"WATCH YER LEFT ALY! DON'T LET THE CUNT FLANK YA!"

I see it.

A quick pivot and swing of my hammer followed by a jab from my shield-hand had the red cloak dancing back. Unfortunately, that just left me open to receive a series of stinging hits as his two fellows moved in, capitalizing on my distraction. A growl and a few furious swings of my hammer drove the two back. Naturally, I received a slap from the training blade of the third for my efforts.

I was doing a fair imitation of Uncle Stannis, what with the teeth-grinding and all.

I had little experience fighting several opponents at once, so I should have been enjoying the experience at least for novelty's sake. There was some frustration that I was doing so poorly against a bunch of second-stringer nobodies, due to simple numerical disadvantage. I suppose that was the lesson?

What really was grinding my gears though, was the gleeful expression one red cloaked rat made whenever he poked me.

Granted, the chance to gang-up on me and regain some pride made for good motivation, especially for those that I had previously flattened. There were no shortage of volunteers among the guardsmen for today's exercise.

But this guy had no right to make such faces. He was a complete and total scrub. So fuck him and his stupid fucking face.

Eventually. His buddies were making it difficult to pound him into the ground.

We continued to beat each other across the training yard as Father likewise continued to bellow out advice and commentary.

The man had taken Jon's death as well as I'd figured. We'd arrived back at the Red Keep the day after Jon's bones had be sent to the Vale for interment, which had set off some sort of secondary grief spiral in Robert. I found him this morning in what could best be described as a sticky puddle of sundry fluids, by himself thankfully, with Sers Boros and Preston looking helplessly at each other over his groaning form. After a barrel of water and a not quite tremendous amount of cajoling to get himself picked up and out into the yard (I find channeling an over-excited puppy to be the best way to motivate Father. Works better than Mother's brand of browbeating at least.), he finally complied.

Rather than join me though, he plopped down on a stool, sent a page scurrying for a full wine skin, and ordered the master-at-arms to burn off some of my excess energy. I apparently I had far, far too much to spare at such an early hour.

I paraphrase; Robert hungover is far less eloquent that Robert drunk, and his exact words would have burnt the ears off a Fleabottom whore.

I may have overdone it with my enthusiasm.

The old ser in charge of the yard takes his orders seriously, and thus set me on three-on-one matches. I'm currently battling team number four. The master-of-arms had been rotating them regularly to keep them fresh. I noted sourly that my allowed rests aren't nearly as generous, but no one else seemed bothered. Jerks.

Last I chanced a look back, a table had been pulled out of somewhere and breakfast set out for the King, who was busy tucking in when he wasn't shouting color commentary. At least he's having some food with his wine, I thought while another blow slipped through my guard to strike my hip. That'll bruise. In exchange I connected with the guardsman's shield, staggering him, but the other two were already pushing me back before I could press my advantage.

I was more than a little ragged at that point, I'd been swinging my hammer perhaps a tiny bit harder than necessary. It really was an excellent work-out though. Look at me, all glass-half-full.

Poke.

And now the glass is broken and I'm going to rub that scrub's face in the shards.

I forego defense entirely, accepting hits in exchange for a flurry of strikes that force the others away and finally allow me to close with my prey. Sadly my war hammer, a construction of pine and lead purpose-built for sparring, chose then to throw in the towel, the splintered head snapping off on the first blow against the scrub's shield. Not to be denied, I threw the ruined handle in his face. As he startled and batted away what was left of the hammer, I roared and charged, tackling the guardsmen into the dirt.

His fellows thoroughly punished me for leaving my back open, raining down a series of blows before the master-of-arms called an end to the bout. I hardly mind, the wheezing, honest-to-god squeak the little rat made as I squished him did wonders for my mood. Father's pleased "HAH!" indicated that he likewise approved the maneuver.

The other guardsmen peeled the scrub off the ground as I begged off further training for the day made my goodbyes to the old ser. With a skip in my step, I whipped off my helmet and made my way over to Father and the two Kingsguard that had rotated on duty during one match or another.

Father was in much better spirits than when I found him that morning (an admittedly low par to pass but a win's a win in my book). Though he doesn't step into the yard as much as he used to, he never seems to tire of watching me put people into the dirt, especially if those people are in Mother's employ.

"What did you think of that, Selmy?" Robert asked through a mouthful of sausage. "Think we should send the whole sorry pack back to Tywin? My own daughter can still plant one of them like a turnip even after being beaten by a dozen others!"

"Combating multiple foes is a difficult feat to master, Your Grace," replied the old Kingsguard that had taken up position to Father's right. "Princess Alysanne's skills have already progressed quite well; with the resilience she has shown along her growing strength, I believe that your daughter will become quite formidable as her experience builds."

I preened at the praise.

"Perhaps we should prepare to hand in our white cloaks then, Ser Grandfather? I can't see much need for our swords if even princesses can face down a dozen men before noon. Seems a wasteful expense."

"Don't worry your pretty golden head, Kingslayer," Father drawled. "I'll still need you to watch the door when I'm...abed. Aly can't guard my chambers at the same time she's knocking the heads off my enemies."

Aww, he was going to say "fucking whores". He gets a little uncomfortable talking about his favorite pastime in front of me when he's mostly sober. It's kind of sweet, if you squint.

Or was it his second favorite? Third? I dunno, fighting, fucking, hunting, drinking, they're all up there.

"I'm relieved to know I shall always have employment in your service then, Your Grace," Ser Jamie Lannister replied as he shot me a smirk.

Uncle Jamie was a smug cunt.

I can appreciate a good smug as much as the next person, but Jamie is, bluntly, no fun. Uncle Tryion, now there's a fun guy, great sense of timing, life of the party. Jamie's fun is strictly for himself, and downright malicious at times. His humor was sharp and brittle, like broken glass. Even if he doesn't aim it at you, it was still uncomfortable to walk around.

That said, in Westeros a man may talk just as much shit as they like, so long as they can back it up. And nobody can back it up like Uncle Jamie can. I remember a quote, from the book or the show, I forget exactly, something along the lines of Jamie proudly proclaiming that there's maybe three men in the Seven Kingdoms that could give him a decent fight. Turns out that's likely a generous estimate. The first time I ever saw Uncle Jamie fight in a melee I knew for a fact that magic was not gone from this world. Because Jamie is magic.

Jamie fucking Lannister is a goddamn sword wizard.

In my last life, I went to some renaissance fairs, saw some documentaries on medieval combat, watched as many videos on the internet as the next person. I can make no claim of expertise about what is and is not possible when it comes to a man holding a sharp stick of metal.

But I can safely say that, what I witness every time Uncle Jamie swings his sword with intent? It's not natural. It's mesmerizing; from the sheer speed it appears as if his blade is in three places at once, and for all I know that might actually be the case.

The air ripples for god's sake!

And I'm the only one that seems to see it. Everyone else's commentary boils down to "yea dat dere Kingslayer feller is purdy gewd", like, they're appreciative of his skill, but, impossibly, not all that impressed? It's nuts. Seeing someone else on the receiving end is bad enough, but the few times I've sparred with the man? To compare, I'm basically a legless cow asking for directions to the nearest slaughterhouse.

Tearing my thoughts away from the bullshit that is Jamie Lannister, I ask, "So, now that the family's back together again, are the rumors true? Are we going to go see Uncle Eddard?"

If there are rumors I haven't heard them, but hey, foreknowledge.

"Aye, we'll be making the trip North soon. It's been far too long since I've seen Ned, not since the squids needed some killing. It's a long ride, especially with that damned wheelhouse dragging along. You'll like it Aly, it's not all that cold in the summer, bloody big forests to hunt in, interesting people, good people...I haven't been up past the Neck since..." Father trailed off, a distant look in his eye.

I clapped my hands abruptly.

He blinks in confusion.

Let's head off that Jon grief from turning into Lyanna grief.

I smile and say brightly, "Well if it's been so long, why wait a moment longer? Let's go today! I'll go get cleaned up, you go tell Mother, and we can be saddled up in the next hour. Let's go!"

I'm no therapist, but I just can't stand to see him wallow. There'll always be time for him to be ground down under his pain later, when I run out of distractions.

Father shakes his head and scoffs, "So eager! I'd have thought that skirmish would have calmed you down some. I should have let Ser Barristan give you a personal session while you were at it."

Thanks dad, I was already hot and sweaty, the cold sweat evens things out nicely.

"Your mother'd take days to organize her entourage anyways."

Fair, we'll be on the road for months after all and I'm probably the only one that's got my shit already packed.

(I ordered my maids to do it.)

"Then...we'll go scouting."

"Scouting."

"Yes, scouting! If we're quick about it, we can make it to Hayford before dark. We need to make sure the castle there is fit to receive the royal family. A surprise inspection! Sometimes you need to give the vassals a good surprise. Keeps them honest."

Barristan's looking a bit pained and Jamie's pulled out another of his infinite range of smirks, but the old man looks to be warming up to the idea. "We'd have to move fast if we're going to make it by nightfall..."

"The usual hunting retinue, plus a double-handful of extra mounted guards, and we should be good. Plus if you're out of the Keep then you and Mother don't have to argue over every little detail of the caravan. Make Uncle Renly do it."

Poor Renly.

"You Grace," Ser Barristan began, trying to head off what, while certainly not a security nightmare, might be a security headache. "Such a small party-"

"Hah! Are you worried about brigands Selmy? This close to the city? If only there was someone with such balls. Give me a chance to finally break in Fury properly. No, no I'm quite certain of the merit of this...scouting mission. Wouldn't want my family to be poorly accommodated. Who knows, maybe Lady Hayford's got a cellar full of dragon-lovers that we missed in the Rebellion. Wouldn't that be an adventure? Kingslayer! Go tell your sister that Renly is in charge of packing her small-clothes. Selmy! See to the details for the Hayford mission. Hold Ser Jamie, wait for me. I want to watch you tell her."

Robert levered himself off his stool and turned to me, ignoring my uncle's now irritated smirk (you can tell by the eyes). "You go get ready, I expect you to be on a saddle in an hour, can't have you late for your own mission now, can we?"

He paused a moment. "And go take a bath," he smirked. "You stink."

I huffed in mock-offense. Given my, well, history, I've ended up as the acknowledged and undisputed odd-ball of the family, but only my firm stance on hygiene seems to give Father cause to comment. I once told him some years ago that my intense desire for cleanliness was simply my prerogative as a prim and proper pretty princess (I had an alliteration phase, I don't even know). At Father's blank look, Uncle Tyrion had just said, "No one likes a smelly girl." I maintain to this day that the old man laughed way too hard at that. It wasn't very funny. And ever since, he just loves to tweak me about my habits. Just because I bathe daily.

Sometime twice a day.

And introduced the world to floss.

Whatever. Barbarians.

"And tell your brother to come along too, get some fresh air, maybe kill something."

With that, Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, turned on his heel and strode away, with a not insubstantial portion of his breakfast still in his beard, to find his lady wife, so that he can, for the sole purpose of his own amusement, order her brother, one of the deadliest men alive, to tell his beloved sister that her flamboyant brother-in-law will be going through her underwear.

My father ladies and gentlemen.

After watching his liege's backside retreat through the gate, Ser Barristan turned to me with his usual stoic expression, yet somehow conveying just how very put-upon he was. Subtle creatures these Kingsguard are.

I gave him a bright smile in return.

Still stoic, but I detected a certain amount of flatness there. "The Northmen are renowned as fierce warriors. I can confirm this, having fought both against and alongside many. Women warriors are also more common and accepted there than south of the Neck. I look forward testing what you learn in yards of Winterfell."

Translation: You'd best learn some impressive moves up North if you want a snowball's chance in hell of me not beating seven shades of shit out of you.

My smile turned brittle. "Yes! Well, I, ah, am sure the King is looking forward to it as well! He seemed quite enthused didn't he?"

"Indeed."

I winced. "At least he's not stuck to the floor anymore?"

Ser Barristan sighed. "At least he'll be making a mess of someone else's castle for a while."

His expression softened.

Minutely.

"His Grace has many demons, I cannot grudge you much for assuaging them as best you can."

So still a bit of grudging then.

"Will you be taking your usual retinue with the King to Hayford?"

"Just Guyard and Qyburn. My handmaidens and Qyburn's assistants will be instructed to report to Uncle Renly for placement among the royal entourage."

"Very well. I'll make the necessary arrangements for the scouting party." He clapped his hand to my shoulder and offered a firm nod. "I'll leave you to carry out your tasks." And with that, the living legend left to go about his duties.

I in turn made my way to my quarters, flagging down a couple servants and sending them ahead to get my bath ready and to track down Joff and relay Father's command. He probably won't run to Mother to complain, if only due to how soon we're leaving, but all this back-to-back travel is making everyone cranky, so we'll see.

I'd be cranky too if hadn't been spending the whole ride back from the Rock busy thinking about Plot.

The good news was that Uncle Stannis was still at court when we arrived, so that's a good sign of no Incestigation (oh my god, move over Twincest, there's a new portmanteau in town!) taking place. We even talked at dinner, and after the usual unpleasant pleasantries he gave me the news that Lady Arryn had made tracks along with her entire household, Sweetrobin in tow, well before Jon Arryn had finished lying in state.

Poor Grandpa Jon's bones had to be escorted to the Gates of the Moon by a contingent of Stormlander knights of all things.

So that boded ill for everything.

Though, all things considered, if Lysa (I never ever tried the "Grandma" card with that bag of crazy) did indeed bump off her husband instead of his death merely being an awful coincidence (Hah!), then it could have been any number things that set her off. Most likely it was Jon trying to foster little Robert off somewhere. Stannis didn't mention anything about it, but even if he wasn't offered Sweetrobin as a ward, fostering the boy somewhere was likely still on Jon's mind. So, Lady Aryn's flight is discouraging, but not by itself damning, and nothing useful has been confirmed yet. Great.

I arrived at my chambers to find a hot bath already steaming. Given that my bizarre fondness for sterilization was a well known fact, there always was some water on the boil somewhere, so a hot bath could be whipped up rather quickly.

I stepped behind a screen to strip off my padded training clothes, rattling off instructions for those in my household journeying North with me, those staying behind, and also if someone could get me an inventory of the remaining books held in the Tower of the Hand for my future perusal that would be swell. My handmaidens were to get out my clean riding leathers, a servant would be sent to fetch my things from the armory, and the stables would ready my horse. My sole remaining maid was already working my hair out of its braid as I sank into the copper tub (bathing attendants: now THAT had been an adjustment from the old life).

I decided to sit back and focus on nothing else besides not drowning for a few minutes. I am a very busy princess, and I'll not be begrudged a few minutes' rest while I graciously allow another to work on my glorious mane.

I idly began counting my forming bruises.

There were a fair amount.

Tomorrow's gonna suck.

Barristan will leave even more, I think morosely.

Ugh, I should be grateful, it's not like the greatest living knight takes time to spar with just anyone. For all that the Kingsguard spend most of their days just standing around their charges, probably praying for just one measly little assassin to show up to get gutted just to liven up their day, they are surprisingly busy. Ser Barristan as Lord Commander is particularly swamped, what with small council meetings, supervising his sworn brothers, sparring with them, keeping himself fit, coordinating security of the entire Red Keep, and the aforementioned long stretches of time just waiting and hoping and praying for someone to do something stupid. So really, a spar with him is should be quite the treat.

But whenever he calls me to the yard, all I feel is a deep unease.

Remember Jamie fucking Lannister, sword wizard? Yeah, Barristan's got some magic in him too. It's a different kind; where Jamie is greased lightning, the Old Bold is just...inevitable. One moment you're in front of him, then the next your weapon is on the ground, you're on the ground, and his sword's at your neck.

And that's just how it is.

Jamie overwhelms opponents with an impossible quicksilver barrage of strikes, while Barristan simply disassembles whatever and whoever is placed before him. Don't get me wrong, the man is a wealth of knowledge and I walk away a better warrior every time we fight, but it's never something I look forward too. It's like, sparring against Barristan is great practice; if you're planning on facing the damn Stranger himself in battle. That's a good comparison, I think. If there is a source, or some system, to whatever magic is in these people, I would say Jamie is purely of the Warrior, and while it would be just plain stupid to say Barristan is not, more than anything he is of the Stranger.

And now I'm being pulled out of the tub; apparently bath-time is over. I must have been zoning out something fierce.

And weren't those some dark thoughts?

Thanks dad, you wiped some of your depression off on me. Eugh.

Yes thank you for the towel I am paying attention now.

So pushy.

You are lucky you work for me and not little bro or he would have told Mother a story and you would be in some shit. But nope you've proven to be one diligent little lady and now you're making the big bucks on Aly's payroll. It's funny because I pay you in silver stags and a buck is actually and now you're putting my clothes on me as you've accurately surmised that I am in fact a giant toddler.

See what I mean? Diligent.

I'll roll with it as I have proven to be very incapable this morning. Maybe I'm a bit more tired than originally estimated. Did I skip breakfast this morning? I did skip breakfast this morning that'll do it. Where's a minion there's a minion could you oh wow that's a full platter. I have the best help.

One savaged heap of assorted meats and fresh fruits later (royalty yo), I'm feeling more like myself. I can only conclude that the canon train has me more rattled than I thought.

At least the stress hasn't affected my complexion yet, I idly muse as I stretch in front of a mirror. All leathered and braided up, I look like a teenaged Wonder Woman at Bike Week.

Certainly not a bad look.

If nothing else, it sure proves some fan theories that there's some time fuckery afoot in the World of Ice & Fire. At the end of this year I will turn fourteen years old (ten and four in the local parlance), but the person looking back at me in the mirror right now is easily sixteen. I shrug; a mystery for another day perhaps.

Bidding my household staff farewell, I start making my way down to the stables when a page nearly runs into me and informs me that my princely brother will be meeting Father and I there shortly.

Bit surprised there wasn't more of a fuss but Father didn't ask, he told Joff to be there and, well, King.

So maybe three days, tops, before Mother leads the convoy out of the city, ready or not. In the meantime, guards and squires and minions and assorted hangers-on aside, it'll be just a King, his heir, and his #1 daughter, having some good ol' family bonding time, just bumming around the Hayford lands and generally being giant moochers.

Should be fun.