Rickard has knowledge that transcends time. Let's give him some competition.

Rickard XII

I had initially thought that Robb's departure would allow me some measure of freedom in Riverrun. Even if he hadn't precisely been overbearing and all too controlling, my experiment with Jaime Lannister meant that a large part of the trust he yet held in me vanished. Any hint of an act even partly disingenuous would've been met with intense scrutiny and observation. With him gone, that pressure ought to have vanished. Instead, my mother filled the role of watcher that my brother had vacated. Though I could not be sure of it, I was almost certain that Robb had had words with her, about me being under near-constant watch. It was... aggravating, to say the least. Thankfully, it also meant that Roslin and she spent much more time together, occupying both in a manner that would leave me free to do as I wished.

The training of my formation was going as well as could be expected, given that no near equivalent existed. Thus far, I had been working entirely off my memories and while the results had been surprisingly beneficial, I couldn't help but realize that the force I intended to emulate had been far more technologically advanced and the tactics I was making use of took that into account. My bastardised abomination would've been crushed against those I was trying to emulate. Thankfully, that possibility simply wasn't realistic in the least. I could only do my best, and with any luck, my best would be enough for the short term.

Edmure was difficult to deal with, that excitable child. I couldn't find any issue with him wanting to prove himself to his people, and I would even respect that drive. Unfortunately, I would only respect him as far as he kept out of my plans. Interference I simply could not brook, no matter his 'drive'.

Thankfully, my mother was most reluctant to go anywhere near the dungeons. At least to the levels I hid my curiosities in, Lannister being among them. That was not to say that the Kingslayer was mistreated, rather, it was quite the opposite. Jaime Lannister was afforded accommodations that were most certainly to those of his stature. This served to render him rather pliable and where once information was traded for a lessening of pain, it was traded in exchange before the threat of a regression of environs. The rest of those miserable souls held in the deepest levels of the dungeons were treated with a considerably smaller degree of patience and kindness.

You see, my fear of death had driven my earlier actions, and much of my earlier life. I would go as far as to declare that it likely would've driven the rest of my life. I would skulk from refuge to refuge, too afraid to seize power for fear of the target it would paint on my back. It would mean conceding power to lesser men and allowing myself to be controlled by those who had never themselves closed their eyes for the last time. I would never again return to the silence.

My manner of thinking changed following the Battle of the Green Fork. Seeing the thousands of bodies piled on top of each other, each of them departing for the silence birthed in me the most monstrous lust for despair. Not for my own, you understand, but that of those who had the temerity to stand against the will of a God. I was no God, but was I not the instrument of an Eldritch being? Was I not supreme against those who were products of imagination?

Was I not real?

The men I had in my employ were of a particular demeanour. Specifically, either that of a mercenary or a sadist. I didn't much mind which, only that their loyalty was to me. After all, I was aware of the advantages of having a cadre of hardened men loyal only to me. Satisfying their more depraved tendencies would serve to further tie them to me, and it was a simple enough matter. I had only had to commandeer some of the empty cells of the fortress and ensure the proper dispensation of gags. Loud noises did echo so very much.

Alyce I

She woke to a sharp light finding its way through the rafters and swore. She would need to tell Tom to have a look at it again. While it was fine on a sunny day, the hole would be hell to deal with when it rained. Best have it patched up when the weather was still good.

Tom had already fetched the water from the river, the good lad. It was numbingly cold but mercifully fresh, enough to throw off the remnants of sleep that still clung to her. The rest of the routine was followed with the barest hint of interest, each action doing nothing but adding to the never-ceasing boredom. Help with the baking, help with the food, help with the cleaning, help with this, help with that.

Seven hells.

Life was supposed to be fun; it was supposed to excite. Admittedly, her initial go being at it hadn't been quite as successful, given her somewhat gruesome end falling off a cliff face. Upon waking up and gaining some semblance of memory retention, it hadn't taken her long to understand just where she'd been flung. That moment of realisation stayed with her even now, some dozen years on. It had likely not been as pleasant as the memory she held in her head, but Alyce had always been one to look to the past with rose-tinted glasses.

Regardless, she would swear that the revelation had awoken within her a most exhilarated sense of adventure and wonder. Becoming a princess was likely not going to be possible given her exceedingly low birth, but why not some sort of Shield Maiden or the like? Travelling the Seven Kingdoms, righting evils and earning copious amounts of gold to spend on... whatever caught her interest. That goal had captured much of her earlier imagination. Any free moment was spent daydreaming or trying in some way to improve her body so as to be able to carry out the goal. Unfortunately for her, those in her small village were painfully set in their ways and customs, and while a small child being unusually precocious was met with smiles and cheerful exasperation, an older girl doing the same was met with intolerance and often enough, contempt. Even then, the goal stayed the same. Who cared for the opinion of some insignificant and petty-minded peasants. Most certainly not her. She was going to be rich, have her name known throughout the Kingdoms and all it would take was an opportunity. A singular chance to prove herself, and one she would take well. That much was certain.

And then she saw death.

She couldn't remember the day well. It might've been her mind's way of dealing with it, or some sort of subconscious response, but the fact of the matter was that much simply wasn't remembered about the day her father died. To her knowledge, it had by all accounts been a normal day. The routine had been unbroken and just as exhausting as always. Excitement was dying a whimpering death in some hovel by the Red Fork, and boredom reigned in an insurmountable fortress of dark stone lined with the skulls of all those it had claimed. The thought had been amusing yet proved to be morbidly prophetic.

The ragged man on the all-but dead horse was trying to shout something, but his voice had long abandoned him. A stranger entering the village was abnormal but no real danger. But a man on a horse with a bloody axe in his hand with the beast sprouting arrows all over its body? There was almost no question what man this was. This was a bandit. That much would've been obvious even if he wasn't followed by a large body of men similarly mounted on horses, all calling for his death.

Her father simply hadn't seen it coming. One moment he'd been... doing something? The details had faded from her mind. And the next he'd been lying on the ground with an axe buried in the back of his head, looking for all the world like a dead fish. The bandit had been thoroughly educated as to the consequences of his chosen career very quickly by the party of men after him.

There had been some manner of explanation from one of the knights to her mother, but Alyce hadn't paid much attention to any of it. Her awareness had been entirely focused upon her father's body, and the near statuesque appearance of it all. It was curious, but not nearly as curious as her sense of detachment, or that she had right there and then decided that her dreams were nothing more than an extraordinarily long flight of fancy. Her role in this life was to stay in this little village and live out her days in the middle of absolutely nowhere, far away from what she had initially craved. Time and a maturing mind brought with them a far more sober goal. One worthy of consideration and acceptance, if not realism.

Alyce wanted to go home. To go back.

"Alyce!"

Her mother's voice roused her from her obliviousness, and she hurried to where the sound had come from. Her mother was standing behind the inn counter, drying tankards with a worn cloth. Upon seeing her, a scowl erupted.

"What're you dawdling for, girl? Go on then, Becca's in the back with the oven."

And the boredom resumed.

These men were different. In accent and in clothing. They were quieter, gruffer and the furs they wore were simply too heavy for the climate. Her mother had almost noticeably paled when the men had first trooped in, but years of managing an inn had hardened her to strange men and uncommon occurrences. The fare they asked for and received was simple and warm, and more than enough to feed them. The men weren't impolite or excessively audacious, a fact that seemed to suit all within the establishment. Those few locals who were in seemed suspicious, but they always did. Thankfully, the organised nature of their arms seemed not to show any sign of banditry. Not that it would've mattered had the strange men truly been bandits. In that case, a large band such as this one would've likely wiped out the village in little to no time. So, the locals turned away, not quite satisfied but more certain in a continual keeping of the peace.

While most seemed content to ignore the band, a most intense sense of inquisition rose in the pit of Alyce's belly. She tried her best to ignore it, knowing that it could result in a tanned backside courtesy of her mother, who wielded her rags with unerring accuracy and a comprehensive knowledge of pain. But something within her pulled, yanked her towards curiosity. Something whispered to her, and it spoke of terrific opportunity and varied possibility. The whispers didn't explain what it all meant; they merely presented an offer. A choice between inquisition and cowardice.

And cowardice was boring.

Even then, it wasn't simply a matter of going up to the men and demanding from them all information about their activities and what they were doing here. It could likely lead to one of the men taking offence, and it didn't take any learned Maester to predict the consequences of that reaction. Fortunately for Alyce, Tom seemed just as curious as her.

"Are you the King's Men, then?"

The soldiers initially seemed to be startled by the interruption but quickly found a wry joy in the question, sharing small smiles and chuckles that seemed to be more like barks. It confused Tom, and most others in the vicinity. Finally, their humour seemed to subside and the oldest among them answered.

"Aye, lad. Sworn to King Robb."

This was far more baffling than any of their earlier behaviour. By all accounts, King Robert had died a long time ago, murdered by some Northern Lord. And these men declared their loyalty to him?

Upon noticing the bewilderment of the room, the man intervened.

"Robb Stark, from Winterfell."

And he must've said more, but Alyce's attention had faded, and reoriented on the musings of another time.

This chapter is only to introduce Alyce. Rickard will meet her soon enough.