XLV: Meanwhile, in Slaver's Bay PART 3
The road between Astapor and Yunkai, Essos, AC 300 - - - - -
Daenerys
It had been a short, but brutal overthrow. The Masters of Astapor were all deposed, and her Unsullied army had chosen to stay with her when she offered them freedom. But Daenerys Targaryan had not been content with simply handing over the city to the enslaved. She had to prove herself, after all.
So a few months of hard work later, she was finally comfortable enough to move on to the next Slave City-Yunkai. And as she rode along, she clutched the proof of her work in her hands. She still couldn't help looking down at the headline of Astapor's first newspaper with a smile.
The Chain Breaker, it was called. And the first issue: "DRAGON MOTHER FREES ASTAPOR."
The printing press had not been too hard to obtain-The Astaporian Masters had gotten their hands on several to reproduce their books. Not from the North, exactly, but purchased from Braavos. It was a pity they couldn't produce photographs, but she had at least commissioned artists to draw the scenes of the sacking, and the aftermath.
A city council. Companies and unions forming. A court system backed with some of her Army to give it teeth, to treat all fairly. It was crude, yes... But it would hold the city until she finished her mission. And the thousands of copies of the Chain Breaker she was distributing far and wide would make the other Slaver Bay cities think twice. Their slaves would be given hope-And that was her greatest weapon.
So intent on her newspaper, she had begun to tune out Ser Selmy and Ser Jorah's conversation... Until she heard mention of "Robb Stark". She didn't look back at her two knights, but instead tilted her head to hear better.
"... I will admit, I wish I was back there sometimes," Selmy said with a wistful air to his voice. "Especially with this news of the Lannisters... Ha! To see that boy king's face when thatuncle of his got knocked on his arse!"
"I imagine such a look was on your face as well, Ser Barristan," Jorah said. "It was on mine."
"That's only natural," Barristan grunted. "But the boy thinks his gold and name and crown are all you need to win... The Starks have upended the entire thing."
"You're sure, then, that they are the ones we should contact?" asked Jorah, almost casually, but with just a hint of an edge. "You were closer to King's Landing..."
"And you are a Northman, are you not?" Asked Barristan dryly.
"A North I am not welcome in," Jorah pointed out. Barristan hummed.
"True... But given the choices... I mean, Renly was slain by Stannis. Black Magic was involved... We can't align with him. Even if Stannis wasn't the most inflexible man who ever lived."
Jorah sighed long, and Dany could see his solemn face in her mind's eye. "Granted... And if he's anything like his father, King Robb won't want the Iron Throne."
"He's said as much in these newsheets quite often," Barristan observed.
"We both know that it is actions that define men, not words on a page," Jorah responded, just a bit tightly. Barristan snorted again.
"Then why did you remind me?"
Sensing an argument about to break out, Daenerys had her horse drop back between the knights. They moved aside, and both muttered "Your Grace" in apology. She smiled at her loyal, stalwart knights.
"Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah... I do believe that the North is our best option," she said diplomatically. "In fact... As soon as we take Yunkai, I wish to open formal relations with the North."
"Why Yunkai, Your Grace?" Barristan asked curiously. Jorah smiled in admiration and approval.
"From what I know, the thunderarms of the North rely on certain materials to work," Jorah said. "They make much of it, but a few key ingredients are needed. Yunkai has been shipping a fair amount to the North."
"What?" Barristan asked, surprised. "But the Slaver Bay cities hate the North! They refused any trade with the Iron Throne when they heard Ned Stark was going to be made Hand!"
Much of those details escaped Ser Barristan, but the uproar in the Red Keep had been hard to forget. Especially with Petyr Baelish's frantic scrambling to work out a new trade agreement to allow trade to resume.
"Yes, but at least a number of Yunkai merchants managed to arrange some clandestine trade agreements for something called 'saltpetre'," Jorah further explained. "High up enough they could not be touched, but low enough in the hierarchy to not be noticed by the other cities."
"It is my hope that we can establish relations with the North through those traders," Daenerys said. Her eyes narrowed. "At least those who have not been involved in slaving... Those I will deal with myself."
The cold glare on the Dragon Queen's face made both men fall silent for a time. The dark look left Dany's face, and she was once again the serene Khaleesi.
"That said, Your Grace," Barristan began, "what do we say to King Robb? While the Unsullied are formidable, I don't think landing on the Blackwater with them will endear us to the North."
"That is why I will instead request reporters and photographers from the Westeros Despoiler to come to interview me and my people," Daenerys said confidently. Barristan looked surprised, but Dany just smiled. "It will introduce the people of Westeros to me, just as the Chain Breaker is introducing me to Essos. That is the way to reach out to the smallfolk-To know me as a person, and not some foreign queen with dragons. To understand why I wish to return to the throne, and make right what has been done wrong."
Jorah smiled as well, pride in his gaze. She felt proud of impressing him-He was the closest thing to a father she'd ever had.
"Wise," Ser Barristan said, nodding. "Though if I may suggest? We try to specifically contact Theon Greyjoy."
"Why?" Daenerys asked with a frown.
Jorah actually looked at Barristan in agreement, before he answered for the older knight.
"From what I know of the lad," Jorah said, "he would be more amenable to an alliance. He is the one who started this revolution, after all-We get his ear, and King Robb is certain to follow."
Daenerys smiled with a slight blush. "True... But I do not think marriage to him would work quite as well as to King Robb."
Jorah's brows shot up. "Ah... Khaleesi?"
"It is a card I am willing to play," Daenerys said, "in order to unite the Seven Kingdoms." She sighed and smiled wryly. "It isn't the first time I've married to secure an alliance. King Robb is the logical choice, after all."
Jorah nodded, looking a bit more relaxed. Dany smiled a bit impishly.
"Besides... I do not think it would be too unpleasant a union," she said, "given what you knights and the newspapers have told me of him! The Young Wolf, indeed..."
Jorah was back to being tense. Ser Barristan chuckled.
"Your Grace, please! I am but your humble knight. Perhaps you should save such talk for your hand maidens?"
"Perhaps I will," Daenerys said with a thoughtful nod.
- - - - -
Grey Worm's messenger had returned with a corpulent man of Yunkai and several gold laden horses. Daenerys met him in her tent, and made her demands known. The Master, named Bezzaq, tried to buy her off. Then he tried to threaten her with "powerful friends". It didn't work, and Dany sent him on his way back without any of his bribe. Daenerys leaned back on her folding chair, sighing softly, as her dragons lounged in the shade around her. Her knights, Grey Worm, and Missandei all waited in silence.
"... Ser Jorah? We must find out who these 'powerful friends' of Yunkai are," she said. "Grey Worm, you and Ser Jorah seek out more information."
"Of course, Khaleesi," both Jorah and Grey Worm said with twin bows.
Grey Worm straightened up, and patted his thigh. Another Unsullied, the messenger, came forward with a chest.
"Khaleesi," the messenger said, "I obtained several copies of the Westeros Despoiler as ordered." He opened the chest, and Daenerys eagerly leaned forward to sort through the papers. "The merchant informed me many were older copies, but the most recent one he could obtain was at the bottom."
"I'll have him sort this out properly when we take Yunkai," Dany murmured, already disliking the disorganized nature of these papers. Books should be treated with respect! "If you all would go...?"
"Of course, Khaleesi," Jorah said with a bow. Barristan headed out with a bow and a fond smile, while Grey Worm and his messenger exited as stoic as they'd entered. Missandei left, shutting the tent behind her. She turned to get some water for her Queen... When she heard a gasp and a cry of rage.
"Graddakh! Ezas eshna gech ahilee! VIKEESI!" The queen cursed in Dothraki, before switching to even fouler phrases. Barristan, Jorah, and Grey Worm rushed in, hands on their weapons, as Missandei hurried after. They burst into the tent.
"Khaleesi! Are you all right?" Jorah gasped.
"Your Grace!" Selmy cried.
Daenerys stood up on the carpet, kicking her chair apart. Her dragons watched in confusion, as she waved a newspaper around. Her face was red in fury.
"That-That-Oooh!" She snarled, "that flower whore!"
Jorah approached carefully, as carefully as he would one of Daenerys' dragons. "Khaleesi...?"
Daenerys scowled, and held up the newspaper. Jorah read it aloud, for the benefit of Missandei and Grey Worm Dany presumed.
"Royal Wedding Announced: His Grace King Robb Stark to be joined in marriage with Lady Margaery Tyrell of the Reach," he spoke. Barristan sighed and shook his head.
"Well... Suppose that's that," he said. "Marriage alliance is out of the question-"
"True, but King Robb will no doubt want to deal with us anyway," Jorah said quickly, looking relieved. Dany nodded, taking deep breaths.
"Of course, of course," she said with a sigh, "but I really wanted to... I mean..." She blushed furiously and scowled at the floor. "I feel so foolish..."
"You still have a woman's heart, Your Grace," Barristan said kindly, putting a hand on Daenery's shoulder. "It is nothing to be ashamed of. You know to manage it properly, which is how a true Queen should. But an outburst is perfectly fine."
Daenerys nodded. "Of course... There are still many ways to secure this alliance," she said. "Many ways..."
Jorah nodded and smiled. "Indeed, Khaleesi... There's no need to be hurt by this. It may be a blessing in disguise-This way, we can have both the Reach and the North on our side."
"Besides," Missandei said, pointing to the picture on the front page, "I don't think Lord Greyjoy is married."
Daenerys held it up, and studied the handsome Genius smiling mischievously at his adopted brother and his new bride. She smiled, and reached down to pat the head of Drogon.
"Yes... You're right," she murmured. "And I wanted to thank him for that book..." She looked to Jorah. "Perhaps you were right, Ser Jorah! Perhaps we should contact him first!" She beamed at her most stalwart and loyal knight, and cupped his cheek. "You are, in all ways, my very best friend."
"... Thank you, Khaleesi," Jorah said, his face drooping a bit. He straightened, but still looked depressed. "If you will excuse me, Your Grace, Grey Worm and I have work to do." He turned at her nod, and headed out, Grey Worm following. Barristan watched him go, a slight smirk on his face. Daenerys paid this little mind-Men were always smirking at one another, competing like wolves...
"Come Missandei," Daenerys said, "we must train my dragons today... And see if we can't find out a bit more about Lord Greyjoy, mm?"
Her handmaiden smiled and nodded. "Of course, Khaleesi!"
XLVIII: Alea Iacta Est, Part 1
AC 300, Riverrun, The Riverlands
Theon
- - - - - - -
The workshop Lord Tully had set up for us was almost good enough to match home. But that was mainly because I had a soldering iron now, thanks to the electrical generator Ramsay had brought. The prospect of a new toy to play with raised my spirits considerably, as I worked on one of the radios. My mentor and friend, Luwin, was at my side. No doubt about to dispense some helpful advice or great wisdom.
"So… You had two women vying for you-" He said. I grimaced behind my goggles.
"Don't want to talk about it," I muttered, as I finished a circuit.
"One of whom was entirely fine with another woman involved," Luwin went on.
"Really don't want to talk about it," I said.
Luwin shook his head, and patted me on the shoulder. "Lad… You may be a Greyjoy by blood, but you're all Stark when it comes to your own joys."
"I shouldn't take that as a compliment, should I?" I mumbled. Luwin pushed up my goggles, and I looked over at him. The kindly old Maester, a man who was like my grandfather in all things, was smirking a bit.
"Theon, son… I'm just saying, you shouldn't exclude joy from your life," he said. "You have great responsibilities, yes… But you can fit in moments of happiness to make it all worthwhile, can't you?"
"There are a lot of complications involved," I pointed out. "I mean, politics, intrigue. Not to mention Amarda's…"
"You care for her and don't want others to see her as merely your mistress," Luwin said. I grimaced and looked back at the radio assembly. Not because I was being petulant, no. I just saw that one of the vacuum tubes was excessively dusty.
"... She deserves better," I said. Luwin chuckled.
"The lady knows what she wants," he said.
"Yeah, but with Robb married…" I trailed off. "I mean, we're going to need alliances." I looked up at my mentor with a frown. "Are you saying I should just… Go for my heart?"
"I'm saying, lad, that there is a princess interested in you, politically connected, who would not be averse to you having a mistress," Luwin said seriously… And then he smirked.
"And you thought yourself out of it. You really are too smart for your own good."
I gaped at my mentor and grandfather figure. "... You just want me to get laid?!"
"My boy, I have never seen a Stark need to get laid more," Luwin said. "Save for Robb. And since that's sorted…"
A raven flew through the window, and waited expectantly. I took the distraction from this disturbing turn of events, and took the message. I unfurled it and read the message. I looked over at Luwin.
"Speaking of Robb… We've been summoned to a meeting. We'll resume this discussion never," I said quickly, getting up and brushing off my coat. "Seriously, what's with all this interest in my love life?"
Luwin chuckled, and I moved to open the door for him as he shuffled over to the exit.
"It's a time of great change, Theon. War, revolution, marriage… And I would like another young Squid to raise up. To see what wonders he'll come up… Or she, for that matter," he said as he walked out. I followed him, closing the door and locking it behind us. I walked alongside Luwin, and shook my head.
"Ha… For all your wisdom, you just want grandbabies to spoil," I replied. Luwin chuckled.
"Call it a bit of sentimentality on an old man's part," he said.
- - - - -
We entered a small meeting room, adjacent to the Great Hall. We passed by several of the servants still cleaning up after the gun battle, poor guys. On the other hand, I'd seen (and cleaned up) far worse, so my empathy was a bit limited.
The small meeting room was covered in garish tapestries, surrounding a table that was a bit too long. Robb was sitting at the head, his chair pressed against the wall. An injured but still stoic Roose Bolton, Greatjon Umber, Lord Karstark, Dacey Mormont, Oberyn Martell, Loras Tyrell, Uncle Blackfish, Brienne, and even Walder Frey were packed in. Despite the lack of room and the irritating decorations, Robb was looking smug as hell. The fact Margaery wasn't there was a good clue as to why.
"Why the ravens and why the crappy room?" I asked. Walder Frey harrumphed.
"The Squid's talking sense! Why are we all squeezed in here like too many cocks in a tavern whore?!"
"Not quite how I'd put it," Dacey said. Brienne made a face, but she became less tense when I squeezed in next to her to be by Robb. The King sighed.
"But works well enough… The fact is, unless you'd like to share this secret discussion in a tent or with the wounded, this is the best we can do," Robb said. "Besides," he looked over at me, "it's harder to eavesdrop in here."
"Because all of us in one place, not gonna draw any attention," Oberyn said wryly. That got some laughs. Robb stood up, and cleared his throat.
"As long as they don't know exactly what we're saying, it will work just fine," Robb stated. He pulled a folder out, and produced several stacks of papers. They were held together with paperclips-Huh! I remembered when I invented those. It really wasn't that hard.
He passed the papers out, and everyone took a copy. I took mine, and flipped through it quickly. I hid my reaction as best I could. Roose Bolton, that creepy bastard, just put his papers down after he read it and looked at Robb intently. Everyone else was looking either amazed, or carefully poker-faced.
"Your Grace… This is dangerous," Roose said in his gravelly tone. The bullet to his throat had apparently not hit anywhere vital, despite the large number of bandages across his neck.
"Dangerous… But necessary," Robb said. He looked over at Loras, who was looking gobsmacked. He glanced over at Uncle Blackfish, who had wide eyes. Finally, he looked at Oberyn Martell, who stared back in silence.
The Crown Prince of Dorne… Then grinned broadly, and laughed.
"I'm in!" He crowed.
"What, you Targaryan fetishists are gonna back this insanity?" Walder asked with a snort.
"Aren't you?" Asked Oberyn, raising his eyebrows. Frey growled, and smacked his hand on the table.
"Of course I bloody am! That blonde twat tried to kill me, and frame me! Fuck that Pointy Chair, and fuck him in his mother's twat!"
"Good thing we have Jaime Lannister to take care of that," Uncle Blackfish said. Much laughter ensued, which died off when Margaery-Sorry, Queen Margaery-entered. She smiled broadly at everyone, but the majority of her warmth was directed squarely at Robb. Who smiled just as goofily back.
"Hope I'm not too late?" She asked. Robb shook his head.
"No, you're right on time," he said, sliding another copy of the speech across the table to her. She took it, and shook her head.
"I read it on the way here," she said. "You left one by the bed."
"She kept her wits about her? Bodes ill for the rest of the marriage," Walder Frey snorted.
"Watch your damn tongue!" Greatjon growled. Walder snorted.
"Watch yours, you damn-"
"Now now," Margaery said, walking very, very slowly over to Robb's side. She looked out at the gathered nobles and lords, and smiled. "King Robb performed… Just fine."
Robb's smug expression grew. Margaery rested a hand on his shoulder, and her smile grew just a hair.
"But as with all men, there is always room for improvement," she said with a bat of her eyelashes. Robb looked up at her, his jaw dropped. I snorted… And the room was soon filled with laughter again. Brienne of Tarth remained stoic, but was blushing furiously.
"Ah, to the Queen in the North!" Blackfish laughed. "She's fitting in already!"
"Can we please get back on topic?" Asked Robb.
"Of course, your Grace," I snickered. "Ahem… So… The Riverlands are for this… Dorne too…" I looked around. "I think we know where the North stands… So… How about the Reach?"
Margaery smiled at her brother. He smiled uneasily back, and nodded.
"We will need to talk to my lord father… But given my grandmother is in favor of this, I believe you can count on our support." She squeezed Robb's shoulder. "In all things, my King."
"As long as he continues to improve," snarked Walder Frey. Again, much laughter and much glaring. "Now, Boomsquid… What about your kingdom?"
I sighed. "The Kingsmoot is still going on… But I doubt they'll go after any of us. We're too dangerous of targets."
"That's still four Kingdoms," Uncle Blackfish said. "I'd say that's enough... Are you going to do this then, Your Grace?"
Robb nodded, and raised his chin. He looked like a real noble king, a champion of humanity.
"I am… And I'm going to tell the people at noon. Gather your troops… They all need to hear this." He smiled wryly. "After all… I've still got to sell them. Thank you all…"
Various responses of "Your Grace" ensued, and the lords headed out. Lord Frey was pushed out by one of his numerous relatives, laughing softly as he did. Soon, only myself, Margaery, Brienne, Luwin and Robb were left behind. Robb sighed, and looked over at me.
"Four kingdoms… But we're going to need one more," he said. Brienne frowned.
"Tarth's influence is limited, my Lord… But I can speak to my Lord Father."
"I appreciate that, Brienne," Robb said with a nod, "but I wasn't talking about the Stormlands. I was talking about… The Westerlands."
I raised my eyebrow. "What…?"
"And fortunately, we have several fairly sensible members of the ruling family of that kingdom with us," Robb continued, grinning at me. I blinked, and looked over at Margaery.
"He's gotten clever. Good work," I said with a nod. Margaery sighed.
"I've only just started… There's so much more to do."
"Would you please stop talking about me like I'm not here?" Robb groused. I grinned.
"Nope…"
"Well, just for that, I'll leave that up to you," Robb said with a smile. I sighed.
"Damnit… Why isn't she getting punished?" I asked, pointing at Margaery. She smiled and shrugged, grasping Robb's arm. She lightly bit her lower lip.
"Must I go into such details, Lord Theon?" She asked coquettishly. Robb blushed again. Brienne cleared her throat.
"If I may, your Graces… Will you be like this for much longer?"
"Probably," Luwin observed. Brienne nodded.
"I see," she sighed. Margaery laughed.
"I'm sorry Brienne… You'll just have to get used to it."
Robb nodded, and cleared his throat. "Yeah… But after you get that done, Theon…? I have a much more important job for you."
"What?" I asked, blinking curiously.
"Saving our sisters," he said. I nodded very slowly.
"So… Two miracles then?"
"You come up with miracles daily, just add on another," Robb said. He grinned. "You certainly won't let any women get in the way-"
"Robbbb!"
XLIX: Alea Iacta Est, Part 2
AC 300, Riverrun, The Riverlands
Theon
The dungeons of Riverrun were much like dungeons everywhere-Stinky, dark, and depressing. My boots echoed on the tile floor, and I ignored the sounds made by the other prisoners as I passed by.
I finally came to the last cell on the block, and I nodded to the guard. He grimaced.
"Lord Theon… Are you sure-?"
"I'm sure," I said. The guard nodded, and unlocked the door. He pulled it open with a loud creak, and I looked at the chained up form of the prisoner within. He looked up at me and smirked that cocky Lannister smile at me.
"Well, well, well… Theon Greyjoy! Been a while since we talked, hasn't it?" He asked. "If you're spurning the Bolton Bastard, I might be up to the task…"
The guard growled. I sighed, and raised my hand up.
"Leave us," I said.
"My lord-"
"Go, damnit," I said. I stepped into the cell, and the guard shut the door behind me. He headed off, his lantern swinging. Jaime Lannister stared at me, eyebrows raised.
"So I was right then? You Ironborn do love your captives… Bound in chains, utterly helpless. That help you get in the mood to perform?"
I stayed silent, watching him. He stared back, and tried again to provoke me.
"A pretty blonde thing like me… Does it make you ache? To whip me and boss me around? A certain satisfaction? All about power, right? Dogs humping lesser males…"
I still said nothing. Jaime glowered a bit. The time ticked on, helped by my pocketwatch clicking away loudly in the quiet cell.
"... Are you just going to keep standing there? Does the great genius not know how to treat a prisoner?" He spat again. I raised my eyebrows.
"Are you done?" I asked. Jaime stared at me, shifting as much as the chains would let him.
"Should I be?" He shot back. I sighed, and sat on the bench hanging on the side of the cell. "You need something from me?"
"Not especially," I said.
"Then why are you here?" He asked flatly, grimacing. I smiled, enjoying the minor victory.
"To thank you," I said. Jaime blinked at me.
"I'm… Sorry?"
"To thank you for saving King's Landing," I said. He fell silent. "The Mad King was going to set off wildfire all over the city. Kill everyone. Probably thinking he'd rise from the ashes as a reborn dragon. Am I right?"
Jaime was still silent, staring in some disbelief. "I… How did-?"
I snorted. "Oh come on, Lannister," I stated, "I'm Theon the Genius. I don't just make things blow up, I figure stuff out." I nodded. "And you? You're pretty easy to figure out. You were torn between oaths, and you elected to go for 'protect the weak'. And for that, the nobility of Westeros called you 'Kingslayer' when they should have called you Savior of the Kingdom."
"No one more so than your foster father," Jaime said, a hint of bitterness in his voice. I nodded.
"Ned Stark was a great man… But a flawed one." I leaned back. "That said… You never told anyone about what the Mad King was going to do. You were just resentful, passive aggressive… Banging your sister."
Jaime sighed again, looking weary. "And you figured that out too?"
"Not hard to," I said. "Also, you pushed my little brother out the window."
Jaime closed his eyes, and let out a long sigh. "There… A point to this?" He asked.
"The world fucked you over," I said. Jaime snorted.
"And so… You came here to pity me?"
"Hardly," I said, "I came here to offer you a job."
Jaime blinked. He blinked again. Then he laughed loudly.
"Hahahaha! What…? A job? You think I can be bought by gold?"
"No," I said, still patient and calm. I knew it would piss him off even more. Yes, I can be rather petty. Sue me, he pushed my little brother out the window. I'm entitled to it. "The fact of the matter is though, you did save half a million lives. And never got credit for it." I stared at him intently. "You're also kind of a dickhead."
Jaime glowered. I waited. He remained silent. The pocketwatch ticked away merrily.
Finally, the blonde knight gave in after four minutes. "And… This job…?"
"You injured a member of the Stark family. Many of them want you dead… But if we're going to build a better world, we can't repeat the mistakes of the past," I said. "So instead, the offer is simple: You serve the community you injured to make up for what you did."
"Slavery?" Jaime asked flatly. I shook my head.
"More like 'community service'. You work for us, under supervision. You help the North-Help anyone who needs it, for that matter. You pay off your… Call it… Spiritual debt. Earn back your honor."
"And why should I do that?" Jaime asked. "I'm right here, after all."
"Because somewhere inside of you is the man who chose the right thing to do over obeying the Mad King," I said. "And you're smothering him, in bitterness and resentment. The world doesn't need Jaime Lannister, the petulant asshole who sits in a cell. It needs that man. And so does your brother... And your kids."
Jaime narrowed his eyes. "I swear, if you threaten my little brother in front of me-"
"I'm not," I stated. "Fact of the matter is, he's more important than you right now. But! If he's going to be the new Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, he'll be happier with his big brother alive and serving the realm as a proper knight than dead or sitting in a jail cell."
Jaime gaped at me in disbelief. "... You're joking."
"What? You think he can't do it?" I asked with a smile. "I think he can."
"You'd use him as a puppet?" Jaime growled. I shook my head.
"Hardly. He's too smart for that. Rather, we'd prefer someone who cares about the people of Westeros is in charge. And someone smart enough to keep them safe. He fits the bill. The question is," and I looked him right in the eyes, "do you want to help your little brother? Or do you want to rot in this cell, smug and difficult?"
Jaime stared at me for a long time. I stared back. The pocketwatch kept ticking away.
"... Can I see him first?" He asked. I nodded.
"Yes… But on one condition," I said. Jaime frowned.
"What is that?" He asked.
"Tell him the truth about Tysha," I said. Jaime's eyes widened in shock, and I smirked. "Genius, remember?" I looked out the bars. "GUARD!"
- - - - - -
Sitting outside a door while two brothers mend fences is… Exactly as exciting as you might imagine. With only my pocketwatch to keep me company, it was dreary and dull.
Oh sure, there were guards. They just weren't very talkative.
I had no idea where Amarda was. Probably doing work. Important work. While I was on my "mission". I sighed and rubbed my forehead.
Right. Amarda. I needed to make this up to her somehow… And Arianne too, now that I think about it. She did show me her boobs. It's the kind of thing one should take into consideration.
It was a long, lonely hour before someone knocked on the door. I nodded to the guards, and opened the door. I rested my hand on my revolver and scanned around. Just Jaime, Tyrion, and Bronn seated around a table. The booze was flowing freely, and Tyrion looked terrible. Jaime didn't look much better, bound by chains to his waist. I nodded to the guards, and entered with their weapons covering me. They swept the room, before nodding and closing the door behind them.
So it was just me, standing in a room with Bronn, Jaime, and Tyrion. It felt a bit awkward, really.
"... So," Bronn broke the ice, "two women, and ya didn't take either of them?"
"Does everybody know that by now?" I complained. "Seriously?"
"Well, needed a bit of levity with how things were going," Bronn said. "And the little Lord ain't much for wit right now."
"Fuck off," Tyrion mumbled. Jaime's eyes were filled with pain. I nodded, and walked a bit closer.
"I see... Meera?"
The Crannogwoman pulled herself out of a couch, brushing off any lint. The three prisoners stared in shock. She saluted me.
"Ser Jaime did indeed tell the story," she said, not looking in Tyrion's direction. "And relayed the message properly."
I nodded. "Good," I said. Tyrion gave me a baleful look.
"So, when you said we'd be alone-"
"She's not going to gush your personal details to the realm," I said, "but I didn't get here by being an idiot."
Tyrion took a long, long pull of his wine. He slowly nodded.
"Only fair," he said tightly. Bronn looked amused.
"Wanna teach me how you do that, love?" Bronn asked with a grin. "Could think of all sorts of places I'd like to sneak in… Especially if you'll wear that suit."
Meera gave him a steely glare. "Don't think you'll find them," she retorted.
The Crannogwoman headed off, jumping out the nearby window. Bronn chuckled, as Jaime sighed heavily. He moved to speak, but Tyrion held his hand up. He looked intently at me.
"First of all… How did you know that?" He asked flatly. "How could you possibly…?"
"You really think I'd do business with the rest of the Realm without building up contacts?" I asked. "Without asking questions? Picking up things?"
"Varys must be green with envy right now," Tyrion mumbled. "Good look for him... " He shook his head. "Still doesn't change the fact you're asking me to betray my father…"
"That part's all up to you," I said with a shrug. I sat down at the table, still warily eyeing Bronn and Jaime. Meera was probably still around, but better to be safe than sorry. "The fact of the matter is, we have too many POWs to keep around. So we're sending them all home with you and Lord Kevan."
"An act of good will… That will demoralize the Westerlands further," Tyrion snorted. "You've learned to temper your generosity with insult. The Queen of Thorns has taught you well…"
"That she has," I said with a nod. "Besides, that many men back in the Westerlands won't do you any good. The Reach is sending troops, so is Dorne. The Riverlands are up to full strength. The North… Is coming. Your father sold Westerosan men into slavery, and your nephew murdered Lord Stark." I leaned back. "Our quarrel is with a few Lannisters… Not all of you."
"And you honestly think that I can win control over the Westerlands?" Tyrion asked blearily. "And not look like a puppet?"
"If you don't, someone else will," I said, "and do you really think that someone would do as good a job as you? You really think that someone deserves it more than you?"
"Playing on my vanity," Tyrion snorted. "When you have me over a log."
"Yes," I said with a nod. "But the greatest challenge to any statesman in Westeros… You really think you can't do it?"
Tyrion snorted. "Not a matter of if I can do it-"
"Humble, as always," Bronn snarked.
"But why," Tyrion said, shaking his head. I shrugged, and pulled my copy of Robb's proposal out of my satchel. I handed it over to Tyrion. He looked it over, tapping the table and mouthing a few of the words. He looked up at me.
"This… Is never going to work," he pronounced. "It is the stupidest, most idealistic plan I have ever seen in my entire life."
I nodded. "Probably, yeah." I tried to hide the sinking feeling in my gut. It was more than just Tyrion being a character I loved in the show-I'd met him, talked to him. I knew he was a good man. I knew he was someone I wanted to succeed.
But he had to be on the right side for me to let him.
Tyrion sighed. "You do realize I'll be working to gain more for myself, and for my side than for you, don't you? Self interest at heart. Playing the game. Winning the game. You'll still be opponents."
"Yes," I said with a nod, "but frankly, I'd prefer opponents to yell at than opponents to kill in open battle. After all, what is a peaceful society but one where everyone agrees to keep violence to a minimum?"
"A minimum, he says," muttered Jaime. Tyrion sighed.
"... I'm not just going to be Lord Paramount," he said. "You need me to act as a Hand… An advisor. Your presumptions are ridiculous. You need me."
I shrugged. "We could get someone else… I mean, no shortage of people who would want the job-"
"And would fuck it up," Tyrion snorted. "You obviously staged all this to butter me up, and treat me with a proposal of exactly what I want. A wish fulfilled. No… No, if I'm going to have a part in this mad revolution of yours, I'm where I should be-Making it come true." He tossed the proposal back at me. "I'm an advisor to your King or no deal."
"Based on what leverage?" I asked flatly.
"The fact you've done all this means I'm an asset you've invested in," Tyrion stated, "and you're not about to throw it away. So drop the games and give me what I want... What we both know you want me to do. After all… You're not going to navigate King's Landings politics. You'd go mad in a day."
I grimaced. Right, he was a political mastermind. He would know when he was being played. "... I'll talk to King Robb… But I think I can persuade him." I held out my hand. "It does mean travelling with me, you know."
"I'll try to manage," Tyrion replied, not extending his hand. "And I want one other thing."
"Yes?" I asked. Tyrion nodded to his brother.
"His… 'Community service' will be with me," Tyrion said, "as my bodyguard."
I thought about it, hard. Jaime smirked at me. I sighed.
"... Deal," I said. Tyrion took my hand, and we shook on it. And though inebriated, his eyes still shown with keen insight. He smirked at me.
"Isn't it lovely when we all get what we want?" He asked. I managed a weak smile.
"I'll be sure to tell you when it happens," I said. I rose, and checked my watch. I grimaced… And then smiled. I rummaged in my satchel. I pulled out a radio receiver and speaker, and set it on the table. Bronn and Jaime stared in disbelief.
"What is that thing?" Jaime asked. I turned it on.
"It's time for the speech," I said. "Wouldn't want you to miss it."
The radio crackled and hissed a bit, before Luwin's voice spoke over it.
"Testing, testing, one two three… You can all hear me? … Good. Maester Luwin here, presenting His Grace, King in the North and of the Trident, Robb Stark, the First of his name."
There was the faint sound of cheering and applause, and I heard Robb clearing his throat. Then… He spoke.
"The times we live in are tumultuous. These last years ... no, these last decades have seen more change and upheaval than Westeros has seen since before the arrival of the Targaryen's force of dragons upon this continent centuries ago. The rampages of the Mad King, the overweening arrogance and entitlement that drove Prince Rhaegar to abduct, abuse and slay my aunt Lyanna, the fall of the Targaryen dynasty and the rise of the Baratheon. The war with the Iron Isles, and the arrival in Winterfell of a young, underfed hostage who would one day be counted among my brothers and closest companions. That boy's genius and inventiveness that would change the way the North sees itself, and how the rest of Westeros ... the rest of the world sees us. We have gone from one of the poorest of the Seven Kingdoms to one of the wealthiest, yet we have not lost that essence, that strength that was left to us by our ancestors, by the heroes of ages long past.
"Twice in as many generations, this Realm, this united Westeros has been rent by civil war, the lands scoured by armies and bandits, farms burnt, merchants robbed, the flower of our finest - on all sides - scattered into the dirt. Lives lost, livelihoods ruined, brother turned against brother and long friendships sundered, and for what? What is the point of all of this? The Realm? The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros? What is that? Half a millennia ago, those words would have been meaningless: each of the Kingdoms vied against one another for domination. The Realm was a dream, a phantom, a result of Aegon Targaryen and his kin, flying across the sea and forcing the kings of Westeros to kneel ... or to burn. Seven Kingdoms he and his descendants conquered, spot-welding them together with dragonfire like a tinker welds bits of a broken pot. And like that pot, the Realm Aegon and those who followed him built was fragile, delicate, and ultimately could not last ... because it was the result of our lands being forced together by an outside force, rather than of our own destiny or choosing. The rule of the Iron Throne is over, because it no longer has the force of dragonfire to support it ... and the rest of Westeros has finally realised it. The giant, so long used to being bound, has shrugged, and discovered his chains no longer restrain him.
"For too long, our destiny has been held hostage, captive in the hands of whoever sits upon that cruel, ugly seat in King's Landing. For too long, we have bowed to the ghosts of dragons long dead. We cannot, we will not, allow our lands to become battlefields every time another man wishes to become king, caring nothing for those he would trample during his ascent. No, we will not allow it! We will stand, together, and speak out in one voice, no more! No more will the sons of the North, or the River, or the Reach die, resting in shallow graves, for the vanity and ego of petty kings! No longer will we be fodder for the ambitions of princes and lordlings who know nothing of our lands, our histories, our songs and our hearts! We will stand, we will march and we will fight, not for another but for ourselves, and for our children, and our children's children! We will not march for gold, or glory, or to please another, but because it is the right action, the true action! This is not a war of ambition, but of liberation and of truth! We take up this challenge gladly, we choose to go to King's Landing and to do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard! Because it is a task worthy of this people, of this place, and of this time. And I tell you that this will be hard, for we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. "This is not simply a war to decide who rules the Realm: it is a war to save it's soul." "I do not march on King's Landing to claim the Iron Throne. I march on King's Landing to shatter it… Thank you."
The cheers and applause were so loud, we could hear it through the windows as well as the radio. I looked up, trying to ascertain what the speech had done for the three prisoners. Jaime was guarded. Bronn, smirking a bit. Tyrion… Gave me a wry glance.
"Did he write his own speech, too?" He asked. I chuckled.
"You could help him with the next one…"
"I'm probably going to have to," he lamented.
Omake - As Terrible as an Army With Banners, Part 3
AC 300, Approaching Riverrun, The Riverlands (Before the Speech)
The singing came first. It faded in and out on the wind, but as time went on it became clearer, growing in volume and intensity. Words could be made out, and the song carried a note of pride, triumph and humour. The cadence was quick, the voices tired, but there was an energy in both words and voice ...
"From three hundred miles of Wall, So step up now, you Riverman,
To burning Dornish sand,
Five thousand fighting Northerners,
The General, and the band!
You've heard the bugle blow,
The Brigade is a'coming,
Down the old Kingsroad!"
Then came the trump, trump, trump, trump of boots, as though a giant from the cold, distant Lands of Ever Winter had decided to take a stroll through the Riverlands. But it was no giant.
First over the rise was a man leading a horse, his helm swapped for a cloth hat, the brim wide enough to shade his face from the morning sun. He was followed by more men, officers ill used to marching on their feet, but the lightened load helped the horses keep the pace. Then behind them marched the body of the force, a column four abreast that seemed to pour over the hill and down along the road like a long grey snake, the barrels of their shouldered rifles glittering in the sun like the serpent's scales. Tired though they were, their backs were straight and their voices rose in song, and as they crested the rise they only sang louder, because in the distance they could see the towers of their destination: the ancient fortress of Riverun.
General Ryswel tore his hat from his head, raised it above his head and cried out, "See that, lads? Ahead our king and his queen stand waiting for us! Ahead our lords and captains have been betrayed, with good Northern men and women injured and slain! Yet the North remains, and the North remembers, and the North strikes back!" The men cried back, in anger and pride, and the general's heart swelled at the sound. He was proud of his men, not only for the long journey South, but the way they marched through the night by moonlight and starlight, their coats and the movement of their feet to keep them warm, and not one had fallen out of the ranks except a few who had turned their ankles on rocks they could not see in the dark. They had performed far better than he could have hoped, and though they be townsfolk, farmers, merchants or bastards (although hardly the 'scum of the earth, enlisted for drink' that Lord Theon had remarked once, in jest), he could not think of a group of nobles, North or South, who could have born the trial with more dignity or drive.
"Riverun's ahead, boys," he called out again, and waved his hat. "And I'll buy each and every motherless sons of you a drink when we get there!"
This time the cheer was almost hysterical, and the men laughed as they trudged on their aching feet, and they struck up another song, one Lord Theon had taught them back when the Brigade was simply the Winterfell Volunteer Company of Rifles …
So close no matter how far,
Couldn't be much more from the heart,
Forever trusting who we are,
And nothing else matters!
Never opened myself this way,
Life is ours, we live it our way,
All these words I don't just say,
And nothing else matters!
My brave boys, Ryswel thought as he marched, jamming his hat back on his head. We'll show those treacherous, murderous bastards true Northern steel: forged and hammered in cold, hard discipline, and red-hot lead. Bring your pretty knights and colourful banners, Lannister: I would wager my grey-clad rifles against your red-and-gold lancers any Winter.And he threw back his head and sang along with his men, even as he saw signs ahead of soldiers moving on the ramparts, and heard horns and trumpets sounding as people started taking note of the Brigade's arrival ...
***
Ryswel snapped his boot heels together and clenched his fist against his shoulder, a gesture that the king returned, then Robb Stark stepped forwards and embraced the general, their hands finding each others shoulders in the more traditional greeting. "Did the Old Gods issue you wings, or did the North Wind blow you south?" the king asked with a grin, giving Ryswel a shake, "We had not thought that you or your men would arrive for some days yet!"
"I must decline any praise, Your Grace," the brigadier said modestly, but failing to keep his own smile from his face. "Better to praise the harsh training regimen your father instituted, the improvements to the Kingsroad north of the Neck, even the newfound timidity of the Freys since your visit: and yet I am intensely proud of my men, and for their sake I thank you for your kind words, and promise to convey them to my soldiers, if I may."
Robb clapped him hard on both shoulders. "Indeed you may, General, indeed you may!"
He stepped back, and allowed Theon to step forward, and take a far less familiar forearm clasp. "And add mine as well," the Iron Islander noble insisted with uncharacteristic seriousness. Despite his genius, Theon had always seemed something of a fop to the older Ryswel, but it seemed the events of the past few days had sobered him up a great deal. "Your support and artillery?"
"Perhaps a day behind," he said apologetically. "Despite the new carriages and wagons you helped design, long journeys at speed are harder on wheels and hooves than on feet ... although my troops are likely looking forward to spending a day or so off theirs."
The king waved them over to the large map spread across the room's table, and gestured to the wood and metal objects being used to mark unit positions. "You may get a day to reconstitute your unit, General, but not much more: we will need to return to the offensive as soon as possible, and your soldiers will be at the forefront of the fighting."
"As they are intended, Your Grace," nodded Rysewl as he studied the map. He swept a hand across the marking indicating the Westerlands. "With the Golden Tooth taken, we can drive a spear deep into the Lion's underbelly, cutting the Usurper off almost entirely from monetary and material support. With the Reach allying themselves to us, the Vale remaining neutral and the Stormlands mired in chaos with the death of Lord Renly and the honorless behaviour of Lord Stannis, and Tywin will have to divert what strength he has to try and reopen his supply lines -"
But Robb placed his hand on the general's shoulder. "And that was part of our original plan, but new information has arisen to make it imperative that we take the Usurper down as swiftly as possible: we have learned that Tywin has reached across the Narrow Sea to purchase slave soldiers to bolster his forces ... and as colateral, has sold many of the Northerners he held captive as slaves. Our countrymen are in chains, my friend, and more will find themselves as chattel each day until we kick Joffrey Waters off the Iron Throne and into a jail cell."
XLX: The Man Who Once did Sell the Lion's Skin, Part 4
AC 300, King's Landing, the Red Keep
Petyr
"I have always thought these were lovely chambers," observed Lord Baelish as he looked about the Tower of the Hand, his heavily embroidered tunic the height of fashion, his manicure, goatee and hair imaculate, the dagger by his side chased in gold and precious stones. "I must say, the red and gold wall hangings are far more appealing than the wolf furs and old maps the previous Hand decorated the rooms with -"
"Do you take me for a fool, Baelish?" asked Tywin as he gazed out of the window overlooking the city below.
Petyr spread his hands. "I am quite sure I do not know -"
"The wedding, man, the Others-cursed wedding!" The Hand rounded on the smaller man and strode forward, causing Baelish to step back hurriedly, his smug expression cracking slightly to reveal fear beneath. Tywin tossed a bundle of papers at him, and the Master of Coin scrambled to catch it, then scanned the print. It was the front page of the Westeros Despoiler, and the banner read, 'Royals Celebrate Wedding With Victory!', a large photo of Robb Stark and Margaery Tyrell standing side by side, each in torn finery, their faces streaked in dirt but the revolvers in their hands steady.
Tywin took a deep breath, visibly suppressing his rage, a rarity for a man so controlled. "I am a practical man. I understand that occasionally distasteful actions must be taken for the greater good of the Dynasty and the Realm. I am not upset that you sent assassins after the Young Wolf and his bitch. I am also not upset that you attacked them during their wedding: such superstitions are for lesser folk. I am, however, furious that you were incompetent enough to not only fail, but to endanger two members of my own family along with the rest!" His green eyes blazing, Twyin turned away and back to the window. "So, not only do the rebels have a propaganda coup, not only do they have my brother and youngest son in their custody to be used as hostages, but we are the laughingstock of the Realm for a bungled, botched assassination attempt! Many things, Lord Baelish, can be forgiven when linked with success, but nothing is more shameful than that which is paired with failure."
Baelish's mind whirred as he fought down panic and forced himself to spin the facts, as always, to his advantage.
"But my lord Hand, I did not send any assassins," he lied smoothly, regaining his composure. "I assure you, had I done so, they would have been not only a great deal more competent, but far more tasteful than simply ... attacking the wedding party 'guns blazing,'" he quoted the text of the article. "Indeed, I would not have sent any assassins at all without your approval: after all, I am the Master of Coin, not of Whispers." When Tywin didn't respond, he took that as a signal to continue. "I may, however, have a possible solution to the mystery of the true hand behind this ... affair.
" Tywin glanced over, and Baelish suppressed the desire to rub his hands together. "I fear, my lord, that I had a conversation some time ago with His Grace, your grandson. The King inquired as to the ... mechanics of securing the ... removal ... of certain individuals ... We were, of course, speaking hypothetically, but I fear he may have taken the conversation seriously and acted on his own initiative ..."
As he spun his tale, the Hand's face grew darker in rage, but that emotion was not directed at Baelish, and Littlefinger crowed inside as he managed, once again, to turn the tables of fate in his favour.
"And he gained access to those resources, did he?" Tywin snarled. Petyr nodded.
"It is conceivable... After all, I do believe he tried to employ an assassin against Bran Stark as he lay dying," he said. Tywin's pale eyebrows rose.
"Indeed...?"
"I have little to go on, my Lord," Petyr said smoothly, "as you know, Ned Stark looked into the matter as well. I aided him, as an attack on the Lord Paramount's son is a dangerous thing indeed. That said, the assassin in question was seen in one of the taverns the Royal Party passed on their way back home, before Ned Stark took up his post as Hand." The Master of the Coin shrugged, his brow creased in concern. "It could be mere coincidence, of course..."
"But you believe it may have been Joffrey there, too?" Tywin growled. Petyr nodded.
"The king was always trying to impress his father," he said. "Reportedly, the late King Robert spoke of it being a greater mercy to kill Lord Bran than let him live as a cripple. The conversation was quite... Fierce after that, according to your daughter the queen. However, given King Joffrey's occasionally... Odd behavior... That thirst to prove himself to his father's memory..."
Tywin's eyes narrowed... But the right wheels were turning in his head. The Hand of the King turned to look at the map of Westeros-Ironically enough, one manufactured in the North by the Surveyor's Guild.
"This entire affair... This whole war... Brought on by a foolish, foolish child," Tywin muttered, his ring covered fingers gripping the back of a chair tightly. Petyr nodded slowly.
"Youth is meant to be kept restrained... Until experience brings wisdom," Petyr simpered.
"Which leaves us with five kingdoms in open revolt... And our options few," Tywin growled. Petyr perked up.
"My Lord... There may be another solution," Petyr suggested. Tywin looked back and raised a sardonic eyebrow.
"Oh? Do you really think you can fix this with your whorehouses, Baelish?" Tywin sneered. "Do you think that after numerous assassins tried to gun down the leaders of so many kingdoms and great houses, after his mother was wounded, that Robb Stark is going to listen to a damn word we have to say?!" He slammed his hands down on the desk, and glared death into the Mockingbird's eyes.
"They are calling me The Slaver, Baelish! And even destroying every newspaper in the realm, the news is still getting out!"
"Desperate circumstances, my Lord, to preserve the proper order," Petyr spoke quickly, "to oppose rebellion-"
"And now those circumstances have rendered us impotent," Tywin snarled. "Weak! Helpless-!"
"There is an alternative!" Petyr said quickly, afraid that the old Lion would seize him physically. "Joffrey ordered this... Joffrey caused all this... You know it. I know it. The realm knows it... But you have another grandson. Younger, more easily molded... One whom even the Starks do not wish to harm," Petyr emphasized, pulling up a paper and pointing to a relevant passage. "It was the King, after all, who had Ned Stark's head removed!"
"And to you propose that I sacrifice my own grandson to the wolves?" Tywin growled.
"A kingly sacrifice!" Petyr tried. "A Lannister and Baratheon, laying down his life! Going to the Wall, for the peace of the Kingdoms! King Tommen to rule! A truce-A treaty!"
Tywin was silent. Petyr tried again.
"Long enough... Long enough to gain their trust. To gain access to their weapons... I have procured technology sold to Braavos, have I not? The North knows me, Caitlyn Stark still trusts me. She can rein in the Young Wolf, and the Squid... After all. Winter is coming. This war has taxed the North as badly as us."
"It is a desperate, slim chance, Littlefinger," Tywin ground out. Petyr nodded, still holding the newspaper up like a shield.
"It is, My Lord Hand... But even with the Unsullied, do you think we can win against all these kingdoms united against us?" He shook his head. "Not now... Not now... But soon. Time enough... And your dynasty remains on the Iron Throne."
Tywin glared at Petyr... And slowly nodded.
"It is... Possible," he said slowly, despising the words as they came out of his mouth. "But we still need leverage... How many more Unsullied can you gain for us, Baelish? And what of the Vale?"
"Tens of thousands, my Lord Hand," Petyr said confidently. "As for the Vale... As I lack the authority as a Lord Paramount-"
"I grant you all rights as a Lord Paramount," Tywin said. "Marry the mad woman at the Eeyrie. Get us everything you can. I know you have more resources, Baelish. Things you hold back-I am not as trusting as Ned Stark! You will turn over all such resources to me..." He narrowed his eyes, "or you can say goodbye to your neck. Is that understood?"
Petyr smiled silkily, and nodded. "Of course, my Lord Hand," he said.
Tywin took deep breaths. He looked back at the window. "Call the Small Council, and make sure that idiot grandson of mine is there first!"
Petyr Baelish smiled and bowed. "Of course, My Lord Hand," he said. He smoothly departed, his expensive robes swishing. He opened the door, and departed, letting the little serving girl Tywin let hang around him through. She bumped into him, apologized, and he waved it off with an affable smile before he walked off.
It was amusing, he reflected, as he walked down the steps to the main Keep-The Lord Lannister, the Old Cold Lion, keeping a young girl close like a puppy. A pet... A weakness?
He'd have to find out later... He had much to do...
He checked his expensive dagger, patting it reassuringly... And frowned.
Where did it go?
- - - - - -
Tywin
Tywin heard faint footsteps as someone familiar entered, and he sighed.
"That had better be water," he growled as he turned. The Northern serving girl was there, carrying a platter with water, bread and fruit. She set it down politely, and folded her hands over her lower stomach. Tywin frowned. "Well? What is it?"
"My Lord," she asked carefully, "I have heard... That King Robb's wedding was attacked by assassins."
Tywin sighed, and took the newspapers into his arms. The most prominent headline was "STEEL WEDDING: ASSASSINS ATTACK KING ROBB AND QUEEN MARGAERY." He shoved the pile into a cabinet, and shut it closed.
"Yes," Tywin said, "they did."
"... Did you order it, My Lord Hand?" Asked the girl, standing a bit closer. Tywin turned and glared at her.
"Now why the hell would I do something so foolish?" He asked. The girl shrugged again, looking non-chalant.
"They are your enemies... Cut off the head, the body dies..."
"That's how it used to work," Tywin growled. "That's how it should..." He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "But I have my doubts that would have worked at all," he admitted, turning and looking out the window. He rested his hands on the balcony, glaring out over the city. The helpless, stinking city. "War... War was simple, once," he said.
"Was it?" The girl asked. Tywin snorted.
"Noble houses fight eachother, when necessary. Over offenses and insult. It was ridiculous, insane... Dictated by the whims of kings and lords... Now?" He sighed. "Now... The North has lifted it's smallfolk up. Made them... Part of the decision making. Commoners can speak with the same voice as kings in these rags, and one voice..." He shook his head. "The Starks have signed the death warrant for the nobility... If they win this war, eventually... All of us, Starks, Lannisters, Baratheons... We'll be destroyed. Swallowed up by the commoners..."
"The commoners don't care about the petty squabbles between nobles, true," the girl spoke, now very, very close. "But they do care about honor. They do care about justice..."
"Oh really?" Tywin sneered. "Is that so?" He still didn't look at the girl, not trusting himself to see her eyes. He could only imagine the pity in them right now...
"When they see Ned Stark killed... They see a man who treated them as equals," the girl continued, "as members of a nation, not just servants. He earned their loyalty... He worked for them tirelessly, to make them all feel united. No matter if they were lords, or knights, or mechanics... Or pig farmers. We were one nation... One people, together. And when they saw him die, declared a traitor... When he did nothing wrong... We went mad together."
Tywin frowned deeper. "Mad...?"
He felt the girl leap up on his back. He gasped, trying to remove her-But a burning, ripping pain across his throat silenced him. He stumbled as she fell off, and he tried to turn around. He grasped the balcony desperately, blood gushing down the front of his tunic. He gaped in pain and horror at the girl, who pulled off her headdress. A flash of recognition hit him.
"For my father," Arya Stark whispered, before she grasped his boot and shoved it up. He toppled, he fell... And the world went black before he hit the ground.
- - - - -
Arya
Her heart was pounding as she rushed to the door. She had to get out of here quickly-She had to run-
The door opened, the lock being smashed in. Arya stopped short as a tall, ragged knight stood before her. She stared up at the Hound in fear, trying to calm herself. She'd tossed the knife after Tywin, she wasn't stupid enough to hold it-But like this...!
The Hound stared at her for a moment, before he pulled out some rags. "Wrap these around your head, and give me those," he said. "They're covered in blood."
Arya stared, confused. The Hound glared.
"You want to be caught? Do it! And start crying!"
She took the rags and wrapped them around her head. The Hound stuffed the bloody wraps into his armor... And then smacked her. She fell to the floor, and cried out. He quickly grabbed the platter, and shoved it into her hands.
"I said cry," he hissed, as he dragged her out. Arya managed to sniffle, and got out some tears as she sat with her back against the wall. The bread and water fell all over the floor, making a mess. Footsteps echoed off the walls, and servants rushed up.
"What happened-?!" One servant gasped.
"Lord Tywin fell-!"
"He fell from his window-!"
"The girl found the door locked," the Hound growled. "I busted it open... Nothing doing..."
"Oh Gods... He... He's...!" Arya managed to sob, covering her face. "Oh GODS...!"
"Someone shut her up!" Sandor Clegane snarled, shoving her forward. Many of the servant girls parted, as she was the favored servant of the Hand of the King. But familiar arms encircled her, and Arya looked up to see Sansa's face.
"It's all right dear, it's all right," Sansa murmured, hugging her tightly. Arya stiffened, but returned the embrace. She trembled. "It's all right..."
"I... I don't know what happened," Arya sniffled, "I don't know... Why did he...?"
"It's all right," Sansa soothed, "it's all right... It's just a tragic, horrible accident... That's all..."
Arya buried her face in Sansa's chest, sniffled, cried... But she couldn't help the smile on her face.
And as she felt Sansa's face touch her head, she swore she could feel her sister smile too.