Game of thrones and all related characters are the property of George R.R. Martin, Bantom House Publishing, and HBO. The Lost Regiment and all of its characters are likewise the property of William R. Forstchen and ROC publishing. No money is being made for their use in this work of fanfiction, so suing me would only be a waste of the legal system's time and the taxpayers' dollars. Go sue whoever keeps making those Will Ferrell movies instead.
Fredericks
The courtyard rang to the song of swords.
Under black wool, boiled leather, and mail sweat trickled icily down Jack Fredericks chest as he pressed the attack. When he'd first joined the army, he'd never imagined he's ever sweat worse than in the heavy blue wool of the Army's uniform in the muggy Virginia autumn. But now he realized he'd been wrong. At least in Virginia he hadn't had to worry about sweat turning into frostbite.
His opponent, a big hulking man whose name Fredericks learned was Grenn, raised his own blunted sword and charged clumsily. Jack ducked underneath Grenn's arm and smacked larger man's side with the flat of his practice sword that sent him staggering. When Grenn tried to respond with a sideswing, Fredericks slammed a mailed forearm into his chest. Grenn lost his footing and sat down hard in the snow. With a final swing, the Yankee brought the sword down on Grenn's wrist that made him drop his blade.
"Enough!" Ser Allister Thorne had a disposition that made those of most sergeants in the Army of the Potomac seem absolutely sunny.
Jack leaned over, picked up Grenn's training weapon and handed it back to him as he helped the big man back to his feet. "You did good there," he said as best he could in the local language. He meant it to; while Fredericks had held the upper hand for most of the session Grenn had really made him work at it.
Thorne had overheard him. "Yes, you did," the old knight said in his sour voice. "So good that a boy who only a few weeks before never held a sword was able to hamstring you, open your empty skull, and cut off your hand-or he would have if these blades had an edge. And if a Wildling disarms you, he won't be so courteous as to give you back your weapon. It's fortunate for you that the Watch needs stableboys as well as rangers." Ser Alliser looked at a man called Jeren and another whose name Fredericks heard translated as Toad. "Take back the Aurochs, he has funeral arrangements to make."
Jack took off his helmet as Grenn was led back to his own companions. The frosty morning air actually felt good on his face.
"That is a longsword, not a cane," Ser Allister said sharply. "Are your legs hurting, Blue Legs?"
"No, sir," replied Fredericks. Thorne strode toward him, his crisp black leathers rustling faintly as he moved. He was a compact man of nearly fifty, lean and hard, with grey in his black hair, eyes like chips of flint and a hooked nose that made Jack Fredericks think of a snapping turtle.
His eyes gazed coldly into Jack's own. "The truth now."
"I'm tired," Jack admitted. His arm burned from the weight of the training weapon, and he was starting to feel his bruises now that the fight was done.
"What you are is weak. And I was told you Blue Legs had been fighting a war before you came here. Your enemies must have been as soft as you."
Fredericks bristled. He'd marched through the Wilderness when artillery fire had set much of the trees ablaze and had seen action at both Cold Harbor and Petersburg. He'd like to see what this man would think of the Rebs after facing them in battle.
Then he realized the Master of Arms had a point. Fighting with swords and other medieval weapons was very different than with muskets and cannons. He'd seen Benjen Stark and the exiled knights who'd arrived with them spar, and any of them could wipe the floor with most of the new arrivals.
He walked back to his own comrades. Like himself they wore dressed in mail shirts, black fur jackets, and padded black shirts. All that remained of their old uniforms were their belts and sky-blue trousers, giving them the nickname 'blue-legs.'
"You did good there," Kindred said. Jack smiled, for some reason he now appreciated praise from the former officer, more than he would have when they were back with the 35th. Perhaps it was because Alliser Thorne gave practically none.
Colin Floyd nodded in agreement. "That Grenn fellow, he's a bruiser if I ever saw one." Floyd himself was a big man with broad shoulders and muscles hardened by years as a lumberjack before the War. Early on he decided the broad bladed axe made a better weapon for him than a sword. "I'm amazed you were able to take him like that."
"He's a gutter rat, like all the rest of these," said Louis Ferron; he'd been picking up the local tongue almost as fast as Kindred had and spoke with the locals a lot more; among themselves the exiled Yankees still spoke in English. "Grenn was starving on some dirt farm. Pypar," he said motioning to another, "was caught stealing a wheel of cheese. That man Daeron, he was caught with some lord's daughter, and she accused him of raping her. And Rast," Fredericks looked at a heavyset man with a dark stubble beard, "was actually caught raping a woman. He even brags about it."
They're not so different from us then, Jack thought. The only one among the exiled Yankees who wasn't a criminal in some way was Kindred. Charlie Baxter and Dale Hinson like Fredricks himself had been from good homes but made bad choices. Floyd had killed his foreman in the lumber camp and chose the army over hanging. Ferron, from what little he told, had been a con man that had jumped bounties from three other regiments before joining the 35th, while James Feeney had fled the constables in Ireland only to be snatched up by the army conscripters in New York.
"You there!" Ser Alliser's voice called out-not to Fredericks but Kindred. "If you're done jabbering nonsense in your birth speech, why not show that you finally managed to learn how to use that strange sword you brought."
Kindred walked over and drew the Army issue sword he still carried. His opponent was Rast, armed with one of the dull longswords most of the trainees used.
As their steel rang, Fredericks could see that Kindred's swordsmanship had improved since their arrival. Rast was an inch shorter and heavier, yet the former captain proved quick enough to dodge or block most of his attacks.
Life at the Wall, aside from the cold that almost never ceased was not that different from the army training camp-each day the men would wake up a little before dawn and be assigned various tasks-sweeping floors, cleaning Castle Black's stables, helping to prepare meals-which oddly were much better than Army rations. Around noon, when the other tasks were done, they had to report to the courtyard for weapons training. When that was done, they'd be dismissed for supper. At night, each of the trainees would a take a turn guarding the length of the wall, to look out for any sign of the savage folk called 'wildlings.' When his own turn was over, Fredericks would return to his private cell, where he would read the Bible Father Casmir had given him and pray.
Without false modesty, Fredericks knew that he was shaping up to be the best swordsman among the exiled Yankees; he'd been in many knife fights and brawled with clubs and fighting with a sword seemed a combination of the two. He and the others could easily handle spears and other pole-arms, having trained to fight with bayonetted rifles. All seven of them were decent with crossbows too. With a longbow though they were hopeless.
Colonel Keane's last words to them spoke through Fredricks mind as he watched the sparring. You six have been given a chance to make something of your worthless lives. Don't waste it. Jack thought of the prayer he'd said while in the dungeon at Winterfell, and the promises he'd made. Most of his life whenever he'd made promises either to his parents, his teachers, his friends, to people he'd borrowed money from, or even to girls he'd bedded he'd easily broken them. Now, he silently prayed to God, he intended to keep this list and any others he'd make in the future.
Jon
The courtyard rang to the sound of swords.
"Not bad," Lt. Harris said, with that smirk which gave the lie to his words as he blocked Jon's slash, then side-stepped and smacked Jon's padded jacket with the flat of his own blade. "At the Point, you would have been the best fencer among the plebes."
Jon did not know what a plebe but was sure it was an insult. Almost everything Jonah Harris ever said to him was an insult in some way; the young lieutenant seemed to regard all the enlisted men with a disdain that reminded Jon of Theon Greyjoy.
Seated around them were most of the other officers of the 35th Maine and 44th New York, dressed like Jon and Harris in padded shirts and trousers used for sword-training. After finishing cleaning the stables that morning and afternoon dry-fire drill, Jon had met with them and as agreed, began teaching them the basics of swordsmanship.
The officers had proven as inept as Keane had said they likely would. Most had kept their swords dull, so as to avoid accidents when using them to direct men in battle. Keeping this in mind, Jon had gone easy and still managed to thump them all.
Lt. Harris, however, was proving the exception. He had managed to predict and block or dodge nearly every attack Jon had made and had scored hits on him several times. Jon's padded clothes were soaked with sweat; he had been at this for several hours and was unused to the southern sun. Most of the Yankees likewise were sweating. Jon had learned they were from a region called Maine with a climate much like the North's.
Harris, however, didn't sweat at all. Maybe he knew some magic that prevented sweat. Or maybe he was just too arrogant to permit any such human failing. However he managed it, his clothes remained dry.
Finally Jon spotted what looked like opening. He pressed his attack-and then unexpectedly Harris twisted with his left foot, kicked out with his right between Jon's legs to the latter's shin, and ducked. His elbow landed on Jon's back, sending him face first into the ground.
Jon felt the dull point of his opponent's blade on the back of his throat. "This was, indeed, most instructive, Lord Snow," the lieutenant said in that smug, condescending tone of his. "I do so look forward to our next practice session." As Jon got up, he saw Lt. Harris walk over to a nearby courtyard wall, pick up a steel scabbard leaning against it. Harris sheathed the weapon and walked away.
Most of the other Yankee officers followed him. Some turned back to look at Jon with either shock, sympathy, or a few cases scorn. The last was the rarest. Jon had beaten all of them, and fairly easily and most of them knew it.
"Son of a bitch will be even more insufferable now." Jon looked and saw Sergeant-Major Schuder right behind him. The man seemed to have a knack for showing up unexpected.
"How-how long have you been here?" Jon asked.
"Long enough to see you best Houston, Fletcher, and Dowling before you took on Harris." Schuder spat sourleaf juice onto the ground.
He then offered Jon a plug. Jon refused; he always thought chewing sourleaf was a disgusting habit and he saw what it did to people's teeth over time. "Don't blame you," the sergeant-major chuckled as he chewed on his own. "Tastes like camel shit cured with mule piss." Jon decided not to ask how Schuder knew what camel shit cured with mule piss tasted like. The sergeant-major might tell him.
"I knew about Harris right when he joined up-an old comrade of mine's a drill instructor at West Point and wrote to me before he was sent to us," the Yankee veteran continued. "They still teach their pupils how to fight with swords there, even if it's not much use in actual battle. And Harris there was the champion of his class. Probably what makes him so full of himself. When Kindred decided to leave us with those six, Harris thought he should have been given command of his company instead of Dowling."
"Maybe he should have," said Jon; the recently made Captain Jason Dowling had been inept with his sword even by the shoddy standards most of the officers.
Schuder grunted. "Being good with a sword or any other weapon don't make a man a good leader. Tell, me, do the men in your company respect Harris at all?"
Jon rubbed his temples. Almost as soon as he gained enough understanding of English and mustered into Company A, Lt. Harris had been mockingly calling Jon 'Lord Snow.' He was also constantly quipping on the other privates' faults and acting as though he had none of his own. He was like that to the noncoms as well and seemed to view even the other officers with contempt-although he was far less vocal about it. "No."
"Exactly. Houston and Dowling both started as privates and rose up through the ranks-by earning it. Harris is still raw material; he hasn't even been in an actual battle yet but thinks his having been to West Point entitles him. I've seen plenty like him in both armies I served. Some actually do turn into decent leaders once they've been seasoned even if they're a little full of themselves. Others quickly get themselves killed. And then there are those who manage to get commands they don't really deserve and get themselves and large numbers of good men killed." He spat again. "Smart raw officers know they should listen to veterans, even privates. Harris doesn't; he thinks he already knows more than they do."
Jon wanted to know more; before he could speak however Brian Sadler came into the yard. "It's here, it's here!"
"What's here, private?" Schuder's voice switched to that tone Jon learned meant I'll hear you out, but it better be important.
"The Ogunquidt, Sarge. It's sailing up the bay!"
Andrew
The men of the 35th Maine and 44th New York all lined the parapets of Fort Lincoln, along with the smiths and handful of servants Robert had sent out to assist the Yankees in making the castle more livable. No doubt across Blackwater Bay the outer walls and harbors of King's Landing were filled with people wanting to see what was causing all the noise and were now staring in awe.
Coming from the east, the Ogunquidt was now in view. The ship moved briskly, leaving all the fishing and merchant ships of the locals far behind. Andrew saw of Kallen, the butcher whose son his men and Jon Snow had rescued, and his wife Milluda make what seemed signs of some sort. Their children Mycah and older girl named Tanya who was just on the verge of womanhood simply looked with wide eyes at the sight of a ship moving with no oars and masts that were bare.
Bare of sails, that was. The vessel was decked out with all its signal flags so that it appeared ready for a festival. Tobias Cromwell was on the deck, he and the men of his command turned out in their best dress blues. In the cabin, one of the sailors had been pulling on the steam whistle, and no doubt the shriek was adding to the mystique of it all.
Finally one of the smiths-a large brawny young man with dark black hair and bright blue eyes, stammered out, "How-how do you do this?" to Chuck Ferguson, who had recently been promoted from private to ordinance sergeant. They had all seen the Yankees practice with their rifles and cannons and seemed able to accept they were simply weapons. But this was something else entirely.
"Ah, it's not magic, my friend," replied the former engineering student. In contrast to the smith he was just over five feet tall with a slender build and blondish hair; steel rimmed spectacles sat atop his nose. "Just a machine like the other machines I told you about."
"You Yankees and your machines," the lad said, his voice still in awe.
A jet of steam escaped from the ship and a second later the sound of the high-pitched whistle echoed over Blackwater Bay again. Andrew couldn't help but wonder just what the people in King's Landing were thinking.
"Tobias will be insufferable now," Emil muttered. Andrew agreed; having his arm amputated had been more pleasant than dealing with Cromwell. At least he'd been doped up under morphine for that.
Turning a corner, the Ogunquidt came to a halt at the makeshift wharf the men had set up before Fort Lincoln. Ropes snaked out and were quickly secured to the pilings and with a rattling crash the anchor dropped free for added assurance. The crew below damped down the boilers and a heavy vent of steam lashed out, causing the locals to make more signs, whether for a blessing or to avert the evil eye Andrew didn't know. For good measure, the ship gave out repeated blasts of the whistle.
Andrew stepped down from the parapet and with several of his officers, Tyrion, and Maester Jaims walked out of the main gate toward the wharf. The gangplank rattled down, and Tobias followed by several of his own officers straddled down. The captain's eyes scanned the wharf; if Keane knew him well enough, he was sure Cromwell would find it wanting.
He nodded his head to the colonel, acknowledging an officer of equal rank. Keane returned the nod. "Cromwell," he said.
"Keane," the captain replied. He gazed at the castle, spotting the large copy of the Stars and Stripes that the colonel had paid a group of local seamstresses to make while he was in the city flying high above the main tower. "I trust you've been doing more than getting a new flag made?"
"Indeed we have," said Andrew. "After you and your men get settled in, we can discuss matters with you."
"So, there's going to be a tournament?" Cromwell asked as he took a long pull of his cigar. "Like with jousting?"
Keane nodded as he inhaled deeply from his own cigar, grateful that Pat O'Donald had given up for this meeting a box of Havanas that he'd had stashed away. Some of his men who'd worked on tobacco farms in Connecticut were working on drying the local variety, called sourleaf, for smoking in pipes. From what Hans described chewing it, it seemed this would be that last good tobacco he'd ever enjoy.
Seated at the table in Fort Lincoln's meeting hall were all the officers from the 35th, 44th, along with sergeants Ferguson and Dunlevy the only enlisted men at this meeting, and of course Tyrion and Maester Jaims. All of them save for Dr. Weiss, the maester, and handful of others were enjoying O'Donald's cigars. Even Tyrion was smoking one; he'd picked up the habit while on the King's Road. Each of them also had a horn tankard, filled with either ale, wine, or barley-tea for the handful of teetotalers; after one private drank from the local stream and came down with a bad flux Emil didn't trust the water.
"His Grace felt it would be the most appropriate way for us to give an exhibition before the Lords of Westeros, or their representatives," Andrew went on. "There'll be more than just the jousting. It's to be a huge festival, these contests of skill, jugglers and puppet shows and the like. And during these events we are to give demonstrations of our rifle-muskets and cannons, much like at Winterfell."
Keane leaned back, recalling his discussion with the Small Counsel. Eddard Stark hadn't looked very happy about the idea for some reason; Andrew couldn't be sure why. "And the Ogunquidt is to play a part as well."
Cromwell now glared at Keane. "You discussed using my ship without me?"
Tyrion took the cigar from his mouth and blew out a near perfect smoke ring. "His Grace will be coming at the end of the week, and the festivities will begin with him, the Royal Family and the various lords and representatives who've come will ride back into the city aboard this fantastic ship that can move without sail or oar." Cromwell's face softened then, pleased that his ship would be the center of attention.
"Lord Eddard Stark and his household will be coming the night before," Andrew added. "He wishes to check on the progress we've made, with the rifle and cannon works."
"Ah yes," said Tobias. "And how far have you gotten on that?" By the tone in his voice he didn't expect it to be much.
The newly promoted Major Mina, a slender man of middle height whose thin black mustache gave him something of the air of a riverboat gambler, spoke up. "Farther we'd thought we would, after we made the castle livable again. The metal workers who've come here are very good and with the help of Tyrion and Maester Jaims and some very good blueprints drawn by Ferguson-," and now Ferguson beamed with pride- "we were able to explain what we needed. The bronze-smiths are experts at using the lost-wax method of casting which we can use to make cannons-copies of O'Donald's Napoleons, which we hope to use as a start before making other kinds. And this method they use for casting steel-I've never seen anything like it. When properly done and heat treated, it's almost as strong as forged steel and much quicker to produce-it will be more than adequate for making parts for musket-locks and blanks for barrels." He gave a brief sigh. "It's such a shame that the process to make what they call 'Valyrian steel' was lost. I've seen blades made from this steel-it's so light and yet so strong I wish we could experiment with it."
"I'd still prefer properly forged steel meself," muttered Sergeant Dunlevy. He then added grudgingly, "For musket locks and barrels this cast steel'll do well enough."
"And not just that," piped in Ferguson. "Within a matter of months, we should be able to use that cast-steel method to make revolvers, and even copies of Hans Schuder's Sharps carbine, much faster than we could otherwise!"
"That will be for the future," said Mina, looking at Ferguson with mild reproach. "For now it is best to focus on production of muskets and cannons; those will be a lot simpler and faster to make."
If Ferguson noticed Mina's consternation, he didn't show it. "We even have a boring machine and a rifling guide for the musket barrels nearly finished. One of the smiths-he's really an apprentice-who goes by the name Gendry, he thought of us taking these broken-down siege engines called scorpions, which are kind of like giant crossbows, and use the mechanisms for their sliding-bolt-troughs as a basis for them. And we've just begun work on producing gunpowder and percussion caps; within a week we'll have a sustainable supple of ammunition."
"After a few months' time," Mina continued, "we plan to send some of these smiths, along with some of our own men to the castles of major lords throughout Westeros and show how to adapt their castle armories to the production of gunpowder weapons. They won't be able to produce them in as great numbers as factories back home but within a year the major lords should be able to arm their own household troops and provide for their vassals' militias."
"Are you sure that's wise?" Cromwell asked. By his tone he didn't think it was, and the way his eyes shifted to Tyrion and Maester Jaims said why.
"Parlez-vous francais?" Keane asked.
"Mais bien sur," Cromwell replied. Keane expected as much, as at most colleges and universtities French was required learning at the U.S. Naval Academy. "Porque cetti question?"
Keane gave his own side glance at the dwarf and maester. "Danc ils n'entendent pas ce qu'ils ne devraient pas' entendre." Seeing that Cromwell understood he went on, "Nous prevoyons de garder la formule pour la poudre a canon secrete aussi longtemps que possible." Neither gave any response; Andrew and the other officers had used French before to discuss matters they didn't want overheard.
Ferguson spoke up, also in French. "Les habitants n'ont aucune ultilite pour le salpetre; c'est le secret que nous preyvoyons de garder." The young man took a pull of ale from his tankard. "Nous avons trouve un appovisonnnement suufiant dans les tas de fumierdes fosses de latrines et des ecuries du chateu; filtrer les nitrates etait assez simple."
"Et que ferez-vous lorsque cet approvisionnement sera a court?"
Keane switched back to English. "Let's speak of more mundane matters." He then went on, "Some of the farmers in the regiment have mapped out a large acre of land for us to start growing at least some of our own food. I petitioned the Small Counsel and they agreed to provide us with seed and manure for fertilizer."
Seeing understanding dawn on Tobias, Andrew continued, "The metalworkers the king sent us want to have a look at the Ogunquidt's engine, of course, and apply that casting process for making spare parts. And my men seem to be keep coming up with projects that should both add to our coffers and secure our place in Westeros."
The rest of the evening went on with discussing things such as Captain Houston's plans for a sawmill, Private Gates's idea of making a printing press using the local alphabet and setting up a newspaper in King's landing, O'Donald's man James wanting to make a still to produce whisky, gin, and brandy for the marketplace-distilled spirits seemed unknown in this world. Captain Bob Fletcher even had a couple of farmers in his company who'd owned McCormick reapers, and planned to introduce them to Westeros.
Finally after realizing how late it was-the hour of the wolf, Keane had heard was the local term-he decided to call it a day. Waiting for everyone else to leave, Keane rose from his chair and strode towards the door when he heard, "It seems there's one last cigar in this box."
Keane turned around and saw that Tyrion still hadn't left his seat. "Oh sorry. I didn't notice."
"That's quite all right." The dwarf took the cigar from the box. "How about we share it?"
Keane nodded and walked back to the table, sitting just the opposite from Tyrion. Although it was a waste of a good lucifer, the colonel took out a match and struck it against the heel of his boot; and soon the tip of the cigar was glowing a bright cherry red.
Tyrion blew out a cloud of smoke, the contentment on his face obvious. "You Yankees certainly have come up with a much better use for sourleaf than that disgusting habit of chewing it-although I have seen some of you do that too." The dwarf passed the cigar over to Andrew. "And that language you use to discuss the making of your gunpowder-that is rather ingenious."
The cigar nearly dropped from Andrew's mouth. "How did you know it was about that?" He'd seen that Tyrion was very clever, more so than many of the Westerosi lords and probably smarter than himself and his own men. But even he couldn't have learned to understand French from the handful of times he'd heard it spoken.
"Languages, from what I know, frequently borrow words from each other. Is that also the case where you are from?" Keane nodded.
Tyrion smiled. "In one of your exchanges, you used the phrase poudre a canon. The first word sounded similar to your word for 'powder' while the other to 'cannon.' And besides, what bigger thing do you need to keep secret than how your powder is made?"
Andrew knew Tyrion was right. And he knew he and his men would only be able to keep the secrets of gunpowder making for so long. By then he'd hoped that they would be well established in Westeros and keep coming up with more things that would make them seem indispensable.
Andrew passed the cigar back to Tyrion. "The reason I am telling you this in during the time I have spent among you Yankees I have become rather fond of you-and so I feel the need to warn you of the likely dangers you and your men face."
"Such as?"
"Those smiths and the servants Robert sent over, do not doubt many of them will be learning English, even as you and yours learn the common tongue. And one thing I have noticed-you Yankees tend to be very free with your words. Remember what happened to Ser Ilyn Payne?"
"You don't mean king Robert would-?"
Tyrion laughed. "No, HE wouldn't. If someone suggested that his Hand was the true ruler, His Grace would only laugh, and likely agree. No, it is the Small Counsel you need to worry about, such as Littlefinger and Lord Varys-not to mention my sweet sister. All three of them have spies everywhere-who can say they don't have any among the men sent to you?" The little man inhaled deeply in the cigar. "And what you said about Joffrey-my sister certainly did not take kindly to that."
Andrew let out a short breath. For all his knowledge of history and the intrigue of politics, he was too used to speaking his mind. And he was not in the United States, but in a hereditary monarchy, where the monarchs and lords had few checks on their power. He'd learned about how one Targaryon king called Maegor who after the palace called the Red Keep was finished, invited all the builders for a huge feast-then had them killed, so they could not reveal the Keep's secrets. And of the first Aerys, an indifferent ruler whose Hand, a bastard uncle, had spies and informers in so many places that anyone, even in the remote corners of the kingdom who said the wrong thing ended up short by a head. If me and mine are going to survive here, I'm going to have to think more like Machiavelli.
"Baelish and Varys are too smart to do anything openly, and so far, you haven't really done anything to earn their enmity," Tyrion continued. "My sister though-."
Now Andrew recalled how Cersei had glared at him, after the incident by the river, and had kicked Cathleen out of the wheelhouse. The prince-back home Andrew would have taken him simply for a spoiled dilettante, like some students he'd had at Bowdoin college who only got admitted because their rich families made huge donations or pulled strings. He'd even once nearly lost his position because he refused to pass one such student.
Then it dawned on him-that if Robert were to die suddenly, Joffrey would become king. Likely Cersei would become regent to rule in his stead-and he and his men would be in a very vulnerable position.
Something else occurred to Keane. "How do I know that you don't have something nefarious for us planned, and that you're just telling me this, so I'll feel safe around you?"
Tyrion's mismatched eyes danced as the cigar moved from one corner of his mouth to the other. "You're learning, my friend."
Later that night, just before he went to bed, Keane wondered if Tyrion had read the clue he gave Cromwell about where they'd get additional saltpeter. Then he considered Maester Jaims, who'd shown every sign of being as clever as the dwarf. If either of them had gotten the meaning, he wouldn't have been surprised.
Eddard
Over the last several weeks Eddard Stark had been learning that when Robert said they were meant to 'rule together' what he meant was that his old friend wanted him to do all the work of while Robert himself spent his days hunting, drinking, eating, and whoring. It had been much the same when Jon Aryn had been hand, Ned had been able to glean from the rest of the Small Council.
Perhaps that had been just as well. While in his prime Robert Baratheon had been a peerless warrior, as an administrator he left a lot to be desired. When he did decide to use his office to affect policy, the result was disastrous folly.
Like with how His Grace planned to present the Yankees and their weapons to the rest of the realm. Ned agreed with the idea of summoning lords or their representatives to the capitol so the bluecoats could demonstrate the power of their rifle-muskets and cannons. After seeing that ship yesterday move its way up Blackwater Bay without sails or oars, he thought that should be wonder enough and to spare for the coming dignitaries. But no, Robert had to hold this grand tourney with jousting, melee, archery competitions and large purse-prizes for the champions, fools and other performers, and a grand feast and dance at the end. The crown was already six million gold dragons and debt, and from what the Master of Coin had told him that this, and the money used to set up the Yankees would increase the debt by half.
More than once he found himself wishing the Yankees had never come to Westeros. Surely Robert never do anything so extravagant if it was just himself being made Hand of the King.
Outside the Red Keep, the streets were teaming with new arrivals who had come to the city just to see the tourney. Already Ned knew there had been three tavern robberies, two rapes, and four murders, all of them committed by newcomers. Ned sighed; the sooner this business was over with the better.
He felt the same about what he was doing right now. Littlefinger had asked Ned to follow him, said it was a matter of importance. He had better be telling the truth, Ned thought, or I will finish what Brandon did to him.
Baelish led him across a rocky bluff to a long muddy trail along the edge of Blackwater Bay. The Master of Coin had two horses waiting; Ned mounted and trotted behind him.
Baelish drew reign on front of a ramshackle building, three stories timbered, it's windows bright with lamplight in the gathering dusk. The sounds of music and raucous laughter drifted out and floated over the water. Beside the door hung an ornate oil lamp with a globe of leaded red glass.
Ned glared in fury at Baelish as he dismounted. "You brought me all this way to a brothel."
"Your wife is inside."
It was the final insult. "Brandon was too kind to you," Ned said as he grabbed Littlefinger by the throat and slammed the little man against a wall.
"Milord, no," an urgent voice called out. "He speaks the truth."
Ned spun and for an instant, he seemed as if he was staring at the face of-he then blinked and shook his head. No, this was Eager Snow, a son of a Winter village whore Ned had recruited for Winterfell's guards years ago. He barely noticed the lad since, but the face looked so much like-.
The guards voice broke his line of thought. "Your lady awaits upstairs, milord."
Ned was lost. "Catelyn is truly here? This not some jape of Littlefinger's?"
"Would that it were, Stark," Littlefinger said. "Follow me and try to look a shade more lecherous and a shade less like a king's hand. It would not do to have you recognized. Perhaps you could fondle a breast or two, just in passing.
They went inside, through a crowded common room where a fat woman was singing bawdy songs while pretty young girls in linen shifts and wisps of colored silk pressed themselves against their lovers and dandled on their laps.
Eddard looked again at Eagar Snow and wondered if Littlefinger noticed what he had. If Baelish had he gave no sign. It's a wonder Cat never noticed, given how much he looks like his father.
The guard waited on the bottom floor while Littlefinger led Ned up to the third., along a corridor, and through a door. Inside, Catelyn was waiting.
She cried when she saw him, ran to him, and embraced him fiercely.
"My lady." Ned whispered in wonderment. He felt the stirring in his pants; he want to tear the clothes off of her and take her right on the floor. It had been less than two months, but Ned had ached to have her naked by his side, to caress her hair. Most who knew him, even his closest staff and advisers, thought Eddard Stark above such base desires but Ned himself knew better. In his youth in the Vale he had gone whoring with Robert-maybe not as frequently or with as much enthusiasm as his friend but had even so. His wedding night he'd done his duty, and when he'd returned from the rebellion she'd acted coldly over the matter of Jon and acted as if their bedding together were little more than a chore, but as the months passed into years and Sansa was born their beddings became more passionate and tender, and only increased as the years passed, and they had more children. Cat was a much a part of Ned as an arm or leg and he of her.
Instead he had to be satisfied with a long and tongue caressing kiss.
"Oh very good," said Littlefinger after their mouths parted. "You recognized her."
"I feared you would never come, my lord," she whispered against his chest. "Petyr has told me of your troubles with Arya and the young prince. How are my girls?"
"Sansa in mourning over Lady," he told her. "Arya a bit less so, and happy her friend is alive, even if he is in the company of the Yankees." He gave out a sigh before continuing, "Cat, what are you doing in King's Landing? What's happened? Is it Bran? Is he-?" 'Dead' was the word that came to his lips but he could not say it.
"It is Bran but not as you think," Catelyn said.
Ned was lost. "Then how? Why are you here, my love? What is this place?"
"Just as it appears," Littlefinger said, easing himself into a window seat. "A brothel. One of many that I own. Can you think of a less likely place to find a Catelyn Tully?" He smiled an annoying smile. "I am most anxious to keep the Lannisters from learning that Cat is here in King's Landing."
"Why?" Ned asked. He saw her hands then, the awkward way she held them, the raw red scars, the stiffness of last two fingers on her left joint. "You've been hurt. Those are deep cuts, a gash from a sword or dagger-how did this happen?"
Catelyn slid a dagger out from under her cloak and placed it in her hand. "This blade was sent to open Bran's throat and open his life's blood."
She put a finger to his lips. "Let me tell it all, my love. It will go faster that way.
So he listened, and she told it all, from the fire in the library tower to how she and Eagar Snow had come to Duskendale aboard the Yankee ship. They had gotten fresh horses and rode into King's Landing unannounced-the whole city was so busy bustling with excitement at the sight of the ship moving through Blackwater Bay without sails or oars and belching smoke no one noticed two strangers ride in through the gates.
Except for Littlefinger.
And Varys.
When she was done, Stark sat at the dazed behind the table, the dagger in his hand. The Yankee sailor Bullfinch had saved Bran's life, and likely those of Cat and Ser Rodrik's daughter he thought dully. Less than an hour ago he had been wishing they hadn't come. And even if they hadn't, that cutthroat still would have come for Bran, Arya would still have had her fight with Joffrey leading to Ned having to kill Lady, and the butcher's son Mycah probably would have hurt by the Hound or worse. The thoughts of what might have happened were making his head hurt worse than the strongest hangover.
Painfully, Ned forced his thoughts back to the present. "You say you lost this dagger to Tyrion Lannister in a wager?"
Petyr nodded. "At the tourney celebrating Prince Joffrey's last nameday. Ser Jaimie Lannister rode against Ser Loras of House Tyrell. I bet on the Kingslayer-and lost."
Ned's hand curled around the dragonbone hilt of the dagger, and he slammed the blade into the table, felt it bite into the wood. It stood, mocking him. "Why would the Imp want Bran dead? The boy never did him harm."
"Do you Starks have naught but snow between your ears?" Littlefinger asked. "Tyrion would not have acted alone."
Ned rose and paced the floor. "I can't just go to Castle Blackfyre and demand the Yankees hand him over-the Imp has proven quite helpful to them, and Keane will want answers." Mentioning the Yankees made Eddard Stark recall something else.
He looked at Littlefinger. "Leave us, please. I wish to be alone with my wife."
Baelish bowed his head as he backed away. "As you wish, Lord Hand. Don't be too long. It is past time that you and I returned to the Red Keep, before our absence is noted."
After he exited, Catelyn looked exasperatedly at Ned. "Why can't you take the Imp? Keane has sworn himself and his men to His Grace, and you are Robert's hand. Surely-."
Ned's voice was barely above a whisper. "Because I believe Tyrion is innocent-at least in this."
"How? Can you really be so certain?" Catelyn was still anxious, but she kept her voice down.
Ned looked Cat in those blue eyes of hers. "Think on it, love. Where was Tyrion when Bran fell?"
Catelyn closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "He was out with you and the rest of the hunting party, when you stumbled onto the Yankees and that ship of theirs-oh by the Seven-."
Ned nodded. "Exactly." More realizations came into his train of thought. "Tyrion had only been at Winterfell for a short time; he would not have known about Bran's climbing, or where he would be, so he could not have planned it out in advance."
Now his shoulders slumped. "And I do not fully trust what Baelish said, about him losing the dagger to Tyrion."
Cat blinked. "But why would he lie about that? And to me? He's like a brother to me, almost as much as Edmure."
"I don't know. But Cat, if Edmure were to joust in a tourney, and you thought his opponent likely to unhorse him, would you still bet against your own brother?" Cat shook her head. "Nor would I against Brandon."
"But neither you nor I gamble," Catelyn remarked. "Tyrion is well known to; you saw him at Winterfell at the dicing tables."
Ned nodded. "But I doubt he would bet against his own brother. From the few times I saw them together on Kingsroad I could tell they are very close. Most likely the only way he would is if Ser Jamie were to let himself be unhorsed. How likely do you think that?"
Ned already knew her answer. Ser Jamie Lannister may have been honorless, but he was not without pride. He would never throw a tilt simply for a little gain.
"Excuse me." Littlefinger had opened the door. "I'm certain that you are enjoying your happy reunion, but as I said before, we need to be back at the Red Keep soon."
"Of course." Catelyn went to him and took his hands in her own. "I will not forget the help you gave me, Petyr. When your men came for me I did not know if they were taking me to a friend or enemy. I have found more than a friend; I have found the little brother I thought I had lost."
Petyr Baelish smiled. "Best not to tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain."
Ned wondered if Catelyn was being sincere, or if she was putting on a mummer's farce. He decided he'd rather not know. "You have my thanks as well, Lord Baelish."
"Oh, now there's a treasure," Littlefinger said with a smirk.
Ned turned back to his wife. "Take Eager Snow and ride for Winterfell. If there was one assassin there will be others. Whoever ordered Bran's death will learn soon enough that he still lives."
"I had hoped to see the girls," Catelyn said wistfully.
"That would be unwise, my lady," Littlefinger put in. "The Red Keep is full of eyes and children talk."
"He speaks truly, love," Ned told her. "I will watch over the girls. Go home to our sons and keep them safe. Remember why I came here. If I find proof-," he left the last words unsaid.
He felt Cat tremble in his arms. "If," she said, "what then, my love?"
That was the most dangerous part, Ned knew. "When I know the truth, I must go to Robert-and pray there is anything of the man I knew still in him."
End of chapter nine.
Some people here might find the idea of Lieutenant Harris being able to best Jon Snow hard to believe, but sword fighting was considered a serious martial skill at military academies such as West Point in the nineteenth century. And Harris is simply that good. Oddly enough officers from a British or French colonial regiment would do a lot better in this regard, as not only were they more likely to be trained at swordsmanship but they more often got into situations where being able to use a sword as a weapon came in handy.
For the discussion at Ft. Lincoln-I don't really know French, so if there are any errors I am sorry. Hopefully you readers will be able to decipher the conversation and see what the Yankees' plans are.
And the last scene in the brothel-one thing that always seemed like a plot hole to me was that Ned didn't remember where Tyrion was the day Bran fell. I figured though, since this is how he became the Yankee's translator Ned would be more likely to remember.
In the upcoming chapter, Ned goes to Fort Lincoln the night before the tourney and learns of the progress they've been making. At the Wall the exiles make a new acquaintance, and Dany receives a belated wedding gift that sends Viserys into a rage.