Jon
"That sparring dummy's seen better days, hasn't it?"
Rather than respond, Jon Stark struck harder and harder at the straw dummy, straining his body, feeling with satisfaction of each cut, each swing his sword burying itself deeper into the wooden poles hidden beneath the matted straws. He'd wished no one would bother him, though as clarity returned to his mind, Jon realized that battering every dummy in the castle courtyard into oblivion was probably not the best way to go about for solitude. If anything, he ought be lucky it was Uncle Benjen who'd found him, and not the Lady of Winterfell.
"I'm sorry Uncle Benjen."
"Jon...Jon...," Benjen patted him on the shoulder, "sorry for what?"
The young ward surveyed the row of battered straw and wood.
"Ser Rodrik's going to have his hands full replacing these," Jon gestured, but his uncle merely smirked.
"Seems like you're going to have your hands full with Ser Rodrik soon. No need to apologize to me, Jon. Though I'd hope next time you feel frisky, rather than pounding your head in the sand out here by yourself, grab little Tommen and show him the way around a spar. He's getting to that age, you know."
"Aye, uncle," Jon said, relieved that his uncle wasn't mad at him. Though his heart still did not stand content, it beat easier now. Uncle Benjen always seemed to have a way with him, to calm him down, talk him off the ledge. "I'll try, though I won't force the boy."
"Someone's going to have to one day, him and Kendron both," Benjen said, eyes distant and sad. Wrapping his arm around his ward, the Lord of Winterfell walked the boy away from prying eyes. "Is it my wife again? I'll have a talk with her...don't think she'll listen, but I'll try anyway."
Jon shook his head. "The Lady Cersei's fine. She hasn't looked in my direction for quite a few moons now. I'd prefer it that way, really."
"We all do, I think." His uncle stopped walking, and look sadly at the gates leading out of his castle, his home, their home, whether all of Lord Benjen Stark's family wanted to be here or not. "You've heard the whispers, then."
"Aye," Jon admitted, after a brief moment of hesitation. "I overheard Ser Rodrik speaking with Maester Luwin earlier this morning." He looked his uncle in his dark blue eyes. "Is it true? The war? My fath...Rhaegar?"
Uncle's lips twitched nervously. "I don't know. No one knows. But the Queen...and her Council...they believe so."
The dark haired boy buried his head in his hands, this moment he'd dreaded his entire life cast as suddenly upon him as a midsummer's snow squall. Ever since he could remember, every day he trained with Ser Rodrik in the courtyard, Jon had pictured the day his cousin Robb would call him south and name him to his Kingsguard. They always had a natural affinity towards the other, Robb treating him more like a brother than a cousin whenever he came more, more so than the rest of their cousins in Winterfell. But all those dreams were had disappeared on the rocky shores of some gods forsaken islands like a dusting of summer snow. A strong Prince, then King, like Robb could afford to have the son of Rhaegar Targaryen by his side. But a girl like Sansa? It was much safer for her for Jon to stay north, and safer still for him to ride even further north.
"I can't...," Jon said, gasping for air, "I must..." A heavy huff, before he made his decision. "I'll ride north, to the Wall, tonight. I'll join the Watch, so he can't have me. So he can't use me to betray Sans...the Queen...to betray our family."
"You don't...," Benjen began immediately, puzzled by his young charge. He'd never brought the subject of the Night's Watch to his uncle before, though he'd thought about it many a night. Jon had always assumed that as sad as he would be at such a fate for his nephew, Benjen had also been resigned to it since his the day his other uncle, the King Eddard Stark, First of his Name, first brought him north to Winterfell. So it surprised him, uncle's hesitation at the mention.
"Is it...do you not trust the Lord Commander?"
"I wouldn't say...the Watch is the Watch." He'd never seen uncle so solemn nor still...not even while he bore the torment of Lady Cersei's occasional...well, more than occasional...bouts of indignity towards her lord husband. Finally, the Lord of Winterfell looked his blue eyes back at Jon. "I know you Jon. You don't need to join the Watch, for me to trust you. If Rhaegar wants you, he'll have to come to Winterfell and take you." Uncle's hands balled into two fists. "I'd be happy for him to try."
Again, Jon was reminded of why he agonized so, looking into the eyes of this sad man...the closest thing to a father he'd ever known, and seeing the cost Rhaegar Targaryen had reaped from him so cruelly...a father, a sister...and now, both his elder brothers. What did it feel like, Jon wondered, to be the last surviving child of Lord Rickard Stark?
"I'm sorry, uncle," he gasped. "I don't mean to plague you with my troubles, you have enough to worry about already."
He felt Benjen's grip against the back of his neck, even as he watched uncle's eyes grow swollen with redness. He wouldn't cry, Jon thought. If he didn't cry the day he heard the news, he won't cry now. He'll be strong. Far stronger than I.
"Your troubles are my troubles," uncle whispered to him. "Not because they're the realm's troubles, but because you know you're as much of a son to me as Tommen and Kendron, don't you know that, Jon? As much Rykka and Myrcella, you're my own child."
"I'm a bastard," he muttered, ignoring the forlorn look upon his uncle's face as he spoke. "No better than one..."
Uncle struck him. It was rare, he'd only done it on the worst occasions, when Jon had let his temper get the better of him.
"My brother brought you back to Winterfell," Benjen snarled, yet cried as he spoke. "My brother...he wasn't just my King, he was my brother, my last surviving sibling. I was but a child, and you were a babe, wrapped in a blanket knit with the sigils of stars and suns...my brother...my King, he knelt before me, he begged me to raise you as my own, before I'd even had a wife, or my own children..."
"I'm sorry, uncle..."
"Don't you say such things again, Jon. Don't insult me, don't insult Ned...Lyanna...we are Starks...you are a Stark..."
Jon nodded. "I swore, from my earliest memories, to defend my King." The man who brought him north, before he'd ever had a memory. The large man, the cold man Jon remembered from the King's few visits to Winterfell...the good man who, when Eddard Stark talked to him, he spoke to him almost as if Jon were his own child, he remembered. Rather than a bastard legitimized belatedly after the fact.
"You may get your opportunity soon," Benjen cautioned, his face suddenly stone again, the cold, hard Lord of Winterfell.
"Queen Sansa summons us," Jon asks. Uncle nodded in return.
"Her Regency Council believes Jon Connington will lead the Greyjoys south of the Neck. We ride south within a fortnight, gather with all the northern bannermen at Moat Cailin, and defeat the invader wherever he seeks battle."
Looking at his sword, gleaming against the late afternoon sun, Jon Stark would swear before all the northern and southern gods, gods either side of his blood would have worshiped, "aye, and I will serve the North, Lord Stark. I will serve my Queen, I will serve my family...my true family."
Uncle looked at him, his dark blue eyes measuring his words as Jon had never recalled in his short life, and he wondered whether the Lord of Winterfell truly trusted him, despite all his protestations of the fact. Because of who his father was, because of the poison in his blood, borne from hundreds of years of Valyrian tradition...Jon was not ignorant, he knew that many of his own people in the North would wish him dead, or at least locked up or vowed out and harmless atop the Wall. Certainly Lady Cersei. But Uncle Benjen was giving him a chance, and he would be grateful, he would not let him down.
And uncle's face remained grave in spite of all his pledges. "There'll be war soon," the Lord of Winterfell proclaimed. "It's an awful thing, but better war than surrender to the enemy. I do trust you, Jon...but you've never seen war. It'll be awful, it won't be anything you've ever seen..."
"I'll be ready," Jon swore.
"You'll march with us, as far as Moat Cailin." Benjen turned away from him, his expression as grim as Jon has ever seen. "You understand though, don't you? If you choose to march further south, and give battle...were the worst to happen you understand your true duty to your family, your Queen, don't you?"
Jon nodded, needing no reminder of what's plagued his mind ever since he'd heard the news of the King's death.
Fight, to the very end. Die, before being captured.
"I do."
Catelyn
Queen Dowager.
What strange words. Occasionally in her life Catelyn Stark had expected to outlive her husband, because he was older, if only by a few years. And because men fought, while most women, whether a Queen or miller's wife, prayed to one set of gods or another while their husbands raised swords in the name of their King. Or, in the case of her husband, the actual king, to the throne and crown which had taken over his life since practically the first day of their marriage.
But widowhood Cat had always imagined a sweeter pill, sitting bittersweet but content a gray haired matriarch, proudly looking upon a brood of children and grandchildren, at a son, strong and grown, sitting on the throne that was his due, because of the wars of his father...and her father. The Dowager Queen would have felt satisfied to rest, her mind at peace, knowing that Robb would have been ready for his inheritance, his duty...and he would need little need of protection from his mother.
But Sansa...Cat's heart broke whenever she saw her daughter now, an innocent child whose childhood had just been forever robbed from her. Seeing the trepidation in her eyes, her fear, her complete unpreparedness for a burden she'd never expected to receive, one which Sansa's parents had never thought of preparing her for...the Queen Dowager would blame herself for her negligence...except how could anyone ask a mother to so surely anticipate the death of her eldest son?
And so many precious years with Robb wasted, with that fruitless trip to Dorne.
So today, sitting in the throne room with her father, Petyr, and all the rest, she would try her best to protect Sansa from all the horrors of the world, because Cat knew in her heart the price of failure...that it would mean not just the death of her daughter, but herself, and probably the remainder of her children, her father...by the gods, even her little nephew Robin. Three great houses, wiped out by the enemies her father and husband had made for them, while Cat herself was a little girl, married to a strange young boy for the sake of the throne she sat in now.
"Lord Tyrion," the Dowager Queen heard her daughter shakily whisper, "Lord Kevan...the Crown welcomes you to King's Landing."
"Your Grace," the older, uncle of the Lord of Casterly Rock bowed properly.
"Your Grace," the Lord of Casterly Rock repeated, rather graciously, Catelyn thought. From what she'd heard of the Imp Lord of the West, she would've expected him to be hiccuping as he knelt, scents of fermented grapes and other, fouler scents violating her daughters nostrils the moment the Half Man opened his mouth. "My condolences on your father, Queen Sansa. He came through Casterly Rock on his way to deal with the Greyjoys. His Grace seemed...a good man...a fine warrior...he did not deserve his death amongst those pirates."
Perhaps it was just a product of her lowered expectations, but Cat thought the Imp almost handsome, his square jaw evenly balanced and eyes earnest for a creature such as his kind. But then she remembered what her father always warned her about the Lannisters...that the lions were always beautiful...and their fangs always twice as deadly.
Even their imps.
"Lord Tyrion," the Queen Dowager spoke, as agreed by the Small Council, "they say you are a clever man."
The young lord shrugged. "Many people say many things, Your Grace. I've long learned to ignore the opinions of others, good or ill. Though, as you can surely imagine, my fair Queen...ahem, my fair Queens, such gossip I hear regarding my own fair lordship tends to be biased towards the latter."
"Were you clever enough to know of the Targaryen conspiracy with the Greyjoys," her goodbrother Jon asked more harshly from next to her. "Your king died, less than two fortnights after he was your guest in Casterly Rock. Did you know, were you already planning to betray him then?"
"Your Grace, Lord Arryn, I assure you..."
The Half Man protested, as they'd all expected, this tired charade that her daughter would need not only to watch, but to master one day. As if Cat herself was any master of the games around her husband's throne, or Ned for the matter, else he and their firstborn son would still be alive.
"Our defenses are ready," Kevan Lannister added. "Even as Lord Tyrion and I stand before you now, the bannermen of the west are prepared to resist the invaders."
"Lord Gawen Westerling leads your men," Sansa asked, her voice sounding less timid than before.
"He does," Tyrion replied, intelligent eyes studying his new Queen, though to what ends, Cat could not guess. "He's a fine man, Your Grace, and a good leader of men."
"Lord Gawen met Stannis Baratheon on his march back east," Kevan said. "They've coordinated the defensive strategies of the Westerlands before Stannis departed."
"There won't be any need for the defenses of the Westerlands," Jon Arryn scoffed, still not trusting the two lions before them, Cat believed.
"Connington has landed his men further north," Petyr said.
"North," Tyrion asked, his surprise seemingly genuine. "Where north?"
"North of Seagard," Renly said, seated with the Council despite his dismissal, because of sweet little Sansa's compassion, though as Jon and father reminded her, there was the practical consequence of her daughter's actions, in that at least the man remained to act as Master of Whispers without wearing the title, until his replacement was named. "By way of the Cape of Eagles."
"With up to thousand Dornishmen," Petyr added, the words sending a chill down her spine, "along with Unsullied mercenaries of the east."
"I assume Stannis is marching to meet them," Tyrion said, his small, beady eyes moving and glaring at the thin air above the table, as if he were picturing a map of Westeros in his head.
"He is, along with the Knights of the Vale," Hoster said. And the men of the Riverlands, Cat knew, but they did not trust the Lannisters with that much detail just yet. "But Stannis's armies are tired, they barely escaped the Iron Islands alive, and they've been fighting or marching nonstop ever since the war began."
The smaller Lannister raised an eyebrow skeptically towards the table, as if he actually belonged here with the rest of them. "I assume this is where you'll be asking for our help."
"We shouldn't have to ask," Cat replied crossly, "it's your duty to your Queen and your crown." Ned never chided her, the few times she found herself impatient with all the subtleties of court, that had been Jon's job, but she'd always assumed the words came from her husband all the same. She knew the necessity of all the politics, better than Ned, if she were to be honest with herself, the fact that he was more reserved with his impatience more a testimony to his cold, northern nature rather than his actual temperament, but as she held her tongue from far worse before these strangers just now, Cat reminded herself that this was not for her sake, but for Sansa's, and her siblings'.
"I understand relations between the Crown and the Westerlands have been estranged since the Rebellion," Archmaester Ebrose offered, trying to be helpful.
"Yes, after you banished our lords and heirs to oblivion," Kevan muttered, more to himself, but audible to all the Council and its Queen.
"Tywin Lannister is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," Petyr reminded all gathered, "and his son Jaime First Ranger. Be it at the edge of the world, I'd hardly call such...honors...oblivion."
A subtle reminder of the past, and warning regarding the present. Ned had been wary of all the lions he'd placed in exile taking up so much power so close to Winterfell. The Watch was the Watch, and oaths were oaths, but he'd always intended a trip to the Wall to check the Lannisters...after the Greyjoys were dealt with. A darker thought haunted her mind, whether or not somehow Tywin Lannister could have allied with Rhaegar and the other traitor houses to betray her husband. It was not impossible. Though she'd never met the man, her father had always spoke of his erstwhile rival with the utmost respect, if given warily, and Cat wondered whether the man who'd inspired songs before the age of twenty in extinguishing two entire houses, women, children, and servants alike, would not be above betraying a King from afar...especially considering how his son already stabbed one in the back in cold blood.
"Lord Tyrion is Lord Tywin's proper heir," they all heard the Queen speak. "He sits in Casterly Rock, he resides not in oblivion...so I'm confused as to your choice of words, Lord Kevan...unless you still don't see Lord Tyrion as the proper heir to Lord Tywin?"
It was all delivered so perfectly, so innocently...and completely unrehearsed; Cat couldn't help but beam a small gesture of pride at her daughter. Both Sansa and Bran were clever, in their own ways, it was true. And while both children were very shy, the Queen Dowager couldn't but help wonder whether Bran would've ever found the courage to speak aloud his more contentious thoughts, especially while he remained a child. Perhaps that was why father pushed for her, she wondered.
Chastened, the entire Council watched as Kevan Lannister face retreat from its prior position of boldness.
"I mean no offence, Your Grace. King Eddard's justice was fair, I do not question it."
"You yourself have benefited from the late King's justice, have you not, Lord Warden?"
Petyr asked this with a grin. It had been an unspoken agreement with the other regents that little Petyr Baelish, born from the lowest house amongst them, seated upon the lowest position on the Small Council, would engage in the grubby, so called horse-trading aspects of the Council that men like Jon Arryn or even her father looked down upon, necessarily as it was to secure Sansa's throne. Not that Petyr minded, Catelyn surmised, her lifelong friend always eager to help the Crown in whichever way possible, and the Queen Dowager well knew that one did not rule with clean hands. Ned had tried, certainly, but to survive, for the sake of all her children, Cat had to force herself to confront the fact that her husband had tried...then failed.
"It's an honor," the older lord replied, the eyes of all upon him, including the Half Man's. "I do my duty."
"Did you," her father asked querulously. "Did you support your King, when his life was in peril on Pyke?"
"The King did not call my banners to Pyke," Kevan stuttered uneasily, "I did not know His Grace's life was in peril, until it was too late. By the time we heard of the trap, our ships would have been destroyed had we tested the Dornish fleet."
They all watched Tyrion watching his uncle, awaiting his reaction. Would he betray his kin now? Would be true to his Lannister colors? "I'm no expert on military matters," Tyrion finally ventured, fingers tapping nervously against the far end of the table, "but I do believe it a miracle my uncle was able to get Stannis and his army back safely onto the mainland."
"And the Warden of the West has the Crown's gratitude," Sansa said, her delicate voice confident. This particular assurance hadn't been planned beforehand, but it would seem her daughter was learning the where, what, and when in asserting herself in such discussions, Cat realized with a growing sense of pride.
"Lord Tyrion," Petyr continued, but not before first giving Sansa an almost fatherly look of support, "you are satisfied with your Uncle's position as Warden?"
The decision had been temporary then, to name Tywin Lannister's younger brother the Warden to the West while Tyrion was still a child, and Catelyn supposed that the state of affairs had yet to change because...well, the little Lord Paramount in Casterly Rock never thought to ask for his other title back. And rather than confront the issue, Ned decided to ignore it, as he seemed apt to do with all things concerning the Westerlands since sending their lord and heir to the Wall. Was it guilt, Cat had always wondered, that his pronouncement had been too harsh at the time, which held him back, because though she wasn't about to entirely trust the two Lannisters gathered before her, she did believe the older man's claim of loyalty.
Or perhaps it was pride, her late husband insistent to the end that he did not need the help of the kingdom he'd once spurned in putting down the Greyjoy Rebellion. If so, then certainly he would not be the first king to die because of pride, yet it seemed ever so unfair to Cat, the cruelty that the humblest, least arrogant man perhaps to ever sit on the Iron Throne would still be susceptible to its poisons.
The Half Man answered Petyr's question thoughtfully. "It's a peculiar situation, but not without precedent. I familiar with the histories of all the wars and battles, of this land, to be sure. But I'm not a knight, I'm not much with a sword, or hammer, or any peculiar weapon, really." His little eyes looked about the table nervously, perhaps searching for an invisible glass of wine. "I'm sure the lords of the west will abide by their vows, if necessary. But I'm sure they'd much prefer to abide by my uncle's command in the field, particularly now, while we're at war."
"And your oaths to your Queen," Petyr continued, "they remain true."
"By the grace of the Seven," Kevan answered first, "they do, Your Grace, Lord Baelish."
All their eyes turned to Tyrion, who merely shrugged. "I suppose I'll be loyal, Your Graces. I've never had much a taste for treason...the whole concept's a bit of a reach for me, to be honest."
Cat turned to her father first, upon hearing this puzzling response from the man, but Hoster Tully's eyes merely danced nonchalantly, as if he were holding his face sternly in order to hold back a bout of laughter.
"They say you're a clever man," Renly said, his voice pleasant despite the matter at hand. "They say you train your eyes through day and night on endless books and tomes." The Dowager Queen grit her teeth at the sound of his voice, she would admire Renly's composure, were she not still bitter that his failures had caused the deaths of her husband and firstborn.
"They aren't wrong."
"Well," Renly said, standing, bowing before the dwarf, before handing him a small seal, "I hope your ears are as well trained as your eyes, Lord Tyrion."
The small man's eyes widened as he understood the import of the gesture. Was it natural, or feigned? Lannisters could be cruel, but could they be outright actors?
"The Queen and her Council offer you the position of Master of Whispers, Lord Tyrion," Jon Arryn said sternly, making the offer on behalf of his Queen. He then turned to Kevan, without waiting for even an acceptance from their new colleague. "As your nephew will be occupied with his new duties in the capital, Lord Kevan will remain the Warden of the West for the foreseeable future, and he will assist the crown in the war against the Targaryen invaders."
As the mismatched twin lions of the west offered their acceptance and gratitude, Cat noticed Petyr observing her keenly, rather than their guests, one eyebrow raised skeptically at his childhood friend.
"I've heard little remarkable about Lord Kevan," she had remarked to him, after the Council, which was to say, Jon and her father, had already decided upon their course of action. "He's true to his wife, he keeps to the Seven. But the Half-Man...the things they say of him...can we trust the Lannisters, Petyr?"
"We can trust no one," Petyr had replied.
Yet, the Queen Dowager had no choice, with the war so close.
Varys
He'd expected the Prince to make some silly dramatic gesture upon landing on the shores of the country where he was born. Perhaps he'd raise his sword mightily into the air after stepping foot onto the rocky shores of Massey's Hook, or perhaps bend down to touch thoughtfully the thin strip of sand bordering this surprisingly pacific bend of the Narrow Sea. But Viserys did none of that, merely striding arrogantly over the terrain as if it'd belonged to him and him alone, as if he'd been a prince of this land all his life, in fact as well as in name. And while Varys knew the stupidity of such dramatics as well as any man, acting was not an entirely useless tool to be possessed by a Prince, if only to show the people he led that he cared, that he possessed the same human qualities, wants and yearnings and urges, that they all shared.
"Lord Anders Yronwood of Dorne," the burly chested exile of Bear Island whispered to Viserys as they greeted the small army after several days marching down the Wendwater.
"Lord Anders," Viserys said, raising one hand forward so that the lord could kiss the ruby ring perched upon his finger, as if he himself were the King rather than his older brother. Varys had thought to chide him on such ostentatious displays with the lords, but figured he'd save his breath for more important battles with the prince.
"Dorne stands with you, my Prince," Anders replied, his frame larger than even Ser Jorah's.
"Good to hear," Viserys said. "I can't say I'm surprised, Lord Anders, nearly six and ten years of continued treason must weigh heavily upon the soul..."
"It is good to see you are well," Varys interrupted hastily, "my good lord."
"Lord Spider," Anders grunted. Varys did not expect the warrior knight to like him, few of their kind did, but most were smart enough to understand their inherent need for the services only he could offer.
"I see many of the flags of Dorne in the field below," Varys remarked, squinting his eyes at the sight of the small army from atop the hill they gathered upon. "But where is the falling star of House Dayne?"
Anders Yronwood sneered in contempt. "Lord Edric is a boy, and squire to Beric Dondarrion. When Beric called the Marcher lords north to join Stannis, the boy called his bannermen to join them in turn."
"A troubling absence," Varys said, thinking out loud, calculating the arithmetics of their accounting without one of the more powerful houses in Dorne.
"Traitors," Viserys spat angrily. "I assure you, they'll be dealt with after the war, Lord Anders. And Starfall is quite a prize to be had, a fitting reward for a deserving soldier."
"You have a son," Varys asked, the implication clear, "do you not...Cletus, if I remember?"
"Your memory serves you well," the gruff Dornishman affirmed. "He shipped with Prince Oberyn and Lord Connington north to Pyke. We will see each other again below the gates of King's Landing.
"In time," Varys said softly, but with as much authority as he could muster in his voice.
"Or no time at all," Anders replied, grinning proudly. His accent was less pronounced than most Dornishmen he'd known, Varys mused as he listened. "We caught a scouting party south of here two days ago, the Errols and the Evenstar's bannermen, marching north to King's Landing. We whipped the advance scouts, found their main army, and drove them back to the sea! The road to the Blackwater ought be clear from here, my Prince."
"Good," Varys said dismissively. "I hope the roads west to Fawnton ring just as clear."
"Fawnton," Anders replied, confused and more than a little miffed, Varys thought, at having his modest conquests so casually dismissed. "Why Fawnton? That's the opposite direction!"
"A capital does not make a crown, my good Lord. To win Seven Kingdoms, we must win the seven kingdoms, or at least as much of them as possible. The Lannisters, the Tyrells..."
"Fuck the Tyrells," Anders spat into the ground, the Dornishmen he led nodding approvingly.
"Yes, the Tyrells, I'm afraid His Grace will need them to rule the Reach. And if not them, then perhaps the Tarly's, or the Hightowers, or even the Fossoways...but regardless, those houses, and the bannermen they'd bring with them to our cause, lie in the direction of Fawnton, and beyond."
Noting Anders's displeasure, watching the thick necked knight turning away from Varys in the direction of Viserys and Ser Jorah, Varys was keen to emphasize, "these orders come directly from the King, my good lord."
"Is this true?"
"It is," Viserys answered rather reluctantly, staring at the ground. "We're to avoid King's Landing until we have a larger army."
"The plan is to make a tour of the Reach and the Westerlands," Ser Jorah continued, explaining to the Dornish lord, "gathering support where we can, fending off the King's enemies where we can, piecemeal, before they can gather and gain in numbers combined."
He was a valuable asset, Varys thought, a clear headed leader who did as well as anyone in keeping the Prince's temperament under control, save Rhaegar. A mainstay in the King's court abroad, Jorah Mormont had sailed ahead of time, first to Driftmark, escorting the Velaryon men and ships down to the Wendwater Bay, then ferrying the armies of the Crownlands, Rosby's, Rykker's, and Hoggs south to be the first to meet the small contingent of Targaryen loyalists landed from Pentos, a modest force by itself consisting of a few hundred exiled knights, and a few thousand more mercenaries of the Golden Company.
"Prince Oberyn and Lord Connington will march south between the Blue Fork and the Green Fork. They should have landed many fortnights ago, and Stannis has probably marched directly from Kayce to meet them."
"I'd venture to guess that the Queen's Council expected us to invade further north," Jorah continued where Varys left off, "by Maidenpool, so as to cut off the Neck from the south. But Stannis's attentions will be divided, until he's heard of the invasion here. With any luck, he'll be doomed by indecision."
"If Oberyn and Connington see an opportunity," Varys said, "they'll give battle. If not, they'll gather what support they can in the Crownlands, avoiding battle but pushing ever closer to King's Landing. This buys us time to ascertain the support of the South and West whilst we march near the Mander, where provisions will be bountiful. We will then sweep north, bypass King's Landing, cross the Upper Blackwater, and approach the Crownlands from southeast of the Stoney Sept."
"Bypass King's Landing," Anders asked impatiently. "Even if we gather a hundred thousand men from the Reach and the Westerlands?"
"The objective's not the enemy's capital, and a costly siege," Jorah answered calmly, "but to wipe out the enemy's armies. We'll have Stannis caught between two large armies somewhere between Harrenhal, Darry, and Duskendale."
"Connington's men and Oberyn's five thousand will also fend off any approach from the North. But it'll take time for them to gather, first to Winterfell, then to march south. We ought have Stannis and the core of the Queen's banners defeated by then, and the country will see through the tides of war who really rules the realm in fact. If Benjen Stark is foolish enough to give battle, so be it. If the people of King's Landing see another way through suffering a painful siege destined for defeat...so be it too."
It did not please his stomach, the idea of a riotous mob storming the Red Keep and presenting the spoiled Prince standing before them the head of a little girl, below the gates of King's Landing...but war was war. And better one innocent girl than tens of thousands of men, women, and children, innocent or not.
"It's an interesting plan," Anders said, pacing the ground below as he contemplated what they'd told him. "It might work. But it's too complicated."
"Wars are not won by a single battle, Lord Anders," Varys said. While the Dornishman was being trying, he was far from the worst Varys had encountered, the Spider's reserves of patience far closer to infinite than most. "And I expect there will be more complications to come, ones we have no way of anticipating here and now, where we stand.
"The Usurpers' Rebellion wasn't complicated," Anders countered. "I doubt Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon had any grand plans in mind, they just charged ahead, and won battles, until they reached the capital."
"You're not wrong," Varys said, his voice as calm as ever. "But they had the benefit of a King who'd turned most the country against him, marching through lands who saw in the Iron Throne an old man mad and cruel, rather than an innocent child. The girl Queen Sansa may be weak, but she paints a most sympathetic figure, and while many may plot against her afterwards, in a time of peace, they'll find it shockingly easy to rally behind her in the meantime against foreign invaders...until we've convinced them, of course, and not with swords alone, but with patient words, the promise of a just reward...and more swords behind said words and promises by the day."
It was clever, Varys had to admit to himself, for the Small Council to appoint the most southern of Eddard Stark's children...boy or girl, as the late King's heir. He knew better than most that such reasoning as he'd named had been behind her coronation, though not the only reason. And had Ned Stark and his eldest son somehow managed to die simultaneously during a time of peace, without the cloud of an impending Targaryen invasion, they would have most assuredly named the girl's younger brother to the throne.
"These are the orders of your King," Jorah said, stepping forward threateningly when Anders Yronwood did not respond. "Do you deny them?"
"No," the burly man finally answered, and surprisingly, a hearty laugh emerged from his lungs upon a face still bearing traces of youth. Anders clapped Jorah on the back, a gesture of appreciation only one seasoned warrior could give to another. "Well, let's get on with it then."
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Notes & Responses: No Jon in the first few chapters, but we finally see him now. Everything is different...yet everything seems similar. As for Rhaegar...I'll just say that fourteen years of exile and mulling over his slaughtered children probably hasn't improved his moral bearings...though he still seems a lot more even headed than someone like Viserys. And he's certainly looking to be a better guardian figure for Dany compared to Viserys, even as he will certainly seek to marry her off for his political benefit.
Happy Holidays to all, and Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah to those who celebrate either!
