Trystane

They were finally marching. His uncle did not seem happy about it, but Trystane knew enough about the world to know that this thing they called duty, to your family, to your liege lords, princes, and kings, was not something that would always be agreeable to even the most powerful of men. Oberyn had received a raven from Anders Yronwood, Cletus's father, and Connington one from the man they called the Spider. If Trystane had to guess, neither chose to share the contents of their letter with the other, but both had agreed that whatever news they'd received, it had offered enough affirmation for both men to agree towards the continuation of their war.

Shouts echoed from one end of the woods to the other.

"Form up!"

"In formation!"

"Enemy approaching!"

They'd all been on high alert, marching through what uncle called the Gauntlet, a narrow strip of land with Seagard to the south and the Twins to the north. Presumably the Spider had sent entreaties to both houses demanding their support, and presumably said entreaties remained unanswered, as both Oberyn and Jon expected hostilities from either direction. Even if they passed the Gauntlet, Trystane remembered, uncle still worried about a rearguard attack, while Jon seemed less concerned, believing most of the enemy bannerman would have already marched south to join Stannis's main army.

"They'd be fools to attack us head on, with a lesser force," Jon Connington had said, though it would appear such foolishness was on its way in materializing.

"What if it's the Northmen," Trystane cried out softly, racing his steed to keep up with his uncle's.

"Impossible," Oberyn shook his head. "Unless the Spider's completely wrong, they've only begun marching south from Moat Cailin."

"A silver eagle," Jon Connington cried out, the first of the enemy flags finally visible through a small clearing in the trees towards the fields below them. "House Mallister!"

"Any Frey banners," Oberyn asked.

"No sign."

"We can't neglect our left."

"Aye, we'll leave the Unsullied in the reserve," Connington said, agreeing with his uncle for once. "Prince Oberyn, take your cavalry to meet their horses. Send riders back once you've ascertained their numbers and positions, I'll lead the Crownland banners against their right. Once we have them pinned, send in the Second Sons to finish them off."

It all seemed easy enough to Trystane, whose heart yet filled with fear at the thought of the oncoming battle. Rearing his horse to follow his uncle, he was secretly relieved when Oberyn waved him off.

"Stay here with the Unsullied," Oberyn instructed, his horse already riding towards the front of the battle. He pointed to a man who appeared to be the leader of the mercenary company, whose name translated itself roughly into something like Ratbag in the common tongue. "If the battle's lost, ride back west, the way we came, get on one of those ships and tell them to sail you straight back to Sunspear!"

"Where's the enemy right anyway," Trystane asked Roger Hogg, one of the knights from the Crownlands who was about to join Connington's attack, but the young man shrugged as he donned his helmet and readied his lance.

"Hells if I know, all these woods look the damn same."

Left to himself and a few hundred strangers who spoke an even stranger language, Trystane could only watch as the dust cleared, the trees ahead of him began to shake, and the screams of rage, and pain, and dying men flew through the woods like birds and squirrels escaping a brutal brush fire. He could hear what appeared to be shouts of triumph on the far side of the woods, below the small hill where Connington had led his knights, and prayed to the Warrior that it was not the enemies exclaims that were hitting his ears. Closer by, down the small creek where his uncle and his men had disappeared, Trystane found himself too fearful for even prayer. The clash of swords appeared to sound further away in that direction, and he could only guess at what was happening in those distant woods up the hill.

It took him a few seconds before he saw the waters of the creek running red, followed by an unsteady trickle of swords, broken lances, and soon enough, fragments of armor that caused Trystane to look away, terrified of what could lie underneath those pieces of shattered metal. Then they heard the sounds of drums and hooves emanating from the right of where Oberyn had taken the Dornish banners, and Trystane could only hold his bowels as firmly as possible while Big Tom Velaryon, the old knight commanding the remaining Unsullied and Golden Company, buckled his horse back and forth across their small line astride the road where they'd formed their defensive positions.

"Hold your ground," he ordered, yelling back and forth as the Unsullied raised their spears in an almost unnatural uniform action, while the men of the Golden Company all unsheathed their swords and held up their shields.

"Boy," Big Tom growled, and it took a moment for Trystane to realize that he was yelling at him, "either fight or git the fuck out th'way!"

Without thinking, Trystane pulled out his sword, and instantly felt the weight of the weapon in his hands. Would he be able to swing it? He'd had his sparring lessons back in the Water Gardens, but Trystane had never wielded his glistening new sword on the back of a horse.

"Shit, shit, shit," the boy mumbled, feeling his arm shaking. Before he'd realized what he was doing, Trystane was pulling the reins of his mount and riding as swiftly as he could through two columns of Unsullied towards tree cover behind their lines. As he fled, he could hear some of the Westerosi knights chuckling at him. Certainly his uncle would be disappointed in him, if either of them survived the day, and Connington would laugh...except, uncle had told him to run, hadn't he? Wasn't he merely following orders?

"Nock," he could hear the knights yelling faraway now, from the front of the battle, and he rode past the Golden Company archers just as they let loose the first rounds of arrows high through the sky, which meant that the enemy was within view for many of them by now, that the ground he'd stood upon just minutes before had become part of the same battleground which may have already consumed his uncle.

The rest of the battle he craned his neck and tried to discern the logic above the din. After some time, he thought it wasn't just his imagination that saw the slow but steady forward movement of the Unsullied columns in the enemy's direction, the rearmost of foreign mercenaries following the men in front of them. From across the field he heard more horses, more huzzahs, which he could only guess that meant that the battle was being decided one way or another.

As the disciplined lines of the Unsullied scattered, clashing wave after wave against the enemy, Trystane dared to see the yellow banners of his own house, and below them, the golden robes of its Prince stained by blood, body contorted impossibly upon his horse, spearing through enemy knights left and right with nary a piece of armor on him.

What kind of man he is, Trystane could only think in awe. And what a pathetic coward am I.

Trumpets blew, and Trystane saw the last of the enemy soldiers surrendering as he rode towards the front of the line, where the return of Jon Connington and his knights completed what looked to be an encirclement of the few hundred surviving soldiers.

Pointing his sword at a young quivering man who, judging by his armor, appeared to be a lord, or at least a lord's son, Jon Connington questioned him, his gruff voice hoarse by the end of the battle.

"Do you surrender and bend the knee to King Rhaegar of House Targaryen?"

"You're an invader, Connington." Trystane could see the fear in the blue orbs of the pale faced boy as he replied, yet his words held more courage than what was imaginable to Trystane. "No one wants you here, you or your foreign savages. I will die, we will all die for House Stark, our beloved Queen, and for House Tully. Curse you...I curse all of you, for breaking the peace we've been blessed with, for bring war and suffering and pain to our homes and..."

"Fine then," Connington interrupted. He looked around at his knights, and at Oberyn. "In the name of King Rhaegar, First of His Name...I sentence you to die."

Swinging the gigantic Valyrian blade the man had taken from the late King Eddard, Jon Connington separated with one stroke the head from the neck of the young blue eyed lordling with a strength Trystane could not guess the potbellied man possessed, and in an instant, they all followed, cutting down the weaponless men, swords at their feet, many with their hands still raised in the air. Even his uncle, Trystane saw him stab his spear ruthlessly from behind through the necks of several of the men close to him, before Trystane turned away from the grisly sight.

"I don't understand," he'd said, after they made camp that night, not too far from the massacre from earlier that day. "They surrendered to us."

The march hadn't been long after the battle, and Trystane thought that he could still hear the howling of the crows and vultures feasting themselves upon the carrion they'd left behind them.

"It's war, my young Prince. They surrendered, but they do not kneel. Let them go, and they'll come back and try again, they'll march south to join Stannis...it's us or them, there's no other choice."

The attack had began initially as a scouting party of House Mallister, most of whom had apparently already marched south towards the main Stark army near Harrenhal. Panicking upon stumbling into their army, the young lord, a boy named Jaquil of only nineteen years of age, chose to fight rather than run, and rallied his entire squadron to make battle, despite being outnumbered nearly six or seven to one.

"I ran," Trystane admitted, though surely his uncle already knew this. "When the battle began...I don't know what came over me..."

"Fear," his uncle stated plainly, though Trystane thought the older man did not appear angry or disappointed in him. "We're all afraid, deep down inside, every one of us."

There was fear in the boy's eyes, before he died. There was fear in his eyes as he cursed all of them, staring at Jon Connington, and yet his blue eyes also upon himself as the dying man spoke, Trystane thought.

"Was Lord Jaquil afraid, when he decided to fight us?"

"Probably," Oberyn said with a shrug, cleaning carefully the blood off the tip of his weapon. "I was older than he, when the Usurpers' war began, and twice your age at that." He patted his nephew on the shoulder. "You're still a child. Some children become accustomed to war quicker than others. But you'll learn. By the time you get to the age of that brave young man, you'll still be just as afraid, but your heart will have learned how to push it down, and your muscles will have learned to act and ride and fight, no matter how afraid your heart tells you you are."

He didn't reply, because he had doubts whether that would ever be true for him. And he also doubted whether he wanted to be such a man, so eager to slaughter other young men who've dropped their swords, in the name of a king whom he'd never met, and after today, never wanted to meet.


Varys

The Prince was leading from the rear, but that was what Varys expected out of any battles they'd come across in this war. That was why there were men like Anders Yronwood and Jorah Mormont to lead from the front. He'd hoped for men like Mace Tyrell leading them as well, though that had been a lost cause. Or Randyll Tarly, a cause whose loss he'd personally overseen.

"We don't have enough trebuchets," Viserys screamed, as a flaming boulder leaped off the city walls to destroy yet another one of their siege instruments. He turned angrily at his Master of Whispers. "Why didn't we bring enough trebuchets?"

His hopes for Anders Yronwood had been too high, Varys realized now. The man could certainly fight, but his fortitude was that of a child's when it came to confronting their Prince with the hard truths he needed to hear. That, or Lord Anders was just as dim as Viserys.

"Because we did not expect to be engaging in a siege this early," Varys muttered. And because Randyll Tarly took more than a third of our equipment when he rode back to Horn Hill.

They both looked to the river, where the fighting was at its thickest. Their men, primarily the Rykker bannermen, were getting slaughtered, caught between the narrow strip of land between the city and the river, all the ladders they attempted to mount against the walls burned or were thrown off easily before any of the soldiers had climbed halfway to the top. They had more success at the King's Gate, where they'd concentrated the bulk of their army in attacking the small angle marking the extreme southern corner of the city, many of the Dornishmen along with some of the Unsullied mercenaries who hadn't sailed to Pyke having made their way up atop the walls.

"Where the fuck are the Lannisters," Viserys snarled, his voice making the bleatings of a querulous child. "Why haven't they opened the Mud Gate yet? They promised they would!"

Though Varys was no expert on military tactics, he could see that their initial success by the King's Gate could not hold. The Stark men atop the walls weren't budging, and more and more of them were streaming in from the other sections of the city to fend them off. It was a vulnerability they could take advantage of, had they more men such as...well, Randyll Tarly's armies from the Reach, much less Connington's thousands of leagues away. But given the numbers Viserys had decided to march with against the city, sure enough victory or defeat depended on whether the Lannister promise was true. Once opened, all their besiegers could easily run from the King's Gate along the river to stream into the city, though taking the Red Keep was still very much another impossible challenge, unless the Lannisters could open the doors of the castle as well, and complete their turn against their erstwhile allies for these last few moons. Perhaps such a startling victory could be enough to win over the support of some of the fledgling houses in the south and west, and win back the support they once had in the Reach...so long as their Prince didn't squander a victory by an indiscriminate massacre of royal Princes and Princesses.

And then, there was still Stannis to deal with further north. And Benjen Stark's Northmen armies even further north...

"Where the fuck are the Lannisters," Viserys screamed again, Varys thought to no one in particular, as he watched the Dornishmen throw up another ladder against the walls, and the ground shook at another boulder landing too close to comfort for a man of letters such as he.

What road have we tread, where even the thought of victory brings about such dread?


Sansa

The sound was unbearable, not the screams, but the constant and unyielding cacophony of roars, screams, and crashes of the trebuchets. The smell was unbearable, foul and indescribable stenches that she could only presume to be that of blood and war and other more unspeakable horrors. The feelings were unbearable, her feet shaking with each tremor atop the castle wall, and even though the enemy projectiles were hitting their marks on the opposite side of the city as she, Sansa still feared every time that it would all come tumbling down, the Queen, her protectors, all her family, all these soldiers dying in her name.

"They're making progress by the King's Gate," Ser Balon said, and Sansa forced herself to look shakily towards the same section of the wall where she'd stood and delivered her speech earlier that night.

"The Lannisters," she asked, watching the fighting, less intense though just as bloody, closer to them above the River Gate, or the Mud Gate, as she'd heard several of the soldiers refer to it as, defending the middle section of the walls between her position by the Keep and Jon Arryn's at the far southern end of the city.

"Lord Arryn will calling them over for support as we speak," Balon pointed, and Sansa saw a long line of claw helmeted soldiers marching towards the intense fires raging on the other side of the capital.

They hadn't expected the King's Gate to fall that quickly, based on the chatter she overheard around her. Which meant that things weren't going entirely according to plan. Which meant, as she recalled that discussion many nights before, the scales of victory, or defeat, may well depend on the Lannisters.


"Your Grace," Tyrion had bowed that night, when brought forth to her in her solar in the presence of grandpapa and, strangely enough, Lord Renly, his predecessor as Master of Whispers.

"I understand the Targaryens sent ravens entreating your support before my father was killed, and you withheld this information from the Crown until today." She did her best to project some sense of Queenly authority in her voice, though she knew in her heart of hearts that it was the questioner rather than the questioned who trembled more. At least she towered over the Half Man, and Sansa hoped that her height, and his lack of it, would help her regain some of her confidence as they spoke.

"Not entirely true," Tyrion defended. "We did not receive their whispers until after King Eddard had been betrayed on Pyke. Had we known sooner that the Targaryens were planning something, we would've informed the threat to the Crown immediately."

Grandpapa had told her all this, so the news was no surprise. Grandpapa also said he wasn't sure whether or not the little lion was lying regarding the timing of things, but they'd let the matter pass for the moment.

"But you did hold back," Renly said skeptically to his successor on the Small Council, "because you wanted to hedge your bets, depending upon whichever child King or Queen the Council chose."

Sansa understood that Renly was saying this for her benefit, stating the ugly truth of the matter himself so her grandfather did not have to. She wondered whether the barb had been expected by the Lord of Casterly Rock, who merely shrugged his shoulders.

"The Council could have named anyone to the Throne, hells, even some landed knight such as, well...Sandor Clegane, were your lordships' minds in the possession of the Tyroshi flu at the time. In lieu of such...uncertainty, in the event that whomever was named would be disagreeable to the interests of the Westerlands, the men and women and children, the lords and knights and smallfolk I am responsible for, so be it that I will not apologize for my choice of caution in the matter, not until the question of succession was firmly settled."

"So has the great Lord Tyrion Lannister determined whether or not his Queen is agreeable enough for him?" These words were hers, as was the disagreeable attitude behind them, because they were at war, and her father and brother were dead, and it grated upon her, the nerve of this little man to speak so arrogantly to her as if she were a child. Which she was, but she was also his Queen.

"It is Sansa of House Stark who sits upon the Iron Throne," Tyrion answered, "not Sandor of House Clegane, or King Sweetrobin of House Arryn, or hells, some wildling Thenn magnar your uncle has hidden in the northern forests...so yes, I pledged the fealty of myself and my bannerman to your cause."

"What did Rhaegar offer you," Renly asked rather impatiently, his arms crossed, because again, they all knew the answers to the questions, and were reciting and repeating them unnecessarily now solely for her benefit.

"That he'd free my brother from his vows to the Night's Watch." The dwarf's face flinched uncomfortably. "A tempting offer, to be sure."

"Yes, very tempting," Renly said skeptically, "the release of a man who have a greater claim to Casterly Rock than you."

"You'd be surprised," Tyrion replied, his voice making strange notes, undecipherable ones to Sansa. "My uncle Kevan wanted my father added to the pardon, although I seriously doubt Rhaegar would ever agree to that. But I'd trade my title happily and easily for one of them, at the very least." He turned, and addressed the Queen directly. "Your Grace, understand that the support of House Lannister comes with no conditions, no requirements. But after this war...should we win it, I do ask the Queen for one favor."

This they had not told her about beforehand. Looking first uneasily at her grandfather, she replied tersely to the little man. "What is it?"

"That you send a raven to your Uncle Benjen in Winterfell, and ask him to grant me safe passage through the North, to visit my family at the Wall."

Again, she looked at grandpapa, and then Lord Renly, who shrugged. "I certainly don't see any harm in it."

But her grandfather seemed less certain. "When don't you ask your own sister? She's the Lady of Winterfell, after all."

This time, the small man's eyes seemed to chuckle as he spoke. "Again, you'd be surprised."

When the dwarf refused to elaborate further, her grandpapa turned to her and decided. "Care must be taken of course, Your Grace, Lord Tywin has become a powerful man in the north. But I believe the request is a fair one, should House Lannister prove their loyalty to the Crown."

"Very well," the Queen agreed.

"And I have just the way of proving it." This was the part they'd all been waiting for. Lord Tyrion had a plan, but apparently he had refused to disclose it to any of her councilors, insisting on presenting it before the Queen herself alongside them.

"Go on then," Hoster said, a hint of impatience in his voice.


Ser Balon Swann frowned in consternation. "They're not pursuing the King's Gate," the whitecloaked knight observed. "I don't understand, they have it, but...they're moving their men...hundreds of them...towards the Mud Gate."

Sansa smiled, perhaps the first time she did so tonight, because she knew something that the young Queensguard didn't know.

"The Mud Gate is a distraction," she said, enjoying the puzzled look in the man's eyes. "A ruse." She felt clever.

Though possessing a secret he doesn't have doesn't make me any the more clever.

"What do you mean, Your Grace?"

Before she could reply, they heard the sound of trumpets emanating from the far horizon, and all the enemy men not engaged in any immediate fighting froze.


The small man began pacing the room, admiring as he spoke all the tomes sitting upon the shelves that she'd never touched, ancient volumes placed by the maesters that Sansa doubted anyone in her family had ever perused, save for maybe Bran on occasion.

"The Targaryens believe the loyalty of my family to House Stark is fleeting, so let us take advantage of that. Were House Lannister to be actual traitors, we will have placed ourselves in a great position to betray the Crown from within. Let them believe that too, that we are willing and eager to do so, in order to prove our loyalty to Rhaegar."

Sansa gasped secretly in her chest, pondering the unsaid implications of the Imp's statements, that had the Lannisters actually planned treason, she would've foolishly placed them in a perfect place to do so.

Tyrion continued under the careful watch of grandpapa's eyes. "Connington's men are marching south through the Riverlands and Crownlands. They have Stannis Baratheon in front of them, and Lord Benjen's Northmen to their rear, though it will take time for your uncle to make his way down the Neck. We don't know where Prince Viserys army is going, except we know it's not King's Landing. In fact, it would appear that they've gone out of their way to avoid attacking the capital, seeing as they marched west in the opposite direction...even after acquiring the support of Randyll Tarly, and a healthy portion of the Reach's fighting men."

Grandpapa's eyes narrowed. "You're proposing luring the Targaryens into attacking King's Landing."

"Exactly," Tyrion proclaimed triumphantly. "We don't know where they're marching, unless we dictate to them the battlefield, one single and advantageous spot on the map where we believe we can defeat them."

"And risk the capital," Renly asked more skeptically, "and the safety of the Queen?"

"They don't have enough men for a successful siege," Tyrion proclaimed, "not unless they're promised significant help from within the castle. Keeping Viserys and the Tarly's south will reduce the pressure on Stannis in the north." The small man's footsteps stopped, and he casually reached onto the shelf and pulled out a dusty book, browsing through its contents indifferently before continuing. "In fact, we should send ravens to Stannis tonight, calling him to march back to King's Landing, hide and wait for the Prince's armies to arrive, then wipe them out below our walls."

They all contemplated the idea most seriously, except for Sansa, who just stared rather dumbly at the small man. Was he as short as he is now when he was a child, she wondered uselessly. Or had he been a child sized child, would even Arya or Bran have towered over him, when he was their age?

"What about Connington's men," Grandpapa asked sternly.

Tyrion nodded. "Certainly, they'd be in a better position to threaten Lord Benjen's armies. But I'd wager they'd be lured south, equally goaded by the idea that their Prince could take the capital. They'll be extended, and weary, by the time they get close to the Blackwater, and by the time they hear of the defeat...and capture or death of their Prince, it will be too late. The Northmen will be closing in, and the armies of four kingdoms...including the Westerlands, will be ready to close the vise from the south."

Even through the din of the battle, they could hear the hushed murmurs of the men position along the Blackwater, blind and suddenly vulnerable to a threat they could not see, wondering what the sounds of the new arrivals to the city signified. It was they who died first, as nearly a dozen ships appeared under the moonlight, bearing the flags of the Stag, the Falcon, the Trout amongst other banner hanging below that of the Direwolf, launching fiery missiles as they sailed down the Blackwater against the men now trapped on that thin strip of land below the city walls. Sansa forced herself to watch as men, burning and wounded alike, cried out in pain, ran and flung themselves into the river.

Then the stomps of thousands of hooves, and the screams of the armies, her armies, storming down like a fist against the now panicked besiegers, who resembled from where she stood a swarm of scared ants, as they scrambled in every direction to avoid certain death. They hadn't needed her permission for Lord Tyrion's plan, but grandpapa allowed her to give it anyway, for formality's sake. Which meant, she thought, watching the thousands of men sworn to defend her name ride in and massacre her enemies by the thousands, that all the realm for thousands and thousands of years to come will sing of how she'd made the right decision in the war against the Targaryens.

Of how she'd won her very first battle cowering in the shadows.


"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just..."

The Queen had lost count by now of how many men she'd knighted that afternoon. Most of them were boys, really, some younger than Robb had been, before he'd marched off with father to Pyke, never to return.

"Rise, Ser Mychel of the House Redfort...a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Thank-thank...thank y-you, Your G-g-grace..."

It was still a strange feeling, to be stared upon with awe by these young men several years older than she, when she would've swooned bashfully in the presence of this gallant young lad so many moons ago, when she was just a princess awaiting whichever gallant lordling her parents would decide she was to marry. Carefully sheathing her sword, a small and light thing they'd forged just for her hands, and probably smaller than even Arya's wooden sparring sword, she thought embarrassingly, Sansa looked back up at Ser Balon and walked beside him towards the next young man whose shaking shoulders were eagerly awaiting her.

It did not escape the Queen's notice, all the dried blood which covered the surface along the grass her royal feet stepped upon. Further away, she watched as men cleared the field of the bodies of dead men, so as to make the scene a bit more pleasant for her by the time she'd reached that end of the clearing, so as to bestow her royal gratitude and give away titles the same way her father handed her and Arya candies with the approval of their Septa's and Maesters when they were children. Sansa had feared that she would cry once again, seeing all the bodies and blood and disgusting things from the battle so fresh, but walking in the here and now, baking under the heat of the sun, all she felt was numbness.

"That's Lord Beric Dondarrion," the Imp's squire said, a chubby faced boy named Podrick whom Sansa guessed was a few years older than she, "and his squire, Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall."

"Ah, the lightning lord," Tyrion explained to her, "one of Stannis's bannermen in the Dornish Marches." Jon Arryn had been wounded in the battle, though not seriously, they told her, and her grandpapa was busy planning the next stages of the war with the Lord of Storm's End, so it fell to her new Master of Whispers to accompany her through the field, a man whose loyalty had been proven beyond a doubt after the events of the past night.

"The boy's a lord too," Sansa asked in a whisper, now that they were approaching the two. "He's looks like he's Arya age, maybe even younger."

The Imp nodded. "His father died young." Even quieter. "You ought to thank Lord Edric, Your Grace. His loyalty to you ensured that not all of Dorne rebelled against the Crown."

"He's a relation of Ser Arthur Dayne," she asked carefully. Then looking around nervously, she added, "and the Lady Ashara?"

"He's their nephew," Podrick explained.

"As you can see," Tyrion added, "there's very few in his family still alive to assume the lordship, or even sit in a regent's role. Thus, one of Dorne's most powerful houses fought on our side last night."

"Your Grace," an older man close to thirty years of age knelt before her. "Lord Tyrion."

"Lord Beric," Tyrion responded first, when the Queen dumbly found herself lost for words, her mind and voice exhausted after so many similar encounters already. "I trust you've already been knighted, so there's no need for such honors to be repeated?"

"You'd be right in assuming so, my good lord," Beric Dondarrion replied with a smile and a soothing voice.

"Nevertheless," Sansa said, finding her voice again, "you have the gratitude of the Crown and your Queen for your actions on the battlefield last night. You helped save the city and its hundreds of thousands of people from an unspeakable fate, and you've saved this country from this vile rebellion."

"The war's not over yet," Beric said gently, in a way, Sansa thought, that didn't sound as if he was lecturing her, unlike some of the other more arrogant knights and lords she'd encountered this trying day. "Be rest assured, Your Grace, that Lord Edric and I will be there to fight for you, in every battle and every war to come."

She nodded politely, and Tyrion turned his attentions towards the boy.

"I'll assume that Lord Edric is still a bit too young to be knighted. He fared well in the battle though?"

"He did, Lord Tyrion. He rode bravely, and even saved my life when a Dornishman had me cornered on the ground."

Sansa watched the fair haired and blue eyed boy look away uneasily at the older man's words of praise, and wondered whether she should call him to the keep to meet her sister.

He'd make a good husband for Arya, she thought. Especially if he was to be this budding warrior.

"Lord Edric," she continued sternly. "I thank you for your loyalty. Rest assured that Starfall and House Dayne will be rewarded for your actions in the battle."

The boy bowed shyly. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Suddenly, they heard a commotion coming from a thick patch of woods on the far side of the field away from them, alongside the river. Looking first at Ser Balon, whose shook his head softly, the Queen nevertheless found herself curious enough to approach the excited shouts and swords raised in the air. They sounded happy, for one, and triumphant, and she was suddenly eager to find out why. And she was the Queen, after all, which meant they would have no choice but to follow her.


Tyrion

"That dragon imp of a prince," they heard a man shout as they got closer.

"We caught him!"

"Here comes the Queen!"

"Take his head off yourself, Your Grace."

A ridiculous idea, and one that thankfully this little girl Queen would have enough sense to ignore. He'd come away impressed by Sansa Stark thus far. She was bright, and certainly stood some chance of maybe retaining her crown once her powerful patrons, great men like Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn, passed in the years to come. More importantly, Tyrion thought, the eldest daughter of King Eddard had enough humility to know her own limitations, the former princess did not pretend to all of a sudden know how to lead, or believe herself a special being touched by the Seven, upon being named a Queen by the most powerful men in the realms.

Of course, the child was young still, and the years between her regency today, and the day she finally came of age to rule alone, could see great changes in her temperaments and demeanor, as it does all children, not to mention a girl placed in as tremendous of a role as Sansa Stark. Some, like Jaehaerys the Old King, had risen to the occasion, while others such as Aegon the Broken ultimately deteriorated into a worse version of themselves in the meantime. It would be the jobs of the Queen Dowager, as well as men like Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn, to mold the girl into something resembling more closely the former.

And me, is it now my duty too, Tyrion wondered. By accepting my seat on the Small Council, have I obligated myself to seeing to the girl keeping her head in the years to come, to seeing through the success of the family which banished my entire family to a frozen wasteland?

Speaking of frozen wastelands...

"You would be Ser Jorah Mormont," he recognized from the chest plate of the burly man guarding the quivering silver haired prince, "exiled from the Seven Kingdoms upon the orders of King Eddard, First of His Name."

The older knight nodded solemnly. His face was bruised, and his armor broken in several places, but true to the words of his house, he stood on shaking knees, shielding his Prince from those who would see him join his many dead ancestors.

"Why did my father banish you, Ser Jorah?"

When the man did not race to answer the question, Tyrion answered it for him. "For selling men into slavery, Your Grace. Your fellow Northmen, the blood of the first men, to be specific, who now toil for slavers in cities such as Volantis and Mereen and Yunkai."

"Your crimes are vile," the Queen said sternly, her voice projecting an authority belonging to someone far older, "and now you aid an foreign invader in a savage invasion against the lands in which you were born, against the House you are sworn to in both the North, and King's Landing." A slight pause, as she bit her lip. "Do you submit now, Ser Jorah, to the authority and justice of the Crown?"

Her eyes never wavered, and neither did his.

"Queen Sansa," he acknowledged. "You've beaten us in battle fairly. My sword is broken, my shield gone. But here I stand, and I will defend the Prince I'm pledged to, I will defend the House Targaryen, to whom I am pledged to, until my dying br..."

Before he could finish, a sharp, high pitched voice rang underneath the thin tree cover, piercing the soothing tides of the river nearby.

"I yield! I yield! I surrender, please, my Queen, spare my life, I will do whatever you ask!"

It was the glorious Targaryen Prince, squealing like a pig fresh for slaughter, and Tyrion bit back his chuckle while the many men around them laughed derisively at the cowardice of the second born son of Aerys Targaryen. And yet, he was worried. He'd discussed with the Lords Hoster and Renly, the few on the Queen's Council who were, well, if not friendly, then not too outwardly hostile to him, regarding what to do with the Prince Viserys were he to fall into their hands and alive. The young man was the perfect hostage, they'd all agreed, to keep Connington from any rash moves...and to deter his brother Rhaegar from any further attempts towards invasion.

Yet, Tyrion wondered, did they bother to tell the Queen all of this? What if she heeded the rabid voices of the bloodthirsty men surrounding them? Caught in the afterglow of a brilliant military victory, courtesy of himself, could she decide here and now, lacking the restraining voices of her Regents, to take the head of this most valuable hostage, while he begged for his life? Tyrion did not think so, but then how well did he truly know this strange little girl, how well did anyone truly know the heart of a child, granted such status and power at such an early age.

And she was thinking something, Tyrion knew, as they all awaited her silence with silence. It was a puzzle, there were many times when the girl wore her heart upon her sleeve, yet there were odd moments, such as now, when he truly could not decipher what exactly was going on inside her young mind.

To his relief, she reached her hand out to the kneeling prince, and when she spoke, the Queen's voice was gentle. "With your surrender, you have saved the life of this man sworn to protect you."

Suddenly, before the dirtied Prince could even take her hand to kiss it, the Queen turned and addressed all the lords and knights gathered around the small but very significant scene. Again, a slight pause, as if she were making up her mind on whether to speak further, before she did so.

"I may be a child," the child began, "but I have seen enough of war for one lifetime. Let it all end now, the fighting, the dying." She then turned to the Prince, still frozen in fear, in supplication to a small girl nearly half his age. "Prince Viserys, when you take my hand here, do so with the promise of union. Let us unite our houses upon this ground today, with the promise of marriage and peace for our futures to come."

"I...I..."

Apparently, the cowardly prince was as shocked as the rest of them.

"With this betrothal," the Queen continued, when no one else dared speak, "House Targaryen will reclaim its place in the Seven Kingdoms. House Targaryen will return to its seat upon the Iron Throne through the blood of your child, and mine." She then looked to Tyrion, as if seeking his approval, which he could only returned with a dumb, slack-jawed stare, before turning back to Viserys. "With this betrothal, your brother Rhaegar will renounce his claim to the Seven Kingdoms. He will instruct the Houses Martell, and Greyjoy, and Rykker, and Velaryon, and all who betrayed House Stark to renounce their treason and plead for the Crown's mercy. If the Queen...and her Regency Council, judges their pleas to be sincere and true before the eyes of the Seven, they will receive the same mercy you and Ser Jorah have received today."

"I...I..."

He looked at the boy Podrick, who shook whispered silent words at him through his lips. "It seems to make sense."

"...I accept."

What a brave new world we live in, Tyrion thought, watching the Prince take the Queen's small hands in his, where the children possess so much more sense than their elders?


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Notes and responses: A quick last word on Robb going with his father to war. Such a thing has plenty of historical precedents synonymous with the same period of time as GOT. Edward III waged war in France and at the Battle of Crecy with his son and heir, Edward the Black Prince. Same with Edward I and Edward II, etc, and I'm sure there's plenty of other examples from the same medieval periods.

In universe, I'm sure Ned recognizes that Robb will be more of a warrior king than an administrator. And while the wise thing to do is, yes, leave Robb as regent, he's probably tempted as well to indulge his son in a way that will still help him become a great king. Obviously if Ned suspected Pyke to be a Targaryen trap he wouldn't have fallen into it...but stupidity happens. In real life, in history, in the GOT world...and in this story as well.