Rodrik Greyjoy - Heir to the Heir of Pyke

"For the night is dark and full of terrors."

The knife was never really designed to deflect sword swings from a person with enhanced strength.

The flaming sword snapped the bowie knife midway through the blade. Rodrik ducked under the flying piece of broken steel and threw the remaining part of the knife at his opponent's face to buy time. It worked decently enough, giving him just enough time to reach to the small of his back and whip out the Valyrian Steel butterfly knife. After all, if this didn't count as an emergency, he didn't know what did.

"I think he's mistaking me for Triton." Rodrik mumbled. After all, the Herald of the Seas was called the dreadful and the mighty1 throughout the legends, and not without reason.

"You're done powering up?" Rodrik asked, now much louder. The man on the other side, pity he wouldn't part with his name, didn't dignify that question with a response either.

It was almost insulting. It felt like his politeness was not being reciprocated.

Chrysaor always asked for the name of his opponent. It was not what the instinct of the sea dictated, but he had made it a habit to extend the courtesy. However, if his opponent didn't wish to name himself, he had no problem not giving him a dignified death. He thought he was good enough. Chrysaor would show him just how expansive the skill gap was.

He used the bare minimum movement to dodge the furious swings of the flaming sword and used the painted ironwood shield to block those he couldn't. Ducking under one particularly deadly swing aimed for his neck, he backed up, flipping the knife over to his left hand.

He groused, thinking about how he had repeatedly warned his other half how inefficient this type of knife really was. He barely had five inches of steel and a six-inch-long handle to work with. Compared to the three and a half feet of range his opponent had, it made it an annoyance to keep the flaming sword in check.

In another fluid ducking movement, he evaded the blade passing over his head, giving it a nudge with the top of his shield. The flames were just for show, and it couldn't hurt his body in any way. Nothing short of the waters of the Phlegethon could. But still, since Ironwood doesn't burn, unless under specific conditions, he didn't have to worry about ruining his very expensive shield.

Springing back up, he stabbed at the hip of the man attacking him. The blade entered the same spot where the bowie knife had punched through earlier, and this time, instead of just flesh, he struck bone. However, it seemed as though whatever magic he was being empowered with seemed to ignore the wound.

Rodrik tsked in irritation. He took a step back and out of reach of the flaming sword. His opponent was faster than his other half could handle as of now, but against Chrysaor's honed reflexes, his movement was positively sluggish. Raising his knife, he twirled it around in a fancy gesture, catching the eye of his attacker.

Credit to where it's due, the butterfly knife was a very reliable instrument of distraction. The handle and blade movement was just too smooth and flashy, which helped disguise his foot movement, making it seem just a shuffle of stances. In reality, his heel tapped the side of his other ankle, and the spurs on that heel fell into the ready position.

"Come on then!" He taunted further, inviting the opponent to charge at him. Rodrik saw the diagonal slash from a mile away. Bending at his waist, he angled his back, so the blade cut through empty air. He was about to end this man.

Twisting his body in the same move, he used his upper body momentum and threw a leg out in a bicycle kick to strike at his opponent's unarmored hand, just below the elbow. The bottom part of his shield locked between two ridges on the cobbled alley and gave him the leverage to finish the flip and get back on his feet. To an outside observer, it would look like he had cartwheeled his way through the slice with impossible grace. But the true effectiveness of the attack showed when the fiery blade clattered to the wet ground and went out in a sizzle.

His opponent wobbled in shock and looked at his sword arm, horrified. The spurs used to nudge horses into following directions were used by Rodrik to deadly effect: the teeth on the gear-like instrument roughly cut through his radial nerve, rendering his sword hand useless forever.

But just disabling him wasn't enough. Chrysaor had been itching for a good fight for a long time now. His arrogance told him to leave the man be, to let him bleed out. He had stabbed himself in the heart with a magical dagger, after all. He would die soon enough. However, the lessons from the one who taught him the sword urged him to ensure the enemy was completely dead.

He picked up the sword that was on fire until a few moments ago. The man just lay on the ground, delirious and breathless. Tossing the rather long and now somewhat ruined longsword between his hands, he walked up to the man, and without another word, stabbed him in the throat with it.

Well, that wasn't too hard.

He spent the next five minutes taking off his plate armor, the one that was enameled red and had a hole punched through it with magically enchanted dragonglass. He pocketed the dragonglass dagger into the sheath that once held his now broken steel knife and replaced his butterfly knife to the small of his back.

He was almost about to leave, taking the sword and the plate armor when his other half suggested checking any pockets he might have had. And a minute later, he held a red gemstone, alive with power.

"I think I know exactly what to do with this," Chrysaor mentioned to the one sharing his head.

'Of course, so I'm guessing we won't sleep as much tonight?'

Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard - The Black Bat

"You have the routes for tonight, then, old man?" Oswell asked the disguised man across from him. They were sat at an inn across from the docks, where sailors frequented, and no highborn man would dare be seen.

"Stop with that shit, Oswell. You're older than me." He responded in a grumpy tone, already tired of this. The Kingsguard called him an old man not because he was old but because he acted like it.

He was, after all, the most well-read person in the White Sword Tower, and in King's Landing, only Prince Rhaegar and Pycelle himself could claim to say they'd read more dusty old tomes than he did. The name was used when he had first asked Oswell's help to be disguised in his expeditions to Braavos.

Oswell had taught him how to use the Tyroshi powders to make wrinkles on his face and helped him perfect his mannerisms and postures. In only three weeks of practice, he had become almost as good as Oswell himself in playing an old man. Martell had jumped in surprise when Gerold had appeared before them, dressed as an old man, before claiming that it was just his true nature showing.

"But aye, I'll scour through the Lord's tents, and I want you around the inns the lords are staying at. The King and the Hand both want to know what the Wandering Wolf is up to. He hasn't been south of the Neck since the Nine Penny shitshow and has only ever left the North for Essos. He is a dangerous man, Whent," He said and then took a deep gulp from his tankard, which only had a mild beer in it. He wasn't one to drink on a scouting mission.

Gulping it down, he continued, "I saw him in the war, riding his horse and killing six knights in less than a minute. He might be old, but I'd bet anything that he would decimate the lists if he decided to partake."

Oswell had heard more about Rodrik Stark in these past few weeks than he had of anyone else. And he had to say he was quite impressed. There was one thing for certain about men from the North. They rarely ever left their frozen lands, but they bred tough bastards. Anyone who could lead a charge with arrows inside them was worthy of praise. But Rodrik Stark had not only led the charge, but he had done it with such brutality that the men hadn't even tried to loot the dead they left in their wake.

They said their armors were ruined so badly that it would cost more to fix them than their actual worth. Armors with holes punched through, and armors ruined by the northern light horse's poleaxes, maces, and warhammers. What a grizzly sight it must have been.

Deciding to finally head out, he paid their due to the barkeep and headed out, grabbing his horse from the pole he had tied it to. Hauling himself on it, he went back to his thoughts.

Any Lord would be cowed at the thought of the Knights of the Vale charging at them, but the Golden Company hadn't. No, it was the Northern light horse that had ruined their cavalry. Calling them light horse didn't do justice to their brutality. A big difference between the North and the South was that while Southern smallfolk lived easier lives, those up North had access to cheap horses. Almost everyone in the North had a horse since everything was so far away.

There was a reason the Ironborn had never managed to establish a foothold in the North. They couldn't really hold open fields on foot against an enraged charging smallfolk cavalry. They used their everyday tools as weapons. Axes, harpoons, hammers, pickaxes, anything they could get their hands on that could kill people. He'd even heard of Northerners with shovels in their hands in the midst of war.

He tried to picture it - a weathered old man charging down a group of footmen on an old work horse - dressed in heavy leathers that made him sweat and swear in equal measure, swinging a shovel and cracking skulls with it.

It was quite a fascinating picture.

While his mind wandered, his senses remained vigilant. His horse trotted across small alleyways as he made his way towards the part of the city where the inns stood. There were small oil lamps after every fifty paces, and on a dry night, they provided enough light to keep a somewhat passable lookout for any threats.

Lannisport might not have as much trade as King's Landing, but there was a stark difference between the two cities. The smallfolk in Lannisport lived much better lives than those of King's Landing. Everyone had a trade, and all of the advancement could be attributed to Lord Gerold Lannister. If the books were true, he had welcomed back the men he had sent to aid the King during the Peake Uprising. Even though they had returned without his eldest son, who had died in battle, he had welcomed them back with a gold dragon for every soldier. He had sent for all those crippled and had a dozen acolytes teach them their letters and numbers. Rumor had it that the current Maester of Casterly Rock was a son of a bastard of house Marbrand, one who had returned from battle without an arm.

He had raised his son and taught him the letters and numbers, and with the blessing of Lord Gerold, the bastard Marbrand had sent his only son to the Citadel.

If the reports were true, this child of the bastard Marbrand was the current Maester and the mastermind behind the Guild of Guilds - simply called the Guild House. Ser Gerold Hightower was quite sure when he said that Lady Alanna Jast was his protege.

His train of thought was broken when he felt a strong breeze from the West. Within moments, most of the oil lamps on the streets had blown out, and he was thrown into pitch darkness. The sky rumbled, and suddenly his night had become worse. But fate was a bitch, wasn't she?

The gods didn't love him, surely, since not only did the lamps blow out, but soon enough, even the light of the moon was smothered by rapidly approaching storm clouds. He didn't pay much attention, however, deciding just to sigh and continue onwards.

A quarter-hour later, the winds were starting to die down. The rain had eased up already, and the clouds were starting to dissipate. Just as quickly as it had come in, the rain was gone.

Oswell was crossing a rather small alley, whispering a sad tune, when his ears picked up a small commotion further ahead. Instinctually, he followed the noise and the small alley bent inwards into another, smaller alley. It was still wet with rainwater, and there was barely anything helping him see. But he could make out at least a dozen people in the alley, at the Hour of the Wolf, no less.

Some people reacted to seeing him come into the alley, primarily since the noise of his ride's hooves made, clattering on the pebbled alley. He hopped off the horse, and a few people turned to look at him.

"In the name of Lord Tywin, what is all this noise about?" He demanded.

"They killed him! They killed Brown Ben!" One woman wailed while the crowd, recognizing the voice as someone of authority, made way for him. As he got to the center, he could see a man lying in a pool of blood. There was a small lamp, and a child was holding it up. The sparse light was enough to show that he had been stabbed cleanly through his neck.

"Anyone see who did it?" He asked.

The wailing woman moved forward once again.

"He was my man, ser! He was drunk, so I kicked him out till the wine washed outta him. But then they came. A man was chasing a smaller man to kill him. Methinks he was an assassin, ser. I heard a swordfight… and I thought to not come out. Ye see I have two babes, and we always be told by the Redcloaks to stay in if there be any fighting in the streets. When the noise stopped, we waited and came out after a few moments. The man chasing the small man, the one who killed me Ben, was dead, and the small man had escaped." She cried out in a hoarse voice.

"You're telling me the man who killed him is already dead?" Oswell asked, just to make sure.

"Aye, ser. He be over there." She sniffed, pointing further down the alley.

Oswell unsheathed his sword, just in case these people were lying and it was a set up. However, their reactions showed nothing unusual, and so, with a calmer mind, he stepped forward as the crowd made way for him again.

Ten steps away, there was a large, armored man. He couldn't make out much about him in the dim light, except for the fact that he was dead. "Bring that candle here!" He called.

One of the men there took it from the child and walked forward.

The moment the candle was close enough, he sucked in a breath. He could see two killing wounds on him. The one on his chest was most definitely a knife stab. Swords capable of causing a wound like this one didn't come that thin; any sword that thin didn't have the toughness to punch straight through chainmail into the heart. It was a long dagger, and one made well enough to punch straight through chainmail.

The other killing wound was obviously the sliced neck, probably done with the same knife or dagger that went through the heart.

There were other wounds, one of them on the right forearm of the dead man. It was most definitely not made with the same knife, for any knife capable of punching through chainmail wouldn't ever make such a rough cut. No, the killer did that through something else, but this one, Oswell thought, was likely the one that ended the fight.

He found the only other wound on his waist, a knife hole, punching through the chainmail and into the flesh slightly. It was a minor wound, and while it would've hurt like a bitch, inconsequential.

Picking up the various clues, he formed a mental version of how he thought the fight progressed. There was an exchange of blades and then a stab to the hip, followed by a surprise attack with an unlikely weapon that cut through his arm, rendering the now dead man incapable of using his weapon.

The other person then stabbed him through the heart, and then just for the fuck of it, through the neck as well.

This was no amateur work. Whoever this dead thug decided to pick on, for he was likely a bandit or thug of some sort, knew exactly what he was doing. He knew exactly where to strike and did so with surprising efficiency.

Oswell got up from his kneeling position, only to hear a shout from the man holding the candle across from him.

"Ser! There!" He called, pointing next to a corner.

Oswell didn't see it immediately. He had to take a step for the candlelight to reflect off the broken piece of steel.

The Bat thanked the gods as he walked towards it. Picking it up, he gestured for the man with the candle to come closer. Under the candlelight, he examined the broken piece of steel. It had come from a knife, that was for certain, but it wasn't a dagger. It was most definitely a hunting or a skinning knife. A few lords fond of hunting had them in their armories, but knives of this design were mainly found among the sailors. After all, sailors needed exactly these types of knives to cut ropes and whatnot. This broken piece of steel was a very valuable clue. Knives like this were made of harder, less flexible steel and designed to hold an edge for longer. That, along with the serrated edge, made it a passable weapon. The problem with these types was that the serration was a liability, and a strike between two could possibly snap it in half, which he assumed happened.

Out of instinct, his hand went into his coin purse, and he brought out a silver moon and handed it to the man holding the candle.

"Ser?" He asked with wide eyes.

"For your keen eyes, man. Now, did anyone see anything else? Anything that could help me find the one who killed him?" Oswell asked the crowd.

"Milord, there was two gold dragons at the door on top of Brown Ben when I came out. I think the one who killed 'im," the widow said a bit hesitatingly, pointing to the dead bandit, "was the one who left it."

Oh? A man with a conscience. While it wasn't much, it was still something. So, the one who killed the sellsword was probably a lord or a landed knight. None else had the means to just drop a couple gold dragons for someone they didn't even know, much less a sailor. Essosi sailors didn't carry gold dragons, and the Westerosi ones, at least the ones that could be carrying that sort of coin, hadn't arrived yet.

He nodded at the woman and started to walk back the way he came.

"Very well, I will see if I can find the one who killed him," Oswell said to the crowd, not caring to wait as he continued walking. He'd probably never find the one who killed the sellsword, but that didn't really matter much. He knew not even Arthur would've chosen to participate in this investigation since the smallfolk who lost anything were suitably compensated.

"Good ser," the widow called from behind him, "if I might beg of you, give the man me thanks if you do find him. He killed the cunt that killed me man."

Oswell shook his head and continued walking. Well, at least he had something interesting to tell the Old Man that was younger than him. He fastened his cloak to his shoulders again and mounted his horse, looking back to see the crowd disperse.

People walked back into the small, stacked buildings and even smaller alleyways.

In the darkness, even his sharp eyes missed the figure slinking back into the sewers.

Rodrik Greyjoy - Half of a Son of Poseidon

He never thought finding a beach would be as hard in a place like Lannisport. Unfortunately for him, the coastline around Lannisport was mostly rocky and had houses and buildings built along the embankment. He had to walk almost to the foot of Casterly Rock to find a beach suitable for his needs.

He was finally there, though. He carefully put aside his seal leather boots and walked into the sand, bringing the sword, the faintly glowing gemstone, and the dragonglass dagger with him. He kept walking till his feet met wet sand and then further, till half his chest was underwater.

It was high tide, yet he had to ensure that at all times, even with the receding waves, his waistline was underwater. Once he was in position, Chrysaor promptly took over.

"Hear my word, the song I sing,

Behold the gifts to you I bring,

Arise from the deep depths again,

The one true son of the King!"

The sea thrummed with power. If Rodrik had to hazard a guess, it was around 4:30 am. The full moon was visible since the storm had cleared. At the peak of high tide, in the glow of the moon, the whirlpool that suddenly formed ahead of him was a surprise.

Not to Chrysaor, however. No, the immortal pirate sighed in contentment, drowning in the well of the power of his mentor. He sensed Chrysaor, who sensed movement under the waves, but before he could ponder, a glowing silver tip emerged from the eye of the whirlpool.

The call of the conch resonated with his bones, making Rodrik involuntarily shudder as he awaited the rise of the God.

Within moments, the silver tip was revealed to be the middle prong of a magnificent trident. Two other prongs, each differently sized, not unlike a podium of champions, emerged soon after. The hand and the head appeared simultaneously then, and in the glow of the trident, they looked regal.

Wavy black hair framed the weathered temple, and the dark blue eyes glinted with the strength of a raging tsunami. The nose was long and sharp, almost like a shark fin, but perfectly proportioned to the face, and his lips rested in a natural frown. The chin was clear of any hair, smooth, and pointed to a tip. It almost made his face look… aerodynamic.

Then the rest of the body emerged, only up to the waist, however, but along with that came the pressure - the instinctual feeling that Rodrik was insignificant compared to the deity in front of him. His shoulders were layered with gray-green barnacles, and while that should have made it disgusting, Rodrik just found it fitting to the entire theme.

Rodrik's body moved under Chrysaor's control, bowing deeply and presenting the gifts.

"The two blades of an enemy slain,

A fiery gem from his patron's cairn,

None stood up to the test of the sea,

He now lies dead by a storm drain!"

The gifts floated away. The sword of steel, the dagger of dragonglass, and the red gem of R'hllor all left his hands but stopped midway between them. He looked up and met the blue eyes.

"You know of the song of the sea,

Yet you are an unknown to me,

The Merman King so asks of you,

Name yourself, then speak free."

"We were sired by the same King, me and you,

In another world it may be, but it stands true,

Chrysaor the Golden, trained by Triton the Mighty,

'Til the day I was born into this world anew."

The Merman King, once known as Triton, narrowed his eyes. He shrunk down into a size more suitable to a normal man, yet much larger than an eight-year-old Rodrik, and approached him.

"You sing the song and know my name," Triton said, but he wasn't focusing on them anymore. He stood in front of the three offerings.

"A blade whose owner couldn't cause pain, another that shed the wielder's blood in vain, and a gem that for all its power, failed the champion of Fire in the rain…." Triton mused, smirking to himself. "The Red God never had much of a standard when accepting acolytes into his worship. He is still quite young, after all."

"So, Chrysaor the Golden, what would you ask of me?"

This was the moment Chrysaor had been waiting for. He stood straight and spoke clearly.

"This wasn't for a boon, brother. I was just intending to make myself known to you. However, I would like it if we had an arrangement of sorts - a way to contact each other if there is ever a time we need to."

"Hmm. What would I need you for that I cannot do already?" Triton asked as if amused by the request.

"The same sort of things the Gods always used demigods for…." Chrysaor left the statement deliberately open, indicating that he'd be willing to take quests for the God.

"Interesting. And what sorts of requests would you be asking of me?" He asked then, the waters around them stilling into an anticipatory lull.

"None, bar emergencies. At least, not until I start on the conquest."

"Oh? Do tell, what sort of conquest?" Triton asked, grinning in condescension.

Chrysaor smiled and snapped his fingers. A cloud of mist bigger than anything he had yet produced formed to their side.

The mist coalesced into an image showing two men inside a hall made of white marble, decorated with statues and tapestries. They were facing each other, Chrysaor standing seven feet high in his golden armor, except this time, he wore his golden mask instead of a helmet. It wasn't held up by anything either, seemingly stuck to the face, and the overall look projected a dangerous but regal presence.

The other man, a head taller than the first, was dressed in deep blue robes and a bejeweled set of armor. The pauldrons and neck guard were decorated with sky blue swirling pearls. The chestplate had emeralds arranged in it in the form of a cyclone - a massive piece in the eye, followed by swirling patterns extending outward. The rest of the armor was made of enchanted steel scales, covering every inch of his skin except the hands and feet, the latter of which was covered by a pair of pointed boots.

And both were looking down to the pit between them. It was a rectangular trench in the marble floor, plated in a bronze alight with heavenly light. And inside the trench were red hot coals burning with a comforting heat for any that hoped for the warmth of the hearth.

There was one last thing in that illusion, a figure of a small girl that formed much later than the rest of the image. She had orange braids on either side of her head and a soft face that belied warmth and hope. The highlight, however, was the eyes burning with an inner fire.

"The conquest, brother," Chrysaor said softly, drawing the attention of the God staring at the illusion with a far-away look, "is for Hestia."

Brandon Stark, Heir to Winterfell

"Welcome to Lannisport, father!" He called as his father hopped off of his horse, his golden spurs glinting in the afternoon light.

"Aye, son. 'Tis good to see you," Lord Rickard said, as he grasped Bran on both arms before pulling him in for a hug.

"Lya, Ben!" Bran greeted his siblings, his chin still on his father's armored pauldron. Yet, the sound of approaching hooves took his siblings' attention away from him.

His father let go of him, and he turned around slowly. Behind him, and in front of the Northern contingent, stood the Lord Hand, the Golden Lion, in all his glory.

He was perched atop a horse with a red coat, not unlike the Lannister sigil.

"Lord Stark. It seems I have the pleasure, on this day, to welcome the first Lord of Winterfell into Lannisport in twelve centuries."

"Aye, Lord Hand," father said before tugging on the golden chain. The timekeeper flew out of his pocket into his weathered hands. "It is two turns past midday, Lord Hand. I hope we are not too late to join in for the midday meal?" He said, and by the gods, Bran had to try his damnedest to prevent the chuckle from escaping.

If there was one thing the Lord Hand didn't have yet, it was one of Rodrik Greyjoy's ingenious timekeepers. And his father hadn't hesitated to bring it up.

Tywin didn't really react. And Bran could respect that. His opening remark, the way he addressed his father, could easily be taken as an insult, and father, in return, had imposed himself on Tywin's midday meal.

"Yes, you're welcome to join us at the Royal tent. However, I can only spare three seats at the head table for the North. Bring along whomever you see fit. My brother Gerion here shall stay and escort you to the tent when it is time."

And with his piece spoken, he turned around and trotted off, as another knight walked forward with a girl bringing along the platter of bread and salt.

Bran almost opened his mouth to call for Tywin. Guest Right between high Lords was a serious thing, and only the head or the heir of the house was to offer the platter. He was stopped when his father nudged him in the side.

Their eyes met, and Lord Stark gestured to Bran to look closely. Ah, so the girl was, in fact, a boy, and most likely Jaime Lannister.

"Welcome to the West, my lords." Gerion Lannister greeted them with a roguish smile. "I have to say Lord Stark, those spurs look a lot better on you."

"Come now, Ser. Let us not speak ill of the dead," father responded with a smirk of his own. Bran couldn't help but grin. This Gerion was certainly a lot better than ol' Tywin.

"Allow me to introduce you to Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin, and the next Lord of Casterly Rock." Gerion introduced his nephew with an exaggerated flourish.

"My Lords," Jaime spoke clearly and sharply, quite well for a boy that young, if Bran had to say, "I see you have met the Jester of Casterly Rock," he quipped, shooting an amused smile to his uncle, who responded with a betrayed look.

"Well met, Jaime Lannister. This is my eldest, Brandon, and my younger ones, Lyanna and Benjen." Father introduced us all.

"I've heard you're quite a deft hand with the sword, Jaime." Bran started casually.

"I've heard the same. I guess we'll have to see it in the squire's tourney." Jaime said confidently, "In the meantime, I think Lord Stark should decide who is taking to the head table. The feast starts soon," he said before taking a step back.

Well, that was a pleasant, short conversation. His father looked like he already knew who to bring along to the head table. He turned to Benjen, who was standing behind them, alongside a fidgety Lyanna.

"Ben, please tell Lord Manderly that he'll be joining Bran and I on the head table. Willam, Ethan," father called the two who had been hanging behind the group.

"My Lord," they ran up.

"Find Rodrik." Just looking at their faces invoked a tick on his eye Bran hadn't seen in a while. "No you idiots, my good-father Rodrik!" He exhaled, trying to keep his voice low and avoid the embarrassment. "Join the lower tables with him. You two will have Lya and Ben with you," he spoke.

A few more orders were passed around, and soon enough, Lord Manderly had arrived from the back of the train.

"Wyman, come along now. Let us be on time. You have the gifts, aye?"

"Lord Stark, I am humbled by your…." Wyman started but paused at the look father leveled at him.

"Uhm," Wyman cleared his throat, "Aye, I am ready, my Lord. And yes, I will have my son bring them along."

"Very well," Father then turned and faced the Lannister duo. "Ser Gerion, we are ready when you are."

"Follow me then, Lord Stark," Gerion said, mounting his horse.

"Time to play the game, Bran." He heard his father's low voice. All he could do was nod. Time to play the game, aye.

Ser Oswell Whent - The Black Bat

"Dayne, was the ride as boring and dreadful as I imagined?" He asked the taller man.

A sigh was all he got in response. He snickered and continued whetting his sword.

"You'd better dress up, Whent. The feast starts soon." The not-old man scolded him from the side.

"I am ready, just making sure Milady is looking her best." Oswell returned.

After all, if a Kingsguard's blade wasn't his lady, nothing else could be. Well, unless the Kingsguard was named Martell.

"Ah, but your lady can never glow with the beauty of a Dornishwoman. Ask Arthur, he has the prettiest one of them all," think of the devil, and he'd snark back at you.

"Are you talking about his sister?" Darry spoke from the side. Oswell groaned. This fucker was always trying to stir up trouble. He was a cunt, and everyone knew it, which was why none of them bothered to acknowledge his words, other than sending him a sideways look.

Grousing, he stood up and sheathed Milady. He hated that he couldn't bring her along in his disguised scouting missions. The cross-guard and the hilt were just too recognizable. Both his swords might have been castle-forged steel, but Milady just sat better in his hand than any other sword.

"Who's escorting the King?" He asked the Lord Commander.

"Myself and Barristan. Dayne and Martell will escort Prince Rhaegar, you'll be on the East end of the table and Darry will be on the West end." Gerold ordered.

"Whose sitting on the East end again?" He asked.

"The Greyjoys at the very end, followed by the Starks. Then the Tyrells and the Baratheons. The Greyjoys have two seats, the Starks three, and the others four each. Then there's the King and the Prince. Followed by Lord Tywin and three other Lannister seats. Three seats for the Tullys, Lord Darry gets one of his own, three for the Vale, and two for Dorne."

"Huh, so three seats for the Starks. Should likely be Lord Rickard, the heir Brandon, and the Wandering Wolf, no?" Martell asked.

"Unlikely. From what I know of the old man, he does not involve himself in politics at all. It's probably going to be Lord Dustin or one of the Karstarks." Gerold responded, paused, and continued again, "That is not something to be worried about. Dayne, Prince Rhaegar is unlikely to stay seated between the King and the Hand too long. You are to follow him if he leaves. Martell, stay at the High Table. I do not want to see Oberyn stirring up trouble." Gerold warned.

Lewyn grumbled but nodded nonetheless, his spear and shortsword strapped to him, ready to leave. Dayne had Dawn strapped to his back and his other sword hanging to his side. The man was allergic to shields. It was also unfortunate how he always used Dawn for defense rather than offense, which was left to castle forged steel. Something about ruining the opponent's steel while keeping his own pristine.

Gerold had his shield strapped to his back and the sword on his hip and Oswell mirrored his look. Darry, who had stayed silent after that quip, just chewing on sourleaf, spit it out and bound the bastard sword to his hip. He was another one who didn't use a shield.

Barristan was already keeping watch outside the King's chamber, while Mooton and Lonmouth stood guard outside the Princes' tent.

"Alright, time to go, Sers." Gerold called, and the different expressions were gone from their faces. Five white knights marched out of the white tent, white cloaks billowing behind them and a non-expression on their faces.

The Kingsguard were on duty.

Lord Tomas Blackwood - Lord of Blackwood

The herald cleared his throat and slammed his staff on the stone floor.

"Announcing! His Grace King Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the realm!"

The Black Bat and Darry entered first, clearing the way for the King, who walked in next, flanked by the Lord Commander and Ser Barristan the Bold.

The King of the Seven Kingdoms still walked with the grace of a man of his station. The pace was sharp and crisp, his long silvery hair flowing behind him. He had a day's growth of stubble on his chin but looked regal with it nonetheless.

The moment he got seated, the announcer started again. This time, there was no need to silence the crowd.

"Announcing! Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone and Crown Prince to the Iron Throne!"

The two remaining Kingsguard in Lannisport flanked the young silver Prince as he walked in with much more grace than the King. The King was rigid, stiff, while the Prince walked with the careless grace of youth. Waving around to people on the lower benches and showering the crowd with smiles, he took his place next to the King.

"Announcing! Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West! Jaime Lannister, Heir to Casterly Rock, Lady Cersei Lannister, and Ser Kevan Lannister!"

Tywin Lannister led his family like a lion leading his pride. Behind him were the golden twins, Jaime on his right, Cersei on his left. Behind those two, completing the diamond formation, was Ser Kevan Lannister, the shadow of Tywin, who managed the Westerlands while Tywin managed the Realm. Without much fanfare, the four of them walked till they were directly in front of the King. They bowed, only for the obligation, however. Everyone on the lower tables could see that Tywin barely even twitched. Within a few moments, they all took their seats.

"Announcing, Lord Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Lady Cassana Baratheon, the Lady of Storm's End, Lord Robert Baratheon, Heir to Storm's End, and Ser Jon Connington, Lord of Griffin's Roost."

The three Baratheons entered first, with two men behind them, carrying a red and gold, well-embroidered cushion, covered with a black and gold cloth.

They walked up to the space facing the King, and Lord Steffon bowed, quickly followed by his wife and heir.

"My King, I present to you the largest pearl the people of my land came about." He said, smiling up at the man he considered a brother.

Aerys Targaryen smiled back at him. "Up, man!" He barked, standing up from his cushioned seat. "I had named you brother for the days we fought alongside each other in the Stepstones, Baratheon. Up, come and embrace me, you bloody fool!" He said, cackling.

Steffon laughed and dutifully followed the instruction. "As my king commands," he said before walking onto the platform and into the open arms of the king.

"You'll be right next to me, Baratheon. Now, Robert Baratheon! My, you've gotten big! Will we be seeing you in the melee, perhaps? Or maybe the joust, hmm?" He rambled, looking over the handsome, dark-haired man.

"Your Grace, you will surely see me in the melee!" Robert spoke, and Kevan cringed at the side. By the gods, the young man was loud.

Aerys didn't seem to mind, however. He simply nodded and then forgot about him, looking around the Baratheons to the young red-head that had just ascended to the high table.

"Connington," he said. And that was all. He didn't, however, sit back down. After all, other lords will surely be bringing more gifts, and it would be a task to sit and stand again and again.

Ser Barristan had taken the cushion with the pearl on it and put it on a smaller table, set aside especially for the gifts.

"Announcing! Lord Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun, and Lord Paramount of the Trident. Ser Brynden Tully, and Lord Damon Mallister, Lord of Seagard, and Lord Desmond, Lord of Darry."

They followed the same protocol, bowing and presenting the gifts, which, this time around, was a decorated and enameled chestplate. The kind that only the commanders who lead from the back of the army wear. Lord Mallister also gifted the royals a pair of black-and-red eagle feather quills.

The King took it with grace and immediately handed it to Ser Barristan.

Next came the Tyrells. Lord Mace, Dowager Lady Olenna, alongside Lord Paxter Redwyne and Lord Leyton Hightower. They brought a wonderfully done Myrish tapestry depicting the coronation of Aerys in the Great Sept of Baelor.

Ser Denys Arryn, along with Lord Royce and Lord Redfort, came next; the Valemen bringing along a set of decorated full-plate barding, carried by three men. It was one gift Ser Barristan could not take and therefore allowed the servants to place it along with the rest.

Then came the Northmen. Lord Rickard Stark, his greying hair only adding to his overall impression, stalked forward towards the space before the head table. It being a feast of nobles, no one was carrying a weapon save for the Kingsguard. Yet, the white cloaks all stiffened at the Northman, who, despite being unarmed, emanated the aura of a predator on the prowl.

"King Aerys," he stated casually. All eyes in the room were on him. "I've heard tell that the Prince just recently started on his, ah, martial pursuits."

The king narrowed his eyes at the Northman but kept his composure nonetheless.

"You've heard true, Lord Stark. What of it?" He asked, equally casually, but the tension was palpable. Tywin Lannister leaned forward on the table, looking at the two men interacting with undisguised fascination.

"Well, I brought along a pole of ironwood, like the one we use at Winterfell. Ours was put in place by Lord Cregan and has survived countless Starks and guards swinging their blades at it. So long as Dayne doesn't slice at it with Dawn, it can take anything." He said, oozing confidence.

"..." Aerys just stared at him, lost for words. "Very well, Lord Stark," he said after a few seconds.

Ironwood. The most sought-after wood after Goldenheart and Weirwood, and Lord Stark gifts a stump to swing swords at. Tomas, however, knew better. The Starks were a cunning lot. They were truly wolves incarnate. It was never a direct fight with them, least of all with the one who wielded Ice. No, they used the environment against you.

People didn't really register when Brandon Stark and Wyman Manderly took their seats, yet Tomas' eyes remained sharp. Wyman had grown at the belly since he had last seen the man. Yet, the person who had his interest was Brandon. He was of an age with Jason and Tytos and was rumored to be a beast atop a horse.

Well, Tomas was certainly a betting man. He needed to know who the contenders were and get a taste of their skill before he wagered his coin. So, for now, he would wait and watch.

Murmurs filled the hall, both the upper and the lower tables talking about the unusual gift. The conversation only really died down when the announcer called Prince Oberyn and Princess Elia Martell.

They followed the usual protocol, with Oberyn handing over their gift of Essosi liquor and Elia giving Rhaegar a book of some sort.

The crowd, by this point, was getting restless.

So when the announcer introduced Lord Quellon Greyjoy and Rodrik Greyjoy, the ones in the know about the young lad's prodigious creation stiffened and looked on in surprise.

After all, none other, save for the Lannisters, had deigned their children worthy of a seat at the High Table, offering the spots to their bannermen instead. Even then, the Lannister twins were around five years older than the Greyjoy lad.

But that wasn't what Tomas focused on. No, he wanted to see what he would give the King if his gift to Lord Tully were anything to go by.

And when Lord Quellon lifted the veil of golden threads off the velvet cushion, he was not disappointed. It was a long steel chain, with a red link for every four blackened ones, and hanging at its base, was the sphere that was the talk of the Riverlords—a timekeeper.

Quellon Greyjoy then approached the King.

"Your Grace, what I have with me is a device created by my grandson," the Lord of Pyke started, only to be interrupted by the King himself.

"I have heard about this… ingenious device, Lord Greyjoy," Aerys said, and for once, Tomas could see the sharp recognition in Aerys' eyes.

"Well then, that makes it easier, your Grace. Please, accept this as a gift from House Greyjoy and the Iron Isles." Quellon said and bowed again.

"Yes, yes," Aerys murmured, taking the timekeeper from Quellon and fumbling with it.

Tomas didn't miss the fact that this was the only gift Aerys had shown even a slight interest in. And neither had some other lords around him. However, before the murmurs could pick back up again, the King seemed to snap out of the daze.

"This is your grandson?" Aerys asked, his eyes now locked onto the young lad. Tomas looked over at the boy. Unlike his Grandfather, who was dressed in pale gray leathers and linens, Rodrik was dressed a lot more like Robert Baratheon, oddly.

To be fair, black and yellow were the Baratheon colors, while the Greyjoys held on to black and gold. He was wearing a finely embroidered black gambeson with gold-threaded designs. He couldn't make out what they were from the lower tables, but he could see the King taking his time looking over it. The rest of the outfit was finished with black linens and freshly shined riding boots.

Also, was it just him, or did Rodrik seem to already have grown taller than before?

Then the King nodded, seemingly satisfied with what he saw.

Lord Tywin was already looking at the King, who seemed to realize that, meeting his eyes and gesturing to him to go ahead.

"Welcome to Lannisport, Lords, Ladies, and Knights of the realm. Today we feast, and tomorrow, in honor of the birth of Prince Viserys, the Tourney of Lannisport begins," Tywin kept it short. Well, he always knew Tywin Lannister was a man of few words.

And so, while the ones at the High Table played politics, Tomas relaxed and drank with his fellow Riverlords at the lower tables. However, he made sure not to get too deep into the cups since he had work to do if he was to bet on the winners.

The Tourney of Lannisport had begun, and Tomas couldn't wait.

Rodrik Greyjoy - Heir to the Heir of Pyke

"Lord Wyman, let me offer my congratulations on the wedding of your eldest."

"Why, thank you, Lord Greyjoy. I heard you've been planning a voyage across Westeros! How grand!"

"I'd be lying if I said it was me, Wyman, but the entire thing was this little bugger's plan." Quellon said, nudging Rodrik.

A pair of sharp, blue eyes met sparkling sea green. "Oh?" Wyman softly mused, "Well met, Rodrik Greyjoy."

"And you as well, Lord Manderly." Rodrik politely responded.

"Forgive me, but I have to ask. How did you even come up with the idea to create something as complex as the timekeeper, Rodrik?" He asked, leaning forward after he wiped his mouth of the rather delicious roast mutton.

"I am not sure if you know of this, but I was given responsibility for the port of Seagard as a steward in my time there," Rodrik started. When he received a nod from Wyman, he continued, "So, I thought… how convenient would it be if we had a way to note which ship arrived and left when. I thought it would make it immensely more convenient for bookkeeping, at least. Then, it was just a matter of observing the sun and the stars, and coming up with a design of a device that would turn with the sun."

Wyman just raised his eyebrows at that before deciding that this was enough discussion on the particular topic.

"So, I've heard you'll be partaking in the squires melee?"

"You heard correct, Lord Manderly. And I'll win it." Rodrik responded casually, making Wyman raise that pair of eyebrows again before turning back to his plate and attacking the desserts that had just arrived at the table.

"Crow's Eye!" Rodrik heard and sighed.

"Yes, Bran?"

"Is it ready yet?"

"If you really must know, then yes, it is. Come along with me after the feast, and you'll have it." Rodrik told him.

Just then, he heard a scrape of a chair, and looking at the center of the High Table, Rodrik could see Rhaegar walking away from his seat.

Maybe Aerys and Tywin got on his nerves too much. Or maybe he wanted to play a song or something. Rodrik almost returned to his desserts when they were interrupted with a loud exclamation.

"And I'll be eager to see who can stand after taking a hit from my mighty hammer!" No guesses as to who that might be.

From all the way across the table, the loud snort could be heard, and Rodrik didn't even stifle the smirk that appeared on his face hearing that.

"We'll see about that boy!" The Blackfish spoke loudly, drawing attention.

Robert didn't back down, though. "Oh we most certainly will, Blackfish!"

Rodrik took a moment to look around him, gauging people's reactions to talk of the tourney. Aerys couldn't be bothered by it and engaged Steffon Baratheon in conversation, whereas Tywin was looking nowhere, probably contemplating something. Oberyn and Elia were talking among themselves, sipping their wine after being done with the feast.

Hoster was conversing with Lord Damon, and Lord Darry just sat there, looking around with his wine goblet in hand, mirroring Lord Redfort at his side.

Denys Arryn and Lord Royce kept to themselves,

The Lannister children were also getting fidgety. Jaime most certainly looked like a classic ADHD case, quite possibly dyslexia too, if the talk about him taking ages to learn his numbers and letters was true.

Olenna conversed with Leyton Hightower, while Mace Tyrell talked at Paxter Redwyne and Jon Connington.

All while Robert Baratheon and Brynden Tully talked across the table.

It was then his eyes met with the Black Bat's. He was standing at his five o'clock. He nodded to the man and received a bemused smile in return.

He returned to looking down at the lower tables, trying to identify where everyone sat. He could spot Elbert sitting with Cat, Lysa, and Petyr. On another table, Rodrik Stark sat with Willam Dustin and Ethan Glover to one side and who could only be Lyanna and Benjen Stark to the other.

He then heard the approach of a Kingsguard, by the clanking of armor, and saw the White Bull standing behind him. He was not the only one to see the approach. Lord Quellon turned around with him.

"Is anything the matter, Ser Gerold?" His grandfather asked.

Ser Gerold spoke softly, as to not be overheard, "The King wishes for young Rodrik to join him."

Ahh shit.

"Your Grace," he bowed, but the King didn't turn to him.

"Come, sit," Aerys Targaryen said instead, still looking down at his plate.

Okay, then. As Rodrik got onto the chair, he saw Aerys' dessert left unfinished in front of him.

He was, instead, focused on the timekeeper he had been gifted.

"How may I be of service, your grace?" He asked, trying to keep polite while doing an amazing job at ignoring the flat stare of Tywin Lannister he could feel on the back of his head.

Aerys turned and gave him a look. The same sort of look one old friend would give another when they meet after a long time, and he was being too formal.

"You needn't be so stiff now, Greyjoy. After hearing of your escapades in Riverrun, I'd half expected to be gifted a juicy red apple!" He said with a smirk.

This was the last thing he had expected when he thought of what Aerys had been described to be. Yet, his recent experience with a politician had gone on to be a splendid disaster. As he thought of a response, he even considered bringing up the Darklyns, but maybe not yet. No, he had to play the slightly longer game to gain trust. Only then could manipulations take hold.

"Apples before a feast, your grace? You'd have lost your appetite. Lord Tywin would never forgive me." Rodrik responded a bit cheekily.

Aerys gave a slight smile at that. "Makes it seem like someone fed my son an apple before the feast, no?"

Rodrik's eye twitched. Was this the extent of the conversation? Was he to be a therapist today as well? He decided to do the smarter thing and not answer at all.

A minute passed, with Aerys still looking at the timekeeper, though now he had flipped it open and was examining the draconian artwork on the inner concave of the cover.

"Time," Aerys whispered as he gave him a sideways look again. "A… device that keeps track of time, made not by a wizard nor a maester, but by a child."

Then, his far-away look vanished, and the eyes suddenly sharpened on his own. "I see you're done eating, lad."

That gave Rodrik a start, and he straightened his back, fully turning to the King.

"Aye, your grace."

"Join me for a ride, then Rodrik Greyjoy," he said before abruptly pushing his chair back.

"Gerold, Barristan, prepare four horses. We're going for a ride."

Grandfather had just given him a look of caution when he went off with Aerys, and he had nodded. Two minutes later, he was outside the King's private tent and in front of two white cloaks, one standing guard and another giving orders to the stable boy.

Rodrik overheard the last bit of the order and had to interject.

"Ser Barristan, there'd be no need for a pony. A fully grown horse is better."

"Told you." Gerold Hightower smirked from the side. The man was tall and heavily built, almost the same height as Robert Baratheon but slightly less wide shoulders. He didn't necessarily look old, so he was left to wonder why everyone assumed him to be so. He couldn't have been more than forty. No more than five or six years older than Barristan, but his pale blond hair and wind burnt face made him look older than he was.

"The king will be out in his leathers soon enough." Ser Gerold informed him.

"Very well, Lord Commander."

"So, tell me boy, are you enlisting yourself in any of the events?"

"I hoped to try my hand at horse racing and the squire's melee, Ser." He spoke honestly—no need to hide that from him.

"Hard luck, boy, there'll be no horse race. The mud was only partly packed, and the rain two days past ruined it. The lords refused to partake on a track that could have their horses slip and injure them." Gerold said, and Rodrik frowned.

"That is unfortunate. Squire's melee it will be, then." Rodrik said, sighing.

"How long have you even trained, boy?" Gerold asked, a very slight condescension peeking through his tone.

"About two years now, Ser. I would show you my forms, but I snapped my knife a few days past." Rodrik said. It was true, and he most certainly didn't plan to bring out his hidden knife.

Gerold Hightower would have none of it, however. He knelt and brought out the dagger hidden behind his greaves. He flipped it around, holding it by the tip, and gestured for him to take it.

"Show me," he said.

Rodrik, while a bit surprised at the command, accepted the dagger. As if something had flipped a switch, Chrysaor was now in control. He knew how much prowess he could show and kept it in mind when he tested the grip.

"A bit wider than the ones I use, but it'll do," he said, settling on the more comfortable grip style, which turned out to be the reverse grip.

Gerold frowned at that. "You'll have next to no reach with it, boy."

"I'll have no reach regardless of my grip. With my size, I'm better off dodging and getting up close," Rodrik told him seriously.

Gerold just nodded and shrugged at that.

"Suit yourself. Barristan, lend me your knife, will you?"

Ser Barristan handed him the knife, and Gerold Hightower, keeping his Kingsguard armor on, faced him in a ready stance.

Rodrik faced him straight on, no leaning, no bent knees. He showed what anyone would expect to be a rookie stance, just facing the opponent head-on without any defensive measures.

"There are three basic aspects of fighting with a blade. Name them for me." Gerold spoke like a teacher, and Rodrik welcomed it. That did not mean that he missed Aerys slipping out of his tent in riding leathers and a gambeson. So this was a rather complex test they had devised.

"Awareness, balance, and technique," Rodrik said.

"And not everyone can be the best at all three. Tell me, which of the three aspects are you best at?" Gerold asked.

"Awareness and balance," Rodrik told him with full confidence, even injecting some arrogance into his tone. It was all part of the show.

"We will see about that," Gerold said and approached him slowly.

He was soon within striking distance, and instead of waiting for him to make a move, Rodrik took the initiative. His right foot jerked in a motion one would take when about to jump right, and Gerold took the bait; he swung the knife but aborted the swing halfway through when he realized that Rodrik had not moved from his spot and just leaned out of the strike.

"Oh?" the Kingsguard remarked and changed his stance. Gerold was taking it a lot more seriously now. It was one thing to feint and press an advantage, but a completely different thing to bait the opponent into making a fool out of themselves.

This time, Gerold pressed the fight. Their height difference forced Gerold to bend at the back whenever he swung at Rodrik, but the White Bull was flexible enough not to let that be a disadvantage. Instead, he used his armored foot to kick at Rodrik's head.

Rodrik ducked under the attack but couldn't return a counter because Gerold had pulled the leg back, showing it to be a feint, and with the knife in his hand, stabbed from behind the retreating leg.

Rodrik took a lightning-quick step forward into the swing and swung his foot, making it seem like he was trying to kick the attacking arm away.

Gerold didn't pull back, guessing that the kick wouldn't have enough strength to stop the forward momentum. But he grew alarmed when the kick missed completely and went over his forearm instead. His eyes connected with Rodrik's, and Gerold was shocked to see him twisting with the kick. As Gerold's knife arm extended all the way, Rodrik was sitting on his elbow, gripping his wrist between his ankles and preventing any movement in that arm.

Ser Barristan "The Bold" Selmy of the Kingsguard

He could hardly believe his eyes. Rodrik Greyjoy jumped, swung his legs, and sat atop Gerold's elbow as if mounting a horse.

He saw Gerold try to retaliate, pulling his knife arm back to throw off Greyjoy by causing him to lose balance. On that note, balance certainly seemed to be an aspect of fighting Rodrik excelled at.

Gerold's attempt failed when Rodrik just leaned back and placed his shoulder under the pauldrons, preventing Gerold from changing his position. It was quite a sight to see a boy no taller than the length of Gerold's arm put him in such a position.

Ser Gerold swung his free arm in Rodrik's direction in another attempt to punch him off the hand.

If the first move was outrageous, the one that followed made it look like a standard move. Greyjoy threw his left leg out and upwards, letting go of Gerold's wrist in the process, and it swung behind him and landed across the Lord Commander's left pauldron. With that, Greyjoy pulled himself up, and in the blink of an eye, he was sitting on the shoulders of the White Bull and had his knife placed tip-first under his jaw.

The sight of the blade at Ser Gerold's neck snapped Barristan out of his shock.

"STOP! Greyjoy wins!" He exclaimed in disbelief, interjecting himself as a referee.

Greyjoy looked straight at him, dropped the knife, and then flipped backward off of Gerold's shoulders, landing on his feet comfortably.

"The fuck just happened?" Barristan heard Gerold say.

"I'd like to know that, too. I've never seen anything quite like that," King Aerys spoke, striding towards them from his spot in the shade from where he was watching the fight.

"I told Ser Gerold my technique is the weak link, your grace. I do not know what that move is called. Just seemed like the right move to me." Rodrik said with a shrug.

Barristan couldn't quite hold back the laugh that escaped, and Gerold just looked at him, confused still.

"Aye, lad. I have to admit, that was quite the move." Barristan said as he walked towards them.

"You're squiring for the Blackfish, right?" The King asked him.

"As of today, aye, your grace. Though all my training has been at the hands of Lord Damon and Ser Jason Mallister."

"The Eagles of Seagard. They've been doing quite some trade these past few years, haven't they? I remember Tywin talking about them expanding their docks and harbors." The King mused.

"Aye, your grace. Lord Damon modified the procedure with which the docking fees were calculated, and imposed strict regulations. Now, smuggling is at its lowest and the collections highest." Rodrik said.

"Hmm. Mayhaps we should invite Lord Damon to speak with Lord Velaryon. See if the Eagle Lord can put something better in place for King's Landing," Aerys suggested before shrugging off that conversation. "Come, let us not delay this further."

Barristan, Ser Gerold, and Rodrik Greyjoy followed the King's lead and mounted their horses.

"Lead the way, Ser Gerold."

Barristan stayed at the King's left, Rodrik was at the King's right, and Ser Gerold led from the front. They were around lavish tents in the tourney grounds, so there weren't many people walking around, making it unnecessary to take more than two Kingsguard.

There was no conversation until they were about half a league away from the grounds.

"So I had a talk with the High Septon and Hoster Tully a sennight ago, Rodrik," The King started, "They told me you had a proposal?"

Barristan looked hard at the Ironborn noble. There wasn't any change in his expression when the King asked the question. Only a small smile, a genuine one, appeared on his face.

"Aye, your grace. When I finished making the first pair of timekeepers, I sent one to my grandfather. Three sennights later, he was at Seagard, demanding to meet me. He forbade me from telling anyone what I had created, and what followed was my first lesson in warcraft and strategy," said Rodrik.

To Barristan, that made perfect sense: any lord with enough brains would know how a way to measure time could change things. And no one ever accused Quellon Greyjoy of being a lackwit. But the way Rodrik spoke, while it wasn't like the cutthroat politicians in King's Landing, wasn't that of a normal boy.

"That was ten moons ago. In that time, I gave away three more, one went to Lord Tully, as you know, and another to Lord Stark, for my grandfather and his goodfather were once friends and for the ironwood shield it got me in return. The third one is with Lord Manderly."

"Why Manderly?" King Aerys asked, and Barristan had to agree. It was one thing to gift one to Great Lords, but a vassal of the North?

"Oh, he did me a favor once, your grace. I like to keep the ones who help me happy. Makes the relationship better," Greyjoy responded with a smile.

There it is, Quellon Greyjoys words out of his grandson's mouth. Barristan couldn't help but smile. The King seemed to accept it, and they rode in silence for a minute.

"How long does it take to make one? And how much does it cost?" The King asked him.

"It isn't about the materials used, your grace. It is about how it all fits together. Now to both Lord Stark and Lord Tully, I said that if they opened it up to see how it worked and broke it, I'd not fix it. There is a reason for that. Inside the timekeeper, there are four hundred small bits and pieces of metal, all carefully crafted by the best jewelers in Seagard, that fit together to make it show the accurate time. The materials cost no more than sixty gold dragons, but the time? The time and the skill it takes to make those four hundred parts fit together and work - that is where the cost comes in."

"Give me a number, Greyjoy." The King repeated, now with narrowed eyes.

"Ten thousand gold dragons for a Golden Timekeeper, and a million silver stags for a silver one." Rodrik said.

Barristan couldn't stop the gasp that escaped his mouth. Gerold stiffened up ahead, having heard the same thing. But Aerys nodded at him.

"Good. That prevents the rabble from lining up to buy it," the King spoke, shaking his head, "And where can they buy one?"

"I have thirty timekeepers ready to go, ten made of gold and gemstones, and twenty of the silver ones. Grandfather is arranging where they'll be sold."

"Hmm. Ask Lord Quellon to come join me on the morrow when I break fast," the King then brought out the timekeeper he had been gifted and looked at it for a minute, "At 9 in the morning?" He asked, still a bit unsure about how it was read out.

Barristan could see the bright smile on the child's face.

"That is excellent, your grace. But that is not the reason I requested Lord Hoster to get me that meeting." He said.

Aerys looked at him, smiling, "What was the reason for this request then, lad?"

"While grandfather gave me the warcraft lessons, he also gave me lessons in basic politics." Rodrik started, then hesitated a bit.

"The reason I asked for the High Septon was because of something I thought a timekeeper could be used for that would help in something other than war. Something that could help in peace." He said and waited for the King to tell him to continue, a gesture which was given quickly with a very curious look.

"Imagine a massive timekeeper, affixed to the towers of the Great Sept of Baelor. Every day, at 6 in the morning, an hour past dawn in summers, the bell would toll, and the septons would start their sermons then. Then the smallfolk would go around, do their work, and at the end of the day, 6 in the evening, the bells would toll again, telling the smallfolk it is time to do their prayers and go to sleep. Over time, most people in King's Landing will grow familiar with the turns of the timekeeper, and turn to the Faith when it tolls. Then during wartime, the King or the Herald could take to the clock tower, and after the sermons, tell the smallfolk of their victories and relieve them of their fear, and tell them to keep Faith. In other words, no repeats of the Dragonpit incident ever again." He said with a shrug.

Ser Gerold's horse stopped in its tracks. The three other horses followed.

"... No repeats of the Dragonpit incident ever again…." The King said, in a faraway voice, and Barristan agreed with it. At first, he wasn't convinced, but he could clearly see how it would work. It wouldn't take long for the smallfolk to connect the tolling of the bells to the Faith and the Seven's sermons. They would attribute the words after the bells to be the truth, and as long as no King abused the opportunity too much, and gave the smallfolk the reassurance that they were alright, then there would be no chance of a smallfolk rebellion ever again.

The King was already the Protector of the Faith. If this could truly be implemented, the Faith would soon become the Protector of the King's Word.

He looked at the eight-year-old boy across from his King once again, and a chill went through his spine. He had known Rhaegar and his brilliant mind and had seen the Silver Prince grow up into one of the most intelligent men he had the pleasure of knowing. But this boy in front of him, the way his mind worked… It scared, no, terrified him.

"Say I have a word with the High Septon and convince him for it, which shouldn't be hard. What then? How long would it take to put such a thing in place."

"I am unsure about exactly how long it would take, your grace. A single tower with a timekeeper would ruin the aesthetic of the architecture, but seven of them are simply not necessary. First there needs to be an agreement on how to even implement it."

"Hmm. You've given me a lot to think of, lad. Things like this take time to discuss," King Aerys paused, humming. "I will speak with the High Septon about it. See if a decision can be reached."

"Of course, your grace. It should take us near about five moons to get to King's Landing, proceeding with the voyage as planned. Mayhaps then we can continue this discussion?" Rodrik asked, and Barristan could only nod with the King.

The King laughed then, shaking his head as he looked at Rodrik with shining eyes.

"When Hoster came to me saying that a boy of eight name days had requested a meeting, this was not quite what I had in mind. Why, if you were a few years older I might have sent for you to come to King's Landing as a member of the Royal Court itself! But that isn't the case. WHat I can't wait to see, however, is the squire's melee. I trust you will put on a show worthy of my time?" said King Aerys, moving the conversation from politics again. And by the gods, Barristan thanked the King for it.

He didn't think his head could handle any more unthinkable ideas for a long time. He still had a lot to process.

"Aye, your grace. I hope to win it."

"You do know that most other squires will be around twice your age?" Ser Gerold asked Rodrik, mirroring Barristan's thoughts.

"Aye, Ser Gerold. Won't matter if they can't keep me off their shoulders, would it?" He responded cheekily, and the King threw his head back and laughed.

"Dear me, I haven't laughed that hard in a while. But Ser Gerold speaks true, lad. Usually, the winner of the squire's melee is knighted and allowed to partake in the true melee or the joust. While I am certain you'd give us a good show, even if you win, I couldn't possibly knight you?!"

"That is up to your judgment, your grace. However, if I do win, and walk away relatively unhurt, I'd request for a chance to partake in the true melee."

That threw the rest of the three for a loop.

"Aye, I'd wish for you to get on the true melee just to see you do the same thing you did with me to Robert Baratheon, no harm intended, your grace." Ser Gerold said, and Barristan just about palmed his face.

"No, no, you're quite correct, Gerold. I'd love to see that. I also have on good authority that Jaime Lannister and a boy they've been calling the Mountain are supposed to partake. If you come across them, I want you to make their defeats memorable. Do that, and you'll have a spot in the melee." the King said, with a smirk on his face, and Barristan shivered.

This smirk was never a good thing. Ever since the passing of Prince Jaeherys, the King has had a tendency to be very violent and unpredictable. The worst of it came out when Lord Tywin was the subject of the discussion, but those smirks were never a good sign.

"Very well, your grace. I'll just try my best, then," Rodrik said.

"Good. That's what your King demands. Now, if that is all, I have a son to find. I trust you shall be able to find your way back to your Inn, Rodrik?" The King asked.

"Most certainly, your grace," the boy said, not dragging it out; more proof that he was smart.

"Very well. Do not forget to tell Lord Quellon, you hear me? And you can keep the horse, too. Never let it be said that Aerys Targaryen left a Lord of the Seven Kingdoms to walk back to his inn like a commoner!"

Rodrik Stark - The Wandering Wolf

"Stark!" He heard a familiar voice call.

Turning around, Rodrik's eyes fell on the well-muscled man walking his way, and a smile wormed onto his face.

"Tully," he greeted the man, but he supposed that wasn't enough. The red-haired knight pulled him into a quick embrace before pulling back and looking at him.

"Still beardless, I see," Brynden said casually, to which both Willam and Elbert snickered.

"Don't even start with that," Rodrik sighed.

"Do I want to know?" Brynden asked.

"Rodrik Greyjoy," He answered.

Brynden grimaced, slowing down his pace and coming closer to Rodrik.

"Well, I was hoping to speak with you about that boy," Brynden said.

The tone of his voice made him a bit wary of the conversation, but the look in Brynden's eyes made it easy to answer.

"Willam, Ethan, take Ben and Lya back to the Inn and stay with them. Lord Stark should be there. Will, your grandfather has also come, go greet him. Ethan, tell Lord Stark I'll be there soon enough."

He waited for the four of them to leave and then turned back to Brynden.

"Walk with me."

"So I just had a very interesting conversation with Brynden Tully of all people," Rodrik told Rickard as he entered the room, looking at the others sitting around the table.

"Bran, please tell the innkeep that no one is to be allowed into this room, or even around here until you go speak with them again, and then return fast." Rodrik said, and Bran didn't ask any questions about it.

The only other men in the room were Corlyn Dustin and Wyman Manderly. Rodrik nodded to them both, filled a tankard with ale, and joined them at the table.

Raising the tankard, to which all others mirrored him, "To the North!" He toasted, inadvertently getting a whiff from his armpits in the process, and cursed after he gulped his drink, "Damn this heat!"

"Aye!" Corlyn and Wyman responded with equal gusto. The heat in Lannisport was bad. He couldn't stop sweating.

Bran entered the room again and closed the door behind him.

"I left Cassel outside, along with Walder to ensure no one wanders close."

"I have to say, Lord Stark, your man Walder is by far the biggest man I've seen, and I've met with Quellon Greyjoy and Jon Umber multiple times." Corlyn said, his voice smooth as melted butter.

"Aye, he might be a bit dim, but he has the strength to break stone walls with his club. Unfortunate that we couldn't ever find a horse strong enough to carry him." Bran remarked from the side.

"I fear even a bear might be incapable of carrying someone of that size. How tall is he? More than seven feet, surely!"

"Just shy of seven and a half, Manderly. But there are others that might grow bigger. I have seen a boy, among Tywin's bannermen, who is almost that size, but he hasn't even grown a beard yet. Also heard that he'd be in the squire's melee." Rodrik said.

"Ah, might be the Clegane boy that my man has been urging me to bet on. He is the biggest one around here, and only five and ten name days to him."

"You'd change your mind after you hear what I've to say." Rodrik Stark said, and everyone on the table leaned in after that.

Rodrik reached into his pocket and brought out a broken knife. Without much fanfare, he placed it at the center of the table. There was only the handleremainedOnly and an inch and a half of the steel remaining on the blade, showing the shining steel and the serrated edges on one side.

Bran was the first to react, picking up the knife and examining it.

"Isn't this Rodrik Greyjoy's knife? The one he showed us on the ship?"

Rodrik nodded. "The very same one."

"I remember you saying it was an excellently crafted one." Bran said, before picking it up and looking over the broken knife, "Didn't last a sennight, apparently." He laughed.

"And that was because a man with a flaming longsword swung at it with more strength than anyone in this chamber could muster." Rodrik declared, looking Bran right in the eye.

Bran looked at the broken blade in his hand and then at his grandfather before gingerly placing it on the table.

It was picked up by Corlyn Dustin, the oldest man on the table, even older than Rodrik Stark by a few years.

He peered at it through half-clouded eyes and hummed in appreciation.

"This is most certainly a very well-made knife. If you look at the break, my lords, you can see the steel is all gray and has a nice pattern to it. The lack of any browning makes it clear that it didn't break because of a weakness in the knife. It broke because it wasn't made to withstand the power it was struck with." Old Lord Dustin said, and Bran could see his father start to lean in.

"Could this have been made by the Greyjoy boy? Just like he made the timekeeper?"

"Twisting gold and forging a blade are two very different things, Lord Stark. One requires the care and finesse of a loving mother and the other requires the harsh but patient hand of a stern father," Lord Dustin said, before placing the knife back at the table and looking at father, "If a boy of eight has made this blade, then I would be the first one to commission a blade from him the day he grows hair on his face."

There were a few moments of silence where everyone on the table, including Bran himself, contemplated the judgment of Lord Dustin. He was the top authority in the North on anything even closely related to metalworking.

One of the biggest secrets held onto by his father and the Lords Dustin and Manderly, which he had only been recently made aware of, was the fact that House Dustin had come out of the Dance of the Dragons with a very valuable blade.

After the death of Roddy the Ruin, a blade had been delivered to his eldest son at the behest of Lord Cregan Stark. It was a blade that House Dustin had claim over when the Ruin defeated its wielder. Ethan Dustin gracefully accepted the blade. When his grandson was eight, Ethan Dustin sent him with the second son of Lord Torrhen Manderly to Qohor, where the boy learned the secrets of spellforging.

That boy grew up to be Corlyn Dustin, the third owner of a Valyrian Steel blade in the North and the only one with the knowledge to reforge it.

The Hightower had since lost its Vigilance, and none of their line knew where the blade had ended up. It was a secret most carefully guarded by the three Lords who knew about it and their heirs when they came of age.

"That still doesn't answer my question, Corlyn," father spoke softly, and Bran winced.

"And I couldn't answer it any further without meeting with the lad himself, my lord."

"You saw Greyjoy wield it, Rodrik, against someone with a… flaming sword?" Lord Stark asked instead.

"Aye. He was Volantene, one of the worshippers of R'hllor the Red God. The man stabbed himself in the heart with a dragonglass blade as he chanted some words, and his blade and fist lit up on fire." Grandfather said, and Lord Manderly and father just stared at him with wide eyes.

However, Bran was looking at Lord Corlyn, and he was surprised by the glimmer of recognition in his eyes.

"I remember fighting one of them. The Fiery Hand, they call themselves. He was good with a blade before he stabbed himself with the dagger. After that, he was even stronger and faster. More, much more than a normal man can be without the aid of magic."

"You are in the right, Dustin. Artos told me about them. Two of them had ended up at Hardhome, and he came across them while they were investigating the wildling threat. He said they had come looking for Dark Sister, and that it was supposed to be beyond the wall, where Bloodraven took it."

Lord Corlyn's nose wrinkled in distaste.

"Do not speak his name, Rodrik! A hundred curses on that bastard!" Lord Corlyn exploded, his chair flying back in a display of strength completely unexpected for a man nearing a hundred namedays.

"Apologies, Corlyn," his grandfather said, and Bran's eyes widened. He had never seen anyone speaking to the Wanderer like that, and he would never have expected his grandfather to apologize in such a manner.

He just looked around, and Lord Rickard and Lord Wyman were equally confused at the situation.

"If he hadn't taken the black, Artos was sure to have taken his head had he ever turned his eyes North," Rodrik Stark said, taking a gulp of his ale, "For he desecrated the old gifts with his misdeeds."

"Aye, the same way the Unifier took the head of the Warg King. But that is a conversation for another time. Back to the Greyjoy boy. You mean to tell us that he fought one of the Fiery Hand?" Lord Dustin asked.

"Aye. And the fight was quite unlike any other I've seen. Rickard," his grandfather turned to his father and continued, "Tell me, have you ever thought to use the spurs on your boots as a weapon?"

Bran shook his head; the spurs as a weapon? What madness?

"How could I even? Aren't they on the wrong side to do any damage?"

"Then imagine my surprise when I saw a boy of eight duck away from a swing, and rush a grown man. He abandoned his broken blade, threw his hands to the ground, and flung his spurred foot at his elbow."

Four pairs of eyebrows furrowed.

Rodrik Stark sighed and took a minute to try his best to recreate it using a piece of chalk on the table. Bran still didn't understand what exactly happened, but he never knew his grandfather to make fanciful tales. If anything, his true tales were more fanciful than most bards could come up with.

"If he is really that good, I would like to see him fight. Have you a clue if he is partaking in the tourney?" Father asked, and Bran nodded.

"He told us he would partake in the squire's melee and the horse race, but the race shall not happen because of the rain."

"Then we shall hope we see him in the squire's melee, if only to actually know what has Rodrik so impressed," Lord Dustin mused, stroking his white beard.

"Aye. I also heard Ryswell threw a fit when he heard about the horse race," Lord Stark asked.

"He's a spoiled lad who spent too much time down south with the Tarlys. Take my word for it, Bran, and tell your sons to never send a Northman to the Reach for fostering. No amount of food is worth a cunt of a Lord who doesn't understand the people he is ruling." Corlyn said.

"No need to be so harsh on the boy. One good beatdown will cull all his arrogance," his grandfather said.

"And who will be delivering the beating? I will not risk losing access to good horse just to discipline the boy, no matter how much I want to," Lord Dustin groused.

"Forget that, someone is bound to pound some sense into him. If anyone wants, they have leave to try their luck against him in the lists," Rickard waved away the concern. "Rodrik, now I'll have to ask you this with the safety of the North on the line."

Rodrik sat up in his chair, his ale mug forgotten.

"What do you suggest we do about Rodrik Greyjoy?"

All eyes on the table focused on the Wandering Wolf. He met each of their eyes, one by one.

"It isn't my place to make this suggestion, but if I were in your place, I'd wait till the end of the voyage, and invite Quellon and the remaining party to Winterfell. See how he acts around the children, and if there is any chance, bind our houses together."

A/N

Hey guys. Happy Holidays! I'd say sorry for the delay, but this one is just mainly because real life is both a bitch and too much fun sometimes.

I also received some comments about making chapters smaller if it helps the upload speed, but from my perspective, it makes it easier for me to introduce certain elements that need context and use a chapter to mark a whole day (at least) in terms of time progression. So, take a 14k+ chapter instead.

This was actually intended to be two chapters at one point, with the split being around where Ser Gerold tells Rodrik to come to sit with the King, but then I ended up combining them both.

In terms of the action, the fight might be small, but it was really difficult to put the image I had in my head into words that would sound right from the observers' perspectives. Think of the one against the Fiery Hand as a backward cartwheel, except in the forward direction [There is a reference on my profile for anyone who wants to watch it (I swear it's not a RickRoll)].

The one against Ser Gerold could only be executed because a) He wasn't actually attacking to kill, and b) He was caught off guard.

Now, these moves will only come sparingly from this point onwards, as it only takes a couple of displays of skill like this for people to anticipate your style. Jumping around like Spider-Man was what was in mind when writing this, along with a display of balance and a creative execution when not with a weapon that suits him. The next chapter will start off with the melee, and the one after that should be the last chapter in the Lannisport arc.

After that, it's lights out, and away we go on the voyage! There will be one new POV for both the upcoming chapters. Expect a prophecy as well - since we can't have a Tourney at Lannisport without one, obviously. That is all for now, and while I can't promise when the next chapter will be out, please don't lose hope haha.

Once again, a belated Merry Christmas and a Happy New Years in advance to everyone!