Robert looked at his old friend, his brows crinkled in concentration, "So… The girl's song yesterday wasn't about me?" Eddard could easily see the hangover dulling his King's senses as the two of them and the adventurers took their seats in the Stark lords solar. "Rob, when did you ever fight anything called Alduin? Or travelled to a place called Skyrim?" Eddard sighed, "It is a song from the homeland of these three, but there are more important things right now."
King Robert shot him a look, "Fine then. So, what is important enough for you to drag your King off into a meeting when there is perfectly serviceable breakfast I could be eating?" A plate of the best the kitchen could offer was already lying empty but for a few bones in front of the man. He made to continue but was interrupted as the door to the solar cracked open, and Benjen quickly stepped into the room, closing the door behind him as the king swung his arms wide, "Benjen! It's been a long-time you bastard! How's my Wall?"
Benjen's grim expression knocked the jovial ruler back slightly as he replied, "Under threat, your majesty."
The light-hearted mood drained from the room as the King shifted to give Benjen his full attention, all levity gone from his face as he acknowledged the report. "Explain."
Benjen's explanation put paid to any last remnants of humour in the situation, and the three nobles contemplated their options while the adventurers hovered at the edge of the room. "So, you need soldiers. Good ones, not the shit that the Watch usually gets. Ones that can think and use their heads." The king took a draft from a tankard that had been delivered from the kitchen. "It's a good thing I'm here, Ned. With Jon's death, I need a new Hand; and I want it to be you."
"I can't leave my people at a time like this," Eddard protested, waving an arm towards the window, "My people need leadership." The King snorted, putting the tankard back down on the table with a loud clatter, "Ned. Is the Wall intact?" The man nodded, reluctantly, "Is Winterfell, or any of your settlements directly under threat right now?" The man shook his head again, the skin around his mouth tightening into a frown. "You will do more good as my Hand down in King's Landing than you can do here. Your son, Robb, seems to have a good head on his shoulders, he can lead your people here while you come down south with me and start putting together a response." The aging man sighed, sinking back into the sturdy armchair he had claimed for himself. "I'm not who I was two decades ago, Ned. I was a fair general, but it was you that got the armies fed and armed. I'm too old and too fat to go on the campaign now, I know that. When the war came, I had to rant and rave to get my bannermen to stand; you walked into Winterfell, and they already had weapons in hand." He sighed, "I need you down south to do the same."
The King turned his gaze towards Benjen and the adventurers before looking back at Eddard, "If what they say is true, the North needs the aid of the other kingdoms, and I'll need you with me to get them to listen. Leave your son here, call your bannermen to Winterfell and have them ready, then march back up here in six months at the head of an army, ready to defend the realm from what would threaten it."
Eddard looked towards his brother, but found little sympathy, "I know you value your honour and place in the North, Ned, but if you becoming the Hand will bring more forces to bear to defend our people, it's the only honourable action you can take. I must return to the wall to prepare the Watch, but I can stay long enough to support Rob with your bannermen, but you are the only one that can do this."
The reluctant Lord looked between his friend and his brother before releasing a harsh grunt, "I will do as you ask, my King, though it sits ill with me to leave now." His eyes land on the three adventurers, "But you three will be accompanying me, as will the girls and Bran. Cat can stay here with Rob and Rickon. Theon and Jon as well." Benjen's sudden discomfort caught the attention of everyone as he shifted in his chair, "Jon has asked me if he can join the Watch, Ned." The man admitted reluctantly.
"He has also asked me to tutor him in the magickal arts." Cae reported, "He has a passable talent for them, and has begun learning some basic spellcraft." At her words, Robert turned to watch her with considerable interest, "Beyond your friend's glowing swords, I haven't seen much of that. Tyrion Lannister seemed to think you had some exceptional abilities at the feast; apparently, he heard about your trip to the Wolfswood." The King looked the elf up and down appraisingly, "Go on then. Let's see what you've got."
After a quick look towards Lord Eddard, who dazedly nodded his consent to her demonstration in his solar, Cae raised one of her hands, palm upwards, a small glittering emerald appearing above the palm of her hand. With a quick gesture, the crystal sank into her skin, and it began to harden and split. Dull dark scales spreading outwards from the point of contact, soon covering most of her body; only her face left clear. "This spell is called Dragonskin, it hardens the body to resist blows better than hardened steel, but only for a short time." With a flick of her wrist, the other hand filled with a pulsing purple void, which burst into spectral luminescence, obscuring her arm from view for a moment before forming into a shimmering blade, twisted into wicked curves and edges. "That was a conjuration spell, to summon a weapon when you have none to hand."
After a moment of allowing the King to gawp at the magics at play, Cae released the spells with a burst of will; letting them fade away. "These are what you have been teaching Jon?" Eddard asked quietly, watching Cae with an unreadable expression, and she quickly shook her head, "No, he asked to learn the magics of healing, the school of Restoration. I did teach him a basic fire spell, however, for defence."
Benjen glanced at his brother before nodding to Cae, "Such things will serve him well, and be valuable skills on the Wall." He turned back to Eddard, "Unless you plan on going against his wishes and stopping him from leaving, it's best if he learns what he can, Ned." The man sighed, "I'll be sticking with Robb to help with your Bannermen when they arrive, so Jon will be staying with me for that, there's a chance he'll change his mind."
Lord Eddard nodded jerkily, "I understand. I believe that is all we must discuss for now. I will have preparations to make before I am ready to leave. My King, with your leave?"
Robert nodded his solemn agreement before resting a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder. A moment later, he began hauling himself to his feet, and the group set about preparing themselves for the days to come.
The announcement that Lord Stark had agreed to become the Hand of the King didn't surprise Jaime, but it certainly frustrated Cersei. Her still, silent fury during the evening feast was proof enough of that. Jaime didn't particularly like the man; the memory of the honour-bound noble's entrance into the Red Keep to see Jaime sitting on the Iron Throne was one that would stick in his mind.
Killing the Mad King wasn't something he lost sleep about, but the look in the eyes of the Stark Lord; the disgust and disdain, were another story. His dreams of knighthood and honour as a child forever stained by the killing of the man he swore to protect; even if he had slain him to protect the people of the Seven Kingdoms, someone as blinded by duty as Lord Eddard would never be able to see the sacrifice he had made to bring an end to the bloodshed.
His sword lashed out again, slaying phantom foes as he fought alone in the training grounds in the growing twilight. His Kingsguard fellows were busy with their duties; the Stark knights would not deign to spar with the Kingslayer, and the soldiery, squires and guards that had accompanied the royal procession were hardly challenging opponents. A spin on his heel coupled with a pair of quick thrusts ended the lives of more of his shadowy assailants. There went Rossart, Tybalt, Clegane; a madman, a hapless fool, and one murderer; dead on the end of his blade as they should be.
Sweat trickled down his face as he broke into a frenzied assault; left, right, left, above, behind, kick to the left; all down, all dead. His arm was slowing, a leaden weight building for the last hour coming to a head; with a final flourish, he drove the blade through the last raving phantasm before his arm dropped to his side.
Staring up at the clouded sky, panting heavily and dripping in sweat, Jaime near left the ground as the person behind him spoke, "Good technique, Ser Jaime." Landon nodded to him, both dressed in similar training clothes.
Jaime clapped a hand to his chest, taking a moment to compose himself before responding, "Thank you, Ser. I had to admit, you have me at a disadvantage, I did not hear you approach." The Kingsguard carefully walked to the edge of the training area, sitting down heavily on one of the benches while snatching up one of the several waterskins he had brought with him.
The foreigner smiled, "The art of being light-footed is something I have had to cultivate at times; Lady M'rissi is my superior in that regard, but I can still handle some tasks." Jaime took another look at the other warrior; he carried at least five years over the Lannister, and at least a hundred more battles; his face and bare arms bore the scars of conflict, and the man carried himself in a more predatory manner than any Jaime had ever seen, aside from Ser Dayne himself. The pair of swords clipped to his waist were those that the feline woman had been carrying during the spar that morning.
"Do you think you'd be up for another spar? At a more sedate pace, of course." Landon asked, unbuckling the two scabbards from his belt before picking up a more mundane longsword, "An audience is rarely beneficial for training."
Jaime looked at him blankly, "You want another? Have the Starks not told you about me yet?" With his breath coming back to him, he loosely gestured to himself, "I'm the Kingslayer, the dishonoured knight that stains his white cloak."
With a shrug, Landon replied, "You slew a king who had gone mad. The Cyrodiilic Empire has had their fair share of mad rulers. Potema the Wolf Queen comes to mind. Her madness and evil brought low an emperor and an empress; her brother and niece respectively; and it was only through the bloodshed of war that she was slain. If one of her guards had had the bravery to stand against her, to cut her down before the blood sacrifices began, countless lives would have been saved."
The man seemed honest, but Jaime knew his position better, "I wasn't just a guard, I was a Kingsguard, an oath sworn in defence of the King. When I broke that oath, in the eyes of the world, I lost my honour. I only kept my position in the Kingsguard because it would have been a grave insult to my father to throw my body into a pit with the rest of them." Speaking to a foreigner, with no stake in the situation, was liberating; there weren't family loyalties or ties of blood to be concerned about, no ancient alliances or dishonoured lines.
"I have a friend, a dear and ancient friend, who turned on his lord. He had been a loyal servant for his entire life, the right hand of his liege. Bound in kinship, in name, and in nature; but he took up arms against his lord. His name is Paarthurnax." Landon finished his stretches as Jaime stood up, taking opposing positions in the sparring circle.
"In kinship, name and nature? A kinslayer? From the same house?" Jaime questioned as the two men circled each other.
Landon shook his head as he darted in, his slash blocked in a flash of blunted steel, "Not as you would think it. His liege was his elder brother; but his kind slew each other with regularity. His name, translated into this tongue, means Ambition-Overlord-Cruelty. Paar Thur Nax" Jaime noticed a strange resonance in the Dornish's tone as their blades met in another quick flurry, "By nature. His kind name themselves for their nature. One called Fus would be forceful, one called Yol would be fiery. His name is his nature."
The two of them sprang apart, blades drawn into guards as they returned to circling, "So he slew his lord for the throne then? Raw ambition?"
The adventurer sprang inward as he replied, almost breaking through Jaime's defence as his blade leapt out to strike at his ribs, only barely deflected, "No. When Alduin declared himself to be a god, Paarthurnax knew he must stand against him, not for ambition, not for power; but to ensure the world lived. Legends tell that the goddess Kyne descended to Paarthurnax, sending him to give the gift of the Thu'um to mankind, so they might defend themselves from Alduin. He doesn't agree with that interpretation."
It was Jaime's turn to strike, hooking his blade behind the Dragonborn's knee and almost sending him sprawling, saving himself with a lightning-quick twist to the side, "You make little sense, you speak of this man as if he was not human; he has legends around him about gods. The gods don't speak to us, and there is nothing they could need from us." The name Alduin seemed familiar, Jaime suspected that he had heard it during the singing last night after the foreign girl joined in, "Alduin? Your friend sang about him last night, some other tall tale?"
Landon gave the man a grin as he rolled away from another strike, launching himself up to knock Jaime back, "Not a tale; and I never said Paarthurnax was a man. I speak of dragons, and Alduin the World-eater; firstborn of Akatosh, God of time." Taking advantage of Jaime's reaction, Landon rushed towards him with a blistering chain of strikes, forcing the Lannister onto the backfoot once more as his sword was beaten mercilessly towards the ground. "Paarthurnax turned against Alduin, teaching the Tongues what they needed to banish him; he led me down the same path with Alduin re-emerged. So, I ask you, Jaime Lannister; you look down on yourself for turning against your Mad King." The end of Jaime's sword stuck in the dirt as the last hit drove the blade from the exhausted southerner's hand, while Landon's flicked up to hover at his throat; "Paarthurnax asked me once; what is better? To be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?"
After a moment of silence, Landon's sword dropped, and Jaime swallowed, taking a half-step back, "What does that mean?" He asked out into the silence, loosening his grip on his own snared blade.
"That is something Paarthurnax left me to discover for myself; and I will do the same to you." Landon sheathed his weapon, "My companions and I will be accompanying the Lord Stark to King's Landing; I would be happy to spare with you again. It's rare for me to find someone who can pose a challenge in pure swordplay." He paused as Jaime remained still, giving him only a small nod as his brows furrowed in thought. "I will speak with you again later." The Dragonborn finished, leaving the man with his thoughts.
Cersei was thankful that her servants had been foresighted enough to bring plentiful southern wine for the journey to the barbarous North; one look at the Stark's pathetic excuse for wine was almost enough to make her retch.
She swirled the deep red liquid around in her goblet as she leaned back in her chair, her shoulders and neck slowly relaxing under the careful ministrations of her newest handmaiden, Bothia. Unassuming of looks, with a plain face and hair the colour of dull flax rather than her own golden locks, yet the girl possessed a rare gem of talent, always seeming to know what her mistress desired, almost before she knew it herself. The fact that she treated Cersei with the true deference and respect owed to her rank was only right, after all.
"A refill, my lady?" Bothia asked softly, gesturing an oiled hand towards the near-empty goblet. Cersei's grunt was answer enough, and the servant gestured to one of the others that hovered around the room, clicking her fingers, "You. The Queen requires more wine." The indicated servant paled and almost leapt forwards in their rush to serve, though they were careful to take their time when pouring the wine itself. The Queen and Bothia's reaction to Tilly spilling wine on one of the Queen's older gowns was something none of remaining handmaidens would forget.
Cersei smiled as she brought her refreshed drink to her lips, Tilly had been such a nuisance, but that ruining of her gown was the final straw. She had been about to call the guards to have the stupid girl thrown into the cells, but Bothia's suggestion had been far more fitting, and the coins had gone a great deal towards replacing her lost garments.
Jaime's spar with the foreigner had been frustrating. Her brother was the finest swordsman in all of Westeros, and to see him brought down, to see him injured, by an outsider's dirty tricks was infuriating. Worse, Robert and the Stark were clearly happier to see a Lannister humiliated than they were interested in ensuring the honour and fairness of the match. It should never have happened to begin with; the nobility did not spar with commoners, after all. The fact that Lord Stark could not even get a true knight to train his children was only further proof of how degenerate this land was; uncivilised and fit only for beasts.
Bothia's skilled fingers unwound another tense knot in her mistress' neck, and Cersei felt herself sinking lower in her chair. It was good to have finally found a servant who understood the way things should be. The nobility ruled, the commonfolk followed, as was only right. Robert's desire to have the Stark as his Hand was an insult to everything her father and family had done for him in the years since he took the throne; not only that, but the Lord of the Rock was a far more prestigious position than the Warden of the icy North; by position alone, the role of Hand should belong to her father, not a stinking Northman who hadn't been to the capital in years.
She could allow, she admitted, that Robert had made Jon Arryn his hand; the man at least had a passing understanding of court life, and Robert had been his ward. The man had seemed competent as well; managing the details while Robert drank and whored, and she herself conducted herself as the rightful Queen. His illness was sudden, and his death a tragedy. She was a just enough person to admit that; but his death had opened the way for her father to take his place, however something had been lost when the man had passed.
She set down her drained goblet and sighed, "Bothia, I will bathe before I rest tonight." The handmaiden reacted instantly, orders laid out to her lesser servants to bring hot water, oils and the tub. A tub! She was a long way from the solid marble edifice she had had built in King's Landing; now having to deal with a simple metal tub, far below her breeding.
She would have to speak to Jaime again, he seemed shaken by the commoner's duplicity; she'd have to comfort him again. There must be some quiet place in this wretched keep. She'll ask Bothia tomorrow, she always has what is needed.
The arrow sank deep into the straw behind the target M'rissi had placed against the wall of the Winterfell. "Very good! She thinks you have the talent of an archer." The Khajiit congratulated her charge, "Not as good as her of course, but she is the very best."
Arya rolled her eyes at the older woman's self-aggrandisement, her arrow had caught the target in the throat, right beneath the crudely drawn jowls of the hound that M'rissi had drawn, a certain kill shot. She drew the heavy bow back again, the wood creaking as she strained to bring the fletching back to her cheek. The loosed arrow struck deep at the target again, catching it near the side of its chest. The bow was light by the standards of an adult, but still strained her slight limbs to bring it to full draw.
The girl glanced across at the second target, the one M'rissi had used as a demonstration; black fletching sprouted like shrubs from the eyes, throat and chest, probably more arrows than was really needed for the demonstration, but M'rissi had been quite enthusiastic about her choice in targets.
"She thinks that will be enough shooting for now; the terrible dogs are gone now. Now we shall see if you can walk softly and not make noise." Arya nodded to the adventurer, setting her bow down beside the quiver of training arrows she had placed on the bench beside her. "Where are we practicing? Here?"
M'rissi shook her head, eyes alight with mischief, "No no no! We shall sneak into the kitchens, see what fish they have, yes?" The Khajiit turned on her heel and melted into the twilight, only her luminous eyes blinking back at Arya told her what path to take as she hastened to follow her tutor.
The guards patrolling the walls watched with some amusement as the Stark girl crept around, keeping to the shadowy edge of the training grounds before slipping into the main keep. What was concealed from the ground was often clearly visible from above, though none of them claimed to have been able to follow the movements of the feline foreigner as she disappeared into the dark.
The kitchens of Winterfell were abuzz with activity; preparing sweet pastries and other cold delicacies ready to be served on the breakfast tables of the royal party in the morning. The near-blind Rickard presided over his domain like a King holding court, two dozen workers darting back and forth between various counters and ovens, occasionally approaching the ancient chef with a morsel to taste, responding to his critique like orders given by Lord Stark himself.
It was through this controlled chaos that M'rissi wound her way; going without a second glance as she brushed past workers, keeping to the edges of Rickard's limited vision. Two cooling fish pies vanished from a rack as they went unobserved for a moment by their creator, and the Khajiit span past the last cook in her path through a door at the far side of the kitchen.
Arya's entrance was less skilled, almost stumbling over a hurrying servant whose eyes widened at the sight of her; a quick glance over his shoulder at Rickard provided an opportunity for the girl to slip his sight, moving deeper into the kitchen as a tall man approached the head chef with a spoonful of cooling soup intended for the night shift guards. As the elderly man pronounced the soup satisfactory, Arya snatched up a pair of jam tarts as two of the workers collided in a shower of broken pastries; the collision drawing a cry of furious indignation from the kitchen's ruler; giving the girl the distraction she needed to follow her mentor's path and escape the sweltering chamber.
The young adventurer had set herself up at the base of one of the lesser stairwells of the keep, seated on the bottom of the banister as she quickly devoured one of the pies. The Stark girl hopped up alongside her.
"She thinks you did well, yes?" The Khajiit asked as she accepted one of the sweet tarts from her student, reluctantly passing across the second fish pie in return. "You are in one piece, and no marks from the angry spoon."
Arya winced at the memory of the last time she had tried to purloin some food from the kitchen, the welt on the back of her hand from Rickard's spoon had taken some time to fade. "I got seen once at the start, but I managed to get away from him while he looked over to Nan for what to do."
The Khajiit hummed, "Distracted is good, but never being seen is better. She says you have gotten better today, with the shooting and with the sneaking." The jam tart vanished almost as quickly as the pie as M'rissi stared out of the narrow window that was built above the base of the stairs. "This is a far place from her home." She said quietly, her eyes fixed on the sliver of the late-night sky just visible above the walls of Winterfell.
"Where are you from? Lady Cae said you all lived in a place called Cyrodiil, I think?" Arya questioned, turning to look at her inhuman companion. "I've not seen people like you or her in any of the Maester or Septa's books."
The adventurer waited a moment before replying, "Landon is from Cyrodiil, she is from Eleswyr, the land of her people. It is warmer there, a desert; and so many of her people; but everything is wrong here. Even the sky is not the same. It is empty."
Not certain how to reply, Arya kept silent, sitting beside the melancholic woman as she stared out at the darkened sky.
The early morning sun burned Jon's eyes as he made his way across the courtyard to the library. His lessons with Lady Cae had been progressing apace, the concepts were difficult to hold in his mind; almost a matter of emotion rather than logic, but his determination to excel had put him in good stead, and it was clear that his tutor appreciated the effort he was putting in.
The dry scent of the library broke through his self-reflection as he pushed through the door. They only had a few hours this morning for his training, before Septa Mordane would arrive to teach Arya and Sansa; Lady Cae had noted his reticence around the uncompromising woman and would usually cut their lessons short after she arrived, recommending that Jon leave and consider what she had taught him. Though she forbade him from practicing his magic without her presence.
The golden-skinned woman greeted him with a smile as he settled into the seat opposite her at the small table she had claimed in the back of the library, a collection of freshly written manuscripts spread before her as she worked to transcribe her knowledge to parchment. His father has asked for her to make what notes she could on teaching magic, to assist in the education of more soldiers if the Wall came under threat.
"I am afraid that we will only have a few more lessons before I must depart with the royal procession," Carerane informed him, setting her quill aside, "Your Lord Father has requested that my compatriots and I accompany him south to King's Landing."
Jon felt his stomach sink as the thought reminded him of his commitment to his uncle. A pledge to join the Night's Watch was not something to be undertaken lightly, and the idea of spending his life guarding the man-made glacier was an intimidating one. "I… thank you for informing me, my lady." He replied after a moment, dropping his gaze from her emerald eyes to look at the collection of notes on the table between them. "I will be staying with Uncle Benjen here in Winterfell for a while, perhaps I can continue studying your notes after you have gone."
The woman smiled faintly, "You are quite talented with the channelling of magicka, I am sure you will do well." She paused to push some of the papers aside, placing a number of magical reagents between them, "Shall we begin?"
Jon felt something inside him strain as he drained his reserves; a shimmer of magic forming between him and Carerane. He tensed as she prowled up to the ward, inspecting it closely, before bringing up a hand crackling with electricity. The boy let out a grunt as she pressed her hand to the ward, and he felt his magicka reserves plummet.
His struggles to maintain the ward lasted only a few seconds before the edifice shattered with a flash of light, and he dropped to his hands and knees, panting.
"Very good, Jon. Very good." Carerane's praise stung as he pushed himself back into a sitting position.
"It only lasted a moment!" He protested, the frustration of another failure boiling up; this had been the fourth time he had tried to maintain that spell, and each time he lasted mere seconds after the elf started testing it.
"Do you know why I am having you practice this spell? I don't expect you will face very many magic users, but I still think it's important. Why?" The woman questioned softly, leaning down to pass him a waterskin.
He accepted it gratefully, taking down a couple of gulps while he thought, "If you don't think I will face many magic users… It's not for defence?" His brows creased as he thought through the other effects of the spell, "For light? No… That is wasteful…" He trailed off as he continued to think.
After half a minute, Carerane drew his attention back to her with a click of her fingers, "What happens when you exercise a muscle?" she probed him gently.
Jon's eyes widen in sudden realisation, "It gets stronger!"
The elven woman nodded, "It gets stronger. That spell forces you to externalise your internal reserves as pure magicka, rather than transforming it into another form; it allows me to interact with it directly. I didn't choose to test it with lightning on a whim; the energy of electricity is inherently destabilising for magickal constructs, draining the victim's internal reserves are a consequence of this." Jon hopped back up to his feet, picking up a quill from the table to note down the interaction. Carerane had impressed upon him the importance of properly kept notes, especially when dealing with something as volatile as magic."
Once he was done, Carerane clapped her hands together, "Excellent! Now, let-"
Her words were lost as the door to the library slammed open, Robb bursting in and sprinting towards her, "Bran has fallen from the tower!"