The Last Hope for Westeros
CastleColin, cmyatt01, Longclaw_1_6
Chapter 36: The Die is Cast
Summary:
1) Cersei orders Pycelle to put Robert to rest.
2) Ned returns to Winterfell and receives mixed messages.
3) Sam witnesses the Stars and Swords make their resurgence.
4) Bran meets the Three-Eyed Raven... and someone all too familiar.
5) Aerys bolsters his ranks and initiates his conquest.
Notes:
Longclaw: Hey everyone! So happy to see all the love for this story! Shift away from Jon and Dany for this chapter.
CastleColin: Big reveal from Dany's shrouded past life coming now. She'll be shivering when she finds out. As always, leave a kudos and drop a comment.
Cersei Lannister
"Father! Father! Father! Let me out!" screamed Cersei Lannister as she pounded on the door to her chambers, which had been locked tight from the hallway outside. She could hear a servant briefly stop outside the door, before the footsteps continued on their way. The Queen clenched her teeth and shrieked in frustrated anger at her solitary confinement, which had stretched into its eighth moon.
She slowly dragged herself back to her bed and sat down heavily on the silken sheets. Her hands went up to stroke her bulging abdomen, which was larger than a melon and a stark reminder of how little time she had left to execute her plan to kill Robert and free Joffrey. That despicable husband of hers had dared to murder her precious Tommen and Myrcella. As if exiling her beloved Joffrey to the Wall to live among thieves, rapists, and murderers wasn't enough for him! Her mind turned to Jaime… her Golden Lion and father of her children. Dead by his own hands because Robert threatened to kill him if he ever saw him again, meaning she would never see her loving brother again.
The babe in her belly kicked violently, as if detecting her distress. She cursed it under her breath. The spawn nestled within her would not live to see the world outside if she had anything to say about it. However, she couldn't risk taking moon tea before Robert was dead. His wrath would be horrific if he found out his heir died in her womb.
It was for the safety of his child that her father had agreed to confine her to her chambers until she gave birth. Robert was not taking any chances with finally securing a trueborn of his blood to succeed him on the Iron Throne. Hence, she was not allowed to leave her room under any circumstances, and only Grand Maester Pycelle was permitted to attend to her, both to bring her meals and check on the state of her pregnancy. Why no servants were allowed in her presence vexed her when she asked Pycelle why her handmaids didn't show up on her first day of confinement. The wheezing, coughing old man gave an answer that was vague and unconvincing: her husband didn't want the health of her babe put at risk by servants that knew little about child-bearing. She didn't believe that excuse for even a second.
Cersei Lannister was second only to her father Tywin, the Hand of the King, in intellect and cunning. It was more likely that Robert suspected retaliation from her for the deaths of Tommen and Myrcella. Whether or not he considered the prospect of her actually attempting to kill him, she could not say. In any case, she had to poison him now, or her only chance at saving Joffrey would be irretrievably lost.
A hooting cough was heard outside the door as the lock on it jiggled loose. The door was gingerly pulled open and the white-bearded Pycelle tottered in, balancing a tray in his frail, wrinkled hands. He walked slowly over to the small table by the Queen's bedside and gently set the tray down. Turning to Cersei, he bowed and addressed her, "Your Grace, I've brought you your midday meal. Hot tea, I included. It is good for digestion." He gestured to the tray, upon which was a plate of fresh-baked bread, lean chicken breast, and roasted carrots and celery. A pot of boiling hot tea sat next to it with a matching teacup and saucer.
Ignoring the food brought up to her, Cersei instead glared furiously at the Grand Maester. "Seven moons, Pycelle… Seven moons you've had to dispose of my no-good, rotten husband… and seven moons you've failed utterly!" She threw a pillow at his face, smirking with some satisfaction as he tripped backward to land heavily on his rear atop the floor's plush Myrish rug.
"Forgive me, your Grace," he stuttered, clambering to his feet. "I've tried my best, but Robert has been… more mindful about what he drinks lately."
"My drunken oaf of a husband has never given a damn to what he drinks as long as it gets him drunk as a skunk!" she snapped in disbelief.
"Apologies, your Grace," Pycelle said. "However I can confirm it's true. Robert retrieves his own wine from the Red Keep's stock and always has a taster drink a glass before he takes one himself."
Cersei fumed inwardly. If her wine-loving husband was sober about his drink, she didn't know how she was going to slip the Strangler into his Arbor gold. He had to suffer for ripping her children and brother away from her. That poison was the best way she could get her revenge on the Stag for twisting the Lion's tail.
Pycelle wheezed and hacked to clear his throat. "Your Grace. There may be a way for me to sneak the poison into Robert's drink when he'll least suspect."
That got Cersei's attention. "Tell me how, Pycelle," she demanded, leaning forward on the bed toward him. He coughed and shifted nervously where he was standing. "Well, Grand Maester?"
"Robert usually spends each night guzzling wine and falling into bed with whores," the old maester began. Nothing new. He's done that ever since Tommen was born. "Thus, in the morning he wakes up with a massive headache from his hangover." Pycelle wrung his hands as he finished explaining his observations to her. "He's in such a stupor that he forgets to have a taster check his wine when he breaks his fast prior to his sparring with Ser Meryn."
"Seven moons it took you to figure out the obvious, Pycelle?" Cersei scoffed in derision. "You should've known that immediately after I informed you of my plan."
"My apologies, your Grace," Pycelle bowed his head. "It just… never occured to me until now."
"Well, proceed with the poisoning at once," she ordered. "Make it four doses. One for each of my children and my brother."
"Of course, your Grace," Pycelle agreed. "Robert will be dead come morning on the morrow."
As the sickly Grand Maester slunk out of the room to finally execute her assassination, Cersei laid back on her bed with a sigh of relief and vindication. Her pathetic excuse of a husband and king would soon be burning in the deepest part of the Seven Hells, and her Joffrey would ascend to where he rightfully belonged - the Iron Throne.
Looking over to the tray with her midday meal, she suddenly felt hungry. Her stomach rumbled at the savory scent of the food, which had never smelled so tantalizing. She poured herself a cup of tea and dug in, daydreaming of Robert choking to death on his wine. A small sinister smile snaked across her otherwise alluring visage.
Unknown to her, a pair of ears was on the other side of the walls the whole time the Grand Maester was with her…
Eddard Stark
"You have got to be damn kidding me, Stark." A meaty fist slammed down on the table where the King in the North was seated with Greatjon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth. "You, of all the Northern lords, let the wildlings through the Wall?!"
"I understand your disapproval Lord Umber," replied Ned Stark, calmly. "However, I wouldn't have taken such action without a just cause."
"What cause is that?!" spat Greatjon Umber. "The North has shed countless lives fighting those savages ever since that Wall was raised. Now, you're letting them onto our land to live on it just like that?!"
"Winter is coming, Lord Umber." Ned leaned forward across the table. "When it comes, it will come for us all, wildling or not. My house's words are a warning not to become divided by petty squabbles when greater dangers threaten us all."
"The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," Greatjon recited. He sighed heavily and tightened his jaw. "It's only your infallible honor that convinces me to cooperate with your insane plan against my better judgement."
The Lord of Last Hearth sized up his king. "Tell me, what do you require of me?" He arched an eyebrow. "More importantly, why exactly should I care?"
Ned Stark stared down the Umber. "I have personally ventured beyond the Wall, my lord. I know without a shred of doubt what all the Seven Kingdoms will face when it falls."
"What do you mean 'when,' my King?"
"I'm surprised you didn't have me with you to corroborate what you told Greatjon, brother," remarked Benjen. "As First Ranger, I could've lent more credibility to such wild claims about the dead coming for us all."
Ned Stark chuckled. "You know Lord Umber, brother. He's always been skeptical about the Night's Watch's reports of anything supernatural occurring beyond the Wall. Says it's all just hallucinations and fantasies from men who can't tough out the cold like we can."
"Well, at least he agreed to keep his mouth shut about how you're settling the wildlings in the Gift. From how you described his reaction, he treated it like betrothing a daughter to a suitor with your eyes closed."
Benjen laughed heartily at his somewhat weak joke to which Ned cracked a small smile.
"It's crucial that he did, Benjen. The Umbers are usually the first to experience wildling raids and they harbor the greatest hate for the Free Folk. Yet, their proximity to the Gift necessitates them at least keeping the peace with them, or else violence will inevitably spread across the entire North. That is even more of a certainty if the other lords hear of what I did."
The two Stark brothers rode on in silent contemplation of the wars to come. Each day passed meant another day closer to the second coming of Aegon the Conqueror and Visenya the Fierce in Jon and Daenerys Targaryen. Ned was excited to see his nephew again and meet his gooddaughter for the first time in any of his lives. He was even more keen on getting to meet Jon's son. He remembered how Jon lost his first son, Rhaegar, in his past life, when the child was only a babe. Not this time. Jon would finally have the happiness and family that Lyanna would've wanted for her only child.
Ned and Benjen crested over another hill on the Kingsroad, and the great stone castle of Winterfell came into view on their right.
"Well, brother," said Benjen as his horse shifted slightly. "I guess this is our parting of ways." He reached his hand out to the elder Stark and firmly shook his hand. "It was truly an honor to have the King in the North aid the Night's Watch himself."
"Aye, Ben," replied Ned. "Thank you for accompanying me on my expedition." He then looked back over his shoulder. "I hope that Jory can keep a hold on Theon's proclivities in my absence. I specifically told the Greyjoy he was staying to help oversee the settlement of the Free Folk, not sconder off to have his fun with Ygritte."
"Your captain of the household guard is more than capable of keeping your ward's breeches up and tied tight. At least until I can come by to check on their progress."
Benjen pulled on his reins and turned his mount around. "Farewell, your Grace. I'll inform Jeor and Aemon on a successful mission when I return to Castle Black."
Ned watched his brother gallop off back north to the Wall that guarded the realms of men.
Stay safe, brother. For Lyanna's sake.
"Open the gates for his Grace, the King in the North!" called out the guards on the battlements with pomp and ceremony.
As the great steel-and-wood door was painstakingly raised off the ground, Ned Stark rode underneath into Winterfell's main courtyard, whereupon a stableboy ran up to help him. "Your Grace, welcome back to Winterfell," the boy said as the king dismounted from his horse. "My thanks, lad." Ned smiled back at the young man, who took the reins from him and led the horse to the stables.
"Father!" Ned turned around to see Arya barrel toward him and into his arms. The little she-wolf embraced him tightly as her older sister walked up behind her, shaking her head and smiling at her enthusiastic greeting.
"Father, you're home." Sansa was more prim in her greeting, but her hug was no less tight. "I trust that your excursion beyond the Wall went well?" Sansa asked.
"Aye, Sansa. All went as planned." Ned said as he ruffled Arya's hair. "Where's Rickon?" He noticed that his youngest son hadn't shown up to welcome him home. "Rickon's feeding our direwolves with Ser Rodrik. He needs help when giving them raw meat so his fingers aren't accidentally chewed off," Sansa said, waving her hand back toward the kennels.
"Where's Benjen and the rest of the men that went with you, Poppa?" Arya asked, her grey eyes wide and inquisitive. Ned sighed and looked her in the eye. "Two were killed by wildlings in a mistaken fight. Three others were struck down by the dead." He watched the stunned expressions on her and Sansa as they registered what he just told them.
He smiled to reassure them. "Theon, Jory, and Benjen made it back. My brother is returning to Castle Black to give his report to the Lord Commander. Theon and Jory are helping to oversee the Free Folk settling in the Gift."
Ned's daughters sighed in relief at their 'brother' and uncle's survival. "Well, Father, we need to be getting back to our Water Dancing lessons with Master Syrio." Arya disengaged from him and pulled on Sansa's hand. "Come on, Syrio's probably in the kitchen helping himself to another lemon cake." Her sister tsked-tsked. "Not on my watch!" Both girls began heading inside the imposing keep of the castle.
Arya turned as if forgetting something. "Father, cousin Robyn is here! Aunt Lysa sent him here for fostering with us!" Ned's face broke out in a wide grin. He'd only ever heard of his wife's nephew and was excited to hear that he'd finally see him in person.
As his daughters ran inside, it was only then that Ned realized Catelyn hadn't come out to greet him as usual…
"Your Grace, I am glad to see you have returned home safely," greeted Tyrion as his King walked into Winterfell's Great Hall. The Imp smiled generously as Ned took a seat across the table from him. "Would you care for some ale? I once heard it helps to ward off the chill of this frozen climate." He slid a tankard of ale over the tabletop to Ned, who accepted it gratefully.
After taking a long swallow of the malty tasting liquor, he laid the half-empty tankard on the table. "Thank you, Lord Tyrion. I trust that your journey back here was uneventful as well?"
"Yes, indeed it was." Tyrion took another noisy gulp of ale before continuing their conversation. "Was your excursion to save the wildlings from the White Walkers successful? If so, I surely hope that you've worked out some arrangement with the Northern lords for peaceful accommodation of wildling settlement behind the Wall."
"The Free Folk will be settled in the Gift, Lord Hand. As for 'peaceful accommodation,' I got Lord Umber to agree to the wildling resettlement so long as they refrain from raiding his lands." Ned rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "I also managed to get him to not tell any of the other lords about what I pulled off in order to forestall any unwanted hostilities."
"Excellent idea, your Grace," Tyrion remarked. "By the way, your daughters said that you, Benjen, Theon, and Jory were the only survivors of your expedition. I'm sorry for those who failed to make it back." His brow furrowed. "Where are the other survivors, if I may ask?"
"My brother is heading back to Castle Black to give his report to Jeor and Maester Aemon. Theon and Jory are overseeing the wildlings moving onto the Gift," Ned responded.
"Well, that worked out rather nicely… Your Grace, Yohn Royce recently arrived with young Robyn Arryn for the boy's fostering with your family."
"I know, Lord Tyrion. Arya shouted that to me as she ran inside after greeting me." Ned and Tyrion shared a laugh over the Wild Wolf's brash personality. Tyrion's face then turned serious. "Your Grace, there is also another guest that came here in the last moon. An unexpected guest that would probably be better described as my guest rather than yours."
That grabbed Ned Stark's attention. "Who is this guest of yours, Tyrion?" He folded his hands together expectantly and waited. Tyrion fidgeted in his seat and grasped his tankard with both hands. "My niece, Myrcella, your Grace." He cleared his throat with a rough hacking cough. "Pardon me… Robert discovered that his children were my sister and brother's bastards. He ordered Tommen and Myrcella killed." Tyrion blinked hard and wiped a tear that slid down his left eye. "Varys was unable to save Tommen but he managed to send Myrcella here to Winterfell."
Ned's temper rose and his fists clenched until the knuckles turned white. His once best friend stooped so low as to actually go through with killing innocent children, blameless for the sins of their parents. For years, he had condemned Robert's condoning of the deaths of Aegon and Rhaenys. Now, it seemed that nothing would make him see sense in quenching his thirst for vengeance in the blood of anyone completely undeserving of punishment.
Offering his sincerest of condolences, Ned comforted the grieving Lannister. "I am truly sorry for your loss, Tyrion, and the death of your nephew. I only knew him briefly, but I could tell he deserved nothing less than peace and joy."
"Thank you, your Grace," Tyrion said, wiping his tears away. "Oh, your wife said that to address my niece as 'Marcy' when in the presence of anyone not you, her, or your children. Just to prevent her true identity from finding its way back to Robert."
"Marcy, eh?" Ned chuckled. "That's easy to remember."
Tyrion smiled wanly and sipped his ale. "On a less gloomy note, your Grace. Her Grace, Catelyn, received ravens from the Martells and Tyrells informing of their now traveling north. They should be here within two moonturns."
Ned nodded in understanding. Everything is going as Jon planned. With the marriage alliances with Dorne and the Reach sealed, it will be easier to dethrone Robert more quickly and with less bloodshed. Then a thought resurfaced from the back of his mind. "Tyrion, where is Catelyn? I was expecting her to greet me when I arrived."
The Hand of the King in the North hastily chugged down the rest of his ale and put the tankard down. His face was grim. "I think it would be best to tell you about that in your study, your Grace."
Closing the door securely behind him, Ned made sure the lock was tight before following Tyrion over to his desk and sitting down in a chair across from him.
Steepling his fingers, Ned waited for his Hand to divulge the whereabouts of his wife, who he had not seen in almost a year.
"Your Grace, Queen Catelyn departed for Riverrun with her brother Edmure, a sennight ago," Tyrion said. He took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. His face had turned an even grimmer shade of grey. "Robert discovered your 'alleged' alliance with the Tagaryens and is preparing for war. Catelyn and I both suspect that he intends to invade the North and resubjugate it under the Iron Throne."
Ned's face drained of color. This was not according to plan. He was to reveal his support for the Targaryens after Jon and Daenerys returned from Essos. Now that Robert knew… well with the fury his old friend had slain Rhaegar, Robert would have few compunctions doing the same to him. Even more serious was that Robert would have zero hesitation with killing Daenerys and her innocent babe, and Jon, regardless if he learned the truth behind Lyanna's 'abduction.'
Trying to quiet his thoughts and pushing aside the frightening images of Jon's family's gruesome deaths, he listened as Tyrion continued onward.
"Your wife believed that she was obliged to inform her father in person about the impending invasion of his lands by Robert's forces. Edmure, even more so, considering that Varys advised you not to call your banners to defend your goodfather."
Ned relaxed slightly. The plump eunuch's reputation as a spymaster was infamous around the Narrow Sea. He was immensely relieved that Varys had defected to the Targaryen cause. But his relief evaporated when Tyrion concluded with Tywin Lannister's reconstituting of the Faith Militant. He slumped back in his chair, trying to process all that engulfed the Seven Kingdoms in his time beyond the Wall.
"I understand your feelings of overburden, your Grace." Tyrion looked sympathetically on his king's face, whirling full of emotions. He cracked an impish grin. "If it makes you feel better, I often feel the same way after guzzling a barrelful of Dornish red." Both men laughed at his jest, humor alleviating the stress that Ned felt.
Finally the two stopped to catch their breath. "Thank you, Lord Tyrion. That did help." Ned's expression then turned forlorn. "Cat… I was hoping to see her again." He sighed. "Now that Robert knows of what I plotted behind his back, I have to prepare my men for war. It doesn't look like I'll be able to wait for or go after my wife."
"That is correct, your Grace. You will likely be nabbed by some lord looking to curry favor with Robert if you go south of the Neck. I fear that your wife may be as well, but since she's Hoster Tully's daughter, that might spare her any trouble, so long as she stays within the Riverlands."
"I pray to the Old Gods that you're right, Lord Hand. I don't know if I could bear losing another of my family."
Tyrion scowled at the floor. "Knowing my father, that's exactly what he'll do to defeat his rivals. Now that he knows you're a Targaryen loyalist, that puts you up there with the Reynes of Castamere."
Ned stood up and rubbed his eyes. "I believe I have heard enough for today. Thank you, Lord Tyrion for updating me on the goings of Westeros in my absence."
Tyrion nodded in assent. "You're most welcome, your Grace. Shall we confer again tomorrow to hash out our next moves in the game of thrones?"
"Of course, Lord Hand." Both men walked over to the door of the study. Ned was looking forward to a hot, steaming bath and a piping hot meal. As Tyrion went to open the door, Ned remembered something he'd planned to tell Tyrion upon his loyalty proven.
"Tyrion!" He said. The Dwarf of Casterly Rock had served House Stark faithfully to warrant letting him in on its most closely-guarded secret. The Imp turned where he was as the King in the North knelt down to him.
"There's something important that I have to tell you. I needed to be absolutely sure of your loyalty to my house before informing you." Ned opened his mouth to speak before Tyrion cut him off.
"Your natural son, Jon. He's the scion of the Last Dragon, is he not?" Tyrion said with a snark.
Ned's jaw dropped. "How? How did you…"
Tyrion grinned. "Deductive reasoning… and some corroboration from Maester Aemon." He bowed his head. "Don't worry my King, your secret is safe with me." He turned back to the door and let himself out.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Ned shook his head in disbelief. Jon was right when he said that one would be hard-pressed to find a more clever Hand than Tyrion Lannister.
Samwell Tarly
Forking over two silver stags to the vendor, Sam took the scooped out trencher of bread containing the delicacy within. His companion wrinkled her nose at what for her was a strange dish. For Sam, however, the wafting aroma only caused him to sigh, smiling wide. "I never thought I'd taste these again. My favorite thing to eat growing up."
Sarella Sand blinked her honey-brown eyes, peering at the food. "What is it?"
Popping one in his mouth, Sam moaned at the delicious taste. "You don't have this in Dorne? I would think it's a perfect place to grow olives."
"Oh we have olives there, just not anything like that."
"It's a specialty in the Reach, especially in the area around my home where the olive trees grow. Probably these things were about half of…" Sam jostled his shrinking but still ample girth, causing Sarella to giggle softly. "Fried olives, stuffed with meat and spices. Usually pork… try it, you'll love it."
The female acolyte of the Citadel hesitantly reached out to take one of the steaming fried pebbles with her fingers. Observing it for a bit before shrugging and popping it in her mouth. Chewing for a split second, suddenly she almost purred from the back of her throat. "Gods be good, that does taste amazing."
Too distracted by the feminine sounds coming from the caramel-skinned Dornishwoman, Sam didn't notice that Sarella had taken the trencher until it was out of his hands. "Hey…"
"Mine now, Tarly," she teased, grinning as she downed two more in quick succession. "I'll share it with you." Unable to truly be angry at his new friend, Sam chuckled and took for himself another of the treats.
It had been several moons since Sam had 'met' Sarella while searching for texts on the Long Night and Valyrian prophecies. She had been shadowing him and was only discovered due to an inconvenient trip over a loose tile within the library. Revealing her… feminine features that she tried to hide. The blush that adorned the comparatively light Summer Islander skin was still in Sam's mind, making it impossible to truly be mad at her. Since, the two became fast friends, one the Tarly boy's two if he included Archmaester Marwyn. Helping him sneak into the restricted section, sharing meals in the communal hall, staying up late in the night discussing everything from botany to prophecy…
Sarella had admitted to him that 'Alleras' was just her cover for studying at the Citadel. The Conclave forbid women from joining, but she had dreamed of learning from Westeros' greatest library of knowledge since her tenth nameday. Sam sympathized with her completely. He himself wanted to become a maester, but his father wouldn't allow it - calling the role 'too soft' for a Tarly. Well, his father and the Conclave could shove it up their arses!
As they strolled along the streets of Oldtown for some time away from the stuffy Citadel, Sam glanced over at Sarella. Eating her stuffed olives and enjoying the beautiful day in the market district close to the Starry Sept. He knew he was slowly falling for the beautiful Dornish lady, but who was he kidding? She probably only thinks of me as a friend. Regardless of what Jon told him, his father was right on this. Who would ever fancy a pig like me?
Suddenly, Sarella stilled. "Did you hear that?" she asked, gaze following a large group of people that were racing towards the massive bulk of the Starry Sept…
Several were running away from it too - nothing too panicked but Same could see the fear in their eyes. "Hey," he asked one man. From the pattern of leather armor, he was clearly a northerner. "What's going on?"
"New High Septon," the man grumbled. Eyes then looking over Sarella in a way that made Sam uncomfortable. "Better take your girl and get the hell out. It's gonna be bad." Without another word he turned tail and kept jogging away. Joining the exodus of… come to think of it, all either northern types, red-clad R'hllor worshippers - they were easy to spot - and darker skinned travellers from Essos.
"Maybe we should go…"
But Sarella wasn't the daughter of Oberyn Martell for nothing. "Come on!" She raced for the main square of Oldtown as fast as she could in her acolyte robes. Sam booked after her, but she was far swifter. "Stop being a slowpoke, Sammy!"
Only Sarella ever called him Sammy, and Sam liked it on her tongue - but now he was in no mood. "Wait… not safe…"
"Don't be a babe. I wanna see what this is." Only several moments later did they emerge into a mass of thousands of people. All gathered in the massive open space that graced the north entrance to the Starry Sept - the holiest place in the Faith of the Seven. Men, women, and children of all ages and occupations. Some curious laborers simply looking for a show while others were clearly highly devout zealots mumbling incantations to the Maiden and Warrior. Sam could feel the tension slowly building in the crowd, and by how she took his hand in hers Sarella felt it too.
A seemingly nondescript voice came from the head of the crowd - ordinary, but with a subtle charisma to boom across the courtyard to everyone watching. "My friends! Fellow believers, rejoice on this day!" Sam's gaze fell upon the entrance to the Starry Sept, dais packed with people. Robed men and drably-dressed women with hard mouths and quiet faces, the Most Devout and the Silent Sisters, gathered to preach to the faithful.
"Where is the High Septon?" Sarella whispered. Sure enough, the fat, uptight old grouch wasn't there, even though the Citadel had received word that he had arrived from the capitol to take part in a conclave of the Most Devout.
Instead, the older man with a bald head and tattered robes of a country Septon stood at the head of the assemblage. Speaking to the crowd with a remarkable charisma. "I think that's the new High Septon," Sam replies back.
"But the Faith hasn't booted out a living one since Aenys the Weak's reign." While Sarella hadn't figured out the implications of her statement yet, ice coursed through Sam's veins as it dawned on him.
Seemingly frail, the new High Septon was anything but. "They called me the Sparrow… a name of endearment and love, though with my past life of sin still scarring me I cannot see this path as anything but my duty. And so, I and my flock spread the word of the Seven Pointed Star across our great land. Across the Six Kingdoms that know the nurturing bosom of the Mother, bringing sustenance and charity to those that needed to discover grace in the physical realm." Sam hadn't ever heard of such, but the Reach was the most devout of all the Kingdoms. The Faith didn't need to send missionaries. "I was content in this life of peace and atonement."
"But now the time for peace has ended!" His voice thundered across the crowd, stilling all conversation. A dark and ominous tension, causing Sarella to squeeze Sam's hand tighter. "Our Faith is under siege. Close to destruction at the hands of sinners and heretics. In this time, we must unite!"
Suddenly, the doors to the Starry Sept opened for a large group of men to march out. First a mass of simple smallfolk, clearly no different from the others in the crowd aside from the assorted weapons they carried and the red star of the Seven emblazoned on their shirts. Sam blinked. Poor Fellows? After nearly a hundred assembled along the steps did a new group emerge - one causing Sam to pale. Two dozen fully armored knights, plated with a gleaming silver steel and cloaked in a rainbow of dyed colors. Shields bore the same rainbow in the shape of a sword while their blades carried a crystal pommel.
"Those are Warrior's Sons," said Sarella, trembling.
Involuntary, Sam took a step back, joined by Sarella. Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows… "The Faith Militant…" Gods, this could end only poorly.
The new High Septon, the lines of Poor Fellows in front and Warrior's Sons behind only enhancing his majesty - or perhaps terror would be more apt - threw his hands to the sky. "Oh Father, oh Mother, we sinners beseech you for forgiveness for our many sins. For allowing vice and heresy to run rampant. For our indulgence in every form of lust and gluttony." His hands fell to the rim of hair that ringed his bald scalp, tearing at it with lamentation. "Our glorious land is tearing itself apart. In the North, the land of tree-worshiping heretics plot war and death as they rejected the will of our great King." Hundreds gasped, the 'Sparrow' swaying even the skeptical to his side. "Robert of House Baratheon, ordained by the Seven to carry out their will, they reject his will and thus reject the will of the Gods themselves!"
The crowd screamed their hate, bellowing the most vile of insults. Some began to collapse to the ground, making seven pointed stars with their fingers on their chests and acting out their lamentation in pure religious fervor. Sam just stood there, trembling. Eddard Stark… Jon… oh no.
"And now, my children, the demons themselves gather in Essos. The Targaryen dragonriders, returned from the seven hells from which they condemned themselves, they return at the head of a godless horde of Dothraki monsters and dark-skinned savages for which to plunge our land of peace and plenty into a world where the only honor is atrocity and flame!" The High Septon's words were electrifying, as if he held a mystical hold over the crowd. Screams of fear and apology were turning into snarls and sneers of absolute vitriol. Many calling for the heads of the Targaryens on a spike - Oldtown had never been truly supportive of any Targaryen since the death of Aegon II during the Dance of the Dragons, but this was something else entirely. "We must stand united under the Faith. Stand with the Seven and be their champions! Follow Grand Captain Theodan the True, follow him into the glorious Holy War to vanquish the heretic and sinner for a new dawn of the glorious promised land underneath our very feet."
Stepping up alongside the High Sparrow was a tall man. Well built and handsome with a thin beard and close-cropped brown hair. Ser Theodan Wells, who Sam knew as a northman who had converted to the Faith, losing his inheritance as a result. As such, he was as zealous as they came and had been seen at the Citadel practically screaming at them to finish Baelor the Blessed's work and destroy the "books promoting vice and sin." And now he commanded a host of armed men. "Let's get out of here," Sam whispered to Sarella, beginning to pull her away.
"Citizens!" thundered Theodan. "Today begins our campaign against the foreign scum and tree and fire-worshipping heretics. The whores, buggerers, and dark-skinned savages that pollute our fair land!"
Sarella's eyes widened in terror - her having inherited her mother's skin. Lighter than most Summer Islanders, but darker than anyone in the crowd. Angry eyes already finding her, Sam pulled her into a light jog.
Theodan's voice still pierced the air, a shrill cry to arms. "Clear out the city! Clear it out of sin! Clear it out! Clear it out! CLEAR IT OUT!"
Turning the corner onto one of Oldtown's great avenues, Sam and Sarella broke out into a headlong run.
Behind, the crowd boomed. "HUUUUUUUURRRRAAAAAAAHHHHH!"
It was as if in an instant, the peaceful city of Oldtown - two thirds the population of King's Landing and one of the commercial anchors of Westeros itself - had descended into a nightmare. Led by the dazzling demons of the Warrior's Sons, riding on horseback and waving their swords in the air, the Poor Fellows and enraged smallfolk thundered through the city. Most civilians were spared since they were fellow devout followers of the Seven, but any obvious heretic or foreigner received a beating at best.
Sam and Sarella hid in empty houses and abandoned shops. Underneath an upturned street cart in one instance. They saw countless atrocities. Brothels cleared and whores raped in the streets. Known buggerers and money changers hung from windows and lampposts. Followers of the Red God or the Old Gods beheaded by the cheering rioters. But the greatest of the ire were the obvious foreigners. Those from the Free Cities, Slaver's Bay, and especially the "heathens" of the Summer Islands or Naath. Oldtown had plenty due to being a commercial hub, and those that did not flee outright were dismembered, blood eagled, or sometimes burned alive. News of the taking of the Unsullied - all largely dark-skinned stolen slaves from those lands - had reached Oldtown days before and association with the Targaryens made them targets. Sam held a shaking Sarella close covering her ears as the screams echoed from each butchered soul.
Crawling into a gutted out storefront, Sam saw the spire of the Citadel close by. "We're almost there, hurry…" A heavy object slammed into Sam's back.
"Consorting with a dragonspawn following-savage?!" snarled the attacker. A massive Warrior's Son, removing his helm and revealing a perfect blonde visage to the fat maester's acolyte. "Stay down, fat arse! Maybe then I'll let you live." Eyes found Sarella trying to dash to Sam and he slapped her hard across the face, mailed fist cutting into her cheek. "You're pretty for a heathen. Maybe putting the word of the Gods into you would save your soul." From his lecherous grin, it was obvious what he meant.
Pushing back until she was seated against the wall, Sarella was frantic. "Please… my father is Prince Oberyn Martell…"
"Dornish, eh?" He was not deterred, rainbow cloak billowing behind him like a shroud. "They say they fuck the best." Moving to untie his codpiece, there was no stopping the Warrior's Son.
"Please don't!"
"It's easier if you don't struggle."
Pain nearly doubling him over in dry heaves, Sam saw Sarella's terrified eyes and suddenly he was seeing red. Finding an unused paring knife mixed with shattered wood and glass on the floor - by some miracle - the portly acolyte scrambled up and charged the holy knight with a fury he had never once shown. Thrusting the knife right above the lip of his breastplate, catching the knight in the side of the neck. It was sloppy, but the knife sheared through bright red arterial blood so it didn't really matter. The knight swiveled around, throat gurgling with blood as he tried to close the wound… but no avail. He slumped to the ground seconds later, dead.
Breathing heavily, lungs and heart hurting from the weight of it all, Sam sheathed the knife in his belt. Huh, so something father taught me did stick… His eyes found Sarella, still backed against the wall, eyes wide with shock and… wonder? "Come on, let's get out of here," he told her.
"You killed him…" Sarella trembled, seemingly barely able to comprehend what happened. In the distance, flames roared as screams filled the air. Laughter booming along with the screams. "You saved me…"
Without hesitation, Sam yanked her up by her hand. "WE HAVE TO GO!" As shadows of armed rioters flickered against the walls of the many buildings across the street, Sam slammed his build into the back door, shattering the flimsy wood into a winding alley. "This way!" Racing faster than he had ever before, he hauled the Dornish noblewoman away from the chaos, fire, and death unleashed by the Faith Militant and High Septon.
Hours later, they were safe in the Citadel. Passing through the line of Hightower guards that strung across the entrance causeway blocking the Faith Militant from entering - not that they tried - by Archmaester Marwyn, supervising the men. Sam waited in his room, sporting a small window overlooking the city. The fires only grew, homes and businesses of all that failed the purity test of the Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows immolating along with their owners. In the harbor, several trade ships flying the foreign colors of Lys or the Summer Islands, both 'immoral dens of godlessness,' burned as well. Gods, it's all falling apart. This wasn't spontaneous, Sam knew. Someone planned this to happen.
The door opened behind him and Sarella entered, clad in a thick sleep dress - quite unacceptable to Dornish fashions but needed in the Citadel. He immediately rose. "Are you alright…?"
She cut him off. "I'm fine…" The female acolyte bit her lip. "Thanks to you."
"It was nothing…"
She cut him off yet again, launching into a tight embrace. Kissing his lips before squeezing him close. "Thank you, Sam." Tears started falling from her cheeks. "Thank you…"
Sam could do nothing else but return the embrace. Disbelieving of what had just happened.
Brandon Stark
Bran Stark pressed his hand to the carved face, a bleeding red laugh, on the weirwood bark of Greywater Watch's heart tree. He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing, trying to relax his body and assume a meditative state. Many times he had done this since beginning his training in greensight, and each time still felt like his first.
"Breathe," encouraged Jojen, who was standing beside him. "Let your mind empty of all thoughts, all distractions, and just feel the world move around you." The son of the enigmatic Howland Reed was even more of a mystery to young Brandon, even after almost a year with him. Jojen was as immersed in the supernatural as his sister Meera was in the natural when hunting in the swamps.
Bran blushed inwardly. Despite her being close to Robb's age, he couldn't help but feel attracted toward her. A little too much sometimes, especially when he felt his erection stick out under his breeches. Jojen had informed him of the requested betrothal between him and her. Apparently, she would be critical to his survival when the Long Night returned, so all the better to seal the defense with marriage. He didn't mind the circumstances of said marriage. In fact, he might have asked that of his father himself in a few years time.
Steadying his breath into a cycle of deep inhales and exhales, he returned his focus to opening his greensight to whatever new visions might come forth that day. He suddenly felt a cold breeze that swept over him and a blinding flash of light shone in his eyes. Opening them, he found himself in a dark cave. Looking around as his sight adjusted, he gasped at what he saw in front of him.
Sitting at the base of a weirwood tree, was an ashen, skeletal man with one eye missing from his skull. The tree roots appeared to have grown into him and pinned him to where he was in the dirt floor of the subterranean cave. The man peered at him with his remaining eye and raised his hands in greeting.
"Brandon Stark. We meet again."
"Meet again?" Bran asked. "Who are you?"
"I was once known as Brynden Rivers, young Stark," the ancient man replied. "But you knew me as the Three-Eyed Raven, in our past lives."
"Of course!" Bran exclaimed. "You do look familiar." His face dropped in apprehension. "Will I have to go beyond the Wall to train with you like last time?"
"No, Brandon," the Three-Eyed Raven replied. "The Ice King knows of me and my role in the wars to come. You coming north is what he anticipates, so he lies in wait. I will train you to the best of my ability through our shared greensight. When the Ice King realizes he will not be able to trap you, only then will he seek me out and kill me."
"But you'll die if left where you are!" Bran protested. "It's… it's too harsh…"
"Only death can pay for life," Brynden responded gently. "Mine will not be in vain. The spirit of the Three-Eyed Raven will pass to you upon my passing. Through the spirit's preservation, all life in this world stands a chance at surviving the enemy that knows as much as the Lightbringers do."
Bran looked at him pleadingly, clearly not willing to abandon the last of Aegon the Unworthy's Great Bastards to perish in the wastes of the Lands of Always Winter.
"Bran," Brynden said. "You are a gentle soul - insane fantasies notwithstanding." Bran snorted at the memory of that delusion of 'Mad Queen Daenerys.' Only idiots would imagine that to be reality. "I am touched that a noble like you would care for a bastard like me, who should never have existed to begin with." He chuckled dryly at his self-degradation. His expression turned serious. "Your past self told your family. There will be no third chance if we fail to bring the Dawn this life. Night will fall over us and never again will morning come."
"I understand," Bran said. He stood up a little straighter. "I won't let you down."
The Three-Eyed Raven gave a thin smile, then grimaced. "Bran… Bran! Leave! Now!"
"What?!" Bran asked, confused at the wizened greenseer's sudden panic. He then felt a tremendous pain in the back of his head, as if an axe had been buried in his skull. A violent tug was felt on the scruff of his neck and he was pulled backward out of the Three-Eyed Raven's cave into the swirling snow storm outside.
Bran landed with a thump and groaned loudly. He groggedly dragged himself onto his knees, snow falling off his hair. Raising his head, he found himself on a bare white field with no trees or vegetation anywhere in sight. Then in the distance, he spotted a shadow moving toward him. Vaguely humanoid. As it drew nearer, he could spot a crown of ice atop its head.
The Ice King.
Ice congealed in Bran's stomach and he scrambled backward to get away. But every movement just seemed to move him toward the apparition that was almost upon him. The blizzard swirling around him seemed to pin him to the ground and ice froze around his legs, making escape even more far-fetched.
The figure in front of him stopped. It reached out a clawed fingertip and put it under Bran's chin, forcing him to look up. He gasped in horror at what stared into his eyes.
The Ice King was a perfect storm, an unholy blend of the Night King and the ill-fated Jon of Daenerys' past life. He resembled the former down to the last detail with the only hint of the latter being his face, which oddly enough, had a hint of kindness behind a sadistic sneer. The demonic entity's skin was ice-blue and smooth as glass, but it was the eyes that shook Bran to the core. The Ice King's eyes were a malevolent blue and colder than ice, yet at the same time, burned with a fire intense with rage, pain, and… sorrow?
"All hail the Ice King," Bran said in monotone. "Long may he reign." His eyes widened as he realized he didn't mean to say what he just did. He gazed fearfully into the eyes of his doomed brother, who evidently had wormed into his mind.
The Ice King's mouth contorted in a cruel smile. "Hello little brother. We meet again."
Bran swallowed nervously at the Ice King's voice - it was freezing with bitterness and sounded like rusted steel scraping across stone. The icy sharp fingertip still hadn't left his throat, keeping his face level with the king of the White Walkers. The Ice King cocked his head to the side. "Something wrong, Bran? Not happy to finally see your brother again? If I recall, I just ran off to Pentos without saying goodbye to you."
"You're not my brother," Bran said defiantly. "You're not Jon. He would never become what you are. Not now, not ever."
The Ice King chuckled in an almost gleeful tone. "But I am your brother and I am here, not the fool who abandoned his family to stick his cock in the woman he got killed." He looked at Bran mournfully. "How can you stand by a man who claims to love you yet can't protect his loved ones?"
Bran stared back. "Everything my brother is doing or has done, has been for the good of those he's sworn to protect. That includes even himself, considering what you intend for Westeros."
The Ice King looked in mock horror. "Is that so? Tell me, Bran. What is it that I intend for the Seven Kingdoms?"
"To exterminate all life and swell the Army of the Dead. To bring a never-ending sleep upon the world from which it would never wake up."
"Valar morghulis, Brandon Stark," the Ice King said simply. "All men must die. That is the rule of the gods, and I am their instrument."
"Yes, all men must die! I understand that!" Bran exclaimed. "But do you have to force it upon everyone instead of letting them live out their lives in peace?"
"Valar dohaeris, Brandon Stark," the Ice King repeated in the same matter-of-fact tone. "All men must serve. Why do you think that is the response to 'Valar morghulis?' Because death is the greatest service one can give to end humanity's suffering."
The White Walker stood over Bran, dropping his fingertip from the boy's neck. Bran breathed a quiet sigh of relief at the loss of contact. The Walker then started walking in circles around him, as if he were a maester giving a lecture.
"That is the truth I realized when I attempted to slay the Night King. The war had stretched into its third year and the situation was desperate. Cersei Lannister's refusal to aid us had stretched our forces to the breaking point. So many men we lost. I lost you and Arya. I lost a dragon. I became desperate to win, so I set it upon myself to face the Night King without bringing forth the Lightbringers."
He looked down at Bran, still frozen to the ground. "You saw how that turned out for me."
Turning his head to gaze out through the blizzard, he continued. "Upon becoming the creature I am, I was horrified at first. I wanted to die. But the more I thought about it. The more I contemplated my new circumstances, I knew what befell me was not a curse, but a blessing."
The Ice King paused and gave Bran, who was still frozen to the ground, a pitiful expression. "All the pain and suffering that I had endured. All the pain and suffering that I fought to prevent befalling those I held dear, I failed to stop. My fate as the very demon I stood against was punishment for defying the natural and inevitable - death."
He knelt down again next to the young greenseer. "The return of the Long Night signaled not an end, but a beginning. After all, new growth can not exist without first the destruction of the old. Yes, life would become extinct, but only to give way to a world better than the shit one we always knew. A world where all of humanity's sins are extinguished… forever."
Bran stared back in utter disbelief. "You are talking an apocalypse here! How can you? You yourself flew off to destroy the Night King for good. You risked everything to save the world. Now, you're throwing it all away?!"
The Ice King waved his hand dismissively. "The Night King was pathetic. Nothing more than a frozen figurehead. Oh, he looked invincible when hiding behind his army, but once isolated, I ran him through in the blink of an eye."
"Upon becoming who I am, I discovered he was just some random First Man driven out of revenge to destroy the world for his misfortune." He snorted in derision. "As if he was the first person to suffer the consequences of dark magic. He was never worthy of the glorious mantle that was bestowed upon him, instead abusing it for his petty spite."
The Ice King looked Bran, dead in the face. "You will soon realize, Bran. I am not your enemy, I am your salvation. Out of my love for all life, I bring the gift of death to break you free from the chains of lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride."
"Daenerys will never stand for it!" Bran yelled defiantly. "This is not what you won her love with. She loved you for something far greater. Something you've clearly forgotten."
A frozen fist slammed into his cheek, sending Bran sprawling across the snow-laden soil. The Ice King towered over him, any pretense of friendliness gone. "Watch your tongue, Brandon Stark," the ice demon warned. "This is only a vision, yet I can end your miserable existence if I so desire." He planted his foot on Bran's stomach and pushed down. "My dragon will return to me, one way or another. If I have to turn her into what I am, I will do it without hesitation."
"Jon will ensure you die before that happens," Bran wheezed weakly, the icy boot painful against his gut.
The Ice King reached down and grabbed him by the neck, like a plucked chicken, and wrenched him off the ground. There was a deafening crack as the ice around Bran's legs shattered against the force of the white walker's yanking tug. "For our family, Bran, death will pass over you. But do not stand in my way when the Wall comes down, or my mercy will be tested."
Bran was dropped to the ground with a heavy thud. "Oh, and as a parting gift for my favorite little brother…" The Ice King grabbed Bran's right arm and squeezed. Bran felt a searing pain on the flesh of his forearm, so cold it was hot. Upon his arm's release, he saw the shape of a snarling wolf had been branded on the skin.
"Winter is coming," the Ice King declared. He started to cackle, louder and louder until Bran's head was spinning. He shut his eyes, trying to block out the noise…
"Bran! Bran! Bran!" a voice was shouting, imploringly.
Bran's eyes snapped open and he gasped, chest heaving. A pair of strong arms gently pulled him away from the heart tree and sat him down in the grass. He blinked, the sunlight harsh after the darkness of his vision. As he tried to calm his ragged breath, he noticed his hands were shaking uncontrollably.
"Here, drink this," the voice said, handing him a flask. Looking to his right, he saw the pretty, yet hardened face of Meera Reed. She looked alarmed at his state. "You were stuck, literally, to the tree for an hour. Jojen went to father to get help."
Bran took the flask with trembling hands and took a welcome swig. It was water, boiled fresh. The crannogmen boiled their water before using it in any way because of the dirtiness of swamp water. He swallowed hard and thought back to what he saw. I am not your enemy, I am your salvation… The Night King was pathetic…
"Meera," he said, voice hoarse. "I… saw… the Ice King. My brother from Daenerys's past life."
Her eyes bugged outward. "Are you serious?" she breathed. "Did he hurt you?" her voice rising in concern.
"No," Bran admitted. Feeling the cold on his right arm, he rolled up his sleeve. "But he did mark me."
Meera gasped in horror at the wolf branded onto his flesh. "We have to tell father immediately. If the Ice King can now track you, he's closer than we expected to start his invasion."
Winter is coming. Bran nodded listlessly as Meera helped him to his feet to go divulge his findings to Howland and Jojen.
Aerys Targaryen
"Are these all of them?" Hair pulled back in a messy bun - too impatient and irritated to expend any energy tending to it - Aerys, Third of His Name scowled as he looked over the gathered men before him.
Connington nodded. "Aye, your Grace. The leaders of the finest sellsword companies in all of Essos." He looked extra eager to please today. Good. Perhaps he won't annoy me more than he does. Aerys wasn't about to forgive his failure to bring back his wife and sister so easily. Girls were happy to throw themselves at him, but none could truly compare to having a dragon quiver around one's cock. Even a half-dragon like his Alysanne. "I have spoken with all of them and with the right price, they will be glad to pledge their loyalty to you."
"Hmmmm…" Standing upright from his chair, Aerys walked till he was only feet away from them. Turning so the distinctive twin dragon hilt of Blackfyre was visible to them all. "Rhaelyx, come." At the mere command, a screech was heard as the large rust-colored dragon erupted into view. Landing on the balcony of the manse. It roared, already large enough to ride. Many of the sellswords were petrified, while some held up better than others. "See that? Hm, that's a dragon. She likes to burn things, burn people. I like to feed people to her that try to betray me, so don't ever become one of those people, are we clear?" Nods all around. "Connington, introduce me."
Down the line, his Hand proclaimed their names, one by one. Gylo Rhegan of the Long Lances, a balding man with a thin goatee who commanded eight hundred cataphracts. The 'Tattered Prince' of the Windblown, sad-eyed with grey white hair and a burly build who brought to bear two thousand assorted horse and infantry. Bloodbeard of the Company of the Cat, leader of three thousand soldiers, mounted and on foot, that clearly despised the Tattered Prince - the two were only on speaking terms apparently for the prospect of gold. Commanders that despise each other are less likely to revolt. Aerys wished his father would have thought of such things.
"Who's this? You look like a northerner," Aerys spat with contempt at a woman of all things.
"Alyssa Snow, Captain of the Company of the Rose." She was raven-haired, slight and beautiful but clearly a handful. She carried herself like a warrior. "We have no desire to conspire with kneelers, Your Grace." Northerners that refused to bend the knee to Aegon the Conqueror - Aerys admired the tenacity of their ancestors, but would keep an eye on them.
They came across a toned, trim bearded man with a cocky grin. "This is Daario Naharis, Captain of the Second Sons."
Aerys raised a brow - immediately recognizing this man. Daenerys' lover. He smirked. Oh, this is going to get interesting. "I thought the Second Sons were commanded by Brown Ben Plumm."
"We had a disagreement," Daario remarked, matching Aerys' smirk. "He wished to continue selling his services to suppress slave revolts and banditry, then use the gold to fuck and drink his way into an early grave. I, on the other hand, like a bit of danger."
Cocky bastard. Aerys knew exactly how he took command of the Second Sons in the past life. "What happened to Plumm?"
"Whores… they aren't always what they seem. Seems that one of them liked to kill and rob her clients."
"Is that so?" Daario looked to know Aerys knew, and Aerys knew that Darrio knew as well. "I like you, Naharis. Be loyal and you'll have your choice of the finest women in Westeros."
Daario nodded. "Can't make love to property, after all."
If you seek out my twin, I'll rip you apart piece by piece. The pretender continued on, finding another man that looked familiar, but whom he couldn't place. "Who are you?"
"This is Ser Bronn of…"
"Just Ser Bronn," the man replied, older and with sandy blonde hair and a crafty smile. "Haven't found a place to call home yet."
"He's Captain of the Stormcrows, your Grace," Connington finished.
Aerys pursed his lips. "Now, I know the captains of the Stormcrows, and you aren't one of them. In fact, you look like you're fresh off the boat from Westeros. How'd you come to lead a premier fighting outfit?"
Chuckling, Bronn held open his arms. "What can I say? It's a boring story - not like this one…" he pointed to Daario. "His story's at least got a whore in it."
"Try me, I like most stories," Aerys said.
"Well, it all started after I left Gulltown cause the Vale was boring. Found myself in Pentos when this dumb cunt started tearing apart the tavern I was in. I told him to go fuck off and he started swinging at me with a knife. Killed him easily, then killed off his entire bodyguard - dumb shits. Turns out they were the leaders of the Stormcrows. Bastards figured it was a leadership challenge by combat and offered me the job." He grinned. "Who was I to pass up?"
Aerys only heard the location. "Pentos. You came from Pentos?"
Bronn raised an eyebrow. "Aye, my men are still there. Why?" A twinkle flashed in his eye. "Want me to help ya' get in? It'll cost a castle."
"Give me Pentos and you can take your pick." Clearing his throat, Aerys looked at each of the captains. "What I can offer you is more than mere gold. Sure, you'll get your gold, but pledge yourselves to me and you'll be offered your choice of cities to rule, castles to call your own, lands to use, and highborn noblewomen to marry and fuck. I am going to take back my throne with fire and blood, and new nobility is what will be needed to replace the traitorous cunts I face." He took out Blackfyre and held it high. "Who's fucking with me?"
Several seconds passed in silence, but one by one, each of the sellsword captains eased themselves to their knees. Greed or bloodlust perked by the Targaryen pretender.
And just like that, Aerys had doubled his army. Time to begin my conquest.
Notes:
Longclaw: And the Faith Militant rises! Sam... he has another reason to be called Sam the Slayer.
After what I did with Ygritte and Theon, decided to try an unconventional paring for Sam as well. Randyll may find it a bit better than a wildling, but a "half-breed Dornish bastard" would still probably give him a stroke XD
Daario and Bronn show up, both under the command of Aerys. We'll see plenty of Bronn from here on out, and since there was no trial in the Eyrie he's gotta go where the money is ;)
The Ice King... the Ice King speaks for himself.
CastleColin: The pieces move again on the board, or the players that control them. You decide.
Enjoy and comment :D