The Last Hope for Westeros

CastleColin, cmyatt01, Longclaw_1_6

Chapter 38: Three Lions and a Stag

Notes:

Longclaw: Hey all. Sorry for the delay, but we have a chapter that will resolve the cliffhanger and resolve one of the visions had in chapter 17.

Be sure to check out my other stories :D

CastleColin: We're back after enjoying the holidays! The story will be getting back in the groove soon.

Jaime Lannister

Pushing through the flap of the command tent, Jaime was instantly greeted by the vicious stares of the Sand Snakes. If not the murderous kind that would have struck him dead had they been projectiles, more the bitter hate that would slow roast him had they been fires. It wasn't hard to place the three girls' faces on their father's - different mothers that they had, each was so like Oberyn Martell it was uncanny.

At the chuckle from the old knight that walked in behind him, Jaime tilted his head back with a cross look of his own. "Amused?"

Ser Barristan smirked at him, nodding in apparent apology. "Forgive me, Ser Jaime… although I doubt you're not used to such."

That was true. After killing Aerys… after the tale of a craven son murdering his King on behalf of his father had been spread by the mouth of Eddard Stark, everyone not a diehard Lannister loyalist had treated him as if he were a demon. A monster. He was used to it, and despite the long-lasting grudges of House Martell for the horrid murder of Princess Elia and her children - sister and brother of the King - this time he was on the path to redeem his honor. The Lion of Lannister wouldn't let it get to him, so he changed the subject. "What do you think his Grace wants with us?"

"I think he wants to appoint some general of the Unsullied, Kingslayer," said Tyene, voice sharp. "Heard him mention as such to the Queen." Jaime merely nodded, not wishing to antagonize the justifiably bitter Martells. If there were any troops better trained or more disciplined than the Unsullied - now seemingly invigorated, if they had emotions - with their newfound freedom at the hands of the King and Queen. In all honesty, Jaime hadn't seen anything like it, and it redoubled his desire to serve the son of Rhaegar and daughter of Rhaella.

As if perfectly timed, the King boldly strolled into the room, Ser Jorah and Robb following close behind. Trotting at the rear was his Grace's direwolf… who promptly plopped down on the closest mat and curled up to sleep. "Lazy bugger," laughed Aegon to his cousin, the heir to Winterfell, only then turning to the bowing guards. "Rise, Sers. Is he here?"

"He will be in momentarily, your Grace," Jorah replied. Just then, a helmeted Unsullied marched inside, halting just into the tent at a firm attention. "This is Grey Worm, centurion of the second century, first thousand."

While impressively disciplined, Jaime didn't see anything distinguishing between the eunuch soldier and the other thousands slowly marching towards Yunkai. But by the expression on Aegon's face, it was as if the King wanted to greet an old friend but trying to restrain himself. "Grey Worm… that is a… unique name, soldier." Guarding the Targaryen monarchs, Jaime had picked up some High Valyrian from Rhaella and Rhaegar. Not anywhere close to fluent, but he could understand it decently enough.

"The name my masters gave me… so that I may know my place alongside that of the mules and oxen." His voice was monotone, but the words spoke for themselves.

"Swine.," Jaime muttered under his breath.

"I agree. Swine." With surprise, the young Sand Snake actually agreed with the Lannister. A start…

Aegon folded his arms. "You can change your name back to what it was if you wish." Somehow, he looked nonplussed about everything - Aegon and Daenerys had torched Astapor and brought the 'Good Masters' to justice for their crimes. They earned the right to be nonplussed about the sufferings of the slaves in public in Jaime's opinion.

To the surprise of the gathered guards and Robb, Grey Worm shook his head. "My old name was the name that I took into slavery. Grey Worm is the name I held when King Aegon and Queen Daenerys freed me. I wear it with pride."

"Good." The tiny smirk that adorned the King's face was… curious. How did he seem to know what was going to be said before anyone said it? A mystery to Jaime, and perhaps to most. Robb Stark certainly didn't seem to be as curious as the other guards. "I have heard nothing but good things about you, Grey Worm. As such, I am promoting you to Lord Commander of the Unsullied."

While a Westerosi knight would have basically been kissing the King's feet for such an appointment, Grey Worm merely bowed. "I will serve the Liberators till my dying breath, King Aegon."

That brought a merry chuckle to Aegon. "Liberators, eh?" he told Robb. "I suspect Daenerys would like that title. Perhaps add that to our titles alongside Breaker of Chains."

"It does have a nice ring to it, brother," Robb replied, the two of them laughing. He's not wrong.

Aegon turned to Grey Worm. "Keep your forces integrated, and make sure to coordinate with the Dothraki if battle is to be upon us soon. We don't know what will face us at Yunkai." He thought for a moment. "Oh, and make sure all the centurions learn the Common Tongue. There are persons that can teach you, and I believe…" His tiny smirk returned. "You would be best taught by the Lady Missandei, the Queen's translator and advisor."

"As you command, your Grace."

"It isn't just you, I am rewarding today, Grey Worm." Stepping away from the Unsullied soldier… now Lord Commander - Aegon moved to stand directly before the lot of them. Barristan, Jorah, each of the Sand Snakes, and Jaime. "When I learned of my birthright, my first thought was that I didn't want it. What man born a bastard named Snow… a man who knows himself and isn't blinded by lust, why would he desire power?" A sigh, followed by a stare of resolve. "But I am not a bastard. I am Aegon VI Targaryen, born of Rhaegar and Lyanna Targaryen. Married to Queen Daenerys I Targaryen, and it is about time that we embrace our roles fully. Ser Barristan Selmy, step forward."

Blinking, Barristan the Bold did as bid. Emerging from the group to stand straight before the King. "Yes, your Grace."

"Do you wish to be a member of my Kingsguard?" Jaime blinked, surprised. This is why he called us here? Was he really going to be a member of the Targaryen Kingsguard? Gods, he didn't know whether to feel guilty or excited. Perhaps both is appropriate.

On Ser Barristan's part, he nodded firmly. "Yes, my King."

Smiling, Aegon reached for the box and took out a sword. Gleaming in the errant sunlight that poked through the hole in the tent. "Allow me to present to you this blade of Valyrian steel, acquired from the ruins of Old Valyria. May you serve the Realm well, Ser Barristan." Not easily moved, Jaime could see the old knight almost break down holding the magnificent sword… Scythe, from the whispered words of Barristan himself.

The King wasn't finished. "Ser Jorah Mormont." A beautiful bastard sword followed the acceptance, dubbed Redemption by the old bear.

"Ser Obara Sand." Her acceptance was presented with a long glaive, blade of Valyrian steel. Sunspear , she named it - after her family's castle.

"Ser Nymeria Sand." Eager words of approval found a scimitar given to her, to which she christened Venom.

"Ser Tyene Sand." The youngest of the Sand Snakes took the glittering knives from her King. Viper Fangs now went into the annals of history.

And now the moment of truth. "Ser Jaime Lannister, please step forward."

Sweat beading on his brow, Jaime did as commanded. Immediately falling to his knees. "Your Grace…" Gods, at that moment he looked so much like Rhaegar. Northern in coloring, but every much his father's son. "I cannot take back my dishonor, nor my past. I can only seek to remedy the future by honoring my oath to your father once again. To serve you and the Queen till my last breath."

Silence… followed by a chuckle. "Rise, Ser Jaime." A small smile of gentle amusement was on the King's face. "Forgive me, but I was for a moment imagining Lord Tywin saying something like that." The room suddenly erupted in laughter at the jape… even Jaime. The image was just too priceless and ridiculous to conjure up. As it died down, Aegon continued. "Daenerys told me once that if we look back, we are lost. Our past can only shape us, not guide our future. Only we can do that in the present… and you have proven to me that you are worthy of my trust and my honor." Reaching back into the chest, he pulled out one last Valyrian Steel sword.

Green eyes fell upon the lion pommel, immediately widening. One didn't need to be a person that sat on their Uncle Gerion's lap for hours hearing stories about it to recognize the blade. "Is that…?"

"The greatsword Brightroar, recovered from Old Valyria with the others. House Lannister is a Great House of Westeros, having nobly served my family for generations. With this gift, Ser Jaime Lannister will forge the new chapter of his house's legacy." The lion knight nodded, accepting Brightroar with trembling hands. "All kneel to recite the oath."

As all complied, the famous words tumbled out of their lips simultaneously. "Under the grace of House Targaryen, I, Se Jaime Lannister…"

"Ser Barristan Selmy…"

"Ser Jorah Mormont…"

"Ser Obara Sand…"

"Ser Nymeria Sand…"

"Ser Tyene Sand…"

"Hereby swear on my honor and my allegiance to protect the King, Aegon VI Targaryen, the Queen, Daenerys I Targaryen, and their families. I will do my duties until death, and through that time, keep all secrets of the King and Queen safe from spread. I will not speak unless spoken to, and I will defend the King and Queen's land or pay the price. I will…"

"Strike those parts." All eyes shifted to Aegon in shock - the parts ordered stricken were the guidelines blocking wives and children. Set forth in the original oaths, but what the King gave the King could also take away "By my order."

Who was Jaime to argue, and his colleagues felt the same. "...and hold no land. I will master the gate, pluck the bow, handle the blade and serve my realm: for now and forever."

"Rise, knights of the Kingsguard."

After a life of despair and dishonor, Jaime finally felt himself transported back to the day where he had been knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne himself. He had been given his second chance - and he was damned if he would let it slip past his fingers.

"Silver Stag for your thoughts, Ser Jaime?"

Thoughts all over the place, Jaime shook himself out of his reverie. "I'm sorry, your Grace?" He looked at the King, who was walking ahead of him with Robb Stark… everything felt so surreal. More so than usual since the chaos with Joffrey and the insanity that followed.

Aegon glanced at his cousin, grey eyes seemingly seeing right through him - as if Jaime had spilled his innermost thoughts and secrets but without memory of even doing so. "I know you did the right thing. Stopping my grandfather from burning down King's Landing."

Who told him… The King travelled with a Red Priestess and could have seen a vision. Jaime couldn't discount the possibility of anything anymore, not with dragons flying overhead. "I… I didn't want to, your Grace. But, what could I honestly do? Watch hundreds of thousands of innocents die?"

Stopping in his tracks, Aegon reached out to clasp his shoulder. "And that is what I told my brother that we could trust you… to be in our Kingsguard." An earnestness in his eyes, one that looked to Jaime as holding wisdom beyond his years. "You're a good man, Ser Jaime. Regardless of what you think of yourself."

Jaime felt the smooth ivory of Brightroar's pommel against his hand. Try as he might, he couldn't tear his grip away from it. The ancestral sword of his family, now in his hands. Hands covered in blood. "I am not a good man." He sighed. "The things I did for love… but she never truly loved me." Away from her, from Cersei's influence, he could see it clearly. Someone she could manipulate in the wake of the most painful decision of his life… someone she could use to fully emasculate and shit on her oaf of a husband. "I would have done terrible things for her… I don't deserve this."

"The fact that you would say that proves that you do." This time it was Robb Stark. "Why didn't you tell my father why you killed the Mad King."

That was the same question Tyrion had asked him so long ago… and Jaime only had one answer then and one answer now. "What was the point? The deed was…"

"Arrgh!"

It was faint, but Jaime heard the sound. Her Grace's tent… Hand drifting to grip the hilt, the Kingsguard didn't wait for even a reaction from the King or heir to Winterfell before he was racing towards the tent. Eyes wide as his focus hardened, narrowing. Legs pumping till they burned with exertion.

Barging into the tent, Jaime saw a figure in Unsullied leathers, gloved hand clamped over Queen Daenerys' mouth and knife raising to her throat. "A man will not deny the Many-Faced God his offering."

Brightroar practically leapt out of its scabbard. All Jaime could see was Rhaella, pinned down and violently raped by her husband the King as the Kingsguards were forced to watch, shock still and unable to respond. Not this time! Not Rhaella's daughter! "Your Grace!" Red coating his vision, he charged.

The Unsullied swiveled around. Reacting on reflex at the new threat and abandoning the Queen, the sharp assassin's dagger raised automatically. Arm red and covered with scalding burns darting to the side, the assassin feinting before aiming for his armpit. A killing move, cutting the veins there through a gap in the Westerosi plate armor. But it wasn't some random soldier the assassin faced, rather the Lion of Lannister himself. Anticipating the move, he chopped his hand down. Hissing as the knife cut through his forearm, Jaime nevertheless knocked the knife to the ground. Brightroar angling up only for the assassin to leap on him. Both of them falling, tumbling in a heap.

As the King and his cousin emerged into the tent, they saw the commotion. Attention falling upon Daenerys. Currently crying out and trying to push herself out of the tub. "Dany!" Aegon was by her side in a heartbeat.

"The baby…" she gasped. "The baby's coming…"

"Jon…" Robb cautioned, a faint amount of blood in the water.

Feeling the assassin slam the hilt of his dagger in his gut, causing Jaime to lose his breath, he nevertheless clawed at the man. Fingers digging into the flesh of his cheek and forehead - only for the assassin to scramble to his feet. Skin ripping away… Seven Hells… Rat-brown hair framing the assassin's face, he ran out of the tent. Hobbling from a sprained ankle.

"Ser Jaime," Aegon croaked. "Who…"

Wheezing in breaths, Jaime pointed out. "The Unsullied… the Unsullied…" In his hand he held up the ripped off face, and the King's eyes widened in understanding.

"Faceless Men…" Eyes scrunched shut, almost shaking in rage, Aegon's voice boomed. "Robb! I need you to protect her and our child!" He began to move outside.

"Where are you going, Jon?" Robb called after him. "They need you!"

Aegon looked back at the both of them, Jaime flinching involuntarily when he saw red eyes. Blazing red-orange, almost demonic. Reminiscent of the Mad King, only somehow worse. More powerful and yet, utterly logical. Out drew his twin blades, obvious that he planned to use it. "I am going to go kill the people who did this to her! I am going to kill every single one of those fuckers who are trying to harm my family!" In the distance, a dragon roared - a roar of pure malevolence and rage.

Catching a pleading look from Robb - knowing something had to be done before the King lost control - Jaime rose. "I'm with you, your Grace."

Nodding, the King's concentration and anger so deep that he didn't even register both Lady Shireen, Melisandre, and the Princess Alysanne arrive, he whistled a command. "Sarogon, come!" The ground shook as the grey dragon landed - having grown significantly. Head half as long as Jaime's entire body and wings spreading wider than the entire tent behind. "Ser Jaime! Flush him out!"

"Yes, your Grace."

Mounting his dragon, he took off after his wife's would-be killer. "Sovegon!"

Somehow, news of the Kingslayer, the King, and the King's brother racing into the Queen's tent had spread like wildfire. It had kicked up a wasp's nest in the Targaryen camp, Unsullied marching to defensive positions, non-combatants panicking like scattering hamsters, and enraged Dothraki accosting anyone in their way - already several no holds barred fistfights were breaking out between groups of screamers. As Jaime muscled his way through, it became painfully obvious that this was an assassin's dream. Slip out unseen in the chaos.

But the Lion of Lannister wouldn't be outsmarted. The assassin wore Unsullied leathers, and in this pandemonium there wouldn't be time to change… no Unsullied walked out of formation. Eyes scanned the mass of bodies… There! A flash of black cut through an unoccupied tent. Hoisting Brightroar high in the air for the King's benefit, he ran for the tent, turning the corner to arrive at the entrance.

A quick jerk of his sword met the swing in a harsh scrape of steel, arakh in the assassin's hand only just missing slicing across Jaime's forehead. Pushing back, he knocked the would-be killer back. Lashing out with a sharp kick that staggered him. Jaime moved to lunge when a knife sallied forth, smacking into his breastplate - not penetrating but causing him to stumble.

Just then, the tent itself was ripped away, grey blur slamming into the assassin. Knocking him back several yards. Sarogon roared with a great fury, Aegon all but leaping off the hybrid dragon with sword drawn. Before the assassin rose, the longsword ran him through the middle. King snarling with the ferocity of a direwolf.

The man's eyes widened, blood bubbling out of his mouth as his legs buckled. Looking dead center at the King. Lips curling into a smile. "It is done…"

Withdrawing Winter's Wolf from the assassin's belly, the King's irises began to fade. From the blazing orange into a more muted evening sun. Calming, anger simmering but there also a curiosity in them. "What? What is done?"

"A man has provided a life to the Many-Faced God… only death can pay for life…"

Still, Aegon reached down, grabbing the assassin by the scruff of his neck and giving a hard right hook into his side. Earning a grunt and more coughed up blood. "Who?! Who gave my Queen's name?!" Behind, the massive grey dragon stomped his folded wing on the ground and shrieked. "Give me a name!"

A small smile. "A boy… a boy not a man… his death shall soon come, for the life soon born…" He coughed again, only the force of his lungs weaker. "And now a man must rest. Meet the god of death." With that, his eyes closed for the final time. Bading the nameless Faceless Man to the death he so worshipped.

There was a silence, Aegon rising as he tried to calm his anger. Jaime stepped to the side when Sarogon lumbered forward. The dragon stuck his snout into the King's stomach, nudging him with a low rumble… was the dragon purring? Gently, Aegon ran his hand along Sarogon's snout and head, as one would a dog. You don't see that every day.

But this was not the time to dither. "Your Grace… the Queen." Silence breaking, Aegon was back on alert. Anger replaced with a deep fear… a terror so vast that all the color drained from his face. Without a single word, he ran back to the tent.

Shireen Baratheon

"What is your name, if I may ask again, my lady?" asked the chestnut-haired noblewoman. She brushed a loose strand of her hair that fell across the sun-tanned skin of her face. Pursing her lips before spreading them in a smile, the young Baratheon said, "Shireen… my lady ." The two girls collapsed momentarily into a fit of giggles. The privacy of the tent they were in shielded them from prying eyes and ears.

Shireen had only briefly conversed with Alysanne and her mother, Ashara Dayne, since the two had joined the Targaryen khalasar back in Qarth. Having a very sharp memory, she quickly learned their names. Alysanne, on the other hand, had trouble remembering hers. She wasn't bothered by this, unlike some other lords she knew back home. The marcher lords in the Stormlands were excessively proud of their houses to the point that to misidentify one was met with, well, fury. As she wasn't afflicted by such misplaced pretensions, she understood that learning new names wasn't high on Alysanne's priorities. Apparently, she had fled for her life from her abusive husband that just so happened to be Daenerys' long-lost twin brother.

Aerys Targaryen. She mused on that revelation when Ashara conferred with her after Alysanne froze up and started crying when asked about him. From how Ashara described him, Shireen got the impression that he was everything that the Mad King was. Although she was all the more curious to find out about this hidden Targaryen prince, Ashara had asked her not to press the matter. It was painful for both her and her daughter to think about, especially with what he'd do to them if they crossed paths again. So, she'd avoided 'the Mad Prince' and spoke to Alysanne about their childhoods.

"Alright," she chuckled, coming down from her high. "Now that I've told you my name for the umpteenth time, will you please remember it?"

Alysanne smiled back. "Yes, I'm certain that I now know your name forwards and backwards."

Shireen reached behind her and fluffed up one of the pillows she was reclining against. Leaning back, she said, "Alys, I'd like to know… if you never encounter your husband again, where will you and your mother go?"

Alysanne sighed heavily and twiddled her thumbs. "Well, I've always been fond of Norvos. The city's three bells were music to my ears. The Sinner's Steps were lively during festivals." She wrung her hands. "At this time, I just don't know. I've never been to Dorne and everyone there believes my mother is dead. Starfall may not be for me."

"Well, how about King's Landing? By blood, you are a royal of House Targaryen," Shireen stated matter-of-factly.

"But I'm a bastard…"

"Our king and queen can legitimize you then. Besides, Aegon lived all his life as a bastard in Winterfell to keep him safe from my family. Clearly, his 'bastardy' didn't preclude a noble upbringing."

Alysanne extended her hand out to hers and gave it a squeeze. "Thank you for your kindness, Shireen. I haven't had that from my husband in a long time."

Brow furrowing, Shireen cut at a sensitive spot. "Considering that your mother said that he plans to steal Daenerys from Aegon, I'm willing to bet he won't survive the attempt." Alysanne had a hint of what she meant - the king's eyes tended to glow a fiery orange when his temper was raised. "Will you remarry if he dies?"

Blinking rapidly, the Dornish Dragon opened her mouth to respond, only for the tent flap to be suddenly pulled back. Sunlight, harsh and bright, flooded the tent's interior. Hissing in shock at the sudden loss of shade, both girls looked up to see Melisandere, the Red Priestess, standing there with her arms beckoning them.

"Come quickly!" the Red Woman implored. "The Princess Who was Promised is in labor!" Not waiting for them to follow, she turned and hurried away, red robes billowing in her wake.

Eager to see the birth of little Rhaegon, Shireen and Alysannne scrambled after Melisandre toward the king and queen's tent. As they hurried toward the tent, kicking up dust in their wake, they heard a scream from within, followed by a cry of "Your Grace!" and a ringing of steel. The voice of Jaime Lannister inside the tent was soon joined by the forms of Robb and Aegon as they sprinted from out of nowhere after him.

Melisandre put out her arm to stop them from approaching the tent too closely, but they could hear the sounds of combat all the same. Inside there were screams and grunts, punctuated by the rhythmic singing of steel on steel. Bursting out from the tent was a ratty-haired man in black leathers running as fast as his legs could carry him. There was a huge gash under the left side of his ribs that was bleeding profusely. Shireen could tell neither head nor hair of the strange man who apparently was a cutthroat of sorts.

Suddenly, Aegon's thundering voice boomed out of the tent. "Robb! I need you to protect her and our child!" He tore through the tent flaps to glare in primal fury at the retreating assassin fleeing for the hills.

"Where are you going, Jon?" Robb called after him. "They need you!"

Shireen looked at where Robb was shouting and gasped when she saw red eyes. Aegon appeared to be possessed as he unsheathed his twin blades. "I am going to go kill the people who did this to her! I am going to kill every single one of those fuckers who are trying to harm my family!" With Ser Jaime following, he whistled a command. "Sarogon, come!" The massive grey dragon landed by his rider in the blink of an eye. "Ser Jaime, flush him out!" Mounting his dragon, he took off after his wife's would-be killer. "Sovegon!"

As Jon flew after the assassin with Jaime hot on his heels, Ashara Dayne was walking toward where Shireen's small group was standing. Eyes widening in shock at the sudden commotion surrounding the queen's tent, she hurried to her daughter. "What happened!?" she demanded. "Who was that man running from the king?!"

Alysanne gulped. "An assassin, Mother. I…"

"Will you all stop standing around and lend a hand, please!" Robb yelled from the tent. "The Queen has gone into labor!"

Shireen, not wasting a second, rushed into the tent to see Daenerys lying in a bed filled with blood - her face was pale and her brow drenched with sweat. From how heavily the queen was bleeding, Shireen deduced she'd die from blood loss if delayed assistance, now. She had read enough medical tomes from the library on Dragonstone to know.

"Robb!" she said sharply. The king's cousin snapped to attention, yet unused to taking orders from a young girl. "Yes, my lady?" She gestured to the queen's bleeding. "Gather up all the cloth in this tent and press them to the queen's inner thighs to stem the blood. I'll get more if needed." The heir to Winterfell immediately went to work, ripping off the sheets and blankets from the spare bed in the tent.

She emerged from the tent, shouting for more towels and blankets to be brought over. Melisandre went to collect from her tent, while she went for hers. Ashara and Alysanne went into the tent to help the queen with the actual birthing of Rhaegon.

Upon her return to the tent with a bundle of towels in arms, Shireen stepped inside to see the queen lying on the bed, pale and weak, but very much alive. Besides her was the king, who was gazing in awe and love at the small bundle of brown cloth in his wife's arms. Ashara and Alysanne stood on the other side, beaming widely as proud great-aunt and aunt, respectively. The little bundle shifted and squirmed in its mother's arms to reveal the wrinkled, chubby face of a boy. A dragonwolf babe. Her heart gave out for such an adorable little creation.

Robb and Melisandre stood at the foot of the bed. The former was tearing up while the latter was deep in prayer. She understood fully. Innocence like what lied in the queen's embrace was rare in the world, and it was clear that both monarchs had gone through more pain than any of those present. Pain, suffering, grief. On their faces were worn both adoration and a sense of disbelief at their good fortune.

Stepping forward, Shireen could hear the gentle cooing of Daenerys. "Oh my precious babe." Tears clouded her eyes, leaning forward to press sweet kisses upon the flushed cheeks. "Muna loves you so… look at him, Jon. Our babe."

"He's just precious," the King said, crying himself. Of all the pain and anguish of the past, the apprehension and chaos of the present, with this babe… the hope of the future could be felt by all.

Tyrion Lannister

"That was delicious, if I do say so myself," Tyrion groaned as he polished off his fried eggs and bacon, burnt black, just as he liked it. He looked up from his plate at his niece, who was picking at her food. "Myrcella, you've barely had a bite since starting to break your fast. Is something bothering you?" He gently placed a comforting hand on her knee to reassure her of her safety within Winterfell's walls.

The middle child of his exiled brother's bastards shrugged her shoulders. She picked up a piece of buttered bread, which had staled, and took a bite. Tyrion sighed. When Myrcella was sad or upset, she often withdrew into herself and refused to talk to anyone. She had been like this ever since he returned to Winterfell and it was starting to worry him given how long she'd isolated herself in his room.

"Myrcella," he tried again. "If there is anything you need or any assistance that you require, the household staff of Winterfell is at your beck and call." She raised her head to make eye contact with him. "Please… if not for yourself, for me. It's painful to watch you clam up inside your shell." A tear welled up in the corner of his niece's eye. Oh, gods. I hope I didn't make it worse.

Weeks of silent grief over Tommen's death caught up with her and she burst out in full-force sobs. Putting down his plate on the table, Tyrion embraced his niece and gently rubbed her back. She buried her face in his chest and hiccuped. Silent fury wracked his insides at Robert. If he ever got his hands on the Fat King, he'd cut out that fat and leave the muscle bare to the winds.

Myrcella's breathing steadied and she slowly pulled back to sit back down in her chair. Still hiccupping slightly, she rubbed the tears out of her eyes. "I… I'm s-sorry if I've worried you recently, Uncle Tyrion." She inhaled shakily. "I just miss Tommen. He never got a proper burial. His body was burnt where he last lied."

"I know," Tyrion said sympathetically. His mind recalled Tysha, that crofter's daughter he'd met outside of Lannisport. He fell in love with her and they'd married. But his father… quickly divorced them. Losing a loved one was nothing new to him.

A loud meow disturbed both of them as an orange tabby cat ran over from under the bed and jumped onto Myrcella's lap. Her dour, tear-swollen face vanished to be replaced by one of rapture and laughter. "Oh, Tommen," she giggled. "What did I tell you? No eating off of my dish." Tyrion guffawed. It was at once ridiculous and heartwarming. His niece had taken to calling her brother's kitty after him as a way of remembrance.

Pushing the orange tabby off of her lap to an indignant mewl, she yawned and stretched her arms. "I think I'll take a walk on the battlements today. Feel cooped up in here." She got down from her chair and went over to the wardrobe in search of a winter cloak.

Tyrion hopped down from his chair. He was to meet with Ned in the solar today to plan their next moves in the coming wars against his father. Not that he was looking forward to it particularly, but it would be so satisfying to knock the Old Lion down a few pegs. "Myrcella," he called as he walked over to the door. His niece looked back at him. "I'm going to meet with the King. You remember what your name is outside this room?" He looked back at her expectantly.

"Marcy," she said without hesitation. Tyrion smiled before turning to exit the room.

As he walked briskly down the halls to the King's solar, his mind whirled with thoughts. However, the one that stood above all the others was how his father would play the game. Tywin Lannister obeyed no rules, save for his own. He paid lip service to honor and chivalry, but had no qualms about stooping below his stature to put one over his rivals. Tyrion knew very well how to fight dirty - it was the only way a dwarf could hope to survive in a world that spat on those like him. At first, he was concerned that the rigidly honorable Eddard Stark couldn't hold a candle to his father, but after discovering the truth about Jon Snow…the King in the North was a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Stopping outside the door to the solar, he heard hushed voices conversing inside. Sounds like Ser Rodrik. His guess was confirmed when Winterfell's master-at-arms opened the door and exited the room. "Ah, Lord Tyrion," Ser Rodrik smiled and bowed his head. "Good morning. I presume you are to meet with our king?"

"Indeed I am, Ser Rodrik," Tyrion smiled. "If I may ask, what is it that you were conferring with his Grace about?"

"Oh, accommodations for Jon Snow's return," the master-at-arms replied. "His mounts are especially large," he added with a wink.

Tyrion blinked and furrowed his brow. "Mounts?"

Ser Rodrik only gave a smirk before heading off down the hall. Tyrion shook his head in bewilderment and opened the door to the solar. Stepping inside, he carefully closed the door behind him, making sure the lock was in place.

Ned Stark looked up from the letter he was currently engrossed in. "Lord Hand, please have a seat." He gestured to the empty chair across the table from him. Tyrion pulled the chair's seat out from under the table and clambered onto it. There was a pitcher of sweet summer wine with two cups, and he wasted no time in pouring himself a full one.

"So, your Grace," Tyrion started after inhaling a bellyful of intoxicating drink. "Shall we begin? We've got a lot on our hands with Robert coming after us with my father right behind him."

The hour passed with the two going over potential invasion routes that Robert could take. A naval assault was considered as it would bypass Moat Cailin but was determined unlikely. The Royal Fleet didn't have enough ships to carry a sufficiently large army and even if it did, everyone knew how Theon the Hungry Wolf repelled wave after wave of Andal longships that landed on the North's shores. It wasn't a stretch to believe that Winter's sons could do that again. The only other option was through the Neck straight at Moat Cailin, an ancient fortress that kept the North insulated from the Andal invasions centuries ago. Formidable as it was, it could potentially be overrun if the enemy could overwhelm the defenders through sheer numbers.

"It's settled then, your Grace," Tyrion said after downing his fourth cup of wine. "Houses Karstark, Manderly, and Bolton will together send five thousand men to fortify and man Moat Cailin for the foreseeable future." His speech was slurred slightly, to Ned's slight annoyance. "As for White Harbor, I'll send a raven to Lord Manderly, requesting that he acquire more ships for his fleet. In case Robert does decide to send the Royal Fleet."

"Good," Ned agreed. "Now on to other matters. The Martells and Tyrells will be arriving in the next moon turn for the betrothals. I've spoken with Sansa and she knows that it's her choice alone on whether to take Trystane to wed. Robb has already agreed to the marriage on account of how it will aid Jon."

"He's going to marry the beautiful Margaery Tyrell… I doubt he's going to be upset." The Imp swirled his goblet. "I presume that Robb is with his brother in Essos, your Grace," Tyrion said. "After all, you told me that he accompanied Jon on his expedition beyond the Wall." He snickered at that last part.

Ned pursed his lips. "Yes, he is. However, Lord Hand, please watch your tone of voice. I believe the wine is getting to your head." He stared meaningfully at his Hand, who was going to pour himself yet another cup.

Blinking, Tyrion was shaken out of his torpor by his king's stern words. "My apologies, your Grace. Yes, I will watch what I drink." Reluctantly, he put the wine pitcher back down and slid his empty cup away from him.

He watched Ned pick up the letter he'd been reading earlier when Ser Rodrik had left the solar. It was plain to see that his Grace was troubled by the news. Ned pinched his nose and passed the parchment to him. "Lord Hand, what would you suggest is the best response to a correspondence like this?"

Tyrion smoothed out the parchment on the table and read.

Queen in the North,

Cat! I demand that you send Sweet Robyn back home to me where he belongs at once. Whatever shenanigans that your husband is dabbling in with the Targaryens, my family will have no part of. I expect my son to be back in the Eyrie within a fortnight, or I will call my banners.

Lysa Arryn, Lady of the Eyrie

Tyrion chuckled. The letter reminded him so much of his dear sister whenever Joffrey threw one of his temper tantrums. Only she never disciplined him - instead, getting mad at whatever upset her pathetic excuse of a prince. Lysa Arryn sounded very much like the Cersei of the Vale.

But on a more serious note, it was bad news if the Knights of the Vale joined with Robert on his invasion. The Vale fielded the best cavalry in the Seven Kingdoms. Couple that with the strong martial tradition of the Stormlands and the prime quality arms of the Westerlands… even the raw ferocity of the Northmen would be hard-pressed.

"Well, your Grace. First instinct would be to comply with this… request of your goodsister." More like a not-so-thinly-veiled threat. "However, I am familiar with Littlefinger's reputation as an opportunist and Lysa's bizarre affection for him. Even if you sent Robyn home, I'm certain that Littlefinger would convince her to call her banners anyways to curry favor with Robert. At least, keeping Robyn here will dissuade her from acting too aggressively, for fear of harming her son."

"A hostage then?" Ned sighed. "I already did the same with Theon. Now for my own family against my family?" He closed his eyes and sat straight. "From what Cat told me of her sister, I'm concerned that holding Robyn might be more of an incentive for her to strike hard to reclaim him more quickly."

"Well, your Grace, life has taught me that everything comes with a trade-off. I, for example, gained my father's brains at the cost of his legs," Tyrion japed, trying to lighten the mood.

Ned laughed at his humorous self-degradation. "I admit, you are right about that." He took a sip of his own wine. "Very well. Robyn will remain here for his fostering. As for his mother… " he trailed off. After a long pause, he spoke. "It matters not whether I respond to her letter or not. The Knights of the Vale will ride against us either way… unless Lord Royce has earned more loyalty than some Riverlands interloper."

"Are you going to divulge this to Lord Royce, your Grace?" Tyrion asked. "Robyn's safety is his duty while the young lord is in your care."

"In due time, Lord Tyrion," said Ned firmly.

Pursing his lips, Tyrion tapped his fingers against the table. "Nevertheless, I think you should speak to him at least somehow. Letters from someone as respected as him to the Vale lords… that could convince at least some to remain neutral, if not join us."

Visibly thinking, Ned then nodded. "Perhaps I can gauge something that doesn't disclose much to him in the future for such actions - since I doubt Tywin would move before all the pieces are set, we have time. For now, our plans shall remain under wraps."

Tyrion nodded and grinned in appreciation of the King in the North's hidden cunning. Whoever said that wolves were honorable to a fault?

Tywin Lannister

Candles flickering as the doors to the small council chamber were thrown open, Tywin Lannister quickly made his way to his seat. Normally surrounded by Amory Lorch and his other household guards, this time an equal number of stag sigils joined him - it was… uncomfortable. Especially given the reason. "Are you sure we shouldn't include my brother in this, Lord Hand?"

Tywin eyed Lord Renly with a disguised contempt. "He's been in a bender of training for the last week. Let his Grace sleep." Fucking Cersei. Pycelle was his stooge on the small council, and now the stupid bitch he sired had to get him locked in the dungeons awaiting execution. Now I have to get an entirely new Grand Maester… a selection process supposedly impartial, but in reality completely controlled by the same people he was meeting tonight. All displeased Tywin greatly.

As for Renly, it was obvious that he didn't believe Tywin's explanation. "Well, I'm sure he'll appreciate our efforts to make him comfortable." As they both took seats - leaving one between them as a mutually agreed to buffer - the Lord of Storm's End offered a tight smile.

"What's good for the realm and all that, yes." The youngest Baratheon was as loyal as blood could make him - unlike House Lannister or House Stark, that blood loyalty didn't really exist. Renly was ambitious, with a sort of animal cunning that could sniff out opportunity for advancement anywhere. Normally easygoing, the stress of the out of nowhere conspiracy to restore the Targaryens, his brother Stannis' death as confirmed by both Varys' little birds and Littlefinger's sources, and what Tywin could only gather as Loras Tyrell spurning his advances had made Renly bitter and even less loyal. Something Tywin could work towards his advantage.

Besides, anything that could serve as a check on Baelish's growing power was an added bonus.

At just that moment - luckily before Tywin could be roped into more small talk with the sullen buggerer - the clink of mailed feet heralded the arrival of the delegation. "My Lords," Janos Slynt started with a bow, the bald fool's ego having grown triple in size since his appointment to the Small Council. "May I present His High Holiness, the High Septon, along with Ser Baelor and Lady Lynesse of House Hightower."

A slight raise of his brow at the latter name. Tywin had been expecting Lord Leyton's heir and firstborn son to arrive under the excuse of shepherding the High Septon - this 'High Sparrow' as many referred to him as - but not the lad's sister. Younger than Ser Baelor, she retained the sort of willowy, fair beauty common in the Reach. "Lord Tywin, Lord Renly." Baelor bowed while Lynesse curtseyed. "Our Lord thanks you for the personal reception you grant us."

"Lord Leyton's thanks is welcome," Tywin droned, putting on the obsequious court airs he despised. "And the honor is mine for welcoming His High Holiness to King's Landing." One could never bow too low… or have enough knives poised over the man whose power could end up rivaling one's own.

Renly couldn't help but assert his own importance. "I speak for his Grace, Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, when I rejoice in this new dawn of the Faith in the Seven Kingdoms." The emphasis was not lost on Tywin, who wholeheartedly agreed despite his amusement at Renly of all people showcasing his piety. As if Littlefinger couldn't bury you in a heartbeat with all the male whores he sneaks into your chambers.

The High Sparrow had abandoned the usual gaudy silk robes inlaid with gold for a simple habit of a country septon, feet bare and smelling as if he hadn't bathed in months. A true believer… good. So much easier to manipulate. "A moment so long overdue, my Lords. The Most Devout has lost its way due to the corruption and compromise it so willingly entered with the Targaryen Kings. With them deposed and the usurpers on their way to defeat, we can begin the march toward a world free of vice and sin so proclaimed by the Seven and begun by his Saintly Majesty, Baelor the Blessed."

Baelor the Blessed was a Targaryen, you fool. But Tywin kept his smile wide and teeth clenched. "Providence upon us, High Holiness. Now shall we begin?" Even Janos Slynt, idiot that he was, seemed to notice that the High Sparrow and the flock of Septons and Silent Sisters that accompanied him hadn't taken their seats as the Hightower retinue had.

More powerful than any High Septon in centuries, the High Sparrow refused to even try to be intimidating. Quite the opposite in fact. "Forgive me, Lord Tywin, but I will have to decline your gracious offer. My old bones ache after such a long ride, and I must pray and seek guidance in the Royal Family's sept if I am to have the grace and strength to assist His Grace in purging himself of vice and sin." The High Sparrow bowed, "Ser Baelor and Lady Lynesse are two of the most virtuous of birth. They may argue for the Faith in my stead." He then made his exit, stone-faced septa to his right beginning to chant incarnations while the Silent Sisters waved their incense decanters in rhythmic motions - filling the air with the sweet-smelling but pungent smoke.

Suppressing a cough, Tywin finally was able to make his seat. "Well… I believe we should proceed without them, Ser Baelor."

"Quite presumptuous if you ask me," Renly huffed, crossing his arms. "They didn't even bring any of their own soldiers to bolster our City Watch." From the disappointment in Janos Slynt's face, he seemed to have been looking forward to cloak his various acts in the protection of the Faith.

Ser Baelor shrugged. "They're focusing on 'purifying' the lands of the Faith. Paxter Redwyne was already forced to accept three hundred Poor Fellows into the Arbor, while ships have already been sent to Lannisport…"

"They better know that the Faith is still subservient to His Grace," Tywin warned. "If they attempt to undermine my family's ancestral seat, the 'High Sparrow' will have more than the Targaryens to worry about."

"Do not worry, Lord Tywin." Lynesse shocked the old lion by interjecting, her beauty masking over a sharp mind. "The Knight Captain of the Warrior's Sons leading the expedition to purify the Westerlands is one that was formerly in your service, and my brother ensured that his devotion to the Faith supplemented rather than supplanted said loyalty." Apparently, she wasn't just the vain, spoiled maiden that all of Westeros gossiped about years before. Interesting.

"In any case, the desires of the Crown in regards to the Faith are rather obvious. Instead, we are here to discuss your offer to our house," Ser Baelor responded. "Is it true, that you are offering to grant House Hightower the lordship paramount over the Reach?"

Once again, it was Renly that answered. "House Tyrell plots against the Crown." His voice was trembling with anger, and not a little betrayal. Apparently he actually loved that flowery shit. Fool. "They will pay for their treason!"

It was clear that the righteous anger of the wronged Lord of Storm's End wasn't going well with either Hightower. Tywin wasn't shocked as to why, considering the Lady of Highgarden was Alerie Hightower, their sister. "What the Master of Laws means to say is that Olenna Tyrell has manipulated her family into suiting her own age-addled paranoid agenda." The Queen of Thorns was a Redwyne, and had no recent connection to Oldtown. Lord Leyton wouldn't have any compunctions about tossing her to the lions. "The title of Warden of the South and Lord Paramount of the Reach deserves to be in the possession of a wiser family, one that both dutifully follows the one true Faith and understands the knightly paragon of loyalty."

Baelor grinned. "Your words appeal to me, Lord Tywin, and give me no doubts as to delivering to you my father's acceptance of your offer. You will have the Hightower forces and resources of Oldtown alongside the Stars and Swords." Tywin's still vibrant green eyes sparkled - it felt like the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion all over again. Outsmarting and out strategizing those that thought they could pull the lion's tail. "But I think that for us to truly trust both the Crown and House Lannister, we will need to seal our new alliance with a marriage."

That caused eyebrows to rise. Tywin's gaze settled on Lynesse, and it all finally made sense. "You wish to offer your sister in marriage to secure this alliance?"

"Yes. She is still young and capable of bearing children, not to mention witty and beautiful." The young knight proclaimed his sister's virtues as well as any father. As for Lynesse, her eyes bored on Tywin with a remarkable intensity.

But the Lion of Casterly Rock knew his gossip and history. "She was the wife of Ser Jorah Mormont if I recall correctly, currently the sworn sword of Daenerys Targaryen in Essos."

A fact lost on Renly, but the younger lord managed to gather Tywin's sincerity in disclosing the information. "How do we know she isn't still beholden to him?! We had enough traitors in our midst when my brother asked Eddard Stark to be Hand of the King!"

At the mention of Jorah, Lynesse's nose wrinkled. "I can assure you, Lord Renly, I have no use to associate with that trash anymore." The highborn beauty's voice was filled with disdain. Tywin didn't blame her - Jorah Mormont's dabbling in the slave trade had been the biggest scandal of its day, dropping a taint on her to which any woman without a name as august as Hightower would be unable to escape. "My loyalties - if I am so lucky as to marry the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms - would be unquestioned."

"I'm afraid we must decline. The King is married to my daughter," Tywin stated. Even if she was a fool and a bitch, he wasn't going to let her die - perhaps a year in a cell would straighten her out. "And I'm sure Lord Renly's… tastes don't run in that direction."

Renly stood, lips pursed in anger at the jape… but a nonplussed look from Tywin forced him down. With the Faith's influence asserting itself once more, he would have to tone down his proclivities. Picking a fight in front of the Hightowers was not smart.

Waiting for the tension to dissipate, Baelor shook his head. "It is not his Grace that we propose allying our house in matrimony. It is House Lannister."

"But Ser Jaime is dead?!" Renly responded, utterly confused.

Baelor ended any confusion. "Our offer is for you, Lord Tywin. Unmarried, in need of heirs, my sister can marry you tomorrow under the blessing of the High Septon himself, if you so desire."

Blinking, eyes locking with the Hightower beauty, for once, Tywin Lannister had been shocked speechless.

Notes:

CastleColin: A little Targling - isn't he cute?

Longclaw: And Crown Prince Rhaegon is here! A little one for Jon and Dany to love and shower with affection :D

Kingsguard is forming, but not at all done.

So... Tywin has secured the support of House Hightower... by marrying Jorah's ex-wife. Honestly, it was a lightbulb moment for me :D

Enjoy and please comment!