PART 1
"Winter is coming," he said.
The words were a true warning, foreboding the approaching doom that all across Westeros knew in their bones would come for them. Jacob Stark saw them as validation for the concept of certainty. So much in this life was cloaked in the unknown, the road ahead so murky that none could properly see the path it would wind towards whatever end it led to.
Winter would come. That was certain. That was fact, as hard as the stones that made the Keep at Winterfell. It was a known factor, something he could plan for and anticipate. If there was one thing Jacob Stark detested, it was the notion of not being ready for what the road ahead would bring.
He'd tried explaining this philosophy to his young wife once, but she'd merely feigned attentiveness during his diatribe. Three years of marriage had given Jacob the uncanny ability to discern the difference between Mary Stark, nee Tyrell, paying attention and Mary Stark, nee Tyrell, merely falsifying her keen gaze.
"It certainly is," she replied to his earlier proclamation. "Any reason you're bringing it up now?"
Jacob looked at her, tearing his gaze away from the window in their house that gave an unobscured view of the Wall in the far distance. They dwelled only a few leagues away from where Lord Eddard Stark held court at Winterfell, in a small village named Boldfast. "Seems it's our hallmark, to state the fucking obvious at every turn."
Mary looked pensive. "What is it now? I know that agitated tone."
"It's all pointless!" Jacob protested. "Why in the Seven Hells are we bothering with this if winter's just going to sweep us away like the evening tide? What is the bloody point?"
Mary's chestnut hair looked almost black at this time of dusk. "Would you rather we just gave up this time? Let the cold take us?"
"I'd rather there was no such thing as fucking winter," Jacob grumbled. "Just give me summer into eternity."
He was prepared to continue down this pointless line of complaint when suddenly the door to his house burst open. His squire, a young lad named David, panted heavily. "My Lord, he's returned."
Because that's the last thing I gods-damn well need. Jacob turned on his heel and swept his cloak off the table. "Stay here," he commanded Mary, "I'll be back. This won't take long."
"Be kind to him!" Mary called as he left the house in a huff. "He doesn't know what he's saying!"
Unfortunately, he did know what he was saying. That was entirely why Jacob found him a chore.
"I said I demand to see your Lord!" the intruder insisted.
Christophyr Stark was in no mood for idiots. His cold, iced eyes glared narrowly at the man before him. "He is not my Lord, he's my brother, and he does not want to see you."
"Of course he does!" the man protested. "I came all this way, the least he can do is say hello!"
"I'm fairly certain his 'hello' comes with a crossbow bolt."
The man laughed maniacally. "He wouldn't dare! He wouldn't dare murder royalty!"
If this man was royalty, Christophyr was one of the Seven. Probably the Crone, if his rough face and scarred skin were anything to go on. "I'm fairly certain he has before. Remember Imran Frey?"
The man scoffed, shaking his head emphatically. "You can't possibly believe I don't remember the idiot Imran Frey, the would-be court jester, do you? Or are you referring to the beheading and quartering your Lord gave him for slave trading?"
"Dishonour must be paid for," Christophyr said simply.
The man waved his hand dismissively, then brightened as he saw something behind Christophyr's shoulder. He turned to see Jacob Stark striding towards them, cloaked and wearing a prominent scowl. Christophyr's brother was a good, decent man, if a little on the complaining side sometimes, but when his ire was drawn he was nigh unstoppable. He'd be surprised if the Lord didn't put a bolt through the man's eye this time.
"Lord Stark," Christophyr said by way of formal introduction, which he did with the greatest reluctance, "may I present the self-styled King Brendon Targaryen, First of His Name, Lord of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of-"
"There is nothing 'self-styled' about me," Brendon interrupted. "I am the rightful King of Westeros, no matter what the usurper Robert Baratheon might say about my family. The Dragons will rise again! We will crush this feckless coward and send his smoking hide back to Storm's End in a-"
Now it was Jacob's turn to interrupt. "You are no King, and you are no Targaryen. You're just a soft-minded fruitcake who thinks he's both. I have no time for fruitcake today."
"Now see here, my Lord-"
"Brother," Jacob said, looking over at Christophyr, "why am I still listening to anything this fleabag has to say?"
As much as he'd have loved to see Brendon Targaryen lying bleeding in the snow of the North, he knew the crazed bastard had important news. "He says he brings dire tidings from King's Landing."
"King's Landing?" Jacob asked incredulously. "They actually let you in? I would've thought that to be like the squirrels inviting a six-foot piece of dog shit into their tree?"
Brendon's eyes flared. "How dare you insult your true and rightful-"
"Get to the point before I stick one in you."
The alleged Targaryen cleared his throat, clearly affronted, before continuing. "You are no doubt aware that your wife has two sisters, Elise and Lonie?"
"Why, no, I hadn't discovered that after three years of marriage and two of courtship. Clearly I was blind through most of the last half-decade." Jacob's tone was moving towards one that Christophyr distinctly remembered him having the day Imran Frey had been killed. "What of it?"
"As I'm sure you also know, they are currently in King's Landing as diplomatic envoys from Highgarden-"
"Tell me something I do not know in the next five seconds if you wish to continue-"
"They've been captured!" Brendon exclaimed. "The false King has imprisoned them under charges of witchcraft and treason! They languish in the Black Cells and await the King's Justice!"
He'd told Christophyr already, but it sounded like horseshit to him. The last he'd heard, his sisters-in-law were safe in the capitol – at least, as safe as one could be in a den of vipers. If he'd had his way Christophyr would've speared this fool for even suggesting such a lie were possible.
Astonishingly, though, Jacob's eyes widened. He seemed to be taking this seriously, or at least properly enough to entertain the notion. "How came you by this information?"
"I may be the King-in-exile, but I still have friends in the Royal Court," Brendon insisted. "You must act on this, or their lives are forfeit."
Christophyr looked to his Lord, his brother, the one who'd valued his counsel above all others since they'd been boys playing in the snow. "You can't possibly believe this filth's slander. I'm sure if we send a raven to King's Landing, to Lord Varys or Grand Maester Pycelle, we will see that all is well."
Trust was hard to come by in Westeros, especially with men like the Kingslayer running around breaking oaths and murdering monarchs, but Christophyr liked to think his brother trusted him. He had trusted Jacob for all of their years, learning the precepts under Maester Maychen and training together under the sword tutelage of Aurin of Braavos. There was no-one in the Seven Kingdoms or the Seven Hells he put his faith into more than Jacob.
The answer that came from his brother's lips shook that faith to its very foundations. "Then we will act. Stay in my hall, over yonder, and rest well. We leave for King's Landing in the morning."
As two of Jacob's guards led the false Targaryen off to the dining hall, while he thanked Lord Stark and praised the guards for their fine work with all the oil in his voice he could muster, Christophyr grabbed his brother by the arm. "What are you doing? You can't believe this liar."
"I do not believe for a moment that he is a Targaryen, nor that he is the rightful ruler of this land," Jacob responded, his voice diplomatic but with a hint of bladed edge. "I do believe he speaks truth in some quarters, though. Besides, I've been meaning to visit the capitol for some time now." He reached his arm out and grabbed his brother on the same arm that Christophyr held him. "You must trust me, brother. I've not led you astray before, and I'm not about to start now. The world may have gone to shit while we slept, but that doesn't mean I will forsake our bond."
Years of growth had given Christophyr that trust, but there was something in Jacob's words that still unsettled him. Yet, he attempted to give the benefit of the doubt. "Neither will I, my Lord. Neither will I."
While the rest of Westeros languished under the approach of winter, the hot winds of summer still held their last grasp throughout King's Landing. It was pleasant weather that reminded Elise Tyrell of her home in Highgarden, with light breeze lazily drifting through the groves in the evening as the fiddlers played their tunes to their comfortable, relaxed audience. It was the only thing about King's Landing that she appreciated, besides having her sister there.
They'd been in the capitol for the past year, as honoured guests of the Crown and envoys from the grand House Tyrell. While they hadn't yet fallen foul of anyone in the city – at least, in any obvious way that didn't factor into some backroom machination – it had been a long, ultimately boring stay. The King had turned out to be a dull, fat old boar, his queen seemed as icy as the sewers were rancid, and the Crown Prince Joffrey looked like the sort of child one would want to pummel later in life with his dowdy, high-browed face and constant juvenile sneer.
Smug pricks, the lot of them.
Not that she'd told them that, of course. The only one whom she consorted with on that front was her dear sister Lonie, similarly consigned to this fate. The girls had matching auburn hair and round cheeks, and had drawn the eyes of more than their fair share of men both within and without of the aristocracy. Most weren't as pretty as some of the ones in Highgarden, but they were still decent enough to look at.
It was almost time for their lesson. Lonie had already dressed down to unflattering browns and thin-leathered boots, and Elise herself was in a matching olive green outfit. The training swords, wooden instruments lightly filled with lead, lay on the bench to the side of the training room.
"Why are we doing this again?" Lonie asked impatiently.
It wasn't the first time her sister hadn't seen the point, literal or figurative. "Self-defence. You don't want to be like all those simpering ladies of the Court, do you? Those pampered princesses who can't defend themselves, who keep relying on those stuck up Kingsguard idiots to save them?"
"No, I want to be back home," Lonie huffed. "I always heard Cousin Margaery say King's Landing was beautiful and exciting, and so full of intrigue you could barely stay in one spot before someone tried to enlist you in a crown-stealing scheme. But it's so bloody boring!" She threw up her hands restlessly. "There's no-one to fight, nothing to do but look pretty and curtsy to all those useless Lannister idiots!"
Some days, Elise wondered if her sister had been intended by the Seven to be born a man but had relented at the last moment. Sometimes her fiery heart put even the strongest Tyrell knight to shame. "You're saying you want to fight someone? I could always have you shipped to Essos. Pretty sure there would be some Dothraki there you could have a go with. That is, if they don't have a go with you first."
Lonie glared at her. "Ha, ha. Admit it, you're bored too."
She was, but not enough to go seeking a fight. "A little. If you'd like I can send a raven back to Highgarden. I could have Loras come and sling you over his horse to take you home."
Lonie made a face, sticking her tongue out disgustedly. "I'd rather kiss Joffrey the slimebucket."
"That's Prince Joffrey, girl," came the voice of their instructor. "The boy may be a pain in the backside, but he's still of the Crown. Best to remember that."
The Braavosi had a hearty, melodic voice with just the merest hint of sarcasm underlining his words. Elise could tell he thought Prince Joffrey was just as smug and punchable as they did. Lonie, seeming to pick up on it too, nonetheless bowed low and made a mocking apology. "I'm sincerely sorry. We weren't taught basic manners when growing up."
The instructor raised an eyebrow, speaking sardonically. "I would think it remiss for your parents to teach you basic manners for addressing buffoons." He gave a quick glance around the room to make sure no-one had heard him, then went on. "However, it is a skill we must use despite how we feel. So keep that manner in check." Despite his words, he gave Lonie a wink.
"Now," he went on, "my name is Syrio Forel. I was told you two require training in the art of the blade?"
Elise grinned. This would be far less boring than Court politics.
