Of Kings & Crowns - Chapter Two, 'No Means, No.'


"The War of the Eight Kings, (alternatively called; The First Baratheon Civil War, The Baratheon Succession Crisis or more simply, The Great Westerosi War), was a near four year long conflict that engulfed the continent of Westeros from 298 to 301AC, and was primarily fought between six of the eight Great Houses of Westeros.

Erupting during the final days of the reign of Robert of the House Baratheon, the conflict was one of the bloodiest and most destructive civil wars in Westerosi history, with the highest of estimates suggesting a figure upwards of over a million lives lost, not only from military engagements but also from violence, famine and plague. Significantly, of the people who perished over it's course, an overwhelming and disproportionately large number of these casualties were inhabitants of the Westerlands, Crownlands and Reachlands. It is widely regarded as the deadliest Westerosi conflict to date, altering the political, religious and economic balances of power within the Sunset Kingdoms forever."

The Third Century Crisis: A Retrospective Appraisal of the Great Westerosi War

By Historian Malaqi Lothorio


"Fear not my Lords and Ladies, for I have a cunning plan." Robb Stark 299AC, Post Battle of the Whispering Wood.


299AC - A Random Tent in the Northern army camp outside of Riverrun...

There's truly nothing quite like waking up in the morning with a raging hangover. The throbbing temples, the queasy stomach, the all round generally shitty feeling of just wanting to die. It's a fabulous feeling really, and it was, perhaps, the only single common thread shared universally by all human beings, no matter their country, continent or origin.

Some people, namely those who deliberately go out to reach such illustrious lows following their wild nights out on the town, often leave their mornings the next day free, mostly to recover.

Kings, as I had so recently discovered, did not get that luxury.

"-Yer Grace!"

"No coronation", I found myself repeating, tiredly, for what admittedly felt like the thousandth time that morning.

Hibberd, a Maester from White Harbour, a man with balding brown hair, fat sausage like hands, and a dutiful, if fairly aloof nature, nodded agreeably, again, for what also felt like the thousandth time.

He was a good man, this Hibberd, or at least I'd come to believe that, judging from the few days in my brief service I'd had to form such an opinion of the man. He'd joined our march with the men from White Harbour where he'd worked as an overseer of sorts for the great harbour there. He also seemed to take a rather perverse joy in winding up the Lord of Last Hearth too, so, as I said, a good man, and one I'd quickly snapped up into my service as swiftly as possible, much to the pleasure of Ser Wylis.

"But yer Grace-"

Why was it always the fucking Umber's that argued? I wondered blearily. I should have started with a Manderly, they were much more agreeable.

Frustrated beyond measure, I held up a hand to forestall the Greatjon Umber's latest outrage, massaging the bridge of my nose as I sighed wearily. God, I missed painkillers.

Been a King? It just makes one sigh even more. Trust me, in the limited time i'd been king, what was in all probability all of twelve hours in fact, I'd garnered much in the way of first hand experience.

"Lad, yer can't just-"

"Your Grace", Maester Hibberd corrected absently, his aged face puckered in consternation as he focused on the rather hastily written and very messy scrawl scribbled upon the parchment I'd handed over to him at our meetings beginning. Not quite my Magnum Opus, i'd admit. A masterpiece it most certainly was not, but I had spent nearly an hour writing, researching and cross-referencing the bloody thing, despite suffering a killer hangover and having to fight the impromptu urge to either cry, sulk, swear, or some combination of the three. It had been a long morning, and a rather emotional one.

King in the fucking North. Bastards.

"The correct term of address", Hibberd continued, not looking up from his reading and ignoring the look of utter disdain upon my most tallest of Bannerman's face "-is Your Grace."

Lord Umber blustered at that, shooting the rotund Maester a withering glare as he rounded on the man with ill intent. No doubt, I imagined, to teach that upjumped little seven worshipping rat what's-

"Is… is all of this true, Your Grace?"

Umber jolted to a stop, his bushy eyebrows furrowing in puzzlement as I turned to my acting Grand Maester, though I was loath to make such an appointment official so early in the game.

"Is what true?" I asked politely, ignoring the Umber man's questioning look even as Hibberd paled a little, his eyes glancing back over the parchment in his hands.

"This -these, the words on this parchment, Your Grace, these… accusations. Are they true?"

More truthful than you can ever imagine, I thought wryly, flashing the man a smirk even as I responded. "Does it matter?"

The Maester sputtered. "Does it… does it matter?! Of course it matters! If we send this out by raven it will-"

"Do nothing, nothing at all," I interrupted calmy, recalling at least a dozen different accusations I'd levelled against certain prominent lords and ladies of good king Joffrey's court, and Stannis' court, and Renly's too for that matter. "Any lord or lady who reads that, if we send it via raven alone, will more than likely simply burn it with a dismissive shake of their head and disregard it."

"Then why-"

"Do you either of you know the first rule when engaging an opponent in a prolonged propaganda campaign?" I asked airily, waving a hand dismissively as I turned from the two of them and walked towards my 'desk'. Although that was been rather generous with the term, particularly since it wasn't actually a desk, not that a desk would actually have fit in the tent.

Yes, you heard right. A tent. Not a room. A tent, and not even my own tent. It was still something of a mystery as to whose tent I'd woken up in, but, given the state I'd been in when I'd awoken, I hadn't really cared. Olyvar had been nervously lingering outside and I'd sent him to fetch my two current guests as quickly as he could. We'd had business to discuss, and very little time to discuss it in.

Lord Umber blinked uncomprehendingly at my question whilst the good Maester simply stared at me baffled. "I'm afraid i'm not particularly familiar with that term, Your Grace," Hibberd admitted with a frown.

"It's basically when you use information to influence an audience, in this particular instance, the smallfolk, in order to further your chosen agenda, most often by presenting facts selectively in order to encourage a particular belief or by using loaded language to produce an emotional rather than a rational response to the information that is presented," I explained matter of factly. Hibberd started to look thoughtful, reappraising the document in his hand as he mulled over my words.

"...and the first rule?" Lord Umber asked gruffly, temporarily putting aside his attempts to coerce me into a coronation as his eyes flickered over to the parchment in my acting Maester's hands wonderingly.

"He who slings the first mud has the first advantage," I replied, flashing the fidgeting man a quick grin over my shoulder as I approached my work station.

Although again, it must be said, I was being rather generous with my words. The 'desk' as I called it, was a sloped, portable, wooden writing surface, the tiny little letters DM carved into a corner -the initials of its maker perhaps? Regardless, it was the kind of thing you'd expect to see in a museum or as a prop in a victorian era television drama. It was also knaff. I'd spent the first two hours just trying to get the damn thing comfortable while I attempted to use the wretched thing, and the Quills! Don't get me started on the bloody-

"I assume then," Hibberd said, his words sounding slow, calculated, as if carefully chosen and more than a tad hesitant. "-that very little of these 'accusations' can be proven true?"

"Very few of them can be proven false, either," I retorted shiftily, shuffling a little as the elderly man scrutinized me intently. "And you know how fast rumours travel," I said with a grin. "-especially the juicy kind. Copy a hundred or so of these out and them nail them in every town, village and hamlet from here to Stony Shore and the smallfolk will do the rest."

At that, Maester Hibberd, it must be said, went aghast. "A few hundred?" he wheezed, looking for all the world like I'd just whacked him over the head with a wooden mallet. "B-b-but that would take weeks! Months maybe, Your Grace. You can't-"

"I'm not asking you to do it all by yourself man. Riverrun has a Maester of its own, does it not? A Maester Vyman if I recall my mother's stories correctly, surely he can help you shoulder this burden?"

"But, but… two of us? Hundreds of copies, I-it would still take-"

"Oh for god's sake," I found myself interrupting, my patience at a wits end as I cut through the mans stammering. "There are hundreds of peasants seeking refuge in my grandfathers keep are there not? Surely some of them can read, write even? Conscript them, offer them jobs as clerks and scribes, lord knows their families could probably use the wages given what I assume has happened to their livelihoods."

"Regardless," I continued, ignoring the White Harbour natives flabbergasted look even as I ploughed ahead. "-our shiny new kingdom is young, built on unsteady foundations, and has very little historical precedence to support its rather… enlarged state. We currently have no form of established government, no bureaucracy to see our will is done, nothing in place to support my eddicts other than the supposed loyalty of my bannermen. This needs to change, and quickly."

The Greatjon looked a little dour at my proclamation, perhaps even a little envious as the two brain cells I suspected he owned finally came to the same conclusion. Hibberd was getting an official appointment while he and his coronation… were not, well not yet anyway. Not, if as I suspected, he refused to let the subject drop.

"To that end, Maester Hibberd," I said, casting a warning look at the bristling giant of House Umber. "-I'm officially naming you my Master of Scribes, and charging you with the creation of a governmental department responsible for the copying, writing and distribution of information for the crown's use. Further-"

"Your Grace!"

"Not now, Lord Umber," I said with another sigh, holding up a hand as my giant of a vassal blustered. "Further, while Maester Vyman does indeed have duties to my lordly grandfather and uncles, he is, in his spare time, to be considered a temporary asset of your newly created department, and is to put his talents to use in your service when available. Any questions?"

"Your Grace! About-"

"My Lord Umber, I'll address your concerns in a moment, please," at my near growl the giant of a man shut up, again, though he was still scowling.

Hibberd, on the other hand, looked rather baffled, as if he couldn't quite grasp what was happening to him. The poor sod. I knew how he felt.

"A-and this?" He said with a choked out wheeze, wafting the parchment in his hand like it was the most offensive piece of literature he'd ever had the misfortune of discovering existed in the world. "What do we do with this… this?"

"First, focus on recruiting a pool of literate men and women for your new post, then-"

"Women," came the expected protestation. "Your Grace, surely you can't mean to-"

"I can't mean to what, Maester Hibberd? We are at war! The men will be at war, sieging castles, fighting battles, pillaging enemy lands, you know, that sort of thing. Should I limit the amount of soldiers I can put out onto the field, further increasing the discrepancy of numbers arrayed against us, when there are perfectly good woman who can read and write, or at least be taught to, readily available?"

Hibberd gulped, a sour expression twisting across his face, while Lord Umber attempted to stifle a laugh at the mans dressing down.

Gods, I thought wearily, pinching the bridge of my nose, I'd forgotten just how poorly women tended to be thought of in the past.

"W-well, t-the Seven say that-"

"Oh bollocks to your ruddy Seven," Lord Umber grumbled mutinously, startling me out of my thoughts. "-the King gave you an order man! Men an' women, 'e said. You got a problem with tha'?"

"B-but, the holy scriptures! All agree that a woman's place is-"

"WHEREVER THE KING BLOODY SAYS IT IS!"

"My Lord, dear Maester Hibberd," I said hastily, raising both my hands placatingly as I attempted to intercede before things got nasty between the two of them, or rather, any nastier.

"While I appreciate your concerns regarding the fairer sex-" Which I bloody well didn't, not even remotely. One didn't grow up in a family with a mother as domineering and successful as mine without garnering a healthy amount of both fear and respect for the opposite gender. "-in this case I fear we have no choice, circumstances been what they are and all."

Hibberd still didn't look very convinced, although he seemed somewhat mollified, if only slightly, by my rather empty platitudes.

"And how will we pay for this… 'department'," he said wearily, the verbal quotation marks practically audible around the word 'department'. "-your, ah, Grace?"

Umber, the bastard, also looked interested.

Bugger, I was rather hoping he wouldn't ask that.

"Honestly?" I asked, simultaneously hoping and feeling dismayed when the pair of them nodded. "We won't be, at least not for now, we can pay your scribes in rations and lodgings, the coin we can work out later. Which brings us to the reason I summoned you Lord Umber."

As the burly looking lord turned to me with an inquisitive gaze, he opened his mouth and before he could interject, I swiftly cut him off. "It's not about a coronation."

With a slight wave of my hand and a brief, "My lord, please." I gestured for the burly man to take a seat on a stool to his left. Grudgingly he did so, even as i nudged my 'desk' across the bed and sat down myself, grabbing a rolled up piece of parchment as I did so. Hibberd remained standing, watching the pair of us intently.

"This," I said with as much royal pomp as I could be bothered to muster. "-is for you."

With a surprising amount of hesitancy, or as much hesitancy as a seven and a half foot tall monster can, the Greatjon reached across the space between us and took the profited scroll.

"Well go on then," I urged him, watching as he toyed with the bloody thing. "-read the damn scroll."

With one last curious look at me, the reigning Lord of Last Hearth unfurled my latest proclamation and began to read. His reaction was not the one I'd expected.

"This… ah, lad?"

"My Lord?"

"Lord Treasurer?"

I blinked confusedly. The Greatjon blinked back at me. Hibberd watched the pair of us. Then, finally, the penny dropped.

"Shit," I swore suddenly, grasping around on the bed, my hand scrounging around for the scroll with the half singed end as I realised what had happened. Talk about cock-ups.

"Lord Treasurer," the Greatjon mumbled, staring down at the parchment in his hands as he tried to come to terms with what he most assuredly thought was his new position.

Thought been the key word there.

Inwardly, I found myself utterly amused, the mental image of the Umber giant sat at a table piled with gold coins, a set of brass scales before him and a mountain of yellowed parchment towerering up around his frustrated angry brow, flitting through my mind before I could resist. It was a nice image, humorous, and for a brief, brief second, I was sorely tempted not to correct the man. To let him stew.

Fortunately, common sense prevailed, if only just.

"Ah, no my Lord, not that one," I said with a straight face, resisting the urge to laugh at the man as I extended the second scroll towards him. "-that one, is for Lord Manderly. Yours is this one."

"No, no, you might as well keep it," I waved the man off, ignoring the proffered scroll as I extended to him his own 'official' appointment. "-you know, since you'll be delivering it to Lord Manderly on your way up north anyway."

"North?" The burly man's brow furrowed, his eyes drifting up from the two scrolls in his hand. "I've just sodding marched south across half o' bloody Westeros," he grumbled. "Why would I be marching back north?"

Hibberd, the bastard, also looked rather interested. Too interested, although his interest looked rather more sinister from where I was sitting, far more so than a loyal maester merely in the service of his 'king' probably had any right to. Or, at least that was my take on it. The circumstances of his arrival and later, his entry into my service were not a secret, nor was the ease in which he had managed to ingratiate himself into my 'inner circle', small and relatively new as it was.

Privately, I suspected the man to be a spy, not a Lannister one, heavens no, but he was definitely an informant of some sort, and almost certainly he was a Manderly one. Wyman Manderly after all, was not a stupid man. Shrewd, yes, fat, most definitely, but he was also very, very dangerous. A thought to keep in mind, even if he was technically a Stark loyalist.

"I need a loyal man in the North, my lord, one that I can trust explicitly," I said with a smile, watching as the giant sat up straighter at the implication that he was the loyal man in question. "-and as my newly appointed Lord Chancellor, you cannot govern this new kingdom of ours on my behalf from the frontlines, now can you?"

"L-Lord… govern. Your Grace?"

"I am formally appointing you, my lord Umber, as Lord Chancellor of the Kingdom of the North and, well the Trident too I suppose, invested with my full authority and power and a mandate to keep the King's peace, draw up new and existing levies for a second host north of the Neck, and to defend our homeland in this army's absence."

"I, ah… Your Grace, I, I don't know what to say-"

"Say thank you, and accept," I offered the flustered man with a raised eyebrow, ignoring his fumbling as he scanned the contents of his scroll incredulously.

"Lord Chancellor?" he mumbled mystified, his eyes squinting as he tried out the title for himself.

"Forgive me my impertiance, Your Grace," Maester Hibberd apologised warily. "-but what exactly *is* a 'Lord Chancellor'?"

And there he went again, I thought with a sigh, always asking the awkward fucking questions.

"Well, I suppose it's somewhat like a Hand of the King," I said somewhat vaguely, again ignoring the Greatjon's exclaimed 'Hand of the King!" in the background.

Hibberd's lip's puckered in consternation as he stared curiously at me, as if I was some fascinating species of bug previously unknown. It wasn't a good look on him, not at all, and it made me feel rather uncomfortable to boot.

"Then why not simply use the title already in existence, Your Grace?"

Why indeed? I thought wryly, noticing that Lord Umber's eyes had risen to watch our impromptu little discussion, even as I floundered for an answer.

I couldn't very well tell the man that I was an imposter from a world far more advanced and superior to this… shithole that I'd landed in. I also couldn't tell the prying Maester that as such an imposter, an imposter with an above average interest in *my* own country's old, and often rather sordid history, that I did in fact have quite a bit of knowledge regarding the various structures, workings and political reforms that my own beloved Blighty had gone through in order to become the constitutional monarchy that we Brit's all knew, loved and openly complained about. Compared to where I had come from, Westeros' whole system of government -effectively decentralised to the max, concentrating what little power and authority the central government had into the hands of seven people, none of whom actually had to have any level of experience, or even competence, in their appointed roles, was a really poor fucking model of government whichever way one might choose to look at it.

Perhaps I was just spoiled, you know? Coming from a world where the majority of ruling governments, whether they were democratic or… not, constitutional monarchies or… republics, all of them were relatively competent(ish), usually well organised, and quite clearly ran rather efficiently (when they wanted to)...

…unlike whatever the fuck you'd call the trainwreck that was the 'Seven Kingdoms', and thus, medieval England was now, for better or worse, the chosen model of government that I was going to strive towards, both because it was, a) achievable given the technology I had at hand, and b) because if it had worked once before, I was confidant it could work again. Mostly…

...hopefully...

Still, my not wanting to tell the White Harbor native any of this was not out of any real desire to spare the man's feelings you understand, but rather, because as a 'noble' born and raised in Westeros, it would have been unheard of, nay, almost impossible for me to have developed such views on my own -not to mention the whole pesky 'travelled from another world' business, and it would only raise further suspicion regarding my 'odd' behaviour these last few weeks.

So, with the truth well and truly out of the question, I was going to go and fall back on what was rapidly becoming my default mode of operation in situations like these… I was going to bullshit my way out of it.

"Well," I started slowly, stroking my chin as I caught the Greatjons gaze with a challenging stare of my own. "-given last night's apparent desire to effectively sever all ties to the south and by extension, the Iron Throne, I rather thought that adopting the trappings of Targaryen monarchical tradition might be a rather poor start for our nascent independence movement. Hence… a fresh start. A new Kingdom, all new trappings, so to speak."

The Greatjon just stared at me for moment, as if he was trying, and failing to decipher the meaning of my words, but surprisingly enough he rallied right on through, and with a gleeful shout he cried, "Hear hear! The King in the North!"

Naturally, his impromptu cheer did not exactly go down as well as he'd probably intended it to. Hibberd frowned, I winced, and while the Greatjon clapped his hands together, an unrepentant look of glee on his face, I congratulated myself on another bullet well dodged, and that, was that. Or so I thought…

Alas, just like the last time I thought i'd managed to dodge the metaphorical bullet, it somehow managed to veer around all on it's own and bite me in the arse, again.

"Yes, well, trappings aside Your Grace, ruling a fief and governing a Kingdom are hardly the same thing, and while i'm sure Lord Umber is more than capable of fulfilling the duties of this… new office adequately, with respect, might not a more suitable candidate, one with more experience in governance over a large populace be preferable? Perhaps my Lord M-"

"-'Ere now, what exactly do you mean, 'adequately'?"

"Well, I, I was merely-"

"Merely, is it? Merely adequately? The fuck would your kind know of the North, eh Andal? Of the Godswoods? Of the Clansmen, or the-"

"I was simply trying to-"

"I know what you were-"

Well there we go, I thought with yet another sigh, wearily rubbing the bridge of my nose with a frown, not two appointments into my new government and already the politicking begins.

...and sadly, the worst part of it all was, it wasn't as surprising as it probably should have been. History was filled to the brim of the cup with royal courts full of scheming nobles constantly trying to advance their own families positions at the expense of others, and Hibberd?

Well, Hibberd was, as I mentioned earlier, most likely a Manderly plant, and an increasingly annoying one at that, my formerly fond feelings for the man aside.

"-listen here you little Andal fuc-"

"My Lord Umber, that's enough. Peace."

At the sound of my voice, the mans flying insult fell flat, his apropoletic gaze shifting back to me even as I turned my attention onto my 'acting' Maester. "As for you Hibberd, my decision stands, Lord Umber shall muster three hundred good men and install himself in Winterfell as my Lord Chancellor at my-"

"Your Grace, surely-"

"I said enough," I retorted sharply, cutting the man's interruption to pieces. "I understand you have your reservations on the matter, but the truth of the situation at hand is that I need someone I can trust in Winterfell."

At that, Hibberd's mouth opened wordlessly in protest while the Greatjon preened like a eight foot bloody peacock.

"Your Grace," Hibberd started, a dab of perspiration colouring his brow as he shot the smirking Umber giant a particularly scathing look. "My Lord Manderly is a loyal and leal-"

"-bannerman, yes, yes, yes. I get the point, I do, and if you recall backwards my good Maester, you'll remember that Lord Chancellor Umber has in his possession, a letter confirming your master as Lord Treasurer of the Realm. Along with further instructions to found, or rather, reopen the Royal Mint, and begin a series of surveys and assessments on the size, productivity and the populations living upon all of the lands within our new kingdom, no?"

"Ah-"

"-and given the scope, size and delicate nature of the tasks entrusted unto him, do you imagine loyal Lord Manderly will have the time to serve also as my Lord Chancellor, especially given the military commitments I suspect the office will become rather embroiled in, hmm?"

"Military com... -Your Grace, surely you don't expect the war to reach the North proper, do you?"

At the annoyingly perceptive White Harbor native's words, I wanted to wince, badly, because really… how little he knew...

Luckily, despite the images of rampaging Ironborn, and a burning Winterfell, and Ramsey fucking Bolton, I managed to suppress the urge, if only just, focusing instead on what wouldn't be, rather than what had been, in another world.

"Well," I said, my voice sounding more than a little strained as I struggled to rid myself of the image of particularly stubborn scene from HBO's Game of Thrones. "I don't know if you've realised this, good Maester, but we, as a Kingdom, seem to be lacking one rather important weapon in our collective arsonal-"

I paused for a moment, to collect my thoughts, ignoring my two waiting companions as my mind swirled with possibilities.

How was I going to explain the situation without giving myself away?

Ah… right, that should do...

"A fleet gentlemen, we, both the North, and our Riverlander cousins here in the south, lack a fleet." As Hibberd's brow crinkled, the Greatjon waved me on impatiently, a peculiar glint in his eyes as he waited for me to continue, and buggery on me if that wasn't the first time in this whole conversation that Lord Umber seemed to grasp the gist of my point before my Master of Scribes had.

"To compound this matter further," I went on, "outside of ourselves and Dorne, everybody else does. At Lannisport lies the fleet Lord Tywin rebuilt after the Greyjoy Rebellion was put down, the Reach, and by extension Renly Baratheon, can call upon both the Redwyne and the Hightower fleets. Stannis Baratheon holds the Royal Fleet at Dragonstone and the Ironborn, well, from reports I received back at Winterfell from Lords Glover, Mormont and the Flint of Flint's Finger, it would seem that Balon Greyjoy has rebuilt his Iron Fleet."

Hibberd, to his credit, was looking rather worried now, although I plowed on before he could get another word in. "As such, considering we now have vast stretches of undefended, and unpopulated -in the west coasts case, coastlines, and given we have effectively declared ourselves independent, and probably pissed off all the aforementioned parties as a result… then yes good Maester, I do indeed expect the war to reach the North proper, don't you?"

Hibberd, the poor sot, now resembled a bit of a tomato, so red was his face. Although whether that was a result of me dressing him down like a parent would an unruly child, or simple mortification of not having realised the exact same thing before me, I knew not.

Maesters, I thought sourly, think their all so clever, don't they?

"S-surely not Lord Greyjoy, Y-your Grace?" Hibberd stuttered, his face flushed as he mopped at his brow with that parchment. The bastard, I'd worked really hard on that! "He was beaten in the Rebellion and he-"

"-was left alive and well 'nough to nurse a grudge the size of Essos. The spiteful little squid fuck-"

-"surely wouldn't dare assault the North while we still have his heir… would he?"

Watching the pair of them trying to talk over each other was starting to give me a migraine, and not for the first time, I wished I'd woken up in Narnia. Shit like this didn't happen there I was positive. Disney had made the books into fucking films so they couldn't be that bad, right?

Fucking Westeros.

Still, we -all three of us, had to get through this meeting at some point, and so, once more I descended unto the breach, with just a tad of hesitance for good measure.

"My Lord, please," I said, again, shooting the Lord of Last Hearth a wry smile, "much as I may share your opinion of the Ironborn as a rule, let's try to stay on topic, shall we?"

The Umber man snorted, but consented, allowing me to focus my attention on the 'Grey Rat' to his right. Hibberd for his part at least, still seemed to be trying to stitch back together his composure, to little avail.

"As for 'Lord Greyjoy," I responded with a scoff, not even bothering to try and hide the derision in my tone. "-we are in fact talking about the same silly cunt that thought it a good idea to rebel against Robert Baratheon at the height of his power, when the other six kingdoms were firmly behind him and he could call on more ships and fleets than the Iron Islands probably have people. I expect a fool to act like a fool, Maester, and Balon Greyjoy is both a fool and a cunt-"

"-surely he wouldn't risk his Heir though, Your Grace! Winterfell holds young Greyjoy as a hostage, to-to attack the North would-"

"-not bother him in the slightest I fear," I replied evenly. "Son or not, Lord Balon has not seen Theon in the better part of a decade, and barely written to him at all in that time, something I, can personally attest to. We cannot, and should not, count on whatever fatherly feelings the Lord Reaver of Pyke should have for his son, when looking towards the greater defence of our new realm. Agreed?"

"I… suppose so, Your Grace."

"Aye, lad. You 'ave the right of it, Yer Grace. Sod the Greyjoy cunts, the lot of 'em!"

"Which brings us round to another threat we potentially face-"

"A-another t-threat, Your Grace?"

"Aye," I said with a downturned twist of my own lips. "Another threat, and perhaps an even deadlier one given the situation."

Although by no means the worst...

"Worse than fucking Lannisters and Squids, Yer Grace? Hah!"

"You scoff, my Lord Umber', I said with a grimace, all traces of levity and lightness gone from my voice as I suddenly realised the enormity of the task ahead of us. All of us. "-but tell me, what do you know of Mance Rayder? The so-called King-Beyond-the-Wall."

At that, Lord Umbers face turned into a new picture in a league all of its own, a dark, gloomy, stormy little picture, and for a brief instance, I almost regretted mentioning the Wildling King to him, but needs must.

"He's a cunt," the burly looking man growled, shifting on his stool as his fists clenched tightly by his side, even as he continued. "-raids 'ave been increasing by the dozens since 'e appeared, one group o' Wildlings nearly carried off me daughter Eddara last time, and it's because of 'im, Mance fucking Rayder. 'E's made the Wildlings bolder than ever, 'e-"

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but who exactly is this Mance Rayder?"

"Who- Mance Rayder! You've don' even know who Mance pissing Rayder is!?'"

"W-well' I-"

"An they say Last Hearth's at the end of the bloody world," the Greatjon grumbled, shooting the flustered Maester a withering look, while Hibberd shot me a pleading one.

"He's a former member of the Night's Watch," I answered the man distractedly, watching from the corner of my eye as the Greatjon mumbled, 'fucking Manderly's, if it's not coin or food they're bloody-'.

"-a wildling who was, at least according to my Uncle Benjen, born beyond the wall and then found and raised a Brother at Castle Black. By all accounts he is now both a deserter and a traitor, and has curried enough influence amongst the varying tribes and clans up there to start calling himself King-Beyond-the-Wall."

Hibberd just frowned. "I've not heard tell of any Wildling King, Your Grace, not a recent one at any rate, nor has Lord Manderly as far as I'm aware. Where did you hear of him?"

With a bit of a forced smile, ignoring the pang of… something that clenched at my chest, I shook my head ruefully. "My uncle Benjen serves as the First Ranger at Castle Black and visited us when King Robert came to Winterfell."

Hibberd nodded.

"Most of the news regarding him is just hearsay at the moment, little more than rumours than anything tangible, but if he decides to follow in his predecessors footsteps, especially with so much of our strength here in the south, well…"

"We'll be buggered," the Greatjon said. And damned if that wasn't the overall feeling that seemed to be floating around the interior of the tent like a great big swollen raincloud, one that all three of us felt like we standing under, without an umbrella, out in the open, with bugger all shelter to be found.

And that wasn't even counting our odds against the White Walkers…

Or the fake [maybe?] Aegon and his Golden Company…

Or the crazy Dragon Lady and her… army? Horde?

Or even Euron fucking Greyjoy and his eerie Lovecraftian vibes...

None of whom I mentioned out loud, but truthfully, when everything was listed out like that, well...

A pretty picture it did not paint. The Greatjon was right. We were well and truly buggered.

Still, while I might not have appreciated my newfound second chance at life, especially in Westeros of all places, it was still a step above death, and I had no intentions of dying. At least not in the brutal or humiliating methods that seemed so common in this world.

Worst case scenario, I thought, I'd stick out this 'King in the North' malarkey as long as feasibly possible and make sure I had a well stocked ship manned by a loyal crew at the ready at all times. The Summer Islands, I had read, were rather lovely all things considered, the perfect place for a King-in-Exile to retire, or hide. I'd be like Jalabhar Xho, only in reverse, and without the desire to 'return home' and 'recover my rightful lands'.

Granted, I'd probably have to turn to prostitution to make a living at that point but… hey, work in progress, right? Besides, prostitution was, at least in the Summer Islands, supposedly, at least according to the asoiaf wiki, an honorable profession there, so…

Anyway, putting aside the thought of my eventual retirement and future career, you know, assuming I couldn't squirrel away a little slush fund in the meanwhile, I turned back to the more pressing matters in front of me.

"Well then gentlemen, let us summarize that which has so far been decided upon shall we?"

Both of fellow boon companions, [and how cool was it that I could think that and not feel a complete and utter twat?] nodded agreeably, perhaps for the first time ever in sync.

"You, my Lord Umber," I said, pointing at the man. "-are now my Lord Chancellor, with full control over my future Royal Chancelleries and will, in the meanwhile, ensure that our homeland is kept safe and secure through this time of chaos and upheavals, yes? That means keeping the bickering between feuding Houses at a minimum, the Forrester and the Whitehill clans especially. Hell, I expect you to keep at least one eye on the Dreadfort and it's inhabitants at all times. I don't trust Bolton as far as I can fucking throw him, and the mans as ruthless as Tywin Lannister and as slippery as an eel, I wouldn't put it past him to try and take advantage of our absence to aggrandise himself at my more vulnerable bannermens expense. Understood?"

"Aye, Yer Grace, it'll be my pleasure. If the skin weavers put a finger out of line, I'll smash 'em mysen." The gleam in the man's eyes was strangely reassuring, and unexpectedly, another of Maester Luwin's lessons with young Robb Stark sprung to mind.

'...there's little lost love between the Dreadfort of the Bolton's, young Lord, and those of the Last Hearth and its lands…"

"Good man," I smirked. "Secondly, however, we need more men. While some of the Clansmen of the Mountains have answered our call to arms, most did not. Why, I care not, but if we're going to succeed in this… this… 'venture' of ours, then they're going to be needed. The Barrow Knights of Barrowton too, and if Lady Dustin starts giving you any problems, remind her of her duties to her liege lord and the fate that awaits traitors."

Lord Umber's smirk widened just a fracture at that, and again, it wasn't hard to see why. The Barrow Knights of the Barrowlands were considered to be something of a… odd bunch at the best of times, more so in the eyes of their fellow Northmen.

You see, from what I'd managed to piece together through a mixture of my own questions and my-Robb's memories, the Barrow Knights were technically anointed and swore their oaths in the light of the Seven, while in practise, well, they still worshipped trees. As I said, they were an odd bunch, and for a Kingdom like the North that was saying something. The Faith, if it ever actually bothered to look into it's 'investment' once in a while, you know, actually having to physically tear it's gaze away from Oldtown and Kings Landing long enough to see how their whole 'convert the pagan Northmen' programme was going, would surely be horrified by the rather blatant heresy that was prevalent throughout that particular region of the North.

Well, if you could call forsaking an entire religion once you'd gotten what you wanted out of it heresy, I suppose.

"And the Squids, lad?"

"Ah," the Squids, hmmm. Truthfully, there was very little that could actually be done to prevent the initial loss of territory to the Ironborn should they choose to go 'al la viking' parallel to their cannon counterparts. Not in the short amount of time I had readily available to me at least.

There were three reasons for this primarily, and they were thus;

Firstly, Moat Cailin was a dump. A run-down, swamp-ridden ruin. At best there were three towers still capable of hosting garrisons, the walls had long since sunk into the surrounding bogs, and while it was still a formidable barrier on its southern face, its northern face was… less so. Add in it's close proximity to the Fever River and, well… cannon, anyone?

Secondly was, as previously mentioned, the North's entire west coast. It was poorly populated, dotted with small fishing villages and little farming hamlets further inland. There were no great castles, or forts or defensive works of any real use, not since the Fisher King's had been obliterated by my-Robb's ancestors and their lands divided up between the Mormonts, the Glovers, the Dustins and the Ryswell's.

...and thirdly? We, the Starks, the North as a whole, whoever you wanted to define as 'we', had no fleet. Well, not one of any real worth deserving of the title. Not since that pilloc Brandon [i.e. the Burner] decided to do the stupidest thing in what I privately suspected might very well be the 'History of Stupidity'.

Nope, if Balon Greyjoy had been serious when he told Theon [in the books, or the televised series, I wasn't quite sure which] that they were preparing for an invasion of the North, and if he followed through with it in this world, then nothing we [again, as Starks, the North, etc.] could do would really change things in the short term.

Which I readily told my grim faced Lord Chancellor, even as he frowned. Again.

"It would only be temporary, my Lord," I admitted solemnly. "From a historical standpoint the Iron Islands lack a sufficient population to effectively garrison everything, and the North is vast. With a second host ready and assembled north of the Neck we can counter them at our leisure and keep them confined to the coast for the most part."

Umber didn't look any more reassured by my matter-of-fact statement than before, and perhaps, for the first time since his appointment, he was truly starting to grasp the importance of the task I was entrusting unto him. Well, one could hope. Regardless, I suppose he really couldn't do a worse job of things than that marvelously inept trio of Bran, Rodrick and Luwin ala cannon. Although that might be being a tad too harsh on my-Robb's little brother, you know, him been a child and all that.

"Regardless," I said with small smile, determined to finish with this damnable meeting once and for all. "-before you leave for your new post, ravens will be sent to White Harbor instructing Lord Manderly to raise a new force of men, arms and craftsmen and send them to Moat Cailin to help reinforce that old ruin, it if falls were as good as doomed in the long run. Other ravens will be dispatched to Winterfell informing the household there of my intentions and your new position, along with instructions for Deepwood Motte, Bear Island and Torrhen's Square to remain vigilant, bolster their own defences and keep a wary eye on the seas and rivers near them. With any luck my Lord, by the time you arrive in the North, preparations for the North's seaborne defence will already be well under way, allowing you to focus on more pressing matters."

"And this… this Mance Rayder, Your Grace? What of him?" Hibberd finally asked, his rather frazzled eyebrows rising just a tad higher than previously. "Obviously, it would seem you've put quite a bit of thought into how best to defend our home should the worst indeed occur, but-"

"Mance Rayder is not an immediate concern," I waved the Maester off. "In the future, possibly, but right now, no. Besides which, between him and us stands a great big bloody wall of ice and the Night's Watch. Even in their current dilapidated state, the Black Brothers are more than capable of fending off the buggers for a while, and if it comes to the worst, well… Lord Umber will be there to beat the bastards back, aye?"

"Aye!" The aforementioned Lord agreed cheerfully, while Hibberd nodded wearily. Evidently he, unlike the Greatjon who looked positively ecstatic, appeared to have had enough of our impromptu little 'small council' meeting for the day and just wanted to bugger off. It was, I noted somewhat wrly, a sentiment I shared.

Thankfully, despite all the interruptions and the arguments I'd pretty much managed to discuss what I had set out to, and thus, we could all finally leave. Umber to do… well whatever it was he did in his spare time, Hibberd to start recruiting my nascent bureaucracy, and me… I was going back to bed. My head was fucking killing me.

Unfortunately for me and master Hibberd, it wasn't to be.

"Well," the booming giant of a man said with a grin, his good cheer at the prospect of a couple of potential wars all of his own plain for all to hear. "-as Lord Chancellor, and afore I go north, I have an urgent matter all o' me own that needs to be discussed, Yer Grace."

With a long suffering sigh and a slight stiffening of my spine, I turned about face and glanced at the Greatjon questioningly, "Yes?"

"About yer coronation lad-"

For fuck's sake does he never give it a bloody rest?

"It's Your Grace," Hibberd corrected irritably.

"-yer can't jus-"

I held up a hand and the giant of a man's bluster died down in an instant, even if his stare didn't.

"A coronation now would be both pointless and an extravagant waste of resources, in both food and time."

"Pointless! Yer a King, Yer Grace, the men expect-"

"We have Tywin Lannister on the run," I interjected swiftly, cutting off the protests of my loyalist, biggest, most meddlesome vassal before he could start. Again. "Right now he's trapped, here, in the Riverlands. We've effectively cut off his supply lines, he has no reinforcements, and depending on how well Lord Glover's little distraction worked, he has three choices. He can either retreat east into the Crownlands, surrendering the Riverlands to us and putting even more pressure on Kings Landings probably already poor food reserves. He can flee west, holding a defensive position near the Golden Tooth, again surrendering the Riverlands to us and leaving Kings Landing wide open to attack. Or, and more likely his preferable option, he can find himself a nice big castle to house his army and survey his options. Right now we have the initiative and we need to press our advantage, and soon, before we lose momentum."

Umber looked agreeable enough to my argument but still he persisted. The twat. "A few days surely wouldn't hurt things too much, eh? As you yerself said, Yer Grace, we've got the Old Lion by the tail."

Aye, I thought sourly. So did the original Robb Stark, in the beginning, and look how that turned out.

"The men won't like marching so bloody soon lad, they need rest, they've just fought two battles. An' a coronation would help-"

"There's not going to be any bloody coronations Lord Umber!" I growled in frustration, cutting the man off mid sentence, and silencing the tent in an instant.

Maester Hibberd cocked an eyebrow in surprise at my outburst while the Greatjon merely frowned. Again. It was, to my rather bitter amusement, something he was starting to do nearly as much I was sighing. War really did bring out the worst habits in everyone.

Still, it wouldn't do to offend the man too much, especially since I was kind of banking on him to keep the North in one piece. He was loyal, after all, even if he was a colossal pain in the arse.

"I understand your desire to make last night's proclamation…" I fished around for a suitable word, "more official, my lord." Which was a complete and utter lie by any definition. I was bloody furious with the man, and his men, and all the other men, and the Mormonts, and everyone even remotely involved in last night's whole debacle. But, well, spilt milk and all that.

"Truly, I do", I continued, ignoring the sceptical look on Hibberd's face -at a guess I supposed the man had heard of my reaction to the Greatjon's proposal late last night. "But now is not the time for such things."

The Lord of Last Hearth's expression lightened some but it didn't stop him. "The men will expect-"

"They will expect pomp, and mead and they'll expect a feast," I finished grimly. "I know. Just like I also know that we can't afford it."

More protests were about to issue forth before I rubbished them with another shake of my head. "I'm not talking about coin, Lord Umber. Food. Food is what I'm talking about."

Umbers face puckered at that, frustration creeping across his giant features as the Maester nodded understandingly.

"You fear depleting the harvest stores any further than they already have been, Your Grace?"

"I do. Winter is coming, my lord Umber, if you'll pardon my pun. The North has never been as fertile or productive as its more southron neighbors, and with Tywin Lannister having torched the southern riverlands, our new kingdom stands on the precipice of major food shortages in the future."

In an instant the Lord of Last Hearth started cursing; the Lannisters, westerlanders, mostly just at southrons in general really, as understanding finally dawned upon the man as the proverbial penny dropped.

As had become unofficial protocol whenever the man veered off into profanity, I ignored him, turning my attention back onto the bed I had seated myself on, trying to ignore the discomfort my backside was starting experience.

Who the fuck knew you could miss something so insignificant as springs? Fucking Westeros.

"-shit's gold. Lannister cunts."

Seriously, first it was the beer, and now the lack of springs in my bed?

God, I was so screwed. Fuck printing presses and gunpowder, the first thing I was inventing was springs. A few more nights like last night and I'd probably start considering suicide as a viable alternative.

Fucking Westeros.

"-plan?"

"Hmm?"

Belatedly, I realised Lord Umber had stopped his swearing and had instead devoted his entire energies towards making me feel as small as possible, by staring at me. Intently.

Hibberd coughed discreetly and I looked at him quizzingly. "I asked, Your Grace, if you have a plan? Evidently, you seem to have a rather good grasp of the situation at hand, and while your prudence does you credit, I fear it may not sit well with your vassals." Discreetly, he motioned towards the Greatjon, who also now gazed at me intently, again, as if I were a specimen of some fascinating species previously unknown to him. Which was getting really fucking annoying.

"Ah."

A plan? Who the buggery did he think he was talking to? Of course I had plan! It just wasn't a very good one, or even a full one… or even twelve percent of one.

Okay, so it was more of a general idea rather than an actual plan, but it still counted.

Hopefully.

"Your Grace?"

"I have a plan", I announced decidedly, face straight and pose relaxed. I could do this. I could definitely do this. All I needed to do was...

Act like a King, act like a King, act like a-

"You do?"

At the sound of the new voice, which was neither male, old, or even remotely attempting to reign in its annoyed undertone, the three of our heads whipped to the opening of the tent in surprise, just in time to observe our newest arrivals as they entered.

The Greatjon winced, Maester Hibberd jumped, and quietly, I swore.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace", my squire squarked embarrassedly, his face a beet red, as he was bodily shoved aside by the doubter herself. "Lady Mormont insisted on seeing you, wouldn't take no for an answer."

With a motion of my hand, I waved his apologies off. Bloody Mormont's, got no sodding patience, none of them.

"Of course I have a plan", I retorted indignantly, watching my Frey squire right himself even as the she-bear brazenly waltzed into the tent as if she owned the damnable thing. "I have a plan so cunning you could stick a tail on it and call it a weasel," I went on, unable to help myself even as the classic quote slipped past my mouth.

Olyvar blanched, the Greatjon laughed and the Lady Mormont raised an unamused eyebrow pointedly. It didn't take long for realisation to hit me like a slap to the face with a wet fish.

"Er… no offense Olyvar."

"N-none taken, Your Grace."

Needless to say, my current abode been so tiny, the tent was getting rather cramped.

"What are you bloody doing here anyway?" I snapped irritably, feeling rather vindicated in my irritation given the fact that the last time the woman had been in fairly close proximity to me, she'd lobbed rocks at my lordly visage.

Dacey's annoyed frown turned sour. "What do you mean, 'What am I doing here', it's my tent!"

Wha?

"What do you mean, it's your tent?"

"It's my tent!" She insisted.

It was, with a creeping sense of horrified realisation, that I put two and two together. It really was her tent. DM wasn't an artist's signature, or whatever the medieval equivalent was, it somebody's initials. Dacey Mormont's initials.

Shit. No wonder the lass was looking pissed, she'd probably spent the night sleeping under a tree. Or in Riverrun, I thought sourly, regretting the fact that I'd not retained even enough wits to make it to the chamber moth-Lady Catelyn had most likely set aside for me.

Well. There was only one thing for it.

"Olyvar", I growled, making the nervous youth flinch despite his few years on me.

"Your Grace?" the lanky looking lad wheezed, looking at the furious She-bear as she glared at the pair of us.

"Why? Why in all the Seven Hells did you lead me here? I trusted you!"

Olyvar's eyes widened comically as he started stammering denials. Was it a little cowardly to throw my squire to the wolves? Yes. Did I regret doing so? Not even remotely.

"A-actually, Y-your Grace, you, you kind of stumbled in here last night and wouldn't come out."

Vaguely, it was all making a very foggy kind of sense, not that I was going to admit that out loud. With how furious the Mormont chick was looking, somebody was going to pay for what had happened, and let's face facts. It wasn't going to be me. I was a King! And Olyvar was getting thrown under the bus, whether he deserved it or not.

"-was wonderin why the tent was so small," I heard the Greatjon mumble, even as I figured somebody had to ask the all important question nobody wanted to voice. "Well, where's my tent then?"

The Greatjon offered me a shrug. "Don't look at me lad," he said with a grin. "-was your squire that brought me here. I thought this was your tent, even if it is a wee small."

"It's my tent!"

"Yes, yes, yes, we've already established that, my lady", I waved off the outraged outburst with a dismissive wave. "What I want to know, is if I already had a tent erected, then how the flying fuck did I end up in this one? Olyvar?"

I already knew of course, or I was to beginning to suspect. Subconsciously, my last coherent memory was of departing the disastrous war council the previous evening and ordering my unwanted squire to fetch me some wine, some very strong wine. The memories after that were not so clear, but it didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened. My alcohol tolerance was shit, and everybody knew it. Well, everybody in my old world had known it. I guess some things had carried over into this world after all, though that was a thought far from comforting.

"I-I, you were drunk, Your Grace."

The Greatjon snorted.

"-very drunk. You wanted to lay down, and when you saw the tent-"

With a heavy sigh I held up my hand to stall the inevitable embarrassment that was sure to follow. Stories involving drunken persons were always embarrassing. I didn't need my bannermen hearing that kind of shit, I was deep enough in it already.

"Well, where is my tent?"

Olyvar looked uneasily over at the Northern warmaiden and winced. "I'm not sure it is your tent any more, Your Grace."

Something about the way he said those words didn't settle well with me, not at all. The growing smirk on the face of Lady Mormont wasn't helping matters any either.

"Wait a minute", I breathed out, shooting a sharp look in the direction of the tents opening. "If this is your tent, where did you sleep?"

Olyvar flinched, and that was damn near answer enough. It was rather obvious where she'd slept.

Jutting her chin up daringly, the Heiress of Bear Island sniffed disdainfully. "You stole my tent, so I stole yours."

She stole my…

"That's my tent", I cried out in shock, unwittingly parroting the very words I'd been a recipient of not minutes ago.

"You stole my tent!"

"Borrowed", I denied flatly, faking outrage beyond measure at her cheek. "Besides which, it's all Olyvars fault."

The tent descended into an embarrassed sort of silence at that. Olyvar was shuffling impatiently in the entryway, alternating between casting the mormont bird wary looks and shooting me betrayed ones. The Greatjon was looking utterly amused, and it was, I noted surprisingly, an expression mirrored on the face of my acting maester. Which was surprising in and of itself really, considering the man hadn't so much as cracked a smile since we'd met.

Mormont though… she still looked pissed, not quite so much as she had in the beginning, but, she was still angry. Even a man with as little experience with the fairer half of the Human race as me could spot that.

"Well!?"

"Well what?" I snapped back, still sat down on her bed, in her tent, glaring back at her. Don't get me wrong, I was definitely at fault here, I knew it, she knew it, we all knew it, but I'd be damned if I was going to give voice to it.

I didn't want to be a King, but I'd become one nonetheless, and King's did not apologize. Or at least I was pretty sure they didn't.

"If your finished sitting there like a log, is there any chance I can have my tent back?"

The scathing tone in which the Lady Dacey asked that question, was decidedly uncalled for I reckoned, so too was the name calling, but I decided to take to take the high road. I was a King.

"Were a little bit busy at the moment," I replied grandly, flashing the woman what I could only describe as my most charming smile. Which was true, of sorts, we were busy, but there was also another reason I was loath to leave my canvas haven.

The King in the North.

In here, I was just Robb, but out there? After last night? Nope. King I might be, but I was going to hold off on confronting the gigantic cock-up that was last night's war council for as long as I could get away with it. Fuck em, fuck em all… Dacey Mormont chief among em!

"You know how it is," I explained, "new Kingdom, lots of little things to be done, grand plans to be laid down, proj-"

"In my tent?"

Ignoring her prickly interruption, I noticed the worried frown Lord Umber shot at her and grew worried in turn. What's he so worried about?

"It's a very nice tent, my lady," I complimented her, my voice growing decidedly weaker as I noticed her eyes narrow and her fingers start itching towards her mace. A brutish, ugly great thing, all coarse iron and aged leather handle wrappings. It looked rather painful.

By this point, my double dealing turncoat of a squire had decided that discretion was evidently the better part of valour and had begun backing away, out of the tent. Lord Umber was looking like he was about to follow him, him and Hibberd both.

"Listen here Stark", the raven haired woman growled, blowing an errant lock of her fringe out of her eyes, as she stomped menacingly closer towards the bed. "King you may be, but this is my bloody tent!"

The Greatjon stood abruptly, shooting me an apologetic look as he did so, and it was with a sickly feeling I realised the bastard was preparing to run.

Cunts, I thought appreciatively, spotting Maester Hibberd slowly backing out towards the tent's flaps on the rest of the tents occupants tails. Fucking traitors.

"-nd I need a bath and a change of clothes," her words trailed off as she stopped before me, her eyes shooting me a look as I stared worriedly up at her.

Now, while I wouldn't say she was definitely in need of a shower -bath, I corrected myself mournfully, thinking of yet another great delight that would now forever be denied me -the Lady Mormont was most definitely in need of a change of clothes. Or armour, or whatever the fuck she wore when she wasn't bashing in faces and stabbing people in the chest.

Strangely enough though, I mused, with a rather detached sense of morbid wonder, the crusted bloodstains on her chainmail didn't do all that much to detract from her beauty. Kind of made her look all the more appealing really.

"...and I assume you'd like to change now? Not in say… ten minutes?"

"GET OUT OF MY BLOODY TENT!"

Surprisingly enough, the four of us really, really didn't need to be told twice, even if I did need to run a little faster on account of my companions head start.

Bastards.


The first glows of the early morning sun were only just visible above the gently sloping foothills of the Pendric Hills in the distance.

Hastily, as I stumbled out of the Lady Mormont's tent on the coattails of my turncloak companions, my eyes slammed shut of their own accord, blocking out the early morning rays, as I took a moment to right myself.

Evidently, been a King did not make one immune to the wrath of an angry woman. Not that I could really blame her. I'd be pissy too if someone knicked me out of my tent and forced me to sleep in their larger, softer, far more comfortable bed. Take note of the sarcasm, eh?

Suddenly, as if summoned by my disaperaging thoughts of her, the canvas behind my head rippled with the impact of an object thrown towards me. A goblet of some sort I reckoned, or perhaps my drinking horn, though I was loath to try my luck reclaiming the wretched thing. More so after the hole it had seemingly helped me dig myself into last night.

Fucking Westeros.

Swallowing my reluctance to move any further from my oh so recently liberated 'happy place', I glanced out around at the camp and winced inwardly.

Tents, was the first thought that came to mind, lots and lots of tents. Hundreds of them truth be told, perhaps even thousands -I wasn't really in the mood to count, all of them stretching as far as my eyes could see, mostly erected in straight lines although a few, it must be said, did wander haphazardly into the camp pathways. It was a horribly sobering sight, and looking out at it for what might very well have been the half a hundredth time, it still was. Two weeks had not yet lessened the effect it had on me.

It simply made everything all too real. I was in Westeros.

Few people were up and about. Probably still sleeping off the party last night, I thought with a grunt, idly wishing I could join the bastards, provided I could actually find my tent.

"Well, that could have gone worse," the Greatjon laughed, attempting to discreetly wipe a thin sheen of sweat from his brow.

Worse? I thought agape, my mouth dropping down into a rather passable imitation of my little sisters formerly alive pet goldfish. He thinks that could have gone worse?

Maester Hibberd evidently seemed to share my opinion on the matter if his scowl was any indication.

"Well," the Greatjon said, his good cheer unrepentant in the face of our less than sterling agreement. "-it could have been worse. A lot worse. Never does well to make a she-bear angry, Yer Grace."

I opened my mouth to retort that it wasn't quite my fault, but in fact Olyvar, my squires fault, but another voice beat me to the silence.

"Av a good night, Yer Grace?"

Oh for fucks sake… please, please tell me nobody saw me coming out of 'her' tent, pleas-

"Hron, what are you doing?" a young, strangled sounding voice yelped from some ways behind me, his tone sounding equal parts exasperated and horrified.

Well… bugger.

"-are you trying to get us eaten?"

Eaten? Wha?

Attempting my best to wrestle the confused and no doubt mildly embarrassed expression on my face, I looked up again at the faces of my newly minted Lord Chancellor and Master of Scribes and blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Eaten," I muttered quietly, rounding on the giant of a man in front of me. "Lord Umber, why do my men think their going to be eaten?"

Behind me, I could hear a choking sound, and the slap of what I could only imagine was a palm against face.

As the Lord of Last Hearth struggled for an answer, I found myself wondering, just what kind of a fucking army was i running?

-oo00oo-


A/N:

Well, it took quite a bit longer than I originally planned, but at last, I have updated! The story is not dead, or abandoned, or left by the wayside of a very busy motorway. Whohoo!

Truth be told, this chapter was more or less wrote weeks ago. Since then, it's been edited, rewritten, re-edited, chopped to pieces, re-rewritten, and i'm still not entirely happy with it even now, but what the hell. It's as good as I can get it without throwing the whole rotten thing away and starting again. WHICH I AM NOT DOING!

Anyway, it's a little conversation heavy, and has even less in the way of action, so… yeah. That. My apologies.

The chapter was also meant to be a little bit longer, a couple of thousand words longer truth be told. Words that I have already put to keyboard, in fact. Alas, it was from a third person perspective, covering the events of the chapter from outside of the tent and meant to expand upon the worldbuilding of the story and introduce a couple of new characters for a ongoing side-plot I was working on. Needless to say, it didn't work, or flow well. Or at least, not well enough for my liking.

Thus, I have moved on to Plan B. This, is now Chapter Two. The three thousand words or so I already wrote will be reworked into a sort of 'Interlude' that will be posted after this (Hopefully sometime next week!) and explore a few events I had intended for Chapter Three, and the *real* Chapter Three will follow on from that (Back in the First Person Perspective) once I get around to writing it. Hopefully.

Now while that *is* the plan, and I'd love to give people a more accurate schedule for updates and what not, realistically I fear it would only lead to disappointment as I'm terrible with deadlines. So... yeah. There is a plan, but it's a rather shit one.


Now to answer a few pressing questions that I have noticed reviewers asking.

Pairings:

As far as the pairings in this story go, this is not a 'harem' kind of story. Kings, in real life, tended to have mistresses, sometimes multiple ones at the same time. Sometimes because they were unhappily married, sometimes because they were arses, sometimes because it was expected of them and others just because they could. This is the direction I am attempting to steer towards. It's also my attempt at fixing something I often find annoying in 'Self-Insert' stories, i.e. 'Modern-21st-Century-Western-Guy' finds himself betrothed or married to a random stranger and had absolutely no problem with it. If I was put in that kind of position, I would freak out, and then probably refuse, and probably cause myself no end of grief, and if in the end I did consent, it would neither be happily nor with the intention of remaining unhappy if there was a *viable* alternative.

To summarize: While there are multiple pairings planned in this story (For the SIRobb), there will be no 'happy group' marriage. Roslin will be Queen, and as many queens before her, both fictional and historical, she will have to put up with an unfaithful husband and lump it (Although not without a fight or two). As for the reviewer who asked about Arianne, Asha, Margaery and a certain Dragon Queen we all know and love… there are plots and plans for all the aforementioned ladies, and unfortunately, none of them involve Robb Stark in the romantic sense.


Anywho, that's about it from me until I rework that damnable 'Interlude' of mine. *Shudders*. Hopefully I'll be updating it sometime next week… but, well… I'll do my best.

Tally Ho!