"Yes!"
Jasper Hunter glanced down to the youngest son of Lord Tywin Lannister. Tyrion, otherwise known as the Imp, was still in shackles and yet was grinning. He had every reason to.
The Lady of Winterfell, Catelyn Stark had (rather stupidly, Jasper mused silently) brought the youngest son of the Lord of Casterly Rock as a prisoner to the Eyrie under extremely circumstantial evidence.
What moron would give up a dagger made of Valyrian steel to a cutthroat? He shook his head, positive that those who had happen to see his action would account it to the display before them. The weak yet petulant Robin, son of the late and certainly great Lord Jon Arryn, laughed at the display before him, as did his less than stable mother.
The Vale has to follow those two? We are more doomed than Valyria...
Ser Vardis was, for all purposes, being outmatched by a man little armor and no shield. The sellsword was merely dodging and countering his opponent's swings and strikes. He could guess how this Trial by Combat would end as soon as Bronn, the Lannister's champion, managed to bury and quickly withdraw his sword from the Vale Knight's side.
Jasper kept his head still but rotated his eyes. Lady Catelyn looked almost crestfallen. It was hard to blame her, misguided as she was. Moving his ocular organs again, he found that the red-headed maniac on the high seat had lost her smile. Jasper smirked at that. Though it quickly turned to a light scowl when he found Robin was still grinning. Just how clueless was that boy?
"Enough, Ser Vardis!" Lady Lysa shouted. "Finish him!"
Jasper suppressed a groan. Brain dead fish...
Ser Vardis wiped his brow before lowered his face guard. The duel continued on.
As he continued watching, Jasper felt a hand on his shoulder. "The Little Lion is going to earn his freedom," the voice of an older man whispered to him. "Follow him."
Hunter raised a brow, but remained silent. The Den Master must have a good reason for such a sudden move.
"He will either be returning to Casterly Rock or King's Landing, and we require more eyes in both."
So he was being sent into the belly of the beast. "Understood." He willed his right hand to feel his left wrist, or rather the metal bracer on it. "I pray that woman will not lead us to ruin."
"Leave that to me, Hunter."
With a surreptitious nod, Jasper refocused back on the fight... only to discover Bronn throwing Vardis out the Moon Door. Curses and jeers bounced off the stone walls of the chamber as natives of the Vale were in denial of the results. Bronn looked tired but satisfied, and Tyrion had an expression that suggested a virgin whore had offered him a free night.
"Is it over?" Robin asked his mother.
Jasper's palm aggressively introduced itself to his brow while his teeth attempted to crush each other. The smack drew in the attention of a few people around him.
"I know, I know," a woman in an immaculate dress soothed him. "Ser Vardis deserved such a longer life."
The Lady of the Vale, however, was not as happy as the two men who had fought for freedom. "You don't fight with honor."
Bronn turned back around to face her. "No," he confirmed flatly before pointing down the still open Moon Door. "He did."
A breath quickly escaped Hunter's maw as he raised his hood. "Fun's over. I'm leaving."
"Be safe." The old man handed him a large, full sack, a sword,, and several waterskins. Always prepared, it seemed...
"Aren't I always?"
Even though his footfalls were some of the only sounds being made, nobody in the massive room paid him any mind. All were focused on the Halfman as the jailer undid his bindings.
"Can I make the little man fly now?" Robin asked.
Nobody noticed as the echoing footsteps increased in speed.
Apparently, Tyrion's patience had been exhausted as well. "Not this little man," he said with finality, walking further into the chamber. "This little man is going home." Matching up to a railguard, the Imp and a man from the North stared at each other. "I believe you have something of mine."
Ceasing his movements as he reached the exit, Hunter paused and watched as the Northman looked to Catelyn, who in turn gave a defeated nod. The white-haired Northerner reached into his cloak and tossed a small coin purse to the Lannister. He fastened the scabbard to his belt with the moment to spare.
Catching it, Tyrion gave a mock of a bow to the Lady of Winterfell and made his way back to the exit. Hunter kept his mouth shut as he watched the Imp pass the purse to the jailer, who looked absolutely stunned.
"A Lannister always pays his debts."
Sunlight flooded into the room as the doors opened, allowing Tyrion, Bronn, and a hasty Hunter out of the Eyrie.
"As a boy, I always thought those were the official words of your House," Hunter admitted, catching the attention of both men, though none of them paused their walking.
"And who are you?" Tyrion jovially inquired. "Did Lady Stark not like the results of the Trial?"
"I'm sure she didn't, but that's hardly my concern," Hunter assured, seeing Bronn reach for his sword hilt. "If I wanted to kill you, Lannister, I would have done so when surrounded by other knights to deal with your new friend."
"I'm not his friend," Bronn insisted.
"Well then. I suppose the three of us will just have to be traveling companions."
Tyrion looked him up and down. "And why exactly would you want to hit the long, dirt road?"
"If I have to deal with that raving woman and her leaf of a son for even a moment longer, I swear, I'll put a sword in my own neck." The last part was only partially a lie. "Besides, making sure you get back to Lord Tywin is bound to make me rich."
Bronn smirked. "Looks like we agree on something."
What are you doing, you idiot?!
An unremarkable man in a red hood watched from his hidden perch as the two currently most powerful people in King's Landing exchanged words.
The Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark, was showing all his pieces in the Game without even a plan, right to his greatest opponent!
If there was one thing life with the Hidden Ones had taught him, it was to never show your intentions to anyone who was not explicitly one of them.
A past Mentor had done just that, and it had cost him his father and brothers.
And now, the Quiet Wolf was singing his move to the world.
I can already tell this is going to be disastrous...
Perhaps he should go and find the Den Master... or Forel. After all, what he had overheard was information worth killing for.
Even though it had tension thick enough to slow down steel, a single man found the situation rather funny. The giddiness of the assassin, his rather blatant attempt at regicide, and the Northern man subtly calling him out.
Jorah Mormont. I'd almost feel sorry for you... almost.
Keeping the exchange in his peripheral vision, the spectator continued on what everyone else would think to be his regular day of spending his silver and gold on imported junk. He had told himself that his Westerosi heritage played well to that cover; nostalgia projected onto bits and pieces of his homeland. Not that it mattered much at the moment with his hood both shielding him from the sun and concealing his visage. Walking up and pretending to inspect a series of wooden bird caged gave him a moment to avert his eyes to allow more focus on the brewing storm.
The 'wine vendor' had lost his confidence after the Targaryen girl had ordered he personally take a sample of the drink he had offered (and all but insisted she take). Every one of those in her entourage was glaring at the vendor to varying degrees and he hesitated. Finally, a momentary smile invaded his maw before he made a run for it. Throwing the cup to the ground and hastily shoving the cask into a Dothraki man gave the embarrassing excuse for a killer the opening he needed.
In his wake was shouts from what the spectator assumed to be the new Khaleesi's handmaidens, calling out to anyone to stop the fleeing man.
Well, the Mentor told me to make a move. Might as well.
The Dothraki watching, or rather, chasing after the man who had dared attempt to harm their Khaleesi found themselves witness to a stranger wearing an inordinate amount of clothing for the heat crouch slightly before springing backwards. The hooded one's elbow collided with the soon-to-be-dead man's face, sending the latter sprawling down.
Without missing a beat, the righteous assailant was on one knee above his bruising victim.
A slight sound emitted from his wrist as he flexed it.
Snkk.
A small but very sharp cut of steel sprung out from the bracer latched to his left forearm, sliding out from under his curled fingers. The cold metal pressed into the supine man.
"Whatever the Stag offered, it's not enough to save you."
Desperation washed over the other man's face. "Wait wait! We can split the-"
"Do I look like I want anything from the Usurper?" The hooded one snarled. A lesser trained member of his organization would have plunged the small blade inwards to create the newest corpse of Essos. But not this particular member.
A group of shadows fell over both the men, and the one on top rose and took a few steps back, allowing the Dothraki to collect the doomed one.
"He's all yours," he assured with a casual smile, as if bodily harming assassins was a regular occurrence for him. Who's to say it wasn't?
The man in the hood kept on watching with a grin as the Bloodriders forced the loser of the fight up to his feet.
"Good eye, Ser Jorah," he said, not bothering to look over. He knew full well who was walking up behind him. "Though, are you a Ser anymore?"
The voice of a young yet regal woman spoke up, though not to him. "Do you know this man?"
The Old Bear's disgraced son's voice made it obvious to the world that he was wary of the man who had assisted them. "I'm not sure."
"Oh, do please excuse me. I'm rather not fond of having the sun in my eyes." His hands gently grasped the fabric of his hood and pulled it down to his shoulders. His long black hair shuddered with the breeze and his grey eyes regarded the Targaryen girl. Silver hair. Palor. Violet eyes. "Greetings, Khaleesi. I am Adrian of House Thorne."
Her silence and blinking eyes told him all he needed to know; she had no clue what that meant.
A glance towards the exile from the North made it clear that a brief history lesson was in order.
"His family fought for your father during the War," Jorah elaborated, keeping a protective hand on the young Dragon. "They've been Loyalists since the reign of Viserys the First."
The young woman's eyes widened before focusing on him. She looked at him deeply. His face was ageless, yet he was clearly not old. His grey eyes were friendly, yet paranoid in a way. As if he were constantly looking out for danger.
"Perhaps," Adrian said, breaking the thick silence. "We should acquaint in a more... secure environment." He leaned to the left slightly, looking over Daenerys's shoulder to find her loyal Dothraki manhandling the one who attempted to take her life.
The two other significant players in the Great Game followed his line of sight.
"Agreed," Daenerys declared. She returned to looking at Adrian. "Follow us, Thorne. Your actions have made you most welcome."
"My thanks, Khaleesi." He stepped aside for them to pass him, followed by the Bloodriders and the man he had stopped from fleeing (not that he would have gotten far... but the action had landed Thorne in the good graces of the withering Targaryen clan). Just as he was about to follow the motley group, Thorne thought of something. Turning on his heels, he walked over to the spot where the confrontation had begun.
Sure enough, in all the excitement, the cask of poisoned wine had been left forgotten in the dirt. Bending over, he grabbed it and hoisted it onto his shoulder. An ancient Mentor had called poison a coward's tool, but many others in the brotherhood saw uses in it.
Running back to the group and keeping a pace behind them, he grinned to himself. Ah Tabai would find the news most joyous. He had found the last of the Targaryens!
Harren Harlaw watched in silence, in the shadows, as the Old Bear read off a list of names and just how they would help serve the Watch. Builders. Rangers. Stewards. Some more exciting than others, but all had a purpose.
And yet, Harren only kept his eyes on one.
Jon Snow, the living stain on Eddard Stark's legendary honor. What made the bastard so special, he could not guess. But his Mentor had given him an assignment, and he fully intended to follow through on it.
The Quiet Wolf's natural son had looked like a child with their first sword when old Mormont had started going down the list. But when it had been his turn to be assigned, his smile vanished like a snowflake in Dorne. Evidently, Jon Snow was not to keen on being a steward.
Harren, however, felt relief wash over him. If the boy had been made a ranger, then watching him would have been so many times more difficult. Wrapping his furred robes tighter around his person, Harren looked on as Jon shifted his cranium slightly. Harren followed his new line of sight and gazed upon the Master-at-Arms of Castle Black, who sported a look of bottomless smugness.
The man brought back several memories of his time as a lowly recruit. Adrian always said you were irritatingly stubborn, Alliser. Right now, I just think you're irritating.
"May all the gods preserve you." The Lord Commander was finished with that particular duty, and the higher ups began calling for their new forces. All went off to follow their leaders... except Snow. The boy looked heartbroken and was hesitating. He looked around, as if hoping he would notice something wrong with reality and that he would wake from this nightmare. As chance would have it, he and Harren locked eyes. Suddenly, the sulking evaporated and was replaced with curiosity.
Harren said nothing. Rather, he gave a reaffirming nod and slithered one of his arms out of his wrapped cloak. He pointed to a stairway, where Maester Aemon was standing and waiting for the new stewards to amass before him.
Harren remained a ghost in all but tangibility as he listened. Most of them were nothing too special. Rookery, stables, kitchens. One was being sent to Eastwatch, gods help him.
Then Aemon decreed the next assignment. "Jon Snow. Lord Commander Mormont has requested you for his personal steward."
Harren's eyes widened at the development.
Jon sounded offended. He let the silence hang for a moment. "Will I serve the Lord Commander's and fetch hot water for his bath?"
Harren could hear the contempt drip off every syllable. Alright. The big picture escapes him...
Maester Aemon obviously did as well, and played to it. "Certainly. And keep a fire burning in his chambers, change his sheets and blankets daily, and do everything else he requires of you."
Harren could not help but smile. Just like being a recruit.
Jon did not take the old man's words in stride. His anger was simmering now. "Do you take me for a servant?"
"We took you as a man of the Night's Watch," Aemon answered. "But perhaps we were wrong in that."
The Bastard of Winterfell took in a breath. "May I go?"
"As you wish."
Harren observed as Jon curtly stomped off with two of his fellows following after. Well now. This is interesting. Looks like I'm going to be playing watchdog for a Lord Commander. This must be how Mentor Ezio felt when he killed a Faceless Man with a cittern...
As he lumbered off to retrieve his horse, two things were on his mind.
Which raven in Mole's Town would reach Greywater Watch the quickest?
And what could the Order of the Ancients possibly want with a bastard?
Adrian felt the warmth of the braziers. All of them. The hummock was adorned with plenty for the somewhat chilly nights.
Looking around it, his mind wandered slightly. "Where is Viserys?"
"He's dead," Daenerys answered with no hesitation.
Those two words made Thorne pause for a moment. "Ah. Why am I not surprised-"
"What do you want?" Daenerys demanded. She used that royal tone, even though there were only four present in the hut. Herself, Jorah, Thorne, and the wine merchant who was currently tied to a support post.
Thorne looked at her and pulled down his hood. "To swear my fealty, of course. House Thorne has followed the Dragons for over a hundred years. Why stop now, now that I have finally found the rightful bloodline to sit on the Iron Throne?"
"What have you been doing all these years?" Jorah steely inquired. "I am aware most of the Thornes either perished, took the Black, or fled into exile."
"Aye, exile. I was there for the Sack, as the doors opened for the Old Lion. It was chaos." He paused and cleared his throat. He had been far younger, more susceptible to the horrors of the world. All the screaming... the death rattles... steel spilling innocent blood... "Those damned redcloaks chased us all the way to Blackwater Bay. Thank the Old Gods and the New for unattended boats..."
"And you did not reveal yourself until after I had been nearly assassinated?" Daenerys narrowed her eyes and rubbed her stomach.
"I wouldn't say nearly, as you have Jorah Mormont watching your back. Besides. It's not as if a complete stranger can just dance right up to a Khaleesi and shout, can he? The Bloodriders would have sliced my arms off."
Jorah had a look of understanding. First impressions were important, after all. "Khaleesi. The Thornes are indeed deep supporters of your House. And while I've faith in the khalasar, it never hurts to have men rather than not."
Nodded deeply, Thorne got down on one knee while looking at the ground. "Daenerys of House Targaryen. I, Adrian of House Thorne, do swear my fealty to you and your child and your grandchildren." He doubted he would live long enough to see the generation after that... unless the gods blessed him with as long a life they did for Altaïr. "I ask only that I be allowed to follow your khalasar in safety."
Looking down at him, Daenerys thought it over. Here he was, kneeling to her, swearing his life... "Rise, Adrian Thorne." He obeyed. "I accept both your service and your request."
Jorah watched as Thorne smiled and placed a hand over his own heart. It was then that the disgraced knight noticed something. A burn scar on Thorne's ring finger.
Pulling his hood back onto his head, Thorne walked over to the man bound with nowhere to go but the Seven Hells. He grabbed him roughly by the chin and forced eye contact between them. "You are either arrogant, or stupid. Perhaps both."
The other man said nothing. He only breathed deeply, fear plastered on every line of his face.
"You thought you would deliver the rightful ruler to the Usurper? Well, it seems you thought wrong. Now all that awaits you is not luxury, but pain."
These things did not need to be said, but Thorne needed some enjoyment, and this man needed a lesson. Perhaps even spill his guts about other spies and killers lurking about.
"Speaking of pain." He flexed his wrist again, allowing his special blade to extend out. He let go of of the soon to be dead man's face and reached into his robes with his free hand. After rummaging for a moment, he pulled out a small glass vial. "Manticore venom." The failed assassin's eyes widened in terror. "Ah, so you are familiar with it. Then you must know what it does. It's like being eaten alive from the inside... by a pack of rabid hounds. They say it burns like-"
His horror story was interrupted by the flap opening up, followed by several Dothraki coming in with torches.
Thorne took it as his time to regroup with Jorah and the Targaryen girl. Quickly sauntering over to them, he watched as a towering man who could only be Khal Drogo entered. He looked at the unlikely trio, then to the man who attempted to take the life of his bride. He said nothing. He only closed the gap between them and glared down. The other, smaller man could not even look at him.
Impressive. Thorne wished he could cause that much fear in people with just a look.
Drogo pulled himself away from his spot and quickly made his way to Daenerys. He gently put his hands on her cheeks and jaw as if she were made of glass.
"Moon of my life," his voice, spoken in his native tongue, thundered with emotion. "Are you hurt?"
She gingerly put her own hand on his wrist and lightly shook her head in assurance. Drogo leaned down and kissed her head before looking over.
Thorne noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Mormont shifted uncomfortably. What's this, slaver? Jealousy?
The Khal removed his lips from his wife and also, though less subtly, turned his attention to the Northman. "Jorah the Andal. They told me what you did." Drogo moved away from his young bride and grabbed onto Mormont's shoulder. "Choose any horse you wish. It is yours. I make this gift to you."
Both Westerosi men felt their breath hitch. A horse of one's choosing? Coming from a Dothraki, there were few higher honors.
Drogo took a step past Daenerys, and Thorne found himself staring up at the third most intimidating he had ever been in the presence of.
The khal observed him in silence. "You must be Thorne the Andal. My men told me of how you appeared and saved my beloved..."
"My sun and stars." Daenerys spoke up, drawing in her husband's gaze. "Thorne has asked that he only be allowed within the khalasar."
The Khal looked at her, quiet as could be, before looking back at Thorne. "Consider yourself one with the khalasar. You may also have third pick of the pillage loot."
Thorne bowed deeply in thanks.
Drogo moved back to Daenerys and put his hands on her stomach. "And to my son, the stallion who will mount the world, I will also pledge a gift. I will give him the iron chair that his mother's father sat upon."
Letting go of the Khaleesi, he began to circle the center brazier, with all eyes on him. All were entranced by his declaration.
"I will give him seven kingdoms! I, Drogo, will do this."
The Dothraki were starting to get excited. Daenerys looked as if she had stumbled upon a mountain of gold higher than the Wall. Thorne, however, kept his face neutral.
Better it be him than one of the Ancients' puppets...
"I will take my Khalasar west to where the world ends... and ride wooden horses across the black salt water! As no Khal as done before!"
Looks like I'm going to witness history...
Drogo marched over to the prisoner and all but screamed in his face. "I will kill the men in iron suits and tear down their stone houses!"
The Dothraki cheered, and Thorne smiled. All is fair in war.
The Khal returned to his rallying. "I will rape their women! Take their children as slaves!"
Thorne's smile vanished. Ah, right. Dothraki...
Unlike him, Drogo was all in with his plans. "And bring their broken gods back to Vaes Dothrak! This, I vow! I, Drogo, son of Bharbo!" Everyone was hanging on to his every word, though some for different reasons. "I swear before the Mother of Mountains! As the stars look down in witness! AS THE STARS LOOK DOWN IN WITNESS!"
His declaration was met with thunderous approval and loyalty.
Thorne raised a fist, if only to stay in the good graces. Well... Benedicto only said we need Daenerys...
Petyr Baelish, the current Master of Coin, normally retreated to his office within his most popular bordello for some peace and sanctuary. Quietness was usually out of the question.
Alas, he discovered he would have none as he opened the door. A man was at his desk, going through his ledgers.
"Have a seat, Baelish."
"Of course, sir." Petyr closed and locked the door before going over to the other side of the desk and taking his spot in the chair.
"You seem to be doing well," the other man observed as his eyes scanned the numbers and names.
"Money makes all things possible."
"That depends on the man." He closed the book. "To the point. You acted hastily and without permission."
Petyr maintained his smile, though he could feel his leg shaking. "The Grand Master always says that Stark could not be-"
"Do not assume you know what is best for the Order!"
Baelish's lips went thin and flat. "I meant no dis... I mean to say, I did as I thought would be most beneficial to us."
The other man leaned back and interlocked his fingers. "As I was saying, you acted without permission... but justly. We do not need any more chaos. And Stark would have lit a barrel of wildfire on our faces."
The Master of Coin breathed deeply. "The Queen will beseech that he be sent to the Wall."
"As is the best solution. He will be as far away from us as possible and with no more power. And who is to say a dagger won't find its way into his neck between here and the North..." He stood up but continued to glare at Baelish. "Do not overstep yourself, Littlefinger."
"Of course not, sir."
"May the Father of Understanding guide us."