Wow…Wow, everyone; when I started this little fic I never expected This kind of support and positive feedback. Honestly, I wrote this as a way of helping myself get through the shitstorm that was Season 8, so you can all imagine my surprise at the outstanding support from all of you.
Honestly, I hope to bring some closure to not just myself but all of you. Thank you, from the bottom of my…*thinks for a while*…heart, from the bottom of my heart I want to give thanks to all of you that took the time to click and follow along.
NOTICE: I had to separate this chapter into two because MY WORD was it getting a bit long, so consider this a little taster because next chapter….I am very proud of it :)
We are in this together everyone. ALSO, huge shout out to Kit Harrington and his battle with Stress and alcohol in Rehab. Our thoughts and prayers are with you dude, you can pull through, we all know you can.
Winter Comes with Fire and Blood!
Chapter 4: None So Fierce
The howling wind at their backs seemed to die down; the storm now long behind them as they rode their horses through the deep snow. Horse hooves barely registering as the mounts let out hot breaths; clearly ragged from how much their riders had kicked and steered them into full gallop.
Tormund let out a long and relived groan; like a red headed bear. He was glad to be away from those fucking Spiders; Wights he could take, Bears and Giants too; hell give him a Walker…but anything but those fucking spiders.
Edd however had his eyes trained on the hooded man that had come to their rescue; riding slightly apart from the rest of them. The Lord commander of what was left of the Night's Watch couldn't help but notice his hands; black with frostbite yet still able to hold onto the reigns of a horse or the hilt of a sword.
Beric leaned closer to Edd, and in a hushed tone asked "Is he one of yours?"
"He is wearing the Black…he must be" Edd replied.
The man simply kept riding; not even glancing at the men who were talking about him. Edd's eyes then went back to the sword at his hip; he saw the rippled patterns on the blade earlier and he had been around Longclaw enough to recognise Valyrian Steel.
"That sword…its Valyrian steel isn't it?" Edd asked; getting a mere glance from the man,
"You have a good eye" he replied gruffly.
"The Former Lord Commander had a sword of Valyrian Steel…those swords aren't easy to come by" Edd continued.
The man simply kept riding as if he barely even noticed Edd's words; swaying back and forth on the saddle of his horse. From his accent he was definitely a Northerner; with how gruff and over pronounced his words were. The Black hands were certainly worth bringing up; if a person's hands got even half that frostbitten you would lose the hands.
Yet here he was, riding as if it were nothing.
"Not that we don't appreciate the assistance back there; but it would be nice to know the identity of our new brother in arms" Beric asked courteously.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, just tell us who you are you Crow Cunt!" Tormund spat out anxiously. He was understandably perturbed and not a man that enjoyed mysteries.
The man's horse stopped and he slowly reached up to pull down his hood; revealing long raven hair pulled back tight; and when he pulled down his scarf; he revealed a scared face with tired blue eyes, a scared face that Edd recognised.
"First Ranger?" he questioned; mouth agape.
There, sat atop his black horse; dressed in the black of the Night's Watch; was the youngest son of the great Lord Rickard Stark, younger brother of Brandon, Eddard and Lyanna. The First Ranger of the Night's Watch, the Lone Wolf, a true son of the North, the oldest living Stark:
Benjen.
"Lord Commander…certainly made a name for yourself, Edd" he smiled wearily.
"First Ran…Benjen Stark?" Tormund glared at the newly revealed Stark.
Tormund knew of Benjen; he had quite the reputation amongst the free folk, the same as Qhorin Halfhand and Lord Commander Mormont. He had tracked, hunted and killed his people like animals for years, yet here the bastard was as if everything was fine.
Benjen Stark, the Bane of the Free Folk as Mance used to call him.
"We thought you had died North of the Wall" Edd replied.
"I did…for a time" Benjen replied before kicking his horse into a slow trot; everyone else quickly matching his pace.
"But how?" Edd asked.
"It's a long story, one that Is told best over a warm fire and a hot meal…I'll divulge when we arrive at Winterfell" Benjen replied; his voice gruff and tired.
Tormund didn't like the way Stark was talking; acting like all the things he had done in the past were of no concern. Jon was one thing; but Stark was another, he had personally slaughtered hundreds of Free Folk; many of whom were friends of Tormund and Mance. The Red headed Wilding let out an angry huff as he rode up closer to Benjen.
"Do you know who I am?" Tormind asked behind gritted teeth; hand hovering over his cleaver.
"You are Tormund Giantsbane" Benjen replied without a moment's hesitation.
"So, you know me, Good. Now give me one good reason I shouldn't rip your fucking spine out" Tormund growled as he rode his horse closer to Benjen.
"I'll point you to 500,000" Benjen pointed his finger at the storm that waited behind them.
All eyes widened and Tormund felt his heart stop, 500,000? That's how many marched in the army of the dead; they were prepared for 100,000; maybe even 200,000 but 5? Tormund had never even heard of an army of that size.
And judging by the expressions on Beric and Edd's faces; neither had they.
"Now, we could sit here and argue about the past; about how many of your Wildling friends I've killed and I could counter with all the Northern villages your people raided and reeved and raped at, or we could continue on our way to Winterfell to warn them of what's coming" Benjen replied sternly to Tormund; eyes fixed on the Wildling.
Tormund had to admit; the stories didn't do Benjen justice, it took courage to stare an enemy in the eyes and tell him what was what. Only one other man from south of the wall had ever done that, and he was a man that Tormund would die for if he asked him.
"You sound just like your Nephew" Tormund chuckled.
"To Winterfell then" Beric lead.
The cold of Winterfell was an odd thing; if men south of the neck ever felt a cold like this, they would simply stay in bed with their wives all day whilst their young sons did all the work. Yet here in the North; the cold drove men to work as hard as they could, cutting down trees, sharpening pikes and sharpening weapons.
The men of the North were hardy fellows; as the old saying goes 'hard places, breed hard men' and the men of the North were certainly that. The Men of Essos seemed to have that in common with them; it was odd seeing Unsullied cut down trees besides Northmen and assist them in whatever tasks they had set out for themselves.
Only a few days had passed since the arrival of the Targaryen army; and already it seemed as if the Northerners were slowly starting to warm up to the Unsullied. The army of eunuchs were doing everything their queen willed of them, their actions methodical and filled with purpose as they worked as a single unit.
Tyrion Lannister, not one for such heavy lifting work couldn't help but smile as he noticed a mixed group of Hardy Northmen and silent Unsullied hauling supplies. When one old Northman, about the age of 60 by the looks of him, stumbled and fell; an Unsullied quickly helped him up and earned a courteous nod and a pat on the back before assisting the old man.
"Cheers lad, mind helping an old man?" the Northerner asked between tired wheezes.
"This one, helps" the Unsullied replied with a quick nod, his common tongue probably not a good as his Valyrian.
"What's your name lad?" the old Northerner asked with a smile when the Unsullied bent down and picked up the crate he had dropped.
"White Ant" he replied; the old Northerner only nodded with a confused expression before wrapping an arm around the younger Unsullied's shoulder and walking with him.
A small exchange like that gave Tyrion a bit of hope that Queen Daenerys would make friends quickly here in the North. In Hindsight, the men and women of the North were very much like the people of Essos. They both came from inhospitable areas; were seen as savages by the upper classes that abused and used them.
In those ways they seemed to share much; really how different was scorching heat that could kill in hours when compared to chilling snow storms that could kill in minutes? How different was a Dothraki Horselord to a Free Folk of the far North? How different were they really?
After spending time with both the Lords of the Westerlands, the people of King's Landing, the men of the North and the armies of Queen Daenerys, it was scary how alike the last two were. It seemed like fate that their respective leaders fall in love now that he thought about it.
Though those thoughts were quickly silenced by the arrival of a man that had made quite a name for himself up north; despite being a Southerner that served a Southern king until recently. Ser Davos Seaworth, Onion Knight and former hand of King Jon of the North.
"So how is the North treating you, Lord Hand?" Davos asked with his hands, or rather hand and a half, clasped behind his back.
"Honestly I can see why Mormont and Snow brood and glower all the fucking time" Tyrion smiled in response; Davos chuckled as they began to stroll together through Winterfell.
"I find Brooding and glowering to be natural parts of Northern life; even if you aren't from here…stay long enough and you'll find yourself staring at the horizon with a stern look on your face" Davos chuckled.
"I will admit that the North is much different than the last time I came here. A different life; so much strife hadn't happened yet and I was considerably handsomer than I am now" Tyrion referred to his facial scar.
"Oh, I wouldn't know my Lord, scars can be quite fetching" Davos replied.
"Unfortunately, no matter how fetching my scars are…Lannisters aren't looked upon favourably here" Tyrion replied, ever since stepping off of the carriage he had been given dirty looks by every Northerner he had seen.
"I wouldn't fret about that Lord Hand; just look over there" Davos gestured over to a bunch of Northmen going about their business; building Dragonglass fortifications, their armour was different enough as were the sigils that adorned their armour.
The Direwolf of House Stark, The crossed chains of House Umber and The White Sun of House Karstark.
"Starks, Karstarks, Umbers working together. Quite funny how it takes the end of the world to bring houses together" Tyrion remarked.
"It's not been long since the Umbers and Karstarks were standing against House Stark. But now look at them; working together, Jon Snow brought them together and brought peace between their houses when everyone else thought it impossible" Davos continued.
"And Queen Daenerys is grateful for Lord Snow's efforts" Tyrion replied.
"The two of them are great leaders. He managed to convince Wildlings and Northerners that hated each other to stand together. And she from what I hear, convinced both the Dothraki and Ironborn; who were famed plunderers, reavers and rapers…to leave their traditions aside to fight for her new world" Davos replied as they continued to walk.
"Why do I suspect you are coming to a proposition?" Tyrion asked.
"Because a Proposal is what I am proposing" Davos turned to Tyrion with a smirk.
"Ah…the dreaded question of Matrimony" Tyrion smirked back.
"Jon and Daenerys are both strong leaders; their people love them, but their people are still divided; it will take a long time for the Northerners to accept her as their Queen. After their experiences with Southern rulers it will be hard for her to earn their trust and loyalty" Davos explained.
"A marriage between the two would be a step in the right direction to remedying that" Tyrion nodded.
"There are only positives if they chose to marry. For one the North would has one of their sons sat besides a Queen in the south, it would ease a lot of the tension the Northerners feel for her, and if we survive the Long Night…wouldn't it be a good thought that the Seven Kingdoms for once in their shit existence were ruled by a Just woman…and an Honourable man?" Davos asked as they came into the Blacksmithing areas.
"I will admit…they do make a Handsome couple. And you must admit; it wouldn't take much convincing on their part" Tyrion chuckled to himself.
"They aren't known for being subtle" Davos chuckled back; remembering all the times on the boat he would see Jon try and fail to leave the Queen's chambers as quietly as he could.
It was cute at times, beautiful at others; it certainly gave Davos hope that two good people in love could bring true change to the Kingdoms if given the chance. Jon was a noble and honourable man, but he had a nasty habit of being naïve or too passive when it came to certain issues. Daenerys was kind and just, but she had an impulse problem and a habit of being ruthless to her enemies.
They were both good people at their cores; but they had flaws like anyone else.
What gave Davos hope was that together they balanced each other. She filled him with a fire that even Dragons could not match, while he tempered her and brought ice to her fiery impulses. Together they made a great match, individually they would be great rulers but as a pair; as a King and Queen they may change the realms for the better.
It was an encouraging thought.
"I suppose if Varys were here, he would give us some witty quip about how love is meaningless or about how they are fools to have feelings for each other" Tyrion smirked to himself.
"Then I suppose its good that he is back in Dragonstone, being useful" Davos replied.
"We have to believe in them Davos; if we don't…then we wouldn't be doing our jobs" Tyrion continued.
"Aye, belief is important for rulers like them; but we have to give them space to make their own decisions. They need our counsel when it is needed; but they aren't puppets to be controlled" Davos replied with a curt look.
"Why do I feel like that was aimed at me?" Tyrion replied.
"Not just you; Varys as well. You are so used to advising rulers with foul intentions and insanity riddling their minds that you aren't advising her the way you should. Advisors should give counsel, not brow beat their kings and queens into submission and then be surprised when they show displeasure with how your advice did them wrong" Davos continued as they went about their way across the battlements.
"Why are you telling me this?" Tyrion asked.
"Because it occurred to me that our Queen is amongst a very hostile environment; I've seen what places like this can do to good rulers with good intentions. Its hard to understand how Kings and Queens think and how they make decisions; believe me I've trouble understanding Jon most days, but every time I question him, he proves me wrong for doing so. Daenerys is the same…she needs loyal advisors that can support her when things seem dire; but we also need to know when to take a step back and let them do what they need to" Davos replied.
Tyrion understood the vitality of the wisdom that came with age; Davos had led a long life and had seen much. He served under Stannis Baratheon; a man who seemed very much like a mixture of Jon and Dany. The Baratheon king was ruthless when he needed to be, like Daenerys, and he was man of honour and principle much like Jon.
Tyrion could see how Davos saw both Jon and Daenerys as reminders of his former king. Deep down Tyrion wished he had once served a king worthy of his counsel before serving Daenerys, so he would have been better prepared for the challenges of advising a good leader.
Joffrey was not a good leader; seven hells he wasn't a leader at all, just a cruel tyrant that enjoyed watching other people suffer. Stannis for all his flaws was at the very least a leader; so, Davos understood that Rulers didn't appreciate being talked down to like children that didn't know better.
"I know…ever since coming back home most of my decisions have led to disaster. I'm not a military man Davos; I've no clues on how to conquer Westeros, all I know from my time as Hand to Joffrey was how to keep a city from ripping itself apart" Tyrion replied.
"Well Jon is very adept at warfare…as are many of the Lords here in Winterfell; as are many of the Lords on their way from the Westerlands from what I've heard. It seems all we have to do is guide them towards the right ruler" Davos smirked.
"That's true. Cersei herself won't be coming North; I know that much. So, while the Lords of the Westerlands and the North are in the presence of Jon and Daenerys…perhaps it be best if their allegiances…shifted perhaps?" Tyrion smiled.
"I like the way you think Lord Hand" Davos smiled back.
The skies above Dragonstone used to be clearer than they were now; not an inch of blue sky could be seen as Winter began to take a slow effect upon the southern most kingdoms. Dragonstone's beaches would always be breezy; the colder weather certainly wouldn't be helping with that.
A single rowboat pulled up onto the beaches; inside the rowboat were 6 men, all armed and wearing heavy cloaks.
Waiting on the beaches was a small contingent of Unsullied; out of the thousands that went North only 100 stayed behind to keep the Island of Dragonstone secure. Standing there amongst them was the Spider himself, Lord Varys, Queen Daenerys' Master of Whispers.
The boat came to a halt and the largest of the men leapt over the side; heavy leather boots squashing the damp sand beneath. Reaching up and taking off his hood; and rubbing the damp sea spray from his moustache was the Strongboar himself, Lyle Crakehall.
He wasn't adorned in his plate armour and family sigil like usual, instead he wore some simple brown combat leathers; lightweight and easy to move in, also made him stand out less.
Lyle had been sent to Dragonstone by his father to speak with Lord Varys. Lyle was an honoured Knight and a tried and tested battle commander. He had a sharp mind when it came to tactics and he was very valued in the Westerlands. With Ser Jamie gone, Lyle was the closest thing to a favoured son the Westerlands had. He was strong, honourable, honed like a sharp blade and even though many saw him as a dumb brute he was noble and fierce as Westerland men came.
He was the true embodiment of his House's words 'None so Fierce' standing taller than everyone else present with a face full of battle scars and a mane of black hair. At his side were a Longsword and a mace; he had come prepared.
"Welcome to Dragonstone, Lord Crakehall" Varys bowed courteously.
"Lord Varys…thank you for having me" Lyle replied looking back and forth between all the Unsullied present.
"I trust my message found you and your father well?" Varys smiled.
"My father, and most of the Lords of the Westerlands" Lyle replied.
"A great risk, but as I have always said, great risks lead to great rewards" Varys smiled back.
Lyle could only narrow his eyes suspiciously as his eyes went from one Unsullied troop to the next. He had heard stories of the Spider; that he was one of the sharpest, most intelligent men in the realm. The only men that even came close to his intellect were Lord Baelish, Lord Tyrion and the great Lord Tywin. Now, while the last two were Lords of the Westerlands and could somewhat be trusted, Baelish and Varys were liars, manipulators; they never did something without ulterior motives.
Sending that message was a great risk; true. Not just to Varys, but to all the Lords of the Westerlands. Just one traitor in their midst was all it would take for the message to get back to Cersei, then again only Lyle, Leo Lefford and Roland Crakehall had read the scroll itself.
The details were fuzzy at best and the descent amongst the Lords of the Westerlands was growing thicker by the day. Cersei had done nothing to earn their fealty, all she did was sit on the Throne her late husband had won and lost by dying to a boar. She has tried uniting them by stoking their love of their country by warning of foreign invaders; all the while planning to make alliances with Ironborn reavers and Essosi Mercenaries that fought for gold, not loyalty.
This was the reason his father had sent him to Dragonstone. He was the youngest commander of the Westerlands besides Ser Jamie; he was their future.
"You aren't going to ask for my weapons?" Lyle asked after a long silence.
"Oh, I find such requests to be unbelievably drool. I'm nothing more than a humble Eunuch in service to the Queen; while you Ser Crakehall are an honoured Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, and last I checked a real Knight such as yourself wouldn't sully his blade with the blood of a man who can't defend himself" Varys replied quickly with a smile.
Varys knew that the title of Knight meant nothing in the grand scheme of things; but he knew how men like Lyle thought. Lyle was one of the men raised on tales of Ser Duncan the tall and Daemon the Dragonknight, raised to believe in honour and duty and loyalty. He was a man that would rather fall in battle against thousands rather than dishonour himself with the blood of one who couldn't fight back. It was a comforting thought; not having to worry for your life in the presence of a trained killer.
Ser Lyle was very much like the Northerners, his sense of loyalty and duty giving him a substantial handicap in the game of thrones. There were many knights of the Kingdom that Varys knew would not hold the ideals of Loyalty, Duty and Honour in such high regard. Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Gregor Clegane, Ser Illyn Payne, pretty much all the Knights of Cersei Lannister's Queensguard, all nothing more than cold blooded killers in pretty armour.
Ser Lyle was a member of a dying breed. A Breed that could help the Seven Kingdoms back to greatness, under the right ruler of course.
Lyle confirmed Varys' thoughts when he cracked a smile and gave a deep belly laugh, the other Crakehall men leaving the boat to join their Lord.
"You are as quick as they said Lord Varys…please, lead the way" Lyle smiled.
Fairly soon, Lyle found himself standing in the room of the Painted table; the room from where Aegon the Conqueror planned his conquest of the seven kingdoms. Fitting that his last surviving descendant had used this place to stage her retaking of the same kingdoms.
"Your message had my father reeling for days, Lord Varys" Lyle said as he ran his hands over the section of the table that depicted King's Landing.
"I'm glad I can still have that effect upon men in power my Lord" Varys sat nearby; his arms still within the long sleeves of his robe.
"You understand that message may put the lives of my father, Lord Lefford and all of the Lords of the Westerlands in peril? Correct?" Lyle asked with his hands resting on the painted table.
"Your father, Lord Lefford and the other Lords of the Westerlands were already in peril my Lord. You had spoken out against Queen Cersei in the middle of a full Throne room. My little birds were watching that transpire and you can bet that Cersei's little birds were keeping a close eye on your conversation in the meeting room" Varys responded quickly and elegantly as he usually did.
The colour drained from Lyle's face, he had left both his father and Lord Lefford back in King's Landing; right in the middle of the snake pit. The Armies of the Westerlands still remained in the Westerlands and nothing stood between Lyle's father Roland and Leo Lefford.
House Lefford and House Crakehall were the next biggest powers in the Westerlands after House Lannister. Now with Tywin gone, Tyrion in the North and Jamie heading there, House Lannister was a bitter shell of its former self.
Lyle now remembered the words he had read on the scroll given to his father and Lord Lefford, all of its simplicity now made sense.
'Lord Roland of House Crakehall, Lord Leo of House Lefford, Lords of the Westerlands. I bring to you this message in hopes it finds you well; and to offer an alternative to the bitter, cruel rule you find yourselves in.
There was once a time you knelt to Dragons, when the Lions in the west kept the peace amongst their lands, when the Wolves in the North, The Stags in the East, and the Snakes in the South knelt to their power and sovereignty. Now a threat in the Far North, a threat known to you by Ser Jamie Lannister, son of your Lord Tywin, is going unchallenged by your so called 'Queen'.
Blind incompetence should not be rewarded with Loyalty, neither should a reckless endangerment of life. The lives of your families, your people, the people of Westeros itself are in great jeopardy. Perhaps it is time a Dragon rules again?
If my offer interests you, send the Strongboar to the shores of Dragonstone to speak terms. No harm shall come to your favoured son, his words will be protected under the banner of truce Queen Cersei chose to ignore by refusing to send your armies North.
Lord Varys, Master of Whispers to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, first of her name, Protector of the realm'
"Why didn't you send for all three of us? And the other Lords? You only sent for me in that scroll, WHY!?" Lyle questioned, slamming his hand against the table.
Lyle was visibly shaken, he was not a Politician; he was a warrior, a Knight plain and simple. He did not believe in the Game of Thrones and had no use for the backstabbing tactics that came with it. So, hearing news such as this, that his father and the other Lords may have been in danger shocked him to his core worse than any arrow or Crossbow bolt ever could.
"You are the future of your House, Ser Lyle. Your father knew this; and Lord Lefford has a daughter in Golden Tooth that would take his place if he died. Your father was not an expert in the Game, but he knew that when he spoke out against the Queen that his life would be forfeit. You did not speak out against Cersei; she would see you as a valuable asset even with the death of your father" Varys explained before standing up and approaching the Strongboar.
Varys was right, after the war of five kings, the siege of Riverun and the skirmishes against the Dragon Queen's Dothraki, only Lyle survived as the heir to Crakehall. His oldest brother Tybolt had died in the war to a stray Crossbow bolt to the neck; while his younger brother Merlon had his head struck from his shoulders by a Dothraki Bloodrider that Lyle dispatched in Vengeance. His Uncle Burton was killed by the Lightning Lord, Beric Dondarrion and the Brotherhood without banners.
Lyle was the last living son of House Crakehall, his father was old and weary; tired of fighting. It made sense why Roland would want him elsewhere and not in the snake pit of King's Landing.
"You speak as if my father and Lord Lefford are already dead" Lyle spoke, his eyes fixed on King's Landing. His thoughts riddled with the sight of that grinning blonde bitch that called herself a Queen, that shrivelled little letch that wore her hand, the Abomination posing as a Knight and that Sea Rat scum that thought himself a King.
"My little birds chirp freely and often. There are already plans concerning your father and the other Lords of the Westerlands still in the capitol. You, Lord Lefford's daughter, the other children of the great houses of the Westerlands are to be kept alive…all the more pliable for Cersei to do as she wishes" Varys explained further with a soft tone before handing a scroll to Lyle.
The Strongboar looked at the scroll and recognised the seal upon it. A boar sigil; the sigil of his house. Quickly, Lyle took the scroll from Varys and began reading; Varys may have been a good spymaster and a talented liar.
But the scroll was in his father's hand; and his father's words, not to easily replicated. Lyle's eyes widened as he read the message; with every sentence his breathing became more ragged and his heart clenched.
'My Son; I write this in hopes it reaches you in Dragonstone at the morning of your arrival. The walls of King's Landing have ears; many of whom loyal to the madwoman sitting on the chair of Aegon. When I spoke out against her I signed my own death warrant; I know my time in this world is coming to an end. But this need not be the end of our house or our people.
I do not know the Dragon Queen or her Wolf Lord in the North, but I know Ser Jamie; despite his reputation as a Kingslayer he has always done what was best for the realm. He is a man of honour and if he deems Daenerys worth trusting then so should we.
There are many things I never told you, my son. You were never my eldest, never the brightest of our house, but I always loved you. When I lost your mother, your uncle and both your brothers I neglected to tell you that…I neglected to give you the love a father should give their son at every turn. But with every battle you won, every achievement you made, the prouder you made me.
I've have already heard rumours of what the Queen has planned for me and the other old Lords. I do not look forward to the gruesome fate she has planned for us; but I will not cower, nor will I flee. I am a proud Boar of the west, not a squealing pig. Do not attempt to rescue me, my fate will serve as a testament to the truth of what out Kingdom has become.
I demand nothing of you my son; you are the leader of our people now, and I trust you to make the right decision. I meet my death with my head held high; knowing that you will make me proud.
Roland Crakehall, Lord of Crakehall. None as Fierce.'
As Lyle read the last words he would hear from his father, a single solitary tear rolled down his cheek and onto the painted table below. Varys could see the emotions swelling within the young Knight as he read, it brought Varys no joy seeing a Son realize the fate of his father; but it was necessary.
Lyle's fist clenched so hard it threatened to draw blood. After all the blood the people of the Westerlands had spilt for Cersei; after all the centuries of loyalty and sacrifice, this was how his family was to be rewarded? His father's words echoed within his head; the men of the Westerlands would never follow Cersei after a betrayal such as this.
"She…is not my Queen" Lyle growled.
"My deepest condolences, My Lord" Varys bowed his head.
"Lord Varys, do you have a Rookery?" Lyle asked, standing up straight and regaining his composure.
"I would be a poor master of whispers without a Rookery" Varys replied with a knowing smirk.
"Transcribe my father's message and send it to every Lord in Westeros. Send it to the Westerlands, to the Riverlands, the Stormlands, everywhere with eyes and ears to receive it" Lyle handed the scroll back to Varys and went to leave the room.
"My Lord, what will you do?" Varys asked with the scroll still in his hands.
"My men are 3000 strong, I will do what I see is right…I will march them North" Lyle said with a strong voice worthy of his nickname. The Strongboar turned and left the Painted room; purpose in his step and confidence in his resolve.
Varys stood there, with the message still in his fingers. With a genuine smile he began to walk to his chambers where he could properly transcribe and send off the last words of Roland Crakehall. He did so enjoy the game at times; especially when he knew he was on the right side.
The light penetrated the cells like an explosion of dragonfire; eyes went narrow as sunlight threatened to blind the two men chained up in their cells.
Roland Crakehall and Leo Lefford sat there in their cells; chained and manacled. Their once opulent and lordly robes now soiled in mud and dirt. The two older men had been waiting for this for days; as four men in Lannister armour marched to their cells, followed by a single Queensgaurd and the hand of the Queen, Qyburn.
"My Lords…it is time" Qyburn smiled.
Leo and Roland both gave each other a solem look of understanding. They had spent the last few days wallowing in filth; but they had also spent those days speaking of the good times. Speaking of the children they left to carry on in their stead, how they met their wives, the great laughs they had with their friends and bannermen.
But now, it was time for them to meet their fates.
Within minutes both Roland and Leo found themselves in the city square. Citizens gathered in their thousands; their clothes ragged and moth eaten; stained with mud and dirt much like the Lords. Two entire lines of Lannister men and Gold cloaks stood between the crowd and the executioner's block.
Standing there was their harbinger of death, Ser Ilyn Payne, wearing a black hood and holding a claymore sized great sword in his hands. Standing at the top of the steps was Cersei; wearing that same satisfied grin that pissed Roland off so much. Next to her was the monster that had once been Gregor Clegane.
Roland didn't know which one would do the deed, all he knew was that both men were mere lap dogs to the 'Queen'.
Euron Greyjoy and Harry Strickland were also present; Euron with a look on his face like a child ready to be entertained. Strickland looking professional as he could be, with hands behind his back and posture up straight.
Roland saw that the block was already stained with fresh blood; theirs would be the final executions of the day. Whatever poor sods had been killed before them, be they Lords that stood up to Cersei, Knights that didn't follow orders or citizens that had displeased her in some way, Roland didn't know but he felt pity for them.
"Bring the traitor Leo Lefford forward!" Qyburn announced.
The Lannister men shoved Leo into place behind the block, his hands and feet bound by chains. The rattling of steel setting a fitting mood for the travesty this was.
"You stand accused of Treason against Cersei of the house Lannister, First of her name, Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the realm. What have you to say in your defence?" he announced loudly.
Leo looked out at the crowd, seeing the defeated and deflated faces of all those present. This was not justice; this was a parade of Cersei's strength and power. Public executions were commonplace in this society, but usually they would attract a crowd eager to see justice done.
This was not one of those occasions.
"All my life I did what was best for my people. I followed Lord Tywin because it was best for my people, I followed Ser Jaime because it was best for my people…but you…" Leo turned and looked Cersei dead in the eye.
"…You are no Queen of mine" he spat before voluntarily kneeling down and placing his neck on the block.
Cersei's smug grin turned to a scowl as she turned to Ser Ilyne who was already in the midst of raising his great sword before Cersei spoke.
"I Cersei of the House Lannister, first of my name, rightful Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the realm, sentence you to die! Ser Ilyne, this traitorous scum does not deserve a quick death…Cut off his hands and feet!" Cersei spat with wild eyes.
Roars of protest erupted from the crowd as men and women began crying out in terror. Ser Ilyn nodded to the Lannister men who pulled up Leo and placed his still shackled hands on the block in place of his head. Leo looked on in terror as Ilyn raised the sword and brought it down upon his hands.
With a flash of steel and a gush of red, Leo's hand fell to the floor; leaving two heavily bleeding stumps in their place.
"AAAAAAGH!" Leo screamed at the top of his lungs as crimson red blood gushed out from his handless arms. The Lannister men were horrified by this as they took a few steps back; seeing Leo cry out in utter agony as he lost both his hands.
"NOW HIS FEET!" Cersei ordered the Lannister men who seemed shell shocked by the sight of one of their lords crying at the loss of his hands.
Two Soldiers of the golden company stood in, shoving the Lannister men aside and grabbing a hold of Lefford's feet. Taking off his boots and leg shackles, they placed each foot on the block and waited for Ilyn to swing again.
Another two separate swings and Leo was left handless and footless. Roland could only look on in horror as his friend for so many years was brutally mutilated in front of his eyes. People in the crowds were shrieking and screaming in horror as the execution transformed into a mutilation.
"NO! It's not enough! Ser Ilyn! Cut away piece after piece from this wretched traitor! I don't want his family to recognise his corpse when I send it to them! Gouge out his eyes! Cut out his tongue, leave him a mangled corpse that even the worms won't want to feast on!" Cersei snarled like a beast; her queenly composure replaced by a raving madwoman.
Ser Ilyn drew his torture tools and went to work on Lord Lefford.
Euron saw the way the crowds were reacting; utter fear. Fear was something he enjoyed very much, and to his own knowledge he felt his pants tighten at the sight of people screaming in dread and horror.
"YOU HEARTLESS CUNT!" Roland roared, the Lannister men restraining him as he lunged at the Queen. Cersei glared at Roland as the words left his mouth; her mouth twitched as she looked to Gregor and grinned.
"Ser Gregor…rend him" she ordered.
The Mountain marched down the steps towards Roland; neither hands going to the great sword sheathed on his back. The armoured hands of the massive knights flexing and knuckles popping as he approached.
Roland had seen what the Mountain had done to Oberyn Martell with those hands. What was coming was not going to be a painless death, he knew this the moment the Lannister men cornered him in his chambers. But Roland Crakehall would not shudder, he would not flinch of run like a coward. He was a Boar, A Crakehall, a descendant of the First Men, a proud warrior. He would meet death head on, with his composure as a lord intact.
The Mountain's hands grabbed Roland by the arms and picked him up a foot off of the ground. The shackles rattled as they did; and Gregor began to pull. Roland felt the joints in his arms pop and ligaments begin to tear.
Muscle and skin began to give way as Roland's arms were popped clean from their sockets. The bones of his arms began to break under the iron-tight grip of the Monster formerly known as Gregor Clegane. With his last few breaths, Roland let out a long and mighty cry of his House words.
"NONE…SO…FIERCE!" he roared before his cried were drowned out by the sound of tearing flesh and the splatter of blood.
Roland's arms were torn from his body; blood and loose flesh splashed onto the floor below him. Staining the floor redder than it had ever been, down in the streets people were vomiting and crying tears of utter fear that they were being ruled by such a monster.
Roland dropped to his knees; his consciousness fading with unbelievable pain and blood loss.
But when Gregor Clegane reached for his head, his eyes began to close; his vision became blurry. And Roland Crakehall's last vision was not the sight of the Mountain reaching forward to crack his skull like an egg.
It was of his long-departed wife; reaching for him with her soft hands, a soft smile adorning her face and her long raven locks blowing in the wind. She had been waiting for him for so long, and now he had returned to her.
Roland Crakehall did not live long enough to feel his head split apart by the hands of Gregor Clegane.
Cersei Lannister, standing there with a crazed smile on her face, did not understand the gravity of her actions. With the brutal murder of Leo Lefford and Roland Crakehall; she did not realize that she had thrown away the loyalty of the houses of the Westerlands.
She had descended down the dark path that many rulers often did.
She was well, and truly lost.
THOSE WERE PROBABLY THE DARKEST DEATH SCENES IVE EVER WRITTEN, AND I WRITE AVP FICS FFS.
Benjen Stark alive…technically…and well…technically. Tyrion and Davos Talk of Marriage between our King and Queen, Cersei sinks deeper into madness with the deaths of two great lords. And it seems like the Strongboar his westerland forces are on the warpath.
Next chapter will have the promised Dragon ride and A LOT MORE JON AND DANY! I hope it will be worth the wait everybody.
Like always leave me your support and tell me what you thought. As always, we are in this together, LONG LIVE THE KING AND QUEEN!