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Chapter Twenty-Five: Extraordinary Times

Jon paused on the landing, watching Sansa's closed bedroom door rattle on it hinges as if someone were trying to get out. But it was only the wind blowing through the open window. It caught his eye as soon as he let himself in. Otherwise, the bed was still made and untouched, the rose continued to wilt on the pillow and the net curtain swelled on the breeze, the sheer fabric illuminated by the moonlight slanting into the room. If not for that, the room would have been in full darkness.

He shivered against the cold. A cold made worse by the very absence of life inside the room. Earlier, it looked like Sansa had stepped out for a moment and would be back any minute. Now it felt abandoned. The smell of soot from the fire had gone, underscoring his sister's continued absence. It hadn't been lit, since no one expected her return any time soon. He dropped to his knees and looked under the bed, where the dragon egg lay forgotten.

Once he had retrieved it, he knelt on the Myrish rug in front of the dead fire and held it cupped in both hands. It was as cold as ice. So cold, it almost burned. He took off his own coat and wrapped the egg up in, before returning to his own rooms with Ghost back at his heels.

By their very nature, the Silent Sisters were an ominous presence. They materialised after battles and vied with the carrion crows for access to the dead. They tended the mortally wounded and watched over them as they drew their last breath. Their natural place was kneeling beside deathbeds throughout the land. Always silent and ever present, these servants of the Stranger were never exactly welcome amongst polite society.

Now Lyanna watched them in the cold dawn light filtering through the windows, as they dressed the corpse of a thirteen-year-old boy. And that was all Joffrey was at that moment. A dead child. Yes, he'd always struck her as an objectionable shit. Many thirteen-year-old Lords in waiting were objectionable shits, in her wide experience of them. Whatever he was, whatever had happened, death had now transformed Joffrey Lannister into a corpse like other.

The wound at the boy's throat had been closed, giving his neck a peculiar red smile. The stab wounds in his chest had been hidden beneath a gold brocade doublet. The sisters had done their work well and she and Eddard thanked them for it as they passed.

"Well, there's no denying it now, brother," she said, her eyes slowly travelling the length of the boy's body. "It's him."

"No," he concurred. "It's our response to it that matters and bringing him here was a good start."

Lyanna shifted her gaze from the body to the great Sept of Baelor. The early morning light shone through the seven-pointed star, falling on the corpse and bathing it in the first rays of dawn.

"It won't be enough for Cersei, of course," she admitted. "But anymore and it will look like we're acting out of a guilty conscience." Lyanna paused, framing her next words carefully. "The thing is, Ned, I don't suppose it could have been one of our household- "

"Of course, it wasn't," he curtly answered. "I would never sanction the killing of a child. You of all people should know that."

"That's not what I mean, and well you know it," she said, sharply. "Anything could have happened. Young retainers and squires often are rash and hot-headed. What if a fight broke out between one of them and Joffrey, and things got out of hand? Your orders and your wishes would have gone out of the window the instant things turned ugly."

A brawl after a few drinks, a few hasty words spoken in anger after the abduction of Lady Sansa. Accusations had been flying, Lyanna heard it herself, and they had been flying mostly at the Lannisters. The gods knew that Joffrey was rash and foolish enough to rise to such bait. Added to that, the boy's body was found in Pisswater Bend, where most of the taverns and inns were located. Throwing drink into the mix, the situation would have been incendiary. It was something she couldn't rule out and, by the look on Ned's face, neither could he.

"If it was one of mine," he said. "I'll have their heads."

"See that you do," she advised. "And deliver said heads to Cersei on a golden platter."

Ned paled, his jaw clenched tight. He clearly hadn't slept since Sansa's abduction and now this. A murder that would be laid at the doorstep of House Stark. Well, Lyanna surmised, staring at the corpse wouldn't make it live again. So, she placed on hand on the front of her brother's tunic, politely drawing him away from the body.

"Come. We should go before the Lannisters get here. The High Septon will stay with the body."

Eddard replied with a barely perceptible nod of the head. But they were a fraction of a second too late. As they turned, the doors of the sept opened, revealing Cersei Lannister clad in black. A fine, sheer veil shrouded her face, but the golden curls were visible beneath it. Even the flash of her emerald eyes, glittering with tears the veil didn't quite disguise.

Without hesitation, Lyanna approached the grieving mother and put one hand on her arm. "Our condolences, Lady- "

"Why are you here?" Cersei's voice was brittle, her body tensing beneath the Queen's touch.

It was a valid question.

"We were alerted to the murder," Lyanna explained, hurriedly. "The Hand of the King and I, we needed to be sure of the victim's identity."

"Well, now you know."

"Now we know," Eddard concurred, monotone.

Cersei made it sound as they'd come here for something to gossip about later on. In no mood to correct her, Lyanna moved on with Ned in tow. Outside the sept, they made their way through the silent Lannister guard that had escorted Cersei. They lowered their heads as the Queen passed, but that was a token gesture. Had Ned been alone, Lyanna couldn't help but feel he'd have been spat at. The tension was palpable.

Back at the Red Keep, they went their separate ways. Jon and Arya would be up soon, so Ned went to break his fast with them. Meanwhile, Lyanna returned to Maegor's, where Robert still slept and Varys lurked in her outer chamber. She beckoned to him to follow her inside.

"Well, anything?" she asked without preamble.

"Terrible business, your grace," he said, sliding his hands up his dagged sleeves. This one never showed his hand. "Alas, I have nothing- "

"Varys, you're our spymaster, yet it was my fourteen-year-old nephew who discovered the means by which my niece was taken from her rooms," she cut in. "It's your job, is it not, to know about these plots before they even happen. You used to be quite good at it, if Harrenhal was anything to go by."

He looked puzzled. "Harrenhal, your grace?"

"The slightest whiff of a conspiracy against the Mad King and you had your little birds all over that place," she sharply reminded him. "And I suspect you well know what I'm referring to. Yet, the most heinous of acts against one of this realm's most eligible ladies quite eludes you."

Varys breathed deeply, arranging his face into a mask of understanding. "Plots against the Mad King were easily detected, your grace. Frankly, he was so awful that every man and his dog was trying to unseat him. Lady Sansa, on the other hand … who could ever have imagined anyone wanting to hurt such an innocent?"

Smooth, Lyanna thought to herself. She had to give him that. The fact of the matter was that he was right.

"Even your dear husband knew Aerys had to go," he continued, looking her dead in the eye.

Something about the way he said it, the emphasis on 'dear husband', she deeply misliked.

"My dear husband's rebellion speaks for itself," she replied, tonelessly. "He wouldn't have done it had he not realised Aerys was running the realm into the ground. Now, returning to my niece…"

"Of course, let the past stay in the past, I say," he said. "I hear Lord Baelish set sail for the Eyrie on the same night Lady Sansa was snatched away. His mission at the Eyrie is most mysterious-"

"He went on orders of Sansa's own mother," she cut in, suspecting he well knew the truth of that too. "And Lysa is Sansa's aunt. She would not harm her. All she has to do is summon Sansa to the Eyrie and Catelyn would be happy to agree."

"Then, of course, there is the Lannisters. Sansa spurned Joffrey on several occasions," he continued. "I saw them together during the Hand's Tourney, where the lady was enjoying a puppet show depicting the Blackfire Rebellions. Joffrey threatened her and I had to intervene myself, to ensure Sansa's escape."

"But it wasn't Joffrey, was it?" she retorted. "He's lying dead on a slab in the Sept of Baelor."

Varys made a face, as if someone had accidentally cocked up a recipe or dropped something valuable. "Oh yes, that. Well, it could have been one of his henchmen who took the girl. That creature with the burned face, perhaps. He does Joffrey's bidding. Gregor Clegane's brother, too. You know as well as I what a deeply unpleasant man Gregor is. I doubt the brother is much different."

She knew the man Varys meant. Sandor Clegane was hard to miss, with his twisted features and heavy scarring. However, she was far from convinced. It felt too much like pointing to the ugly one in a story and saying 'he did it' on the basis of looks alone.

"Speaking of the murder, I don't suppose you have anything on that either?" she asked.

"Reports suggest a drunken brawl, your grace," he said. "But it's early yet. I must speak with my contacts to see if they know more."

"Be quick about it," she urged. "And that will be all for now."

He inclined his head in a show of deference. "Before I do leave you, his grace wanted to make it known to you that he's convening a special meeting of the Small Council. Lady Lannister and her brother have been invited and you will be expected, too."

Once he was gone, she let herself into her own chambers where her dog was asleep on her bed. At least someone was happy. Margaery was awake too. A breakfast tray had been left out, the bacon eaten already. She looked again at the sleeping dog and put two and two together. Not all mysteries were headache inducing.

Unable to rest, she left her chambers and found Jaime Lannister guarding her door. Seemingly back in the King's favour after the attack on Lady, she was still surprised to find him there and not in the Sept of Baelor.

"Joffrey's body has been taken to the Great Sept," she informed him, foregoing the usual condolences.

"I know."

His face remained impassive.

"I thought you might like to go."

"Whatever for?"

"Because he was your … nephew," she answered. "A much beloved nephew, if I hear it right."

"You shouldn't listen to all you hear."

Lyanna sighed heavily. "Seven hells, Jaime, I'm not judging you. We all love our nephews so go and be with yours."

Still he hesitated, turning to look at her properly for a moment. Just then, there was a charge of understanding between them in which nothing more needed to be said.

"I'll send for Ser Meryn to guard your door, your grace."

"Aren't I the lucky one."

Before departing, Ser Jaime looked back at her. "Thank you, your grace," he said, at length.

She nodded, waving him away. It's nothing, she thought to herself. It really was nothing.

Tension was high in the council chamber. Jon could hear angry voices emanating from within, where he stood waiting in the outer-chamber. Over them all, the King bellowed for order, but it sounded like no one was listening. Least of all Cersei Lannister, who was still all but accusing Lyanna of murder. He heard his father strike back angrily, accusing the Lannisters of trying to kill Sansa's wolf. He had to admit, if it wasn't them then the timing of that incident was most unfortunate for the Lannisters.

While he pretended he wasn't listening, he looked out of the window and tried to distract himself with the boats now sailing freely out of Blackwater Bay. The busy port had been in lockdown while every ship was searched. But Petyr Baelish had managed to get away before the closure. Something that hadn't escaped Jon's attention.

Just as he mulled over that salient point, the noise rose sharply and he could suddenly hear every sound within the council chamber. Someone had opened the doors, but they closed again as the escapee came walking into the outer-chamber. Or rather, waddling. Tyrion Lannister's legs were uneven, giving him quite an unusual gait. Again, Jon tried not to notice. Only, it was out of propriety rather than not wanting to be an eavesdropper.

The two of them looked at each other for a moment, as if neither expected the other to be there. Jon supposed he ought not to be talking to the man. But right then, at that moment, it was the two of them alone in an ante-chamber looked over by two stony-faced Kingsguard. For now, he really didn't see the harm in it. He might even get something useful from the man.

"Sounds like it's getting heated in there," said Jon.

"Heated," the dwarf repeated. "That's one word for it."

He closed the gap between them and sat beside Jon in the window seat, overlooking the Blackwater.

"I hear you've called your banners," said Jon. "Is it true?"

"I haven't called anyone," Tyrion corrected him. "My father has called our banners, though. His heir was murdered, here in King's Landing. I'm sure you can understand that whoever committed this act, it will be taken as an act of war against our House."

"And I'm sure you can understand House Stark feels the same about the abduction of Lady Sansa," he replied.

"Naturally."

There was an air of finality in the dwarf's reply. An almost tacit understanding that, soon, there would be an open war and they would both be on different sides of it.

"I don't think the Lannisters took Sansa," he said.

"And I don't think you killed Joffrey," said Tyrion.

"Me?" Jon's heart palpitated at the accusation. "You mean, me personally."

"My sister noticed you were out of the castle at roughly the same time Joffrey was killed," Tyrion explained quite matter of fact. "In her eyes, that's as good a conviction anyone needs right now. But I'm sure she'll calm down soon enough and find a way to blame me."

"I thought she was blaming Lyanna?"

"Oh no. She's accusing your aunt of arranging the death of Gregor Clegane. You understand, as well, that his death in the tourney now looks highly suspicious. And Gregor is one of House Lannister's sworn bannermen."

The thing that made it chilling is that it wasn't too far off the truth. Lyanna had brought Clegane here on the understanding that Oberyn Martell could have a shot at justice for Elia. No one could have foreseen Joffrey's murder, which only made it look even more suspect. Lest his silence betray the truth of the matter, Jon said the first thing that came into his head.

"I didn't realise he had died. I saw what happened, and Clegane walked away from Oberyn's attack. Then he was being treated by the Maesters. Maybe he had a medical condition?"

"Cersei might be borderline insane, but she's not stupid. She recalls the Queen asking her if Clegane would be taking part in the tourney – as if making sure he'd be there, at the Viper's disposal." Tyrion paused while he regarded Jon casually through his mismatched eyes. "Don't get me wrong, Lord Stark, if I'd had my way, Gregor Clegane would have died by the inch in a public parade witnessed by all who have suffered at his hands. You know, I suppose, about Elia and the children."

Jon nodded. "Of course. Everyone knows."

"Indeed. Everyone knows about poor, tragic Elia and the babes torn from her breast. Fewer people know about the Mountain's parents, or his wives, or his brother, or his sister who also died in very suspicious circumstances. On his lands, it's said that even the dogs fear to enter Clegane's halls. The world is safer, without him in it.

The point I'm getting at, Lord Stark, is that nothing happens in isolation. Everything is in context. Now Gregor's death is being seen in the context of Joffrey's murder. Which is being seen in the context of Sansa's abduction, which was seen in the context of an attack on her beloved pet wolf. All these events are being linked together on the basis of nothing more than proximity in time – such as your own being out of the castle. Proximity in time is one thing, evidence is something completely different.

Now House Stark has called their banners. House Lannister has felt obliged to answer the challenge and also called their banners. On the basis of what? On events being tenuously linked together. At a time when cool heads are most needed, they're in there completely losing theirs."

He gestured toward the now closed door of the council chamber. It wasn't a proper meeting of the Small Council. Half the people in there weren't on the Small Council, like Cersei and Tyrion. But Robert had herded them altogether to discuss recent events. Or rather, shout the odds at each other in a bid to make themselves heard over the sound of rising tension.

"So, what are you saying, Lord Tyrion?" asked Jon. "That we should sit by while Sansa is out there somewhere, being held against her will. We should just sit and wait, and do nothing to help her. That's out of the question."

Tyrion sighed impatiently. "Sam Tarly told me you were clever! Well, let me put it this way: what would your father do if Balon Greyjoy took up arms against the King?"

Puzzled by the seemingly unrelated question, Jon frowned. But it dawned on him then, and it made his skin crawl. "Balon's son is a hostage at Winterfell. Father would have to execute him to stay Balon's hand."

"Precisely," Tyrion replied. "Whoever has Sansa is using her as a hostage. Why else steal away a highborn eldest daughter of one of the most powerful men in the realm? Whoever has her, needs her."

"But who? And what for?" Jon asked, growing desperate in the face of some uncomfortable scenarios. "Lysa Arryn has been spreading lies about my aunt and some others-"

"Some others include the Lannisters," Tyrion pointed out. "And Stannis Baratheon. Olenna Tyrell mentioned she heard from Lysa that Stannis was provoking trouble with her son, Lord Mace. Old enemies, you see. It's as if someone wants us all to be at each other's throats."

"But why would Lysa want war?" Jon thought he was getting the situation sussed, but then it all stopped making sense again. "Lysa is Sansa's aunt. She would not go to war against her own sister."

Tyrion laughed. "You clearly don't know Lysa Arryn. Or Petyr Baelish."

Something else occurred to Jon then. "Sansa has been taken alive, but Joffrey is dead. Assuming the same person is responsible for both, why didn't they take Joffrey?"

"Ah, now we get there," said Tyrion. "They want the Starks crippled, it seems. But they want the Lannisters free to fight. I'll be honest, I don't know why they did that. Maybe they realised what an insufferable shit Joff was and realised he wasn't worth the trouble."

"So, it could be a distraction," Jon posited. "The Starks and the Lannisters are slugging it out, with the crown and other great houses stuck in the middle. While that's happening, Lysa makes some move with Sansa as her hostage."

"Possibly," Tyrion concurred. "With Petyr Baelish pulling her strings, anything could happen. Cersei cannot stand him, but I don't know him all that well. Varys, however, informs me he quite the entertaining plaything. And it's not like Varys to underestimate someone."

"But, Petyr left the night Sansa vanished, I saw him following her," he recalled. "What if he's taken her somewhere else, not the Eyrie. Somewhere farther away."

There was a natural break in their conversation, during which Jon could hear the muffled accusations still flying in the council chamber. Seconds later, the doors flew open again and Renly Baratheon came striding out with Loras Tyrell on his heels. Renly slowed at the sight of Jon and Tyrion, his eyes narrowed at both of them.

"I am to return to Storm's End," he declared. "King's orders. I am to call our banners. It seems we shall meet again on the battlefield, Lord Lannister."

Tyrion snorted derisively. "You won't be seeing me on any battlefield."

But the other two had already gone, leaving them alone again. They were all making ready for war, but no one even knew who they were fighting. Not yet. And let alone the reasons why. The day before, he would have been the first with his sword in his hands. A day made a big difference.

Cersei Lannister was out next. She didn't speak a word to her brother, but Tyrion made ready to follow her anyway. Before he left, he turned to Jon one final time. "Our families are at war. But you and I are not. I trust we can speak again."

Jon nodded. "Yes, why not?"

With a filial nod, Tyrion make a good show of running after his sister. But Jon wasn't alone for long before Lyanna, his father and King Robert appeared. The Queen was pale, but King Robert was in a towering anger and bellowing at his father as if he was ten miles away. "Tywin's been picking a war with us for the last thirteen years and by gods, if that's what he wants that's what he'll damn well get…"

Lyanna gestured for him to follow. Her face pale and drawn. She had the look of a woman with a slowly tightening noose around her neck. Jon shared the sentiment.

The galley rocked with the motion of the iron grey seas, making Sansa's stomach heave again. Before she could stop herself, a bitter and foul fluid hit the back of her throat and she was sick into a chamber pot beneath her bunk. She had cried so much she had no more tears left. But the sickness just kept on coming. Sickness, and the chilling, eviscerating fear that rendered her mute and left her shaking in her little cabin.

The last clear memory she had, she'd closed her chamber door only for a man to appear from behind. He clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle any scream. Then she felt the sharp blade digging into her throat and a warm trickle of blood leaking down her throat. Everything after that was a whirlwind of fear and confusion, a blur of movement. She was pulled through a hole in her wall, down a long iron rung ladder that left her hands bleeding and blistered. After that, a small rowboat. The same two men rowed her to a large galley, where she was blindfolded and gagged before being hoisted aboard the larger ship.

All her screams were choked inside her as she was marched, still gagged and blindfolded, into a cabin. Three days later, she still hadn't left it. But she knew the two men had gone already. She heard them rowing away as soon as she was onboard the galley. After that, she'd had nothing to do except abandon herself to fear, grief and tears. And seasickness.

Even though she was on a ship in the middle of the sea, she searched for a way to escape – it occupied her mind, if nothing else. One man checked on her, bringing food and water. Occasionally, he paused by the door, looking back at her as if he wished to speak and then thought better of it. Not wanting to anger her captor, she held her own silence. If she spoke at all, she asked only where they were taking her and for what purpose. All her questions were met with silence. She willed herself to be calm and work things out when they got to where they were going. Even though the voyage had lasted days, they couldn't keep aimlessly sailing forever. They had to be going somewhere. They had to dock eventually.

On that one front, she had been right. The motion of the ship steadied, smoothing out as they neared land. With no window in her cabin, she couldn't see what that land looked like, but she could hear the sailors above shouting to each other. Coarse commands to lower sails and drop anchor. Sansa couldn't decide whether she ought to be more afraid now or relieved that the voyage to hell was over.

The knock at her cabin door made her gasp. But it was only her silent captor. As always, they looked at each other in silence for a moment, as if daring each other to speak. And, on this occasion, he did.

"Lady Sansa," he said, apologetically. "My Lady, we've arrived."

"Arrived where?" she asked, her voice hoarse and weak. "What for? What do you want from me?"

The man hesitated and she thought he was about to walk away again. Instead, he checked over his shoulder and then came to sit beside her on the bunk. He frowned, bringing out the crow's feet around his pale blue eyes.

"I don't think this will rank as my finest hour," he said, sadly. "But, I hope one day you will understand."

Sansa hesitated, still studying the man's profile. He can't have been that much older than her father, no more than his middling forties. Something suggested he was not as old as he looked, however.

"Will I still be alive to understand?"

"Oh, yes," he replied, turning to look her in the eye. "No one wants to hurt you. Don't be afraid."

"It is hard for a person to not be afraid when they're stolen from their families in the middle of the night," she pointed out. "And without so much as an explanation … it leaves a lot to the imagination, ser."

"Yes, I can imagine," he answered. "And I wanted to talk to you sooner, only I am not so very good at talking with young, gently-born ladies."

That much was evident. From what she could tell, he was Westerosi. But he wore no house sigil or colours. His beard was red peppered with grey, his hair was grey as well but had a strange bluish tinge to it. It looked like it had been dyed at some point.

"Ser, I am no good for working on your ships," she pointed out. "I have no idea of how to navigate seas, or mend rigging or pull an oar-"

"That's not why you're here, my lady," he cut in. "Your role is far more important than that. More than you can understand, for now."

Sansa continued as if he had said nothing. "My father is one of the most powerful lords in the realm. By now, he will know I am missing and he will call his banners. All hell will break loose, people will die. Please, let me go before anything terrible happens. Please."

"I can't do that," he replied, sorrowfully. "Had it been up to me, I would never have dishonoured myself in this way-"

"Then save what's left of your honour and command the captain to bring me home," she cut in, more bravely than she felt.

"I have my orders," he stammered.

Sansa paused, formulating an idea of how to end this farce. Something that would provide the man with an escape route. "If you sail me home, you can just leave me on that small harbour. When I return to the castle, I will tell my father I went away of my own free will. I won't mention you, or your ship. The fault will be all mine and we will never hear from each other again."

He was looking her in the eye again, his expression suddenly resolute. "We will see each other again, my lady. In the wars to come. And if I let you go now, you will be on the wrong side of those wars."

"What do you mean?" she asked, her skin beginning to crawl. "Do you mean to start a war? What else have you done?"

Even if she couldn't escape, she knew she had to get a message to her father or Jon, or even Robb still in Winterfell. She tried to stay calm and if she panicked too much now her head would be in too much of a whirl. Stay calm and figure it out, she urged herself, make sense of it all first. But the thought of herself being used as a hostage in some terrible war, like poor Theon was used to cripple Balon, was almost too much for her.

"I cannot answer your questions, but I can introduce you to someone important. Someone who will soon be returning to his homeland and reclaiming what is his by right," the man continued. "The one who will cast down the usurper and the usurper's traitorous whore. If it please you, may I present-"

As he spoke, a second figure appeared in the doorway. A boy of about Robb and Jon's age, perhaps a little older. His hair was blue, making him appear ridiculous. He looked at Sansa and she heard the breath hitch in his throat. He met her gaze and swept a gallant bow to her as the man continued: "may I present Prince Aegon, of House Targaryen."

Thanks again for reading, reviews would be great if you have a minute.

Really surprised that almost no one got this (I think two did, so they win internet doughnuts).

Anyway, next update is Sunday 17th December.