a day, so I will do my absolute best (though school is a thing that exists, sadly). Thank you for reading, and do check back for more! xxx
The Fold
The Red Keep
Samwell Tarly had undergone a seismic change whilst serving the new Seven-Six Kingdoms. The one constant in his life, that which was closest to his heart-with the exception perhaps of Gilly and little Sam-had been entirely altered in his eyes. He had grown quite used to traipsing to the royal chambers in the Red Keep several times a day, carting a large quantity of thick tomes with him. These books, the books in which he had buried his nose since he had first learned to read letters, the books which had literally saved his life on more than one occasion…suddenly, they were as footnotes to the true enormity of history.
Sam had believed that books could tell a person everything he needed to know; if you could only find the right page, the right line, the right sentence, you could save the world. Or change it. He had done both…but, upon becoming maester to the new king, he had realised how naïve he had been. Of course. Books were only ever half of the story. A story, for the most part, only ever told by the rich and the powerful, in exactly the way they wanted it told. Endless omissions had been made to history itself, endless perversions and misinterpretations of facts to suit whichever arbitrary agenda suited the ruling class.
Brandon Stark, however, dealt only in the truth.
"Has it been found?"
Hardly had Sam pushed his laden cart into the privy chamber when the new king addressed him without greeting. Bound by convention, whether it seemed to mean anything to Brandon the Broken or not, Sam made a shallow bow-before shaking his head.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace."
Without hesitation, Sam picked up the heaviest and oldest of his books and lay it open upon the king's desk, which was already strewn with papers. From his wheeled wooden chair, Brandon looked on, his dark eyes filled with a kind of intensity that no man could know.
"Look," Sam flipped through the book until he reached the page he had marked earlier that morning-or, rather, the lack of it. For all that remained of page 1013 was a tattered margin, lined with sooty black. The rest of the page had been burned away. Lost to the ashes. "Nothing remains." Sam sighed, his heart heavy. "Who would do such a thing to a book?"
Brandon made no sign of disappointment; though, frankly, his face seldom changed at all these days. It was impossible to read him, to know exactly what the young, and yet so very old, king was thinking.
"I've searched everywhere," Sam went on, his fingers tracing the burned edge. "I've written to the Citadel. Monkoen made only one copy, and I have it here."
"Monkoen may have been a raving lunatic," came a sharp voice from the corner of the room. Wearing an expression of frustration upon his scarred face, Tyrion Lannister stepped forward. He took a thoughtful sip from the goblet in his hand before he spoke. The Hand's badge glinted unwillingly on his chest. "But he wasn't stupid. He could have been an Archmaester, were it not for his…private life. I refuse to believe there is only one copy."
"There is only one…" said Brandon, his voice rather vague. "There was only ever one…"
Tyrion marched forward, as if seeing the vandalism with his own eyes would change things…but it was not so. The missing page did not materialise.
"Well, well." he murmured, stroking his beard. "I wonder how hard I would have to pray to the gods for a slightly easier life…"
"Your life has never been easy." Brandon's piercing eyes suddenly fell upon his Hand, as if staring right into his soul. "That is why you are here."
Tyrion was silent for a moment, his eyes shut. It was as if, for a few, long seconds, he had a terrible headache. Then, he gave his king a curt nod. "In that case, Your Grace, I have much work to do."
"You will not fail." said Brandon. The tone of his voice did not deviate from his habitual monotone, but Tyrion took this as a ringing endorsement of confidence.
"Thank you, Your Grace," He gave a short bow. "Now, if you will excuse me, I shall waste no time. I hope to have preliminary sketches by sundown tomo-"
"You will not." said Brandon at once.
Confused, Tyrion opened his mouth to speak-but the king was too quick. He had turned his head in the direction of Sam, regarding him rather coldly with those disquieting eyes. Sam felt, as he always did, as if Brandon could see directly though him. Although he addressed Tyrion, his eyes did not stray from Sam.
"Soon, my Lord Hand, you must embark upon another journey."
Tyrion missed a beat-but never more than one-before he understood. "Ah…" he croaked, in a tired manner. "So Maester Tarly has his answers at last."
Sam did not bother to ask Brandon how he had known, when the final raven had arrived only an hour before. Feeling more nervous by the moment, he gently shut Monkoen's book, running his fingers along the frayed spine as if it were a beloved pet. Now that his answers came not from books, nor from the Sight of Brandon Stark, he was truly out of his comfort zone. Still, as a servant of the crown, and of the realm, this was his duty.
"I have received ravens from the Old Palace, and the Eyrie."
"And?" Tyrion stepped forward once more, looking up at Samwell with some trepidation.
"Well…" Samwell reached into his robes and produced three scrolls, decorated with the sigils of houses Martell, Tully, and Arryn respectively.
"The Dornish have refused us."
Tyrion gave a small, non-committal noise. "I cannot say I am surprised-though, and this is a most rare occurrence for me-I wish I had been proved wrong. After what happened the last time a member of House Martell married into the crown, who could possibly have expected them to send us another one of their sons or daughters to butcher?" He gave a snort, his brow furrowing deeply. "Bringing Dorne back into the fold would be invaluable…perhaps I can still-"
"And the Vale?" Brandon had not taken his eyes off of Sam, and this was felt very keenly.
Now, Sam took one of the deepest breaths of his life. "Well…they have not refused, as such, but-"
"We can work with that," said Tyrion, though his mind was still clearly on Dorne. "What did Royce say?"
Sam finished: "-they have not outright accepted, either. The Lords and Ladies of the Vale are willing to meet and discuss the matter."
Tyrion cast his gaze out of the window, as if trying to telepathically communicate southwards, to Sunspear. "Whom have they offered? Though I cannot say that a marriage with the Arryns could possibly be as advantageous as a Dornish match-"
"Actually-" Sam cut in. In the early days of their working relationship, he scarcely challenged the Hand at all, his being older and vastly more experienced. But as time had passed, he had grown more confident. "I believe House Arryn to be a priceless ally. House Martell has a degree of sovereignty that has always proved challenging to the crown. Furthermore, a match with Dorne would only serve to alienate the other kingdoms-following the independence granted to the North, their allegiance to the crown is more precarious than ever. The funds and military power the Vale could bring to the Crown is almost unmatched-except, perhaps, by Highgarden-"
"No." said Tyrion, giving a sick sort of half-smile. "If Bronn were to become father-in-law to the king, he would be completely unbearable. I do not wish to live to see the smug look upon his face. Besides, his daughter is a child of one."
"Historically, a good relationship between the Vale and the crown is correlated with prosperity," Sam continued, as if Tyrion had not spoken. "They have remained out of the fold for far too long. It is time they were brought back in." He looked at Brandon, his face set. "Your Grace, I believe we have found the perfect ally."
Tyrion asked again. "Who have they offered?"
"Well," Now, for the first time, Sam smiled. "The very highest they possibly could. The son of the great Jon Arryn himself. Robert Arry-"
Once more, Sam was interrupted. Tyrion had gone to take another sip of wine-but, at the sound of the name, he noisily choked.
"Robin?"
"Yes?" Sam had been hoping for rather a warmer reception-such a match was absolutely unparalleled. He had hardly been able to believe he had pulled off such a diplomatic victory. "He is the strongest and best ally we could have hoped for! Lord Paramount of the Vale!"
Tyrion was still spluttering. He set down his goblet upon the windowsill, shaking his head slightly as if from shock. Then, he turned to address his company. "Your Grace, forgive me for speaking so boldly of our peer. But I do believe there are lowborn tavern girls in Fleabottom who would make worthier consorts than Robin Arryn."
Sam was more than a little bemused. "Why is that? What's wrong with him?"
Tyrion snorted. "You would fill several books with all that is wrong with little Lord Arryn. No," He stretched, looking out of the window once more. "We shall try once more to romance Dorne. I believe they-"
"That is not an answer." said Sam boldly, still confounded by Tyrion's reaction. "You haven't given a single reason why Lord Arryn would not do."
Tyrion did not bother to turn around-but purely from the tone of his voice, Sam could hear that he had raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever met him?"
"Well-no-no more than by sight-but-"
"I wish you never have the displeasure of doing so." Tyrion continued. "I have come across far more than my fair share of terrible spoiled brats, but Robin Arryn…" He gave a long, deep sigh, stretching far back into his memory. Then, in the high-pitched tones of a child, he muttered: "Make the bad man fly!"
Sam still did not understand; but he was determined. "My Lord, Lord Arryn is a few months short of his nineteenth name-day-"
"Though anyone would think it were his ninth-"
"You are being unreasonable-"
"You are foolish to cast Dorne aside so swiftly-"
"You are blinkered by Dorne-"
"You are-"
"Quiet."
Brandon did not raise his voice in the slightest-but his tone cut through the room like a greatsword. Instantly, the Hand and the maester were silent. The pupils of the king's eyes were tellingly dilated, still finding their place in the boundless whites. It was clear that they had only just rolled back into position. Whilst Sam and Tyrion had argued, they had not noticed that Brandon, in spirit if not in body, had left the room entirely. His hands clutched the armrests of his wheeled chair as he grew accustomed to the weak afternoon sun once more.
After a moment-he spoke.
"House Arryn is necessary." was all he said.
A fire of triumph ignited inside Sam. He had to fight to keep an enormous grin from spreading across his cheeks. It was not often that anyone defeated the Hand of the king in an argument to win the king's favour, and yet he, Samwell Tarly, had done just that. "Thank you, Your Grace," he said, bowing low, whilst trying not to look gloatingly toward the surprised and livid Tyrion. "I shall write to the Eyrie at once, and tell them that Lord Tyrion will come to broker the alliance within the fortnight."
"Pfft." Tyrion folded his arms defiantly. "If you think that I am going to-"
But Brandon had fixed him with the iciest of stares.
Finally-he gave a distainful grunt of acceptance. "As you wish, Your Grace."
"There is none better than you, Lord Tyrion," said Brandon, his face a mask. "I would have no one else sing this song to the Vale."
Tyrion still looked mutinous, but there was a certain submission in his expression. "Thank you, Your Grace." He reached back towards the windowsill, and drained his cup. "I will go and prepare for my journey. I am very much looking forward to it. Perhaps I may be attacked by Hill Tribes once again. Or the Vale may see fit to give me another spell in a sky cell. Sleeping without the fear of falling to my death is growing rather tiresome…"
Brandon did not acknowledge these sardonic remarks. "That will be all. Thank you. I wish to look East once more…"
None ever disturbed the king in his frequent optical journeys East, ever searching for a certain winged creature, one who could breathe fire…but Samwell had one more thing to say.
"It would probably be better, Your Grace, if the Hand had some words from you to take to the Eyrie."
Brandon's eye gave the slightest twitch. "What do you mean?"
"Well. You hardly asking for grain, or men-not yet, anyway." Sam licked his rather dry lips. "It should be something more…personal."
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see Tyrion pressing his lips together in an effort not to laugh.
Brandon was unmoved. "This is not personal. There is nothing personal about it. This is a politically advantageous deal."
"Well-yes." Sam said levelly, whilst trying to ignore Tyrion's expression. "But still-in a delicate matter such as this-I think you should at least write a letter for the Hand to present to Lord Arryn."
Once more-Brandon twitched. "You wish me to write a…delicate…letter?"
Now, Tyrion had to turn his face to the wall, biting his tongue. Even Sam had to admit, in the unfeeling tones of the king, such a statement did sound rather amusing. But this was not the time for amusement.
"Yes, Your Grace. I think you must."
Gulltown
The Dark Lady moved through the streets of Gulltown, as silent as a ghost, a charcoal grey hood casting her face into shadow. The smell of the sea was thick in her nostrils as she skirted the coast, the timbers of ships creaking in the wind. As she went, she passed sailors and whores alike, clutching one another by the arm and laughing uproariously into the night sky. It seemed to be a night of great celebration-the celebration being a successful voyage, and a warm bed to come home to. But the Lady paid no mind to any of it. She was here for one reason, and one reason only-and once she had collected that Reason from the place in which she knew she would find him, she was to leave at once.
Finally, the Dark Lady came to a familiar wooden door, hidden discreetly under some striped awning in the back ally. This, this was the place a certain discerning breed of clientele frequented. A gold coin in the palm of the burly guard who stood watch allowed her entrance-and then, she was inside.
Instantly, she was overwhelmed by a heady mix of exotic perfumes and sweet wines. All around her, she could hear sounds of pleasure-a creaking bedframe, the giggling of ladies of the night, the grunts of self-satisfied men with fat purses and noble wives at home. This was an atmosphere that the Lady was much used to…though she did not permit herself to think upon those days…
She made her way through the pleasure house with purpose, climbing a narrow spiral stairwell until she reached the very topmost room. Here, she knew, she would find her Reason. Without bothering to knock upon the closed door, she twisted the handle and barged straight in.
The scene that met the Lady's eyes was quite astonishing.
The room was dominated by an outlandishly enormous silk-hung bed. Instantly, a dark-haired head popped up from beneath the blankets in the centre of the bed, wearing an expression of both shock and anger-though, presumably, not much else. He was handsome, with dark and appealing features-but this was rather negated by the childish annoyance stamped across his face.
"How dare you!" he shouted, pulling the blankets up to cover his chest. "Do you know who I am? Don't you know what a closed door means in a-oh!" But the Dark Lady had removed her hood. Lord Robin Arryn gaped as the identity of the intruder dawned upon him. "You!"
There was a moment of silence as the cousins regarded one another.
"Is she coming to join us, my lord?" On his left hand side, a pretty freckled girl with a thick cloud of red curls emerged from the sheets. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and purred.
"There's plenty of room!" A yellow-haired girl appeared on his right. Her eyes were shining, her bouncy grin filled with pleasure-or at least, the illusion of it. She buried her hand in Robin's hair, regarding the new arrival with some interest. "Especially for someone as pretty as her…"
"Oh yes, please do!" A filthily handsome boy arose from the sheets, smiling seductively as he kissed Robin's shoulder. "We are having so much fun. Aren't we, sweet lord?"
"I'm going to have to politely decline." said the Lady, hiding her mirth as Robin's cheeks blushed from peony to rose. "Sweet lord."
"Who sent you?" Robin's anger was quite undercut by the ridiculousness of the situation. There was little dignity a man could muster when three eager whores were draped around him. "Was it Royce? I told him to leave me alone!" His voice took on a whining quality. "He never listens to me! He doesn't respect me!"
Tactfully ignoring this outburst, the Lady twinkled kindly down at Robin's company. "If you would be good enough to give us the room in private for a moment, I would speak with Lord Arryn. It is a most sensitive matter."
Robin gave a loud, adolescent sigh, rolling his eyes hugely. "Well, go on then!"
Instantly, the whores climbed out of bed and hurried out of the room, leaving their clothes pooled upon the rugs on the floor, whispering and giggling to one another as they went. Robin was left alone with the Dark Lady.
"What do you want?" he barked, never quite mastering the authority that came so naturally to other lords.
"It is good to see you too, cousin," the Lady said coolly. "You were rather rude to those fine friends of yours there. Manners cost nothing."
"You will not talk to me like that! I am Lord of the Vale!" Robin pulled the blankets further up to his neck.
"Yes. You are." said the Lady in a firm, practised tone. "And I would address the Lord of the Vale with a matter of grave importance."
Robin tutted, mumbling something inaudible under his breath-but he did straighten up a fraction. "What is it?"
"You are to return immediately to the Eyrie," the Lady said, her voice taking on a dull, learned-by-heart tone. "where, in a week's time, you will receive the Hand of the King."
Now, she had Robin's full attention.
"He is coming from the Capitol to broker an alliance with House Arryn."
The lord of the Vale was not the quickest on the uptake. "Yes?" he said, looking unconcerned.
"An alliance." the Lady repeated patiently. "A marriage alliance."
Robin blinked slowly a few times, before, finally, it sank in. "Oh!" he exclaimed-before his dark eyes widened, shining with anticipation. "With whom?"
The Dark Lady allowed the smallest of smiles to play about her lips. "With you."
Apart from a distant rocking and moaning-there was silence.
Robin Arryn's face read like a book. First, there was surprise. Then-there was confusion. Finally…there was dismay.
"They want me to marry a crippled lord of ice?"
His voice echoed around the chamber.
The Dark Lady had been half-expecting this reaction. She kept her face quietly pleasant, knowing that this was the best way to deal with her charge, but her tone was firm, jarring. It refused to be argued or debated with. "Remember that you are speaking of the king. Such slurs do not become a lord." She took a deep breath. "What's more…Brandon of House Stark may no longer be able to walk…but he can fly."
Robin said nothing for almost a minute. Far from blushing, his face was now quite pale. However-his jaw was set. He glowered at the Lady from the bed, a strange glinting in his expression. Grimly, he bared his teeth.
"I'll show him fly…"
