Kill the Boy 12
King's Landing was in an uproar when Robert Baratheon finally dragged himself and his retinue through the gates. It was not the kind of uproar that resulted in riots, though, but instead the kind that made people question every decision they'd ever made. Lysa Arryn was dead, she'd apparently taken a dive off of her chamber's balcony. When her remains had been found, it had only been because of her location that she'd been identified.
He shattered remains had been below her window, and the splatterings of blood on the way down led a clear path to her starting location. It was not a pretty sight, and young Robin had to be escorted to the other side of the castle as everything was cleaned up. When the servants talked about the boy, though, they spoke in horrified whispers about his excitement at seeing his mother fly. They had to wonder what was wrong with the nobles, if a boy of seven had such joy for his own mother's death.
An air of disgusted admiration was permeating the city, as the peasants were once again reminded of the fickle nature of the nobility. They recalled the dark times, when anyone could be taken from the streets and burnt alive for the amusement of the Mad King. They were grateful for the fact that the Fat King was not so cruel, and even more glad that the blonde bastard had been found out. The horror stories that the servants in the Red Keep would spread about Joffrey Baratheon, now Hill, were terrifying. None had looked forward to his reign, and all were glad that he was wallowing in his chambers, impotent to vent his rage.
But the former Prince could wait, because Robert had to deal with the death of one of his Wardens. Lysa had been insane, everyone knew it, but the question sifting through the Red Keep was whether or not she was crazy enough to throw herself to her death. Maester Pycelle, after getting a good look at the body and taking his time with an autopsy, put his two stags to claiming that he was confident that the death was a suicide. Tyrion Lannister and Ned Stark thought differently.
Tyrion knew that his father did it, knew in the pit of his soul. He saw the smug gleam in the man's eye every time he spoke of how tragic Lady Lysa's death was. Everything that his father did seared into the dwarf's brain, and spoke volumes about his guilt. He wasn't even really surprised at the act, or all that sorry to see the madwoman go, but he knew that Tywin's actions could have disrupted everything and plunged them into the war that they'd been trying to avoid.
Ned Stark only knew that Lysa had taken too much pleasure in trying to bury the Lannister twins to leap from a window. She was too happy at the meetings with he and the other wardens, she would not have thrown herself to her death without seeing the end of the deliberations. She'd enjoyed every moment of tormenting Lord Lannister, insulting Lord Tyrell, and snidely sniping at the Hand. She'd kept her verbal venom from him only out of love for her sister, though he was sure she slipped more than a few dark words in his direction that he could have missed. It did not matter though, because he knew she had made enemies, and he knew that for his wife he had to find the killer.
Robert learnt from both men that they did not believe that Lysa had killed herself, but he did not learn it at the same time. Ned was the first to meet with him after he'd settled into his chambers and learnt of the dark news. His oldest friend had explained his reasoning and his belief that one of the Wardens was responsible for the deed. When Tyrion spoke with him only an hour later, the fat monarch already had a good idea about who would have given the orders. Tyrion's explanation was mere icing on the cake as it were.
"Damnit dwarf, I gave you the job so your fucking father wouldn't do anything like this!" Robert growls, fists clenching and unclenching as he rested them on his desk, "Why would he do something so catastrophically moronic? That's my fucking job!"
"I don't know why he did it, only that it was done on his orders," Tyrion sighs, "My father does not take insult or criticism well. He sacked King's Landing because of a slight that Aerys made against him, who was his greatest friend in younger years, you know this. What do you think he would do against a woman he never even shared such a bond with?"
"He kill her," Robert deflates, rubbing his eyes, "Fucking hells, so what do we do?"
"That depends on you, your grace," Tyrion tells him, sighing, "I know you wished to avert a war, but now my father has done something that cannot be forgiven. At the same time, I have only suspicion to backup my claim, so we could let this go and pretend it is nothing but angry suspicion from a drunken imp."
"No, we can't," Robert grunts, "Ned may not know that it was Tywin fucking Lannister, but he knows that someone killed Lady Arryn."
Tyrion frowns and drains a goblet of wine as he tries not to agonize about his current position. He could do it, but he was the second most powerful man in the Kingdom at the moment, so it would feel rather spoilt. Complaining from a position of plenty was Cersei's way, and he didn't want to be compared to her. Instead he tried to think of a way to divert the Stark's attention away from his father.
Eventually, he comes to a realization, "The Targaryens are still with the Dothraki."
Robert's head snaps up to blink at the dwarf, he blinks. After a second a grin forms on his face and he wags a finger at Tyrion, "I do so like the way you think, Lannister."
Tyrion smiles sadly, raising his now empty goblet and telling the man in a sardonic monotone, "I live to serve, my king."
On the other side of the Narrow Sea, the Targaryens in question ride beside Ser Jorah as he fills them in on details that he's managed to learn from traders of their distant nephew. The knight is telling them, "The last trader I spoke with told me that the boy's finally returned from beyond the Wall, with an army of Wildlings near forty thousand strong."
"What are Wildlings, Ser Jorah?" Daenerys asks, not truly understanding the term.
"They are much like the Dothraki," Jorah tells her, "A brutal people who are made such by the harsh, ever present cold of the North beyond the Wall. They are trapped there, forced to make do with what they can, and given near nothing by the land itself."
"They sound a dangerous people," Viserys nods, "Perhaps the boy will prove useful after all."
"Do not suppose he would turn coat against the Starks so easily, your grace," Ser Jorah tells the man, "Even I have a soft heart for their family, and Lord Stark near cut my head off before I fled across the sea."
"Speak carefully, Ser Jorah," Viserys growls, "You speak as though you are still loyal to my enemies."
"They need not be your enemies any longer, your grace," Ser Jorah tries to placate the Beggar King, "They are connected to you through blood."
"They are connected to us through the blood of a bastard," Viserys snorts, "I would sooner call my horse a family, than the Usurper's dogs."
He snaps his reins and kicks his horse into motion, pulling ahead of Daenerys and Jorah. The knight sighs at the young man's refusal to listen to reason. It is only after a few moments that his attention is drawn to Daenerys, who is gazing at him with interest, "Yes, Khalessi?"
"You speak of the Starks with kindness, and yet they chased you from your home," She notes, "How is it that you can still hold good feelings for them?"
"Because I know my crimes, Khalessi," He tells her, "And I knew the Starks. Even their youngest boy has a good heart in him, and he has not even seen his first winter. I hate Ned Stark, but I do not blame him for passing the sentence against me. He did what he thought was right, blame him as I might, he is a stronger man that I."
"And what are your thoughts on my nephew?"
"I spoke with young Jon Snow only once, Khalessi. But he, more than any of Lord Starks other sons, reminded me of the Lord of Winterfell himself."
"And that makes him a good man?"
"Perhaps," Jorah sighs, "We all think we are good men, your grace. All I can say of Jon Snow is that he will grow into a man of convictions.
Daenerys sighs slowly, and lets her eyes drift into the far distance. She lets her mind wander, and wonders if she might ever meet the boy. She hoped that if they ever did manage to meet, that he proved a better man than Viserys. After months with the Dothraki, learning their way and coming into her own as the wife of the great Khal, she could hardly stand her brother any more. He was a spiteful, angry man who had wasted years of their lives on a mad hunt for an army. She knew they had started their time in Essos wealthy, and she knew that Viserys had squandered their wealth nearly the instant Ser Darry's body had grown cold.
They'd been thrown from the only home that Daenerys had ever loved, and now she was trapped with the Dothraki. As much as she may love her husband, she did so wish that she could have the kind of peace that came with the house with the red door. She'd been thrown out thanks to Varys at five years old, and had never managed to feel that kind of love for their home since. She knew she would never get that again, and especially not with the Dothraki and their nomadic culture.
And it was all thanks to Viserys, so she hoped that her nephew across the sea was a better man than her brother proved to be.
Jon wasn't sure if he was a good man, or even a kind man, given that he was sentencing someone to death. It seemed to him that from the moment he had woken up to now had been a blur of activity. After christening the bed, he and Ygritte had fallen into calm sleep, plagued by only the usual nightmares that haunt his dreams. He was awoken quietly by a servant, bathed, and woke Ygritte to tell her that food had been brought to them. The fire haired wildling had been confused, but enjoyed the meal anyway. It was a simple porridge with bread, but after so many miles on the road here, any meal would feel like a feast.
After they'd eaten, they moved to the main hall, where they met with Ser Gered. Jon, who was finally awake enough to talk with the Lannister with full interest, asked the man about himself. They'd had good conversation for a while, and it was only with the nearing of the second hour after dawn that they broke apart. Ygritte, who was eager to go hunting for their lunch, was taken by Ser Gered to be introduced to the keep's staff, so that nobody would try to stop her from coming and going as she pleased. Jon, meanwhile, remained in his seat and awaited the first of the petitioners to come to him.
It was this that brought him to the present. While most of the disputes brought before him were easy to settle and quickly finished, there were two matters that needed to be addressed last. The first was a case of murder, committed only the night before. Two of the common folk who had journeyed north had entered into a fight, one had pulled a knife and now his companion was dead. It was a clear case, without debate over guilt needed it had been easy for him to ask the question, "Your head or the Wall?"
The commoner, a tall man with eyes kinder than he'd expect on a murderer, takes a breath and tells him, "It'll be my head, then, m'lord. I may have come this far North, but I go no further."
Jon nodded, and he did as Lord Stark had taught him, and swung the sword. It should have been easy, without any guilt towards the man, but then he had learnt of the daughter. A small girl barely aged enough to eat solid foods, now without her father or anyone else in the world. So after the great hall of his keep had been cleared, Jon could not help but sit in silence with a cup of mead by his side.
Did he do the right thing?
Was the girl going to die?
As questions floated through his head, Jon couldn't help but imagine Olly. The boy had been a friend, and he'd stabbed Jon in the heart. Was he Olly now? To that little girl, was he the trusted authority figure that betrayed her and stabbed her in the heart. He hoped not, and in truth he was probably thinking far too much into the matter. He knew he had a habit of doing so.
"Jon?" he looks up and sees Sam stepping up beside him. The fat scribe smiles down at him and notes, "Something's on your mind."
"Aye," Jon nods, he looks up at Sam and shakes his head, "That girl, she's got nobody now. I've taken the last family she's got."
"You did," Sam agrees, "But that doesn't mean she has no one."
Jon raises his eyes to look at his friend.
"Gilly thinks the girl's cute, she wants to take care of her," Sam tells him, smiling at the thought of the girl he loved. Gilly, and some of Craster's other daughters, had been saved by Tormund when the wildling bands of the Lord of Bones had burnt the place to the ground before Jon's group had arrived. If the ginger man hadn't been scouting with his band, then there wouldn't have been any survivors. They weren't lucky enough to save the massive stores of food, but six of Craster's daughters had survived.
Jon smiles up at his friend, "You've got a good heart, Sam, as does Gilly."
"I know," Sam smiles, matching his friend, "Don't sit in the dark, Jon, I think Ygritte is back with your lunch."
"Is she?" Jon stands, "Then I suppose we ought to see what she's brought."
They make their way to the kitchens, where they do indeed find the wildling archer. She stands and watches as the kitchen staff destroy a perfectly good deer that she'd managed to kill. When she felt Jon arrive at her side she looks at him and asks, "Can you tell me why they're dicing it all up?"
"I don't rightly know," Jon admits, "When my home was Winterfell, the cooks would shoo me from the kitchens the moment they saw me. I suppose they're doing it so they can make it last longer?"
"There's a big barrel of salt right over there," Ygritte points, finger aimed like a crossbow, "And none of 'em have touched it for more'n a pinch of the stuff."
"I think they're preparing enough for the both of you and anyone who usually eats in the great hall. Probably the household guards."
"Speaking of, did you know that most of the folk with the spears were sent by your brother?" Ygritte asks, "Apparently he didn't trust the southern kneelers to watch your home while you were away."
Jon nods slowly, "That sounds like Robb. I'll have to send him something as thanks."
"Well you can do that after we eat," Ygritte tells him, then shoots a worried look into the kitchen, "If we eat."
Jon laughs and takes her by the shoulder, leading her out of the kitchen as his dark mood fades away into something more relaxed. He knew he would soon have to deal with more problems, and eventually he would have to worry about the White Walkers, but for now he did not have to think of such things.
He just had to remember to return Ice to Robb.