Chapter Four- A Stroll Upon the Kingsroad
Crown Prince Nat Baratheon opened his eyes and groaned. Today they were heading back to King's Landing, and he would have to deal with his father's incessant whining about their travel speed once again. As the prince began to pull on his back trousers, he heard a commotion in the halls outside his chamber.
Who in the Seven Hells is making such a ruckus outside of my door at this hour? he thought to himself.
As the prince made to open the door he stopped in his tracks, the whispering in the halls just barely audible from within his chambers. Rather than scold the castle servants for disturbing him the prince deigned to listen in on their conversation.
"They say the young lord will never walk again," the first voice said mournfully.
Nat's blood ran cold. He'd offered his condolences to the Starks when Maester Luwin found Bran Stark twitching beneath the broken tower of Winterfell. It was tragic to say the least, the boy having fallen from his favorite climbing spot. Nat was certainly no maester, but he'd taken it as a good sign that the boy was breathing at all when they'd found him. Never walking again. He could hardly imagine it.
"Oh, but he'll live, won't he?" the second voice asked.
The first voice scoffed, "If you call that living."
The voices moved further down the hall, cutting off the prince's ability to listen in on their conversation. He exhaled and pressed his back to the wooden door of his chamber.
Oh, that poor lad, to be bedridden for the rest of his days? At only ten? I should check in on his condition before we go, if not for his sake then for his mother's the prince concluded.
The prince quickly dressed, putting on his fine onyx and gold trimmed robes swiftly and his ceremonial armor less-so. As the prince examined his knot work in the mirror, he noticed the traces of a beard touching his cheeks and frowned. He'd never looked very good with a beard. Myrcella had called him dashing the first time he'd grown it out, but Nat had thought it made him look pudgy as it hid his jawline and rounded out his face. His mother agreed. He'd need to shave before long or else he'd look like less like a prince and more like a rather small bear.
With a curt nod to his reflection, Nat left his chambers and made his way through the residence apartments at Winterfell, retracing his steps from the castle tour the Stark children had given him a few weeks prior. He stopped at an ancient looking wooden door in the Great Keep, knocking quickly before entering.
Upon his entering Maester Luwin bowed, "My Prince," he greeted.
"Maester," Nat nodded, looking further into the chamber at the bedridden Bran Stark and the exhausted figure of his mother. The prince approached cautiously, clearing his throat at the end of Bran's bed.
"My Lady," he murmured softly.
Catelyn glanced at the prince and nodded slightly in his direction before returning to her weaving. From the looks of it, the object was prayer web from the Faith of the Seven.
"I…came to check in on Brandon's condition, my Lady," Nat said hesitantly.
"The fall badly damaged his spine," Maester Luwin interjected. "I fear he'll never walk again."
At the maester's suggestion a weak sob burst from Catelyn's throat. The prince's emerald eyes nearly watered at the sound of it. There was no worse sound than a mother's weeping for her children.
"He'll live though, won't he maester?"
Maester Luwin fumbled with his fingers, "I believe so, but I can hardly say how long it will take for the boy to wake, m'lord."
Nat circled Catelyn's chair and knelt by Bran's bed, placing a comforting hand on her forearm. "My Lady, whatever your family might need from the Crown you'll have it, and rest assured, I'll fight the Gods to save your son if need be," he told her.
Catelyn gave the prince a small, bitter smile, "Thank you, My Prince, I wish you luck in your battle with the Gods."
Nat gave her the warmest smile he could muster before standing, "Thank you Lady Catelyn, I'll need it…I'll leave you to tend to your son, I do sincerely hope to see you both again."
With his farewells said, Nat bowed his head to Catelyn and made his way out of the room.
Consoling mothers isn't quite my strong suit…I almost wish we had never come to Winterfell, perhaps then the boy would have been doing something other than climbing that cursed tower
~0~0~0~
At the same time, Lord Tyrion Lannister rolled over in the Winterfell kennels, dogs slobbering in the hay at his feet. Oh, he was very drunk last night. Very drunk indeed. He garbled as he sat up, rubbing his eyes.
"Better looking bitches than you're used to, Uncle," came the voice of his least favorite nephew. "My mother's been looking for you; we ride for King's Landing today."
Tyrion opened his eyes and frowned at the scrawny figure of his second nephew, Joffrey Baratheon, and the much larger figure of his bodyguard, Sandor Clegane, standing over him. Tyrion staggered to his feet and faced his nephew.
"Before we leave, you'll call on Lord and Lady Stark and offer them your sympathies," he instructed.
The prince scoffed, "What good will my sympathies do them?"
Tyrion stretched, "None, but it is expected of you as it is of your brother, I'm sure he's already done his duty."
Joffrey rolled his eyes, "That boy means nothing to me, nor do the affairs of my boar of a brother- uck, I can't stand the wailing of women-".
Before the second eldest prince of the realm could rant any longer, Tyrion wound back and slapped the boy across the face. Joffrey brought a palm up to his cheek in shock, how dare the Imp?
Tyrion held up a finger, "One word and I'll slap you again."
Joffrey's face welled with rage, "I'm telling Mother-"
Tyrion backhanded his other cheek. Joffrey, in all his princely glory, began to whimper as he cupped the fresh stinging on his cheek. Joffrey's face quickly morphed as the shock of Tyrion's slap subsided. Tyrion stared his nephew down, refusing to cow to the prince's glare.
"Go! Tell her, but first you will go to Lord and Lady Stark and you will fall on your knees in front of them and tell them how very sorry you are, that you are at their service, and that all your prayers are with them- do you understand?" Tyrion ordered.
Joffrey, unfortunately, did not follow instructions easily, "You can't-"
Tyrion slapped Joffrey once more, "Do. You. Understand?"
Joffrey stamped his feet, huffed, and stormed off. Tyrion thought he looked like a jester with his ceremonial sword flapping about at his side. Strangely, the prince's bodyguard Sandor Clegane hadn't followed him.
"The prince will remember that, little lord," he rumbled in warning.
Tyrion smiled, "Well I should hope so! It seems that Nat and I are the only ones willing to discipline the petulant little prince in this family," Tyrion yawned and stretched once more. "And should he forget, I trust you'll be a good dog and remind him!"
With that, the littlest Lannister walked off towards the Great Hall for breakfast.
What do I really have to fear from a boy that will never be king?
~0~0~0~
Servants rushed about within the Great Hall as they prepared a multi-course meal for the royal family. Tyrion weaved between the rushing legs of scullions as he made for the table where the rest of his family was seated.
Pulling out a chair to sit, Tyrion flagged down one of the servants with his order, "Bread- and two of those little fish," the Lannister ordered. "Oh, and a mug of dark beer to wash it down, with some bacon, burnt black."
"Little brother," Jaime nodded with a smile.
"Beloved siblings," Tyrion smiled in return. "Ah! And my even more beloved niece and nephews!"
"Good morning Uncle," Tommen and Myrcella greeted warmly.
Nat, arms crossed and waiting for his meal gave his uncle a quick two-fingered salute, accompanied by his famous and ever-charming Lion's Grin. Tyrion had nicknamed the crown prince's signature show-smile years prior as he thought his nephew looked quite like a lion baring its teeth when he put it on.
"Is Bran going to die?" Myrcella asked, cocking her head to the right.
Tyrion nearly choked on the tension that filled the room. Exchanging an awkward glance with Nat, Tyrion righted himself in his chair and shook his head with a smile. "Apparently not," he replied.
Cersei shifted uncomfortably in her seat as her youngest children smiled happily, a shift Tyrion made a mental note of. "What do you mean?" the queen asked.
Nat leaned back in his chair and yawned, "He means that the fall didn't kill the little lord, mother- the maester told me so himself not an hour ago," he confirmed.
Both Nat and Tyrion watched as Jaime and Cersei exchanged an odd glance.
"Though he also told me the boy would never walk again," the prince continued.
At the revelation of the young Stark's crippling, Tommen gasped. "Oh, that's not true, brother! That would be awful!"
Nat gave Tommen a sad smile, leaning over the table to look at his younger brother. "I'm afraid it is, the maester would know better than we would, little one."
Cersei folded her arms in her lap. "It's no mercy, letting a child linger in such pain," she said dismissively.
At this notion, the crown prince frowned. Was his mother seriously suggesting it would have been better that Bran Stark died? "Did you feel the same way when I was stricken with fever as a boy, mother?" he asked.
Cersei shuddered at the reminder of the illness. She had never been more worried in her life than when Nat had come down with fever in his infancy. In a small capacity, her heart went out to Catelyn Stark, imagining the suffering the mother must be going through. But in a much larger capacity, she stood by her statement.
"Of course not, but unlike Bran Stark, your pain was only temporary, you beat the fever within a few days," she said.
Nat's eyes narrowed. As he suspected, she was implying that it'd be better to let the child die. Truly a disturbing sentiment.
"Well only the gods know for sure, all the rest of us can do is pray," Tyrion interposed, reducing the tension that had been building. "The charms of the North seem entirely lost on you," he told the queen.
She scoffed, "I still can't believe you're going; it's ridiculous, even for you."
Nat raised an eyebrow. Going?
Tyrion smiled at his sister, "Oh come now, where's your sense of wonder? The greatest structure ever built, the intrepid men of the Night's Watch, the wintery abode of the White Walkers."
"You're going to the Wall?" Nat interjected.
Tyrion turned to the prince and smiled. "I am!"
Nat stared at his uncle, slack jawed. As much as Nat enjoyed touring the Seven Kingdoms, he wanted no part in the Wall. A dark and dreary place like that? No, the prince was much more equipped for the sunny weather of the South.
"Good luck with that," he told his uncle dismissively.
Tyrion smiled wider. He could understand their hesitation with his traveling to the Wall. Though it was certainly a magnificent structure, the gruff men of the Night's Watch were made up of criminals and hooligans. In combination with the frigid cold of the far north and the lack of a luxury brothel it was certainly a difficult place to live.
"Tell me you aren't thinking of taking the black?" Jaime joked.
Tyrion spread his hands out in mock shock, "And go celibate!? The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock! I just want to stand atop the Wall and piss off the edge of the world."
Tommen and Myrcella giggled at their uncle' lewd suggestions. Tyrion's joking had even earned a smile out of the crown prince who was in anything but a joking mood. The queen on the other hand, was not so tickled.
"The children don't need to hear your filth, come."
The queen stood and strode out of the room, Tommen and Myrcella following her like ducks in a line. Nat glanced between his uncles and sighed, standing up and following his mother and siblings out of the room, not wanting to invoke her frustration.
"Even if the boy lives, he'll be grotesque; give me a good, clean death any day," Jaime declared.
Tyrion shook his head, "Speaking for the grotesque, I'd have to disagree. Death is so final, whereas life…is full of possibilities. I hope the boy does wake; I'd be interested to hear what he has to say."
Jaime narrowed his eyes and looked down, almost whispering, "My dear brother, there are times you make me wonder whose side you're on."
Tyrion gripped his chest in a dramatic showing of his pain, "My dear brother! You wound me; you know how much I love my family."
The two Lannister brothers sat in silence as a servant brought Tyrion his dark beer to accompany the warm meal now before him on the table in the Great Hall.
~0~0~0~
Catelyn Stark was having a very bad week. The royal family's visit was stressful enough, but to have her husband and oldest daughter stolen away from her at the same time? She could hardly bear it. And now one of her youngest, only ten years old, was crippled for life. A bad week was putting it mildly.
As she continued to weave her prayer web beside Bran's bedside, the sound of footsteps entering the room approached from behind her. Turning, Catelyn was surprised to see the graceful figure of Queen Cersei Lannister standing before her.
Catelyn quickly made to stand and bow before the queen only to be dismissed, "Please," Cersei told her, holding up a palm. Catelyn exhaled and sat back down in her seat beside Bran.
"I apologize, if I had known you would be coming, I would have dressed more appropriately, Your Grace," Catelyn said.
"This is your home," Cersei reassured. "I am your guest."
The queen paused, shifting her gaze to the unconscious Bran.
"Handsome one, isn't he?" Cersei smiled. "I almost lost my first boy…the little fighter, he fought every single day to beat the fever," the queen revealed.
Catelyn's eyes widened. "I-I never knew…"
Cersei gazed at the Stark matriarch. "It was many years ago…Robert was rather somber, other times he was crazed, beat his hands bloody on the walls; all the things men do to show you that they care," she trailed off in reflection.
The queen shook her head and readjusted her posture. "Nat's just like him, I'm sure you noticed. Just as strong and brave as Robert was in his youth, but back then he was such a little thing, like a bird without feathers…Robert held me when the maesters said he wasn't going to live- I screamed and I battled and Robert held me- thankfully, my little boy is a fighter."
Cersei's eyes were full of sympathy as she looked into Catelyn's, "I hope that yours is as well, I pray to the Mother every morning and night that she return you to your child."
"I am grateful."
Cersei turned to leave, "Perhaps she can afford two miracles."
The queen left shortly after to Catelyn's relief. The crown prince had almost died, she could never have imagined that the queen would tell her such a personal story. As distrustful as Catelyn was of the queen and her brothers, her story truly meant something to the Stark matriarch as she sat in silence beside her son. Perhaps the Mother would be able to wake Bran for her?
More footsteps interrupted Catelyn's wondering as Jon Snow entered the room, unannounced.
"I…came to say goodbye to Bran," he said hesitantly.
"You've said it."
Jon Snow was unfazed by Catelyn's remark, treading further into the room and kneeling at Bran's bedside. Jon put a hand on Bran's forehead and pushed back his brown bangs slightly.
"I wish I could be here when you wake up…I'm going north with Uncle Benjen, I'm taking the black," he told the boy. "I know we always talked about seeing the wall together, but you'll be able to come and visit me at Castle Black when you're better, I'll know my way around by then- I'll be a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. We can even go out walking beyond the Wall, if you're not afraid."
As Jon leaned down to kiss his brother goodbye, Catelyn's eyes welled with hatred. The two made eye contact, not even noticing the presence of Lord Eddard Stark as he entered the room.
"I. Want you. To leave," Catelyn ordered.
Jon Snow glanced at his father in the doorframe, before nodding to no one and solemnly leaving the room. Ned closed the door behind him and walked over to his wife and son, sitting beside them at the edge of the bed.
The tears in Catelyn's eyes began to fall. "17 years ago, you rode off with Robert Baratheon. A year later you came back with another woman's son. And now you're leaving me again," she wept.
"I have no choice-"
Catelyn shook her head. "Men always say that when honor calls! That's what you tell your families, tell yourselves," she continued. "You do have a choice…and you've made it."
Ned reached out, "Cat-"
She brushed him away. "I can't do it, Ned. I really can't."
"You can. You must."
With no more words exchanged between them, Ned stood and exited the room, leaving a weeping Catelyn beside their bedridden son.
~0~0~0~
Nat stroked Ser Trot's mane as the party prepared to leave Winterfell and make the long journey down the Kingsroad to the capital. As he tended to the animal, he felt a hand clasp his shoulder. Turning, the prince found a somber looking Robb Stark staring up at him.
"Ah, Robb, come to see us off?" he smiled.
The Stark heir nodded, staring directly into the prince's eyes. "Make sure my sister is protected down south, she's never been, and it'll be hostile territory for a young girl like her," he requested.
Nat flashed his Lion's Grin and patted the man on the back. "You needn't worry, I may be the king's son but unlike the old buffoon I remember my manners around a lady; your sister will fair fine, I assure you."
This seemed to set Robb at ease. With a short nod and a wish of safe travels, the man turned and made his way back into the walls of Winterfell. It seems honor runs deep in the Stark family the prince thought as he watched him leave.
"Still mingling with Northmen, I see," a shrill voice commented.
Nat's eyebrow twitched as he turned to face the figure of his brother, Joffrey, sitting rather unceremoniously atop his stallion. He was in no mood to deal with the little prince's attitude.
"As a matter of fact, Joff, I am," he quipped.
Nat thought Joffrey's temper was much more in-tune with his Baratheon roots than his own as the simplest taunt could set the young prince off. One of the easiest ways to do so was by mocking his mother's nickname for the boy. It took no longer than a moment for Joffrey to become a smaller, screechy voiced version of their father.
"Well! You'll never see me interacting with such barbarians! And neither should you! What kind of prince would stoop so low as to associate with the likes of backwards savages like Northerners!? You've disgraced our family name!" he roared.
Nat waved his brother off lazily. "Yes, yes, Joff, trot along now and I'll join you in a moment."
Joffrey hadn't looked so red in quite a long while, Nat thought. With a huff, the prince rode off for the front of the party, no doubt looking to tattle to their mother. Nat shook his head and adjusted Ser Trot's saddle. As much as he enjoyed teasing Joffrey, he was growing concerned with the prince's lack of maturity. It was unbecoming of the royal family to have public outbursts like that, much less ones that insulted entire kingdoms. The prince sighed, mounting his steed, he wished Jon Arryn were alive to help the boy. He could use some guidance.
~0~0~0~
Two weeks into their journey, the King's party stopped to set up camp in the Barrowlands along the Kingsroad. Lord Eddard Stark sat at a small wooden table lined with wine and food, watching from afar as his friend, King Robert Baratheon, relieved himself against the bark of a tree far from the rest of their party.
"Ah!" Robert said, pulling up his trousers. "This is country! I've half a mind to leave them all behind and keep going, I swear Ned, I'll go mad at this pace!"
Ned smiled. "I've half a mind to join you."
Robert grinned cheekily at his old friend. "What do you say? Just you and me on the Kingsroad, swords at our sides, a couple of tavern wenches to warm our beds tonight?"
Ned grunted and looked away. "You should have asked me 20 years ago, Robert."
Robert sulked. "There were wars to fight, women to marry…we never had the chance to be young."
Ned crossed his arms on the table. "There were a few chances, I recall."
Robert smiled wide once more. "Ah yes there was that one…oh what was her name? That common girl of yours…Becca? The one with the great big tits you could bury your face in!"
Ned shook his head. "Bessie; she was one of yours."
Robert guffawed and smacked his hand on the table. "Bessie! Thank the gods for Bessie and her tits!"
Ned smiled, thinking Robert was quite done. His smile faded quickly when Robert went on. "Who was yours? Aleena? No. You told me once…Meryl? Your bastard's mother," he implored.
"Wylla," Ned murmured.
Robert snapped in remembrance. "Wylla! That was the one…she must have been a rare wench to make Lord Eddard Stark forget his honor…you never did tell me what she looked like," he commented.
Ned looked away, "Nor will I."
Robert leaned over the table and grasped his friend's shoulder. "We were at war, Ned," he consoled. "None of us knew if we were coming back home, you're too hard on yourself, you always have been."
Ned looked at his feet, clearly disagreeing.
Robert sighed in exasperation. "I swear if I weren't king, you'd have hit me already."
Ned smiled at his toes. "That was the worst thing about your coronation…I'll never get to hit you again."
Robert's brow fell low over his eyes. "Trust me, that's not the worst thing…there was a rider in the night," he informed Ned, pulling a sealed paper from his belt and sliding it across the table.
Ned unfurled the paper, what could have the king so grim? Scanning the lines, Ned found nothing to concern himself with. One of the last Targaryens, a young girl by the name of Daenerys, had wed a Dothraki Khal in Essos.
"So, Daenerys Targaryen has wed some Dothraki horse lord? Shall we send them a wedding gift?" Ned teased.
Robert was no longer in a joking mood. "A knife perhaps…a good sharp one and bold man to wield it."
Ned rolled his eyes. "She's nothing more than a child, Robert."
Robert curled his fingers into a fist on the table. "Soon enough that child will spread her legs and start breeding."
Ned could feel the anger emanating from his old friend. He could understand the man's pain. The Targaryens were responsible for the deaths of their fathers and Ned's sister, Robert's betrothed, Lyanna Stark. When Robert was coronated, he spared no expense to ensure that every Targaryen was wiped from the face of the Earth. Only the young prince Viserys and the yet to be born princess Daenerys had been able to escape the king's wrath.
"We're not speaking of this," Ned concluded.
Robert's face was Lannister red as he stood up, "Oh it's unspeakable to you?" he thrusted a finger out. "I'll tell you what's unspeakable! What's unspeakable is what her father did to your family, that was unspeakable! What Rhaegar Targaryen did to your sister, the woman I loved…I'll kill every last Targaryen I get my hands on, Ned."
"Can't get your hands on this one, can you?"
"This Khal Drogo of hers, it's said he has 100,000 men in his horde!"
Ned sighed. "Robert even a million Dothraki are no threat to the realm as long as they remain on the other side of the sea, they have no ships, Robert!" he pointed out.
The king shook his head and sat down with a huff. "There are those in the realm who still call me 'Usurper' as my son was so kind to point out to my men…if that Targaryen boy crosses the Narrow Sea with a Dothraki horde at his back, the scum will join him."
"He will not cross," Ned reassured him. "And if by chance he does, we'll throw him back into the sea."
Robert looked towards the horizon grimly. "There's a war coming, Ned. I don't know when or who we'll be fighting but it's coming."
~0~0~0~
Across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys Targaryen was admiring her wedding gifts, three in particular. The new khaleesi of the Dothraki horde stared at three petrified dragon eggs, gifted to her by her former host Illyrio Mopatis as a wedding gift. As she observed the eggs, her handmaidens cleaned and treated the wounds she acquired from her new husband, Khal Drogo, in their marital bed.
"Have you ever seen a dragon?" she asked.
"Dragon gone, Khaleesi," replied Irri.
Daenerys looked back at the girl, "Everywhere? Even in the East?"
Irri nodded back at her, "No dragon. Brave men kill them. It is known."
"It is known," Jhiqui confirmed.
Doreah wiped at Daenerys' palm and smiled at the khaleesi, "A trader from Garth told me that dragons come from the moon."
Daenerys narrowed her eyes skeptically, "The moon?" she asked.
"He told me that the moon was an egg, Khaleesi, that there were once two moons in the sky. But one wandered too close to the sun and cracked from the heat," Doreah explained. "Out of it poured a thousand dragons and they drank the sun's fire."
Irri rolled her eyes, "Moon is no egg. Moon is goddess, wife of sun- it is known."
"It is known," Jhiqui affirmed.
Daenerys waved them away, "Leave me with her."
Jhiqui and Irri shared a glance before bowing and leaving Daenerys and Doreah alone in the tent. "Why did the trader from Garth tell you these stories?" she pressed further.
Doreah smiled. "Men like to talk when they're happy. Before your brother bought me for you, it was my job to make men happy."
Daenerys raised an eyebrow before the realization dawned on her. She opened her mouth to speak, hesitantly, "How old were you?"
"I was nine when my mother sold me to the pleasure house."
Daenerys was taken aback, "Nine!?"
Doreah shook her head. "I did not touch a man for three years, Khaleesi," she reassured. "First you must learn."
Daenerys considered her comment for a moment. She must learn to make men happy. She thought by letting the khal have his way with her she was making him happy…was she wrong?
"Can you teach me how to make the khal happy?" she asked Doreah.
"Yes."
"And will it take three years?" Daenerys pressed.
Doreah laughed. "No, Khaleesi."
Then it was settled then. Daenerys leaned back in her chair as Doreah continued to treat her injuries. She would learn how to please the khal and thus earn the khal's love and respect. Perhaps she would not become a queen like she had dreamed as a child. But she would become a powerful khaleesi, that she was sure of.
~0~0~0~
Sansa Stark strolled through the encampment with her direwolf, Lady, at her side. The soon to be bride was dressed in her finest blue silks and had her Tully-auburn hair brushed out until it glittered in the sunlight. Sansa had been given the great honor of riding in the carriage with the queen, Cersei Lannister, on their journey south to King's Landing. If there was one thing that the young Stark was determined to do, it was present herself appropriately in front of the queen.
Though she had other reasons for looking her best as well. One reason specifically. A reason that was tall and handsome and strong and had the loveliest green eyes that Sansa had ever seen.
The girl blushed at the thought of her future husband. Husband. Such a foreign word to her, but she was beginning to warm up to it. When Nat had appeared in his shiny onyx armor atop a regal steed in the courtyard of her home, it was like a scene out of a fairytale. As she observed him over the last several weeks, she had grown even more infatuated with the man. He was polite to her servants and had the most charming smile she had ever seen. She enjoyed hearing his rolling laugh, it reminded her of the king's if not a bit more energetic. Though she had only spoken to the prince a few short times, she was sure he was going to be the best king the realm had seen in ages. And more importantly, the ideal husband for her.
Just look pretty and don't mess up, Sansa chided herself. You need to show the prince that you'll be the perfect wife and mother to his children.
Sansa and Lady made their way past the Crossroads Inn, noticing as it bustled with activity. The inn was housing hundreds of her father's men in addition to the numerous guests it was already housing for the night. Men and women rushed in and out of the structure as the two she-wolves trotted by.
As Sansa continued on, she noticed a small crowd gathering about the queen's carriage, though the source of their attention was blocked from her view. What she did notice, were the queen's handmaidens passing her by, each more beautiful than the last. Sansa stared in admiration as she walked, failing to notice the large, burly man standing in front of her until it was too late.
"Oh!" Sansa exclaimed. "Pardon me, Ser."
The burly man said nothing, staring down the young lady as she slowly backed away from him. She had barely taken three steps before bumping into an even larger man. Meaty hands gripped her shoulders and turned her around. Sansa looked up into the eyes of Joffrey Baratheon's personal guard, Sandor Clegane, otherwise known as the Hound.
"Do I frighten you so much girl?" Sandor questioned her. "Or is it him there making you shake? I fear him too- look at that face."
Sansa turned back to the burly man and bowed her head slightly, "I'm sorry if I've offended you, Ser," the man said nothing, staring her down. Sansa turned back to the Hound, "Why won't he speak to me?"
A smile stitched its way across Sandor's face, revealing slightly yellowed, crooked teeth, "He hasn't talked much these last twenty years, since the Mad King ripped his tongue out with pincers."
Sansa gasped, horrified.
"The poor fellow can only speak with his sword now, I'm afraid," a deep voice said from behind. Sansa peeked out from behind the Hound to see none other than the crown prince, Nat Baratheon, approaching her in all his regal glory.
The prince wore tan robes beneath his finely crafted leather vest. A black overcoat embroidered with golden stitches decorated his shoulders and proudly declared the prince to be of House Baratheon. He wore the very same smile that had made Sansa swoon on his face as he strode towards her.
"Ser Illyn Payne doesn't intend to be rude, my lady, he's earned himself quite a fearsome reputation as the King's Justice- the royal executioner, that is," Nat explained, noticing the confused expression on Sansa's face.
Well I mustn't be rude in front of my betrothed Sansa thought to herself, turning back to Illyn Payne.
"I apologize for running into you, Ser Illyn," she curtsied. "And if I've offended you with my ignorance."
Ser Illyn merely nodded, backing away until he eventually disappeared in the sea of people traversing the campgrounds. Sansa sighed with relief. Despite Nat's explanation, the man was still rather unsettling.
"Are you uncomfortable, Lady Sansa? Is it the Hound?" Nat queried, leaning down to her. "Between you and me, I think he's rather scary myself with those ugly scars on his face, they're unsettling, aren't they?" the prince whispered.
Sansa went beet red with the prince's face so near her own. She thought he smelled quite sweet, like honey. Realizing that she hadn't given the prince an answer, Sansa quickly nodded before turning away lest Nat notice her embarrassment.
Nat patted Sandor on the back before motioning for him to leave with his hand. Taking the hint, the Hound grunted and shuffled off, armor clinking as he made for the Crossroads Inn grumpily.
Nat looked down and smiled. Sansa had her hands on her cheeks which were redder than her hair. Oh, this poor girl is quite taken with me already, eh? he thought to himself. Shaking his head, Nat turned to the canine at Sansa's feet, crouching down to greet her.
"What might I call this fine creature?" he said aloud.
Sansa looked up from her hands and composed herself, breathing in deeply, "This is Lady, my direwolf," she explained, rubbing the direwolf between her ears.
Sansa watched the prince smile widely as he reached out towards Lady. The direwolf smelled his extended fingers cautiously before bowing her head to the prince, allowing him to stroke her snout. The prince laughed heartily and scratched her behind her ears.
"She's magnificent!" he cried.
"Yes," Sansa agreed. "But, not quite as magnificent as yourself, my prince," she added quickly.
Nat began to laugh harder, much to Sansa's disappointment. Standing up to his full, towering height, the Prince waved in apology. "Forgive me, I've just never received such a compliment from a lady as fair as you!"
Sansa felt her cheeks grow hot.
Nat flashed her a shiny grin and extended his elbow to her, "Would you mind if I joined the two of you on your walk, my lady? It's a lovely day."
Sansa returned his smile and interlocked her arm with his, "I would enjoy nothing more, my dear prince."
~0~0~0~
The sweet scent of spring flowers wafted through the air as Crown Prince Nat Baratheon and his betrothed, Lady Sansa Stark, strode along the riverbanks of the Barrowlands. The sun reflected off the waters in a glittering array as the two noble figures walked.
"I see, well I'm sure you won't find the same issue in King's Landing, we've all the resources in Westeros at our disposal!" Nat harped.
Sansa smiled sweetly, "I wouldn't doubt it, my prince…oh I'm just so excited to finally see the capital with my own eyes! I've heard the Red Keep is simply unbelievable!"
Nat smiled down at her, "I certainly think so, but you can only take my word lightly, after all I've lived there all my-"
The sound of a skirmish caught the prince's ear. He stepped forward, turning his head to the sound. It was unmistakable. He could hear grunts and shouts ahead of them. There was some sort of armed conflict happening.
"What is it, my prince?" Sansa asked nervously.
Nat reached to his belt and brought out a long dagger. He kept the short weapon with him in case of trouble when not in his armor. He was never very fond of knives, but he thought it a better alternative to lugging around his broadsword in his linens and wools.
"Someone is fighting just ahead, stay behind me," he ordered.
The pair tread forwards cautiously along the riverbank, carefully listening to the movements of the vagabonds ahead of them. Entering a clearing, all the tension in the prince's chest drained as he found his foes to be two children battling one another with wooden broomsticks. The boy was clearly more skilled than his female counterpart as he quickly dodged her thrust and aimed his next strike at her knuckles. The broom hit true, cracking against her skin. The girl yelped and lost her weapon, leaving herself open to a finishing attack.
Before their fight could escalate further, a booming voice came from behind them.
"Just what do you two think you're doing here?" it echoed.
The two children flinched, knowing their fun was over. As they turned to the looming figure of Nat Baratheon, Sansa caught a glimpse of the girl's face and went aghast. It was her younger sister, Arya Stark.
"Arya!" she cried incredulously.
The prince's eyes flashed with recognition. Ah, he'd also better sheathe his knife. Swiftly putting the knife away at his belt, he crouched down and stared the children directly in the eyes to lecture them.
"Now, what do the two of you think you're doing out here? You interrupted quite a lovely walk," he questioned.
"None of your business! Just go away! Leave us alone!" Arya exploded on him.
While Nat found her outburst amusing, it was clear that his partner did not. "Arya! How dare you talk to my prince that way? When I tell Septa Mordane you'll be in so much trouble! And just think what father will say!" she chided.
The prince sighed. Sansa was still a child he understood, but in his conversations with her he hadn't truly grasped exactly what that would mean. Apparently, it meant childish outbursts such as this.
"Sansa, please it's no worry," he reassured her, "I like her gumption!"
Sansa furrowed her brow. Fine? How could he treat that outburst like it was a summer breeze? No one would be permitted to talk to the king that way, much less the prince! Perhaps Nat wasn't quite up to what she thought he was.
"Pardon me, my prince, but this is not fine! A lady shouldn't be mingling with the smallfolk much less dueling with them! This is disgraceful!" Sansa shouted.
Nat rolled his eyes before turning to the boy, "I suppose she's partially right, you should never hit a lady, even in a duel…what's your name, lad?"
"M-Mycah, my Lord."
"He's the butcher's boy," Sansa informed him.
"He's my friend," Arya said indignantly.
"Well, I trust you'll take it easier on Lady Arya in the future, eh Mycah? You're quite quick, you know," Nat winked.
Sansa was aghast. He was letting this go? Had he no sense of pride?
"Would you look at that! A butcher's boy that wants to be a knight!" exclaimed a voice from the woods.
The group turned to the sound to find Prince Joffrey Baratheon leaning lazily against a tree at the edge of the woods. The prince straightened up and strut over to them, a hand resting on the pommel of his blade.
"Care to show us how good you are? Come, take on my brother, or better yet take on me!" he instigated.
Nat could see where this was going from leagues away and he wasn't going to stand for it. Squinting at his brother, Nat could see a shade of pink dusting his pale cheeks. He had clearly had a bit of wine which was making him even more overconfident and arrogant than per usual. That would have to be corrected.
"You know, Joff, we might be able to give them a better show if you and I face off, what do you say?" Nat interjected.
Joffrey had gone stark white and began to sputter up and excuse. Nat didn't give him the time, quickly pulling his dagger from his belt and twirling it about his fingers. Sansa was horrified. Mycah and Arya were amazed by the prince's skill.
"Oh, please my prince there's no need to fight!" Sansa urged.
The prince shot her a look she had yet to see from him. A look of utter frustration and annoyance. His eyes had lost all their usual humor and had turned a deadly shade of green. Sansa took a step back in fear.
"No, Joffrey wants a match, he'll get one," Nat growled.
Joffrey flickered between fear and rage several times over the next terse minute, ultimately deciding the rage outweighed the fear as he unsheathed his blade, Lion's Tooth, and poked it into the butcher boy's cheek.
"He committed a high crime, hitting a lady, brother," Joffrey said. "He's no knight and I think he should know that; don't you agree?" Joffrey urged his blade forward slightly, piercing Mycah's cheek until blood began to drip.
"You stop it!" Arya screamed, scrambling for her broomstick.
"Don't worry, I won't hurt him…much," Joffrey said fiendishly.
Before he could do anymore damage, Nat had his fist clenched around Joffrey's shirt collar. The prince yanked his brother backwards, sending him stumbling to the floor. Nat frowned and stabbed his dagger into the dirt at Joffrey's side. Nat had thought he had stopped the violence there but evidently Arya Stark had more gumption than he had previously assessed. While Joffrey was struggling to recover from his tumble, Arya had seized her broomstick and began to slam it into Joffrey's side, hard.
Joffrey yelped, raising his hands in protection as the broomstick broke against his skin. As Arya backed away, tossing her broomstick to the side, Joffrey rose with a fury. "Filthy little bitch!" he screeched.
From afar, Sansa began to cry, "Stop it! Stop it both of you, you're spoiling it! You're spoiling everything!"
As Joffrey charged the young Stark, Mycah staggered away into the woods as quickly as he could, clutching his face. "I'll gut you, you little cunt!" the second eldest prince screeched, raising his blade to Arya.
Before he could go any further the looming figure of Nat Baratheon stepped in front of him. Raising his arms, Nat almost growled at his brother, "Take one more step and you'll regret it."
Joffrey was never very good at listening. He charged Nat, thrusting with Lion's Tooth as swiftly as possible. Nat easily side-stepped his brother and grabbed his wrist, twisting hard. Joffrey squealed as Lion's Tooth clattered to the ground. Nat pulled his brother's arm behind his back and pushed him down into the dirt at Arya's feet. The prince patted his thighs and bent down to pick up his dagger from the dirt. This would prove to be a mistake as Joffrey had leapt to his feet quickly and once again held his blade in his hands.
"You're dead!" he said, making to swing at Arya.
Quicker than Nat could hope to react, a direwolf leapt over his back and secured Joffrey's forearm in its maw. As Nat stood to attention, Joffrey rolled about, screaming and kicking to try and free himself from the direwolf.
"Nymeria!" Arya called.
At her master's call, Nymeria released Joffrey's arm and trot over to Arya's side. Joffrey whimpered in the dirt, holding his shredded arm. Nat stood over him, scowling with disapproval.
"P-please brother," he wept.
Nat scoffed. Joffrey was a nuisance. Often, he was Nat's least favorite person in their family, even more so than their father. But still, he was family. If there was one thing Nat had picked up from his grandfather, it was that one did not betray family. One did everything for the sake of family. Extending a hand to his brother, Nat pulled Joffrey to his feet.
"You," he boomed at Arya, who had picked up Lion's Tooth. "Give that here."
Arya's brow twitched at the command and with all her might, she launched the blade into the river. Turning on her heel, Arya sprinted into the woods, Nymeria at her feet. Where they were heading Nat couldn't care less. The frustrated prince was practically holding Joffrey up as the younger prince wept.
"Fetch help, now," he commanded, turning to Sansa.
The still sobbing girl nodded through her tears and ran towards the direction of the camp, leaving the princes alone. Nat guided Joffrey to the ground and leaned back on his haunches.
"I'm going to have a talk with mother about your drinking," he chastised. "You do stupid things when you're drunk and attacking Lord Stark's daughter was beyond stupid, Joffrey."
Joffrey's lip quivered as shouts began to come from the camp.
"I-I hate you! You ingrate! Y-you'll be hearing from mother!" he snapped back.
Nat shook his head and looked off towards camp, waiting for assistance to arrive. He was sure he would be hearing from their mother, but he'd be damned if she ignored Joffrey's behavior. Not this time.
~0~0~0~
That's chapter four. What did you think? Liking a bit more of Nat's personality thus far? How's the punishment going to be doled out next chapter? Let me know your thoughts!
Chapters will likely come out slower starting now as the semesters started up and I'm going to have less time, but I'll try to get them out as quickly as I can. I've got an outline for the plot of the story that I'm going to do my best to keep to, so you're in for probably around a hundred-chapter story!
Hope you're ready for that! I am!
See you in the next chapter and I hope you have a good one.
-Munch