So, yeah, I didn't go and die on you all. I didn't sign a contract (well, one making me beholden to the whims of the mob), and believe it or not, life got busy, and this wasn't exactly priority número uno. So, you get one general apology for being an ass and avoiding my authoring duties like the plague. (Something which might have discouraged me slightly is the incident and eternal proof of my idiocy where I copy/pasted the next three chapters directly to the Doc Manager from Kingsoft Word, without saving the documents in the first place, only to find to my horror that the page refreshed whilst I closed Word and I lost the next 18,000 or so words. For some that may not sound like a lot, but it made me want to pound my head into the keyboard as chastisement. Yes, pay homage to my awesome ability to do things wrong.)
In response to the reviews since my last post, thank you all so much for your support. Wassersaeufer and FanOfASoIAF, you guys were spot on. I haven't wasted the last five months, however, and would like to think that I've been able to improve my command over the English language, and have had rabid plot bunnies breeding in the back of my mind for way too long. Crazy rabbit sex. -Shivers-
Anywho, since I like being right, suffice it to say that this chapter should alleviate any concerns of Gary-Stuism. Specifically to FanOf, while I do agree that Sansa in my screwed up universe has gone through a lot, canon Sansa deals with a lot more shit, namely Robb and her mother's deaths, the Jonquil and Florian charade that ends in drunk Florian dead and handing his Jonquil to the creepy Littlefinger, as well as a few other, more minor details. However, I plan to resolve certain potential plot lines in this chapter, as well as establish Theon's romantic interest for the remainder of the story (presuming I'm not into the practice of messily slaughtering my main character like some other author I could name).
If you've read my bullshit this far, and still want the story, well, here it is.
CHAPTER NINE: Where Was I?
As the sun peaked over the horizon and cocks crowed, men and women across the continent stirred from their beds. The dawn's light was red like blood, the enormous crimson orb standing out in sharp contrast against azure oceans, snow-capped mountain peaks, and the greens of late-summer forests. Despite the idyllic nature of the bright new day approaching, there was a sensation in the air, a premonition that this day could only end in tragedy. The ancient and life-giving star loomed overhead like some demonic harbinger of the destruction of a kingdom. There was a promise, that if the high and noble lords had their way, they would taint the waters with the blood of the small folk, dash the mangled corpses of their enemies against those same wintery peaks, and burn the great woods until naught but ash was left. And so was life. For a man, the political intrigues, the question of nobility or savagery, the rightful master of Westeros, meant nothing. He would kill for his lord, or be killed, or starve, or suffer, all the same, no matter if he served Lannisters, Starks, or Baratheons.
Why? Why would they simply choose to muddle through? What cause could possibly be worth the heart-break and pain?
Perhaps it was simply because there was no other choice, that hope still remained, hope that there could be peace, an end to the fighting. Perhaps it was for another chance, another day to live and try to make a difference. Futile? Almost certainly. But it was all the more reason to stand against the darkness, that ever encroaching night, the coming winter that would bring an end to all things.
Theon Greyjoy, however, was no world-weary old man, nor one for intense, introspective evaluation. Such things were for women and old greybeards, and the Master of Pyke, King of the Iron Islands, Subjugator of the West, and all around gift to womankind was -not- prone to bouts of philosophizing.
Instead, as the first rays of the morning sun crossed his coverlets, he opened his mouth and yawned sleepily. It had been a sleepless night, considering his next move, as well as all that had happened since his coronation. Thoughts of his return, the invasion of the West, Robb, Cerenna...Asha...
It still hurt. That his kin would betray him like that, murder his uncle and his lover. Turn the only brother he had ever loved against him. Theon culd take solace in the thought that it seemed unlikely Stark would try to execute him urgent he returned with Sansa in tow. At least, he hoped Stark wouldn't execute him. After all, a beheading could really put a damper on one's day.
Soon his mind took a more calculating turn. Plans for the continued war effort, because Tywin Lannister would hardly take all this lying down. Keeping the Tyrells, but more importantly the unbloodied armies of the Reach, out of the fighting would be critical. Without them, the Lannisters would be on their last legs, and one final push could send the lions permanently to their end.
Plus, breaking Lady Margaery's betrothal with that utter cunt Joffrey Waters would just be icing on the cake. And Theon Greyjoy would need a true rock wife, after all. While pretty and the heir to a vast realm, the King of the Iron Islands thought that Robb would be less than overjoyed to give his sister's maiden hood to him any time soon.
Once, when he was young, he had thought he would find love with some lord's gorgeous daughter and ascend to his father's seat and rule his people and be beloved and respected by his subjects... He'd been properly educated, though, after Rodrik and Marron's deaths. What had begun as an idle fantasy of the youngest son had become the harsh reality, only to be destroyed as the Starks tore him from his mother's arms, leaving Lord Balon in a cold fury and Lady Alannys a miserable, wailing wreck.
He'd come to be a part of their household, after a fashion, though Lady Catelyn was still a frigid bitch, and Robb a far better brother than Rodrik or Marron ever had been. Theon thought it was rather odd, how the best way to win others' affection seemed to be killing people in the most violent ways possible.
Now, though, he was a king. Very much the coming man. And he would have to sacrifice his flights of fancy and childish notions for the good of his realm. Making Margaery Tyrell his wife was simply...logical.
To be fair, he doubted it would be a burden. She was breathtakingly stunning, intelligent, devious, witty, powerful, and wealthy. Still, though, it might have been nice, to find what Robb so clearly has...
Theon was torn from his idle musings by a sharp rap against his bedchamber door. Startled, he sat upright, before calling out in his most kingly tone, "Enter."
The heavy oaken doors swung open, and a thin, bent old man offered a stiff bow. "Your Grace. Lord Victarion instructs me to inform you that your party is readying itself for its departure."
Theon nodded to the servingman, before swinging his legs out of bed, bare feet on the stone floor. "Tell my uncle that I shall be ready to leave within the hour," he said coolly.
Sketching another hasty bow, the fellow departed, leaving Theon to quickly dress himself in the array of fine tunics and breeches scattered haphazardly about his apartments.
Even as Theon Greyjoy and the northern delegation readied themselves to leave King's Landing, miles leagues to the north, near the fortress of Riverrun, banners were held aloft above a teeming multitude of men and horses. There was the red castle of Redfort, the broken wheel of Waynwood, the three ravens clutching hearts of Corbray, the five silver arrows of Hunter. It seemed that every noble family of the Vale save the bronze shield of Royce was evident. Yet hanging high above them all was a new banner: a mockingbird and falcon and moon divided.
Lord Petyr Arryn, formerly Baelish, called Littlefinger by some, and Joffrey Baratheon's Master of Coin, took a moment to revel in the surety of his ultimate triumph. Before him lay Riverrun, a city weary of siege, empty of soldiers, and holding the family that had scorned him and denied him the wife he so truly desired. That didn't irk him so much, as he would have Cat soon enough, what with that idiot Eddard Stark dead and his son soon to follow. He laughed quietly to himself. Who would have thought Northmen, the epitome of 'nobility', could be so readily bought?
Then again...the mutual ally that he and Lord Tywin had acquired was hardly the quintessential Northman. Those eyes...it felt like he could live up to his sigil with a look, as though he could strip the skin from your flesh at will.
Shaking away such morbid thoughs, Petyr focused on the task before him. With the Stark boy dead before the week is out, and the Greyjoy brat out of the way, the Trident is mine.
Wheeling his horse about, and with his customary half-smirk on his lips, he called out to Ser Lyn Corbray, "Inform the Lords of the Vale that we shall build fortifications on each side of the castle. I anticipate Riverrun shall be mine by nightfall. See to it." He booted forwards, riding towards the head of his army. Yes, Riverrun would be his, the Trident would be his, Stark's thrice-damned spawn would be dead, and Catelyn would finally be his. It was a simple matter to seduce her younger sister, mad and besotted as she was. He was sure he could arrange for some small misfortune to befall Lysa.
No one would dare look down upon Petyr Baelish again.
Lord Walder Frey grinned widely as he welcomed the Northmen into his home. Yes, he would bow and offer his courtesies to Robb Stark, and would ask after his pretty little whore of a Queen, and would be so damned grateful for the chance to welcome the cheating deceitful little snot-nosed prick into his castle. Yes, he would offer his sycophantic well-wishing, albeit a bit curmudgeonly, all the while giving Roose Bolton significant little looks. The thought crossed his mind that Tywin Lannister would be unlikely to trust him; with good reason, as he planned to murder his King at his uncle's wedding. However, a distrustful Tywin Lannister had nothing on a Tywin Lannister seeking vengeance - look at the Reynes or the Tarbecks. No, it was far too late to turn back now. His only real regret was that he wouldn't be sampling the boy's little cocksleeve himself.
No matter, he thought with a dismissive air. Time to get to it.
Plastering a huge shit-eating grin on his face, he called out in a dry tone, "My lords! I believe it is time for the bedding!"
It was a pathetic showing the Northmen made as they shambled into the great hall for their escort to the gates. Victarion and Rickard Karstark stank of wine, Marq Piper of piss as well. Medger Cerwyn and Harrion Karstark seemed far too starved still to care, and the Manderlys complained of the likelihood, or lack thereof, of finding large quantity of lamprey between the Red Keep and the Gods' Eye. Pretty little Sansa Stark stood there, quiet and meek as a mouse, looking as though she could hardly believe that she would actually be leaving.
Theon could only shake his head in bemusement. Sure, he hardly looked his best: his tunic was rumpled, there were wine stains on his trousers, and he thought he was in need of another bath, but at least he had complete command of his mental faculties. It was with some relief that the King of the Iron Islands informed the Goldcloak captain responsible for their safekeeping that they were ready to go.
The attitude was somewhat more...subdued than their arrival had been. It was odd. After all, their mission had been a complete success. They had reached a temporary halt for the fighting, until Robb could formalize peace terms that the Lannisters had a chance of accepting. They had their people, Lord Eddard's sword. Things were looking up. So why was it quiet as a bloody graveyard hours after daybreak?
Smallfolk did not line the streets. They populated the alleys, looking apprehensively about. The men of the City Watch gripped spears tightly, as though expecting a full-scale riot any moment. The men did not joke or curse or sing. The just...rode. In utter silence.
it was bloody weird, and scaring the bleeding life out of him. He felt on edge, because the city felt on edge.
And then, the King's Gate came into sight. Things were...more normal. It seemed the whole of the Tyrell court had come to watch, as well as Lord Tywin, Ser Kevan, the Imp, and the Dowager Queen Cersei. His Grace Joffrey Waters was nowhere so be seen.
Theon grinned to himself. They've all been waiting on us. Time to piss off ol' Tywin Goldshitter himself one last time.
Nudging his uncle, Theon gestured towards the assembled Lannisters. Victarion seemed to understand, because he booted his mount forward, smirking lasciviously at Cersei, no doubt undressing her with his eyes.
Deciding that was a distraction, or at least distracting, Theon cantered towards the Tyrell part, jerking gently upon his reins. Locking his gaze with Lord Mace, he sketched a slight bow and murmured, "My Lord."
Mace Tyrell surreptitiously glanced in the direction of the Queen, who seemed to be berating the Commander of the Iron Fleet for trying to get a better look down her bodice.
Seeing the Lannisters' attention directed elsewhere, Lord Mace bowed back as deeply as his girth allowed, "Your Grace. A singular honor to speak with you again."
Theon turned his gaze to Tyrell's daughter, offering a slight smirk and a subtle inclination of his head in acknowledgement. "Lady Margaery. I'm overjoyed that you've chosen to grace our presence with your beauty. A pleasure, as always."
"I'm sure the pleasure is yours, Your Grace. Though I hope it isn't always just...yours." She said with the hint of a mischievous glimmer in her soft, chocolate-brown eyes.
Stifling a chortle, he replied, "I've been told that the feeling is more than reciprocated on numerous occasions, my Lady."
"Oh?" She inquired in what seemed to be genuine curiosity, "And just how many occasions is numerous, then, Your Grace?"
"Erm..." Lord Tyrell cut in hastily, not quite sure how comfortable he was with his allegedly maiden daughter discussing the subject of pleasure with Theon Greyjoy of all people! "Your Grace, I must say, your departure is rather imminent, is it not?"
Theon sighed, reluctantly turning his attention to the Fat Flower. "Indeed, I believe it is, my Lord. If you'll forgive me, I suppose I must be going." Reaching out, he carefully gripped Margaery's hand in his own, raising it to his lips to press the barest caress of his lips against her knuckles. Leaning forward, he moved his mouth hairs-breadth from her ear, "Until next time, sweetling."
"Oh, yes," she answered breathily, "I most certainly look forward to continuing our most...stimulating conversation." Flashing him a coy smile, Margaery ducked her head, returning to the role of demure, soft-spoken daughter.
Moments later, Theon turned to the gates, without so much as a glance at he Lannister party. The others were already some ways ahead of him, impatiently waiting a few dozen paces beyond the gates, the Kingsroad ahead of them. Once his horse was near the actual stone archway of the gates, a thought occurred to Theon. An evil grin crossing his face, he booted his horse about, facing the four Lannisters. He just needed that parting shot. Calling out loudly, he tugged a small sack from his saddlebags, and held it up. "Lord Tywin! To thank you properly for your hospitality, I thought it fighting to gift you with some small symbol of my regard." He clutched the sackcloth firmly, and tugged it sharply away, before tossing its contents to the ground at Tywin's feet. A loud clanging filled the air as the golden lion's head helm of Jaime Lannister crashed against the cobblestone street.
Tywin's normally inscrutable face seemed to be struggling with warring emotions, until something changed, he murmured something to his brother,many Ser Kevan made a strange hand gesture.
Theon blinked. He opened his mouth to taunt the bereaved father further when a louder, more solid thunk filled his ears. Wordlessly, he turned around to a peculiar sight. The portcullis was down, the great oaken gates were closing, and he was still inside.
Protesting fiercely, he spun back around. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Open the damn gate or I'll..."
Words died in his throat as he saw dozens of Lannister men-at-arms surrounding him, bare steel in their mailed fists. Interspersed amongst them were Goldcloaks with heavy spears. Lethal points directed to his chest. Theon looked up, to see Mace Tyrell with an utterly flummoxed look on his face, and a surprised Loras holding back an equally surprised and more than a little fearful Margaery.
Finally, he flicked his eyes to where the Lannisters stood, and saw the single most scary fucking thing he'd ever seen in his life: Tywin Lannister with a grin so full of hate and malicious intent that it actually did reach his eyes.
Oh, balls.
Theon murmured, "Fate, you fickle bitch. Fuck you."
Jojen Reed shot straight up from his bed of furs and old rags that the Greenseer shared with his sister. He and Meera has been running aimlessly after the destruction of the future he had foreseen when the woman of salt and iron had murdered Brandon Stark.
Now he'd had a new dream.
Westeros would die. Either it would drown in blood, be burned to ash by that Red Woman, or, most certainly, the Long Night would come and, with no one to find the knowledge of the Children, the Night and Winter would snuff out humanity like a candle.
Unless they could find their champion, of course.
Jojen would tell Meera on the morrow, he decided, that they would go North. He had seen what he must do, should mankind desire to have a chance at survival. His life, at least as he knew it, would end. Meera could die, as could countless others, but it was a small price to pay against the weight of the entire world.
If they were successful, though...if they did find their champion, and he took up his destiny as he was intended to...
The world would never be the same, but the Dawn might come.