Five years later

Stannis

Just another dead criminal, Stannis thought, looking at the freshly severed head on the pike which had been shouting threats and offering compensations for leniency just an hour ago. It has been five years, five bloody years since the death of the mockingbird and we are still busy scouring the rot he has left in the court. What did I do to deserve this? Like a mocking answer from the gods he didn't believe in, just around the corner he ran straight into the hand himself.

Among all the people in court barring one notable exception, the death of Baelish and the reveal of his crimes had been hardest on Jon Arryn. He was one of the few competent people in court but the years hadn't been kind to him. With a wife whose madness was an open secret in court and without an heir, even the warden of the east wasn't safe from the vultures' gossip. Not to mention the overly ambitious fathers and mothers who not-so-subtly pushed their daughters and unwed sisters in his direction. A lesser man would have found it a source of folly. Jon wasn't a lesser man and the strain of managing them and Robert's kingdom was killing him, slowly but surely. At least he wasn't Varys.

The eunuch had thrived, somehow. While Robert was busy going through master of coins almost as far as whores, running Jon ragged, ignoring Renly and telling him to do his damn duties, or just ignoring Stannis, he was busy shouting at Varys to bring him the traitors who made his realm bleed. He was just far too willing to get on that and Robert had the same response to all. It must have been the first time in Westeros' recorded history where the active strain of duty killed the executioner. After that, Jon Arryn reminded Robert that the wall was perennially short of men and Robert barely avoided getting the moniker of a butcher.

"Lord Stannis." "Lord Arryn." That was courteous enough; calling by family rather than first name as a sign of both respect and to avoid overt familiarity. Still, the hand was looking expectantly at him. What does he expect me to say? Trade hunting stories? That was when he spied the symbol made by the hands. Hands touching with the middle, ring and index fingers on both hands intertwined, thumbs extended and touching at the tip and the little fingers crossing each other and flaring outwards, a stylized arrow. Stannis responded in kind by cupping him left hand with his right while extending the fingers in pairs perpendicularly to form a cross.

"Did you know the man?" Jon asked, gazing at the fascinating severed head. "Just another one of Littlefinger's many toadies. There are more of them than rats in this city." "Is there a difference?" the hand responded with a slight up-tilt mouth. "Yes, rats are easier to find and kill." Jon looked at him in surprise before chuckling silently. "Yes, they are. Still, we have to deal with these crows." Now we come to the real conversation.

"Crows?" "Look at them. With the number of dead gold-cloaks, cutthroats and rapers lying dead in the streets, I wouldn't be surprised that they are breeding so fast. Already I have heard the Grand Maester complain about them stealing from the ravens and not just him but from some of the western and reach lords. Apparently you can find the remnants of dead birds littering the city's rooftops. The crows have a habit of attacking the hatchlings."

The hooded men are growing in numbers. Killing off the city's scum has seen their numbers soar with eager recruits, recruits who in a just world would have filled the ranks of the city watch. Now they hunt its members. They apparently have men in the keep and the grand maester is shrewder than he seems. Some western and reach lords apparently have something to hide, and they know it. At least, Varys is kept in check to an extent If the metaphor of hatchlings, is accurate.

"There are worse things to worry about than crows, Lord Arryn. Forgive me for saying this, but it seems that work seems to be getting to you. I insist that you dine with me and my family tonight. A smaller and quieter supper would do you some good." Arryn stared at him for a minute, quite comfortable that the knowledge was shared quite accurately. After all, Stannis was infamous for his choice of quiet meals which was seen as eccentric or outright eccentric amongst the rest of the nobility in King's Landing. "Of course Lord Stannis. I am nonoured at your invitation."

Jon

Stannis does set an acceptable table. A somewhat irrelevant but welcome thought at the end of a stressful day. The world was shifting under their feet every day and the comforts of a daily routine or the luxury of a good meal was quite welcome. The conversation on the other hand…

His own wife was fed in her chambers and more often than not threw her meals at the attendants. Stannis in comparison had it marginally better with his. Selyse Baratheon was never the warmest of women but she did know better than to antagonise someone of his standing. Moreover, she had a fearsome reputation, owing to her attempt to have the man who had her daughter infected with greyscale drawn and quartered. Stannis had put an end to it and simply had the man beheaded but the reputation remained and he was quite grateful for the fact that he didn't have to contend with hangers-on. Thought that might have something to do with the sight of the poor girl who was all but cowering in the corner. An admittedly sweet girl, utterly timid and yet unerringly polite and intelligent, she would have had suitors beating a path to her door had it not been for her unfortunate scars.

Still, even he could admit relief at the end of the meal when the lady Selyse recused herself and her daughter followed her, leaving them alone with the man perched hidden on the rafters. It was a procedure they had committed to half-a-hundred times and yet even now, every time the hair on his back of his neck rose up in anticipation, half-expecting bright little eyes to peer out from beneath the bed and from the windows as in a macabre children's story.

Lord Stannis placed a few pieces of wood on the already burning hearth, the one with the known hidden door where the heat would keep eavesdroppers or cutthroats at bay. Doors of the heaviest oak bolted thrice-shut and furniture with the thickest cushions arranged against all known possible secret ways to muffle sounds. There was a small garden on the windowsill and hidden amongst the leaves was a metal lattice, covered in barbs which flowed downwards, out of the window to discourage any climbers. A similar arrangement for the ledges above did the same. Finally, they moved away from the chairs and towards the very center of the room, away from any prying ears in the walls. Conversations here were held in whispers or passed messages, no matter how dire and all writings were disposed of with the convenient burning brazier kept between them.

Jon had settled into the center as Stannis had finished setting up the screens around all the paintings and carvings with convenient eye-slots and their third member landed from the rafters with nary a sound, carrying what appeared to be some trophy in his hand as he settled into the third chair. The trophy revealed itself to be a case, containing… raven scrolls. Jon picked up one gingerly, afraid of what it might reveal and Stannis did the same. It was better and somewhat worse than what he had hoped.

Pycelle, he thought, noticing the writing. The grand-maester's loyalties are suspect. It was hardly a secret amongst the members of the small council, but the damning proof was still well; damning. Missives upon missives of letters from Pycelle to Lord Tywin detailing the workings of court and to his fury, a few mentions about his ailing health followed by polite suggestions from Lord Tywin upon a suitable replacement. To make it worse, even in his loyalty the fool was incapable of being productive. In the dozens of letters he had yet to see a mention of the real problems of court; the eunuch's hooks that had latched onto Robert, the hidden war waged in the streets of the city and his grandson's madness.

His disdain towards the former might excuse it to some extent but for the latter; the fact that Pycelle was loyal to House Lannister that was clear. He was just far too cowardly to speak up on matters which Lord Tywin could actually be useful about. Though to be fair, that might be blamed on the queen rather than him. The queen's temper was no secret to the court and he could imagine that she had pressed on him to leave out her failings in her duties from his missives to her father.

Jon sighed; he could have tolerated a competent Pycelle who bore loyalties to another; that could be managed. He could also tolerate an incompetent who would be easy to control. Instead, they had a competent grand-maester with loyalties to another under the control of an incompetent whose mercurial temper if well-known would be legendary. An utter disaster.

Looking up from the missives, he saw Stannis burning them steadily in the brazier while the newcomer sat in his chair, looking utterly relaxed as he polished the curious blade he wore strapped to his wrist while his pet crow kept watch outside. A look from Stannis and the newcomer knew that they shared his thoughts on the situation. As Stannis burned the last of the missives, the blade retracted under the newcomer's sleeve without a whisper and he pulled the cowl off.

Every time he did that; Jon's heart stopped for a moment as he had to remind himself that Ned was safely in the North. The mouth was still covered by what appeared to be a rag but the eyes of a northerner were unmistakable. Jon and arguably Stannis knew with almost an utter certainty about the face behind the mask, but there were some things better left unsaid even in privacy.

"The mockingbird's closest followers are gone." He began. In the dim light, Jon could have almost sworn he saw a flicker of a smile on Stannis' face as he continued. "The rest… don't matter." "Don't matter?" the scowl returned on Stannis' face at that. "Baelish was one of the biggest traitors in the history of Westeros. What gives you the right to determine that judging what remains of his followers does not matter?" "Their innocence, Lord Stannis." The speaker replied passively "their innocence determines it. For every man whom the mockingbird assigned some power, there are ten who truly believed that they were doing the king's work as Baelish commanded them in his name. They are as guilty as any one of us here for not realising about his treachery. Seeing how we aren't exchanging nooses or trading axe blows, I know for certainty that the same is owed to them." "What they are owed is a fair trial. Innocence does not excuse incompetence." "No, but if we were to judge the kingdom on that, we would be drowning in blood. There are lords who have done far worse and are punished far less. The truth of the matter is something that we all know, a fair trial is impossible when you are being judged by one who is named a butcher."

Jon winced at that, at the name given not without reason but one he knew could bring the dynasty to its knees. Stannis on the other hand, was not so subtle with his views on the name. "Watch yourself. This conversation may be kept between us, but I would not tolerate such slander." "An attitude that does you credit, my lord. However, the most harmful slanders are backed somewhat by truth and it is an open secret that the king has far too much affection for the chopping block and his spymaster."

Another unfortunate truth, but one which certainly fray loose tempers. Jon motioned with his hands for calm and the other two deferred. Stannis grunted in acknowledgement and the other one leaned back as well. Almost casually, he picked up a scroll from his pouch, wide as an outstretched palm, rolled tightly and covered in skin to keep out the rain. Jon opened it and read the text. Ciphered, as expected and one which would take considerable time to decipher in its entirety, even with his knowledge on the exact process.

"The rest of the names, my lord. For now, they swore on the king's name to reaffirm their loyalties to you directly. Read the names if you wish, but only you. I would suggest that in the next meeting, you could appoint Lord Stannis as the master of laws. Now with the mockingbird's assets under scrutiny, he could deliver the names of those believed guilty and without the bias involved from reading that, his integrity could not be brought into question."

Stannis grunted in acknowledgment and hopefully approval. Jon had long grown used to his role as the medium between the two and yet, he couldn't help but grow weary of having to speak and hear for two more people. "What about Lord Renly. He's…" "…inept. Incompetent. A ponce." Stannis actually snorted at that and Jon couldn't bring himself to chastise him. There was no love lost between the two and try as he might, Jon knew that he had little tolerance for the fawning that the boy (man, though it was hard to think of him as that) received.

Under his term as master of laws; they lost three commanders of the gold cloaks, corrupt gold cloaks were murdered by the dozens, the master of coin was murdered in the streets and the treasury was being bled dry by the same. Their guest admitted to bearing a lot of responsibility for the deaths, but he had done them all a service in the end by getting rid of the rot, a fact that he had vowed he would take to his grave. The whispers of servants and jesters had spread the news of his incompetence however and there was even a mummer's play with Renly portrayed holding a broken scale and a wooden sword slashing at smoke while blindfolded. Renly laughed it off but Robert, or more likely his queen was not amused however and the mummers were never heard from again.

To fools and lickspittles Renly appeared as the second coming of Robert, to the rest he appeared as a fool whose greatest accomplishment was being born with the name Baratheon. "I agree; Renly should be replaced." The man got up suddenly, pacing lightly and stretching before continuing, "That is all I have to say my lords. I thank you for meeting me and I wish you well in the days to come."

Moving closer to the window, he extinguished the lamps close by, plunging the room into darkness. It was a moonless night and the world outside was dark as pitch. Without waiting for them to reply, he tensed back and leapt gracefully out of the window into the night.

Davos

The tavern was dingy and dark, loud and odorous and yet Lord Stannis bore its presence. By his side sat Ser Davos apparently at ease with his surroundings which considering his past wasn't that unexpected. Regardless of Lord Stannis' personal disapproval of the location, he was bound by duty to remain here until the one who requested this appointment would actually deem to show up.

Speak of the Stranger. A cowled man appeared amongst the crowd, the masses knowingly or unknowingly parting as he sat at their table with no words of greeting or formalities uttered. Seemingly oblivious to the restraint that Lord Stannis was putting himself under, he reached across his back, into a heavy-laden bag withdrawing… books. The surprise was seemingly not lost on him, judging by the sharp intake of breath from Lord Stannis' side as they were laid down on the table. Pushing the books towards them, the man leaned back and waited.

The gesture was understood and wasting no time, Lord Stannis opened the pages, his visage snarling in disgust with an expression he usually reserved when talking about the brothels and septs. For close to an hour, the tension in the air was dense enough to be suffocating as his visage grew grimmer with every page and the copious amounts of notes added to the margins. At the end of the hour, the pages were beginning to warp under the strain of Lord Stannis' fingers and the grinding of his teeth was audible through the din of the crowd.

Without a sign he snapped the book shut and gathered the rest, his hands subtly shaking in restrained fury as he got up and dismissed the stranger with a nod. Throughout the entire event, the stranger sat unmoving as though cast from stone, with only a nod in reply betraying this assumption. This was their first meeting.

From Lord Stannis and Lord Arryn he learnt about past meetings, of how in the beginning Stannis attempted to arrest the man with a handful of his household knights, only to be surrounded by everyone in the tavern who wielded a knife. Of how a fire in King's Landing culminated in the death of a Master of Coin in a manner unheard of since a foreigner in one of the old Targaryen king's reign held the position. Of corrupt gold cloaks confessing to their crimes as the braver or more foolhardy ones had started to disappear along dark alleys. Of even how the master of whisperers had to keep his monster on a leash lest he meet a quick death.

I was born and raised as a common sailor. What did I do to end up playing in this accursed game? It was an answer that he didn't truly want to know. Which was why when he was commanded by his lord for a mission suiting his skills, he jumped at the chance. He immediately regretted it upon leaving port.

It seems even the gods view my voyage unfavourably, thought Davos as the fifth storm hit them on the voyage, though he suspected that many in the crew would have preferred being crippled and sent to port rather than carry on North. As they went past Gulltown the crew was in hopeful spirits, crossing the sisters uneventfully raised them further but moving past White Harbor without mooring didn't help matters. When the shores of Skagos came into view, he feared a mutiny. As it passed them by, he, along with the crew heaved a sigh of relief. It wasn't until they made sure to stay out of reach of the ships of the Night's Watch did the crew have any inking of their true mission.

The youngest looked excited, the slightly older ones questioned briefly until the eldest, those who sailed with the second Baratheon cuffed and reprimanded them to be quiet and carry on. So they did. They carried on away from sight, or at least the reach of the Watch as they sailed further north until they reached their accursed goal.

Hardhome looked as accursed as ever, though he couldn't really tell whether the looming holdfast now constructed at the foot of the cliffs enhanced that look. It was a giant circular tower reminiscent of Storm's End, resting on an elevated platform surrounded by a wooden wall half its height bristling with guards. Its' curved continuous wall betraying its divergence from castles built by the first men and certainly beyond anything the natives here were capable of, especially with what was used to build it, something which could be mistaken as a distance for the molten stones used by the Valyrians. Unlike them however, there was no terrible beauty to this structure, it lay unadorned and with the brutal climate here, scarred and stained. Yet, there was an air of strength to it, an indomitability which truly helped reinforce the view that there was at least one stronghold in the far north truly out of grasp of the weakened yet dangerous Night's Watch.

Those thoughts ran through his mind, albeit more crudely and he didn't word them. He was not eloquent enough but a young maester by the name of Pylos did and he was willing to trust his judgement on whether they were fitting. After all, seeing how Stannis would be reading them, it would be helpful for once if his irritation regarding all this subterfuge was directed at somebody other than himself.

A horn blowing at what passed for the wharfs brought him out of his reverie and he watched with bated breath as the ship was moored. It's complement of armed crew now looking woefully underequipped to defend against any concerted attempt at boarding. He hoped that such thoughts weren't visible on his face as he went down the gangway to the docks, doing his best at trying to remain impassive.

He was greeted at the shore by two people, a woman wearing what appeared to be the skull of a shadowcat gilded in bronze and an old man, one who judging by his bearing had spent quite some time on the open sea. He clearly past his best years and yet there was an air of ferocity to him; the kind which made all but the most witless of fools dare to aggravate him. The woman came forward, looked at him straight in the eye and he somehow knew that if he broke the gaze, blades would be drawn. He could feel her uncomfortable gaze worming into his mind but before he could blink or move, she broke the gaze and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. The man on the other hand had barely paid him any attention as he viewed the contents of the chests that they carried, his crew being clever enough to avoid trying to stop him. As the man nodded in acceptance, he saw his own crew release their breath and the place felt a little less grim for it.

The rest of the chests were brought out and exchanged with goods from the holdfast. The ships were emptied of good grain and cheese, a few barrels of wine and a cask of salt. Metal; as in broken blades and chains, even parts of old and broken armour and utensils followed, the kind that won't be missed by anyone important along with sealed crates of what he knew were maester's supplies. The most guarded chests came at the last, boxes of oak banded in iron and padded on the inside with hay and its contents wrapped in sackcloth. Inside each was two stone's weight of obsidian, mined from the depths of Dragonstone and which had been placed in the captain's own quarters to ensure their safety.

In exchange went pelts of fur, those meant to meet the demands in Essos rather than the south where they would draw far too many questions. The ivory on the other hand, harvested from the mammoths and walrus in abundance and the rare and precious amber would meet demands everywhere. It was a rare and costly item and even nobles knew better than to pry, lest their supplies mysteriously dry up. Rare and durable woods, those no longer found in the south filled the rest of the hold, more than enough to balance the accounts for any captain reckless enough to venture this far north.

Words were exchanged and hands clasped and Davos knew better than to utter a word to anyone except Stannis about the presence of the cowled and mysterious men and women this far north. There were enough questions he didn't want the answers to and the good strong ale at the barracks where they had been dined was more than enough to help the crew forget. Besides, sailors tell tall tales all the time and by the time they returned from Braavos, they would certainly have many more just as unbelievable ones to share. As for him, he had his fill of adventures and more importantly Marya called to him to return. He was more than happy to heed that call.