Well, here we are folks, a bit earlier than I had anticipated, but this chapter was easy and fun to write. Again, despite the early release of this chapter, I still plan on releasing new chapters on a monthly basis, unless I get ahead of myself and get a chapter done and get a good head start on the next chapter.
Like always, thank you to everyone who has added this story to their alerts, favorites or who have taken the time to review. Thank you all very much! And please, feel free to continue reviewing if you feel so inclined, it really helps to motivate writing when you know that you are making something that people enjoy reading.
And a huge shout out to my brainstorm partner/beta reader for this story, Tellemicus Sundance. Thank you for all your help on this and the quick turnaround time.
Lastly, standard disclaimer; I do not own Game of Thrones, A Song of Fire and Ice nor Star Wars.
Chapter 6
Standing near the bedside that housed his eldest son, Balon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands and Lord of the Seas, watched on as the Maester of the Pyke wiped the dried blood off his son's back with a wet cloth. His son's skin had grown pale, deathly pale. His eyes would not open. And the only indication that he even still lived was the very slow, very erratic rise and fall of his chest as he gasped for his last breathes. "You will save him." Balon stated emotionlessly. He'd already lost one son in this war, and he would be damned if he would lose another.
The Maester paused mid-wipe and gave him a fearful look. "My lor – Your Grace. I…I don't know if I can. Whatever he was hit with cut through his clothes and plate armor like they were nothing. His wound is deep and already cauterized. I've never seen a weapon that could do…this. At this point, I believe all that we can do is make him comfortable."
Balon crossed the room and grasped the Maester by the throat, squeezing tight and lifting the trembling old fool up to his feet. "You will save him," Balon commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I have no need for a Maester that cannot even perform the most basic of instructions. Heal him. Or share his fate."
Letting go of the old fool, Balon turned his back on the Maester and his son and left the room. 'How did it come to this?' Balon cursed as he marched down the hall towards the main hall within the Sea Tower towards the small gathering hall while his two 'Kingsgaurd' fell into step behind him. 'Euron has lost his eye and is out of the fight. The Maester shoved enough milk of the poppy down his throat to ensure that much. Victarion can still fight, but the man is now lame and next to useless. How…How could this come to pass?'
Sure, Balon knew that his succession from the Iron Throne and subsequent raids on the Westerlands and the rest of Westeros would provoke a retaliation, but he had not expected this. Dorne had not joined, as he'd expected. But the fact that the Tyrells and the rest of the Reach had joined the fight so readily had not been what he'd planned for. That and the North arriving so fast. Even after he'd sent a fleet to cripple their few pathetic ships! All the northern raids had been delaying tactics, to be sure. But they were strategically planned to draw everyone's attention away from Balon's true goal. The one thing that would truly allow him to win this war and have Robert all but begging for him to keep his crown. 'How did it all go wrong?!'
He knew the answer to that question though, even if he did not want to accept it. The Northern Sorcerer. A variable he had not accounted for, and rightfully so. The man had not even existed in Westeros until just before Balon launched his war. If not for that magical fuck, then the Northern armies would still be stranded in the North and Balon would not be reduced to hiding like a fucking coward in the Sea Tower, using his last option to try and buy as much time as necessary for the men he'd dispatched to complete their task. And his son would not be on the plank, fighting to stay out of the Storm God's embrace.
Walking into the hall, he took stock what few men he had left between himself and Robert's armies. 'A crippled kraken and three dozen men. Not much of a fucking army,' he thought bitterly as he made his way towards his makeshift throne. He would've preferred the Seastone Chair, but as his brothers lost the Great Hall to that sorcerous fucker. So, this was now his throne. "Captain Hugo," Balon barked, ignoring his brother, who'd wrapped his stump of an arm in a cloth bandage. "Take two dozen men and secure the hall. Knock down the rope bridge. Make sure that sorcerer fuck can't reach us."
His captain of the guard nodded and saluted him by slamming his fist against his chest. "It will be done, your grace." The man said before turning and barking out orders as he and two-thirds of Balon's remaining forces went with him.
Once they were out of the hall, Balon turned to his brother. "Seal the door."
His brother's brow twitched, but he nodded and rose to his feet to see the orders done. His brother knew the plan. Knew that at this point, they were only trying to buy time. Should the fallen rope bridge prove enough to keep the sorcerer and Robert at bay, then he would unseal the door. But should it not, then the two dozen men looked outside the hall would make sure the sorcerer did not leave the hall alive.
Leaning back in his throne, he watched as his remaining dozen men shut the heavy doors to the hall before using tables, chairs and whatever else they could find to barricade the door from this side. Just as the last piece of furniture was being upended and brought to the doors, the Maester of the Pyke hobbled his way into the room. His pace and constant fidgeting told Balon everything he needed to know. His son had entered the embrace of the Drowned God.
"Your grace…" The Maester stuttered, clearly trying to find the words. "I – Your son, he-"
"He is healed, is he not?" Balon asked, knowing full well the answer. 'This war may have turned on me, but I will find my satisfaction one way or another. Even if it is just by fucking with this cunt.'
The Maester was visibly sweating. "Your grace…Your son, Prince Maron, has… He has passed, your grace."
Leaning forward, Balon rested his elbows on his knees and fixed the Maester with a glare. "Tell me, Maester. You were trained in the art of healing, were you not? And the purpose of a Maester is to treat and keep the ruling family members alive, is it not?"
The Maester visibly swallowed. "Yes, your grace…it is."
"So," Balon continued. "You're either a failure or a fraud. And I have no use for either."
Snapping his fingers, his two Kingsguard marched forward. One of the men slammed his gauntleted fist into the old man's gut, doubling him over before each grabbed an arm and hoisted the man up. "Had we been at sea, I would order you keelhauled for your failure. But as we are not, I have to get creative." Rising to his feet, he grabbed the Maester's chin and forced the man to look up at him. "Put him in a fish barrel, pound a few nails in to drive the 'point' of his failure home. And then throw him out the tallest window to the sea."
Returning to his chair, Balon watched on with no slight amount of amusement as the Maester screamed and pleaded for his life as his two Kingsguard shoved the withered old man into a nearby barrel and sealed the top. The man's muffled screams only intensified as they began pounding over a dozen hand length iron nails into the sidewalls of the barrels. And as they tipped the barrel over and began to roll it out of the hall, the Maester's cries reached a fevered pitch as he beg for mercy and beat his fists against his cramped wooden prison.
"Brother."
His amusement cut short, Balon fixed his lame brother with a glare. "That is 'your grace', lame Victarion."
His brother sneered, "As you wish…your grace."
"Better," Balon nodded before waving with his hand for his brother to continue. "Now, tell me everything you saw when battling this, sorcerer. Before he turned you into a lame failure, that is."
Victarion's sneer only intensified. "As you wish, your grace."
Walking with his men, the Captain of the Guard for Greyjoy House, Hugo Pyke, kept a weather eye on his surroundings at all times, even as they simply walked from the gathering hall to the rope bridge that served as the final connection point from the Sea Tower to the rest of the islands that made up the great Pyke Keep. Based on what Victarion Greyjoy had managed to tell them about this 'sorcerer's abilities, Hugo wouldn't have been surprised if the man suddenly materialized out of the shadows. And judging by the way his men were near jumping at every little sound and the way their eyes kept moving towards each new shadow they passed, their thoughts were similar to his own.
Once they reached the balcony that led to the robe bridge, Hugo scanned the bridge and the other two stone bridges that led up to the robe bridge carefully, trying to find any clue as to the whereabouts of the sorcerer. But there was no sign of the man at all. "You four," he called out, pointing to four of the two dozen with him before motioning towards his two best archers. "Start cutting the bridge supports. You two, keep an eye on the other bridges. If that fucker shows his head, I want each of you to put two arrows in his fucking skull and then one in his balls."
"Aye, Cap'n," the six men he signaled out responded before setting about their respective tasks.
"The rest of you sorry cunts, with me," he ground out, turning his back on the rope bridge. "We're gonna set a few surprises for this fuckin sorcerer should he manage to reach us."
"But, Cap'n," one of the men called out, clearly confused. "If we be cuttin the only bridge to the tower, then how is the fucker gonna reach us?"
Stopping in his tracks, Hugo fixed the idiot with a glare that'd make battle-hardened men nearly piss in their pants. "If what Lord Greyjoy said be true, then that fucker destroyed the walls of the gate keep and managed to get to the Great Keep without anyone fuckin noticing. Do you really think a simple thing like not having a bridge will stop that fucker from reaching us?"
His men didn't have anything to say to that as he led them back down the corridor towards the gathering hall and King Balon's solar. Thankfully, they had the advantage in terms of terrain within the tower. The circular corridor that wound around the tower leading up to the gathering hall was a one-way passage, with several guest rooms situated within the tower. "Keep these doors open. He commanded, motioned towards the rooms they passed. "Two men will be in each room, hidden from view. Once that fucker passes you by, fuck him up the ass an-"
Screams of death and the unmistakable fading scream of a man falling to his death echoed throughout the corridor, making all his men turn quickly and draw their weapons. "I-Impossible." The youngest of those in his guard stammered. "He – He wasn't on the bridge just a moment ago! He wasn't on any of the fuckin bridges! He couldn't – fuck – fucking hells -fuck! We're dead! We're fuc—"
"Shut your hole before I shove my axe in it!" Hugo growled, slapping the boy across the face with enough force to send him to the ground. "No time to set fuckin traps now…Fall back to the gathering hall."
But as they made their way back to the gathering hall, Hugo felt his already low heart sink into the pit of his stomach at finding the doors to the gathering hall shut. No doubt sealed from the inside on orders of King Balon. "No," the same youngster from earlier whispered, his lip coated with blood from the slap. "His grace…He's left us to die! We're going to fucking die! He's leaving us to fuck—" Drawing his dirk, Hugo stepped up behind the lad, clasped a hand over his mouth and shoved his dirk through the boy's back and into his heart. Letting go, he let the dying body fall face first to the ground.
"His grace hasn't abandoned us," he growled, cursing his King for leaving him in this situation. But it was true, after a fashion. He knew his King well enough to know that Balon hadn't abandoned them. He'd given them two options. Kill the intruder. Or die trying. "His grace has given us the chance to prove that we truly are the toughest fuckers in the land! Once we kill this sorcerer cunt, our legend will be such that whenever we enter a room, every cunt will be dripping just waiting to get our cocks in them! And every man will only be able to wish they could have the honor we have! But that reward comes with a price! The iron price! Let us pay the iron price upon this fucking cunt sorcerer to ensure our reputation as the best fighters in the fucking realm!"
He could see some of his men's eyes harden as their backs straightened. The thought of killing the one who maimed the Greyjoys and potentially killed their prince by itself was very enticing. But their Captain was right. Once they took him down, they would be fucking legends. And anything they could imagine would be theirs. Salt wives, rock wives, ships, gold…anything.
"Form up!" Hugo shouted, sheathing his dirk and raising his axe. "Shields in front, archers behind. Swords and axes at the ready! Let's kill this fucker!"
His men quickly formed ranks, six men with heavy shields took a knee in front of him while three archers notched arrows behind them and waited for their enemy to show himself. 'Come on, you fucking coward!' Hugo cursed, casting glances at his men and noting their slight shifting in place as their nerves began to return with the longer they were forced to wait. 'It took you no fucking time at all to cross the bridges…So why the fuck are you taking a leisurely stroll now!?'
He received his answer in the form of the sound of something slamming shut. Then another. Then another. It took him a minute to place, but as he noticed the slowly darkening hall before him, he realized what was happening. "Light the torches! Now!" he shouted, drawing surprised looks from his men, not surprising seeing as how it was midday and the sun was high in the sky. "The fucker is shutting the shutters! Light the fucking torches now!"
His men, finally noticing the hall darkening as another shutter slammed shut, began frantically searching themselves for a piece of flint. Mercifully, one of his men had a piece on him and the only just managed to light a single torch as the shutter just down from the window they were standing next to slammed shut. "Don't let that fucking thing close!" He shouted, motioning towards the shutter that, with the now lit torch, was their only source of light in the hall.
"I got it," one of his men shouted, laying down his axe as he stuck his body half out the window and used his arms to brace the shutters open. "Get some fuckin wood! We need to—"
Whatever his man was about to say was lost in his screams and a splattering of blood as the shutters he'd been holding open forcibly shut, breaking several bones in the man's arm and removing his head from his shoulders. For a long moment, the body remained standing before it toppled limply to the side and went still completely.
"By the fucking deep," Hugo cursed, staring down at the headless corpse of one of his best. "Throw his fuckin body down the hall. Can't have it tripping our feet."
His men looked at one another, fear evident on their faces even as they bent over to roll the headless body a few feet down the hall away from their formation. Once the body was clear, Hugo stared down the darkened corridor. 'This isn't right.' He thought, noting just how dark the corridor had become. 'It's midday. Atbest, those shutters should've only been able to cut out some of the sunlight. But instead…it might as well be the dead of night in here instead of midday! We need more light!'
"You," he ordered, motioning towards the man with the torch. "Get your ass down there and light the other torches."
The man looked from him, to the torch in his hand and then to down the hall. "No way in the deep fuckin hells am I goin down the fuck there!"
"Cowardly cunt," another man with a shield cursed, ripping the torch from the man's hand. "Guess we know who fucks and who gets fucked between you and your rock wife."
Pausing to light a second outstretched torch, the man readied his shield in front of him, held the lit torch above his head and out of his eyesight, and slowly walked down the hall. After a dozen or so paces, he came to the first wall sconce. Raising the torch, he quickly touched the flame to the top of the sconce, setting it alight and giving light to more of the hall. "See?" the man shouted over his shoulder, keeping his eyes firmly focused on the darkness in front of him. "There's nothing to be sca – ah!"
His sudden scream was followed as his body jerk forward. The sudden movement jarring the torch from his outstretched hand as it fell uselessly to the floor. What came next was something straight out of any man's worst nightmare. Screams. Screams of suffering and the unmistakable sound of bones snapping over and over came from the depths of the shadows. His men made to charge and save their fellow reaver, but Hugo held out his hand, stopping them in their tracks.
"Hold the line, you dimwitted fucks!" he shouted, trying to get his voice over the sounds of the screams of agony from the dark. "He fuckin wants us to come after him! Stand your fucking ground!"
Without warning, the screaming stopped, and the hall was cast in silence as Hugo and those he had remaining stayed in formation, waiting for the sorcerer to come out of the darkness. A slight movement in the light caught his eye. Before he could issue the command, the three archers he had all released their arrows as one towards the disturbance. "Hold!" he shouted, holding up his hand.
'Strange…the arrows didn't clutter to the ground,' he thought, his eyes desperately searching the darkness. The slightest whistle was their only warning as the three arrows that'd been released by his archers were suddenly coming back at them. No one, not even Hugo, had time to react as the three arrows whistled past them and pierced each of his archers through the heart, ending their lives. And before their bodies could even hit the ground, a wet sound, like a bag of wet clothes, hit the ground half the distance between Hugo and his remaining men and the second lit torch down the hall. It was the man he'd sent down to light the torches. His body twisted into knots, literally, and his face frozen in a scream of dying agony.
"Fuckin coward!" Hugo shouted to the darkness. "Show your fucking self, sorcerer! You think this shit scars us?! We're fuckin Ironborn! We see shit like this during the breaking of our fast!"
"If that is indeed true, and I highly doubt that it is, then I truly feel sorry for your people."
Hugo, and the rest of his men, all snapped up straight as possible, their wepaons held aloft and ready for a fight as they faced off against the voice in the darkness. 'Strange…I heard him. But I can't tell where his voice was coming from! It was almost as if he's fucking everywhere at once!' "You think your little tricks scare us, sorcerer?" He shouted, putting on a brave front for his men. "You don't! You hear me, you fucking cunt! You don't scare us! These little tricks mean nothing!"
A laugh, slow and menacing, came from the dark. "Judging by the fact that the man next to you has literally pissed himself, I believe that I am doing a fine job of scaring you." Risking a glance downwards, Hugo's lips curled up in disgust as he could see in the dim light of the torch that the man next to him had, in fact, pissed himself. "But if you are not scared just yet…then perhaps I should actually start trying. Let me show you, Captain Hugo Pyke, what it truly means to fight against a Sith."
Tightening his hold on his axe, Hugo waited with bated breath for the bastard to finally show himself. Only, he didn't. "Fuck me, look at the fuckin walls!"
Eyes flickering towards the torch, Hugo's eyes widened at what he saw. 'That's…That's impossible!' The shadows were…moving around the torch. Elongating. Stretching. Almost as if they…no…they were. The shadows were forming into tenticles. And just like a kraken reaching from the depths of the sea to capture a ship, the darkness reached out from the shadows, wound up the torch and snuffed the flame out, darkening the hall again.
"Don't let that fucking torch go out!" Hugo shouted, pushing the man holding the torch back and doing his best to keep the fear from leeching into his voice. 'Is this…Is this what he meant?' he wondered as he watched the shadows slowly crawl across the wall and the up to the torch to snuff out yet another light. 'This…fear? Is this…how these strange fuckers fight? Fucking cowards!'
"Fuck!"
Whipping his head around, Hugo's eyes widened even further as he turned just in time to watch the shadows grab hold of the last remaining torch, wrenching it free from the man's hand and bringing it up to the ceiling before snuffing out the flame and leaving Hugo and his last remaining men encased in total darkness.
"Dead…We're fucking dead!"
Hugo didn't correct the man. His fear had taken hold as soon as the darkness surrounded them completely. He could hear his own heart hammering in his chest and found the sudden darkness only slightly welcoming as it meant his men couldn't see the axe shaking in his hand. Then he felt it. The cold. It stabbed at his heart and his gut, almost doubling him over as fear ran rampart through him. His body shivered against his will and his heart hammered as sweat began to run free down his face.
The silence and darkness were broken as a hiss of quenched steel, loud as if it were a hammer on an anvil. The darkness was broken as the hall illuminated in a red glow that took the shape of a sword in a man's hand. A man wearing all black with a mask over his face. Hugo was not one for religion outside of the Drowned God. But here and now, he swore that he was looking at the avatar of the Stranger himself. And all he could think was one final thought as the Stranger advanced. 'We're so fucked.'
Sitting in his makeshift throne, Balon fixated his gaze on the barred door on the opposite end of the hall from him. Beside him stood his daughter Asha, wearing leather armor and holding an axe. 'If only you had been born a man instead,' Balon lamented and sneered at her. 'Perhaps then I would've actually had a son I could be proud of. But no matter…she will serve her purpose here. I didn't summon her here to fight, as amusing as that would be to see. No. She's here for one reason only. To serve as a woman should serve: on her back or on her knees. And if that's what it takes to delay this…sorcerer, that I need to offer my want-to-be-son of a daughter to this fucking man, then so be it!'
On his other side stood Victarion, his stump of an arm wrapped in layers and holding an axe in his remaining hand. And beside him was Euron, who was standing on his feet but still under the effects of the milk of the poppy. 'A lame brother and a second dulled by the milk of the poppy, pathetic,' he thought, casting a look around the room at what was left of his men. 'And a dozen fuckers left. That's all I have. All I have left of my kingdom now. But all is not lost. Not yet. We may not have been able to buy as much time as necessary during the siege. But my men should've completed at least one of their tasks by now. I may have to be humiliated before Robert…But, in the end, he will come back to me, on his knees, begging for me to take back my crown!'
Just as the thought passed through his head of Robert on his knees before him, the screaming started. Screams. Pleas for mercy and for help as fists banned on the door from the opposite side. 'He got here faster than I thought,' Balon sneered, watching as his men cranked their crossbows and aimed them at the door. 'Perhaps there actually is something to the fucking farfetched tales that Euron and Victarion spun to excuse their failure in stopping him.'
All too soon, the screaming and pounding on the door abruptly ceased, leaving only silence. "Fucking deep hells," his daughter cursed, her stance fidgeting as she reaffirmed her hold on her axe. "He…He killed them so fucking quickly."
On his other side, Euron chuckled as he swayed in place. "He's the fucking avatar of the Storm-fucking-God. Simply…amazing. What secrets he holds…I need to know!"
Before Balon could reprimand his brother and daughter, the strangest sight happened. A red…glowing blade jabbed clean through the wood and steel of the door. Then the blade traveled down, slowly, cutting through every brace that was sealing the two doors shut. 'What fucking sorcery is th—?'
Without warning the blade retracted, disappearing as it reached the bottom of the doors. Then, the doors flew open without warning. The sudden force of them opening tossed the tables, chairs and wooden beams that'd been holding the doors shut across the room as if they'd been shot out from a scorpion. Balon ducked, as did his brothers and daughter. But some of his men were not so lucky as the wood and steel from the door and its braces impaled or knocked back over half his remaining men.
"Kill the fuc – ahhh!"
If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it. But lightning and thunder shot forth out of the now open door, striking the man who'd shouted in the chest and throwing him back into the far wall with the force to break every bone in his body.
Two more of his men managed to recover and made to charge, but both stopped in their tracks as they suddenly grabbed their throats. Then they rose into the air, clutching at their throats as if they were being lifted by an unseen force. The sounds of their necks snapping hastened Balon's breath while he watched on helplessly as their limp bodies dropped back to the ground were, they lay motionless.
By the time Balon managed to get to his knees, his men were all but gone, leaving only himself, Asha, Euron, Victarion and two others. Then he saw him. And his breath caught in his lungs as he did. His boots echoing against the stone floor with each step he took. Cloaked in black, with black armor and gauntlets and mask that completely obscured his face from view. But it wasn't just his appearance. No. It was…his presence. It felt as if Balon was staring into the deepest abyss in the land. He never been one to admit his fear, but in this moment, Balon had never been more scared in his entire life.
"Fucking deep hells," his daughter gasped, her hand visibly shaking. "Die, you fucking sorcerer!"
Before he could stop her, his idiot daughter charged head long at the sorcerer. 'Stupid fucking cunt!' Balon wanted to scream as he watched his daughter run head long to her death. 'That isn't why I brought you out of your fucking room!'
When she was just a few paces away, Asha swung her axe, throwing all her weight behind it as the steel aimed straight for the man's neck. But just as Balon predicted, the steel never connected with flesh. But strangely enough, the man didn't use his magic to stop her. No, he simply caught her arm by the wrist, stopping her cold. "Interesting." The man's voice came from beneath the mask as if he were examining some strange oddity. "You have strength, girl. More than you know. But you are not ready to challenge me yet."
In the next instant, his fist flashed out, slamming into Asha's gut and doubling her over and sending her to all fours as it drove all the wind out of her lungs. "And if you stay as you are, then you never will be."
Balon had to give his daughter credit as she held onto her gut and glared up at the sorcerer. "You…killed my…brother."
The sorcerer's head tilted to the side. "Oh, I see. So, you are a Greyjoy. And your brother…Maron, yes? He did not survive the wounds he received then. But should you really be so surprised? Your brother tried to kill me first, after all."
"Enough!" Balon shouted, finally finding his voice. Standing up to his full height, Balon took a moment to straighten his robes as well as swallow his pride. 'I need this to work…' "You have clearly bested my men, sorcerer. You have made your way through the labyrinth that is the Pyke unscathed. That is commendable and impressive. So, let us make a deal."
The sorcerer stilled his hand, which Balon took as a good sign. "A deal?" The man questioned, his stance relaxing, which in turn made Balon relax ever so slightly. 'Good, he's open to the idea. This is the opening that I need.' "This should be interesting. Alright, Greyjoy, let's hear it. What kind of deal could you possibly offer me when I'm a few seconds away from ending your pathetic excuse for a rebellion?"
Straightening his clothes to buy himself a moment to collect his words, Balon made sure to look the man directly into his…well, where he assumed the man's eyes were located based on his helm. "The deal is this, sorcerer. We cannot beat you, that much is certain. But neither can Robert and his allies. All of whom are conveniently located here in my keep. Ripe for the pruning. You kill all of them, which I am sure you can do, then together we can wipe out the few straggling ships they have left, and the mainland will be ours to take."
The helmed sorcerer said not a word. He just stood there, silently. 'He hasn't outright rejected the offer,' Balon thought with hope. 'Which means he's considering it! And who wouldn't take the offer? This will raise him far above his status that he currently has as a Stark lapdog. Of course, the moment he finishes off Robert and the mainland lords that are here in the Pyke, I'll simply kill him while his back is turned, but he doesn't have to know that.'
"I see what you get out of this offer, Balon," the sorcerer rumbled. "But I fail to see how such an offer benefits me. Especially as I would have to be the one to do all the work, and you would be the one to reap all the rewards. Why should I even begin to entertain this offer from you?"
"Because, through me, you will raise far above your current station," Balon said greedily. 'I have him; hook and line. Now I just need to add the sinker and it will be done.' "Once the mainland is under my – our – control, I will name you Warden of whichever plot of land you wish. And I will give you my daughter at your feet to do with as you wish. Be it a salt wife, rock wife, or just something to take out and play with once and a while. She will be yours to do with as you please."
The sorcerer's head turned down towards his daughter, who was glaring back at Balon with anger and betrayal written across her face. "Your daughter doesn't seem pleased with your offer, Greyjoy."
Balon merely shrugged. "She is a woman. She has a good head on her shoulders, it is true. And she can fight as well – or almost as well – as boys her age. But in the end, she is still a woman, and this is her purpose. Well, sorcerer, what do you say? Do we have a deal, so—?"
Coughing, Balon reached up to rub at his throat. But as he did, his throat closed. It felt as if something invisible had taken hold of him and was squeezing his throat. Gasping desperately for air, Balon fell to his knees, clutching at his throat as he tried to remove whatever it was that had a hold of him. Looking around the hall, he tried to call out for help, but no one came. His brothers were both standing completely still as they watched him struggle to breathe. The men around the room were refusing to meet his eyes as they tried to stay as insignificant as possible. Lastly, his eyes desperately sought out his daughter. But Asha… Asha was just watching him struggle with the slightest of smiles on her face.
Lastly, his eyes went to the sorcerer. Who had his hand held up, cupped as if he were gripping something? 'How?!' Balon thought desperately as he struggled to get even the smallest amount of air into his lungs. His vision was quickly starting to darken as the world around him began to get fuzzy and incoherent. 'How is he doing this?!'
"Be careful that you don't…choke on your ambitions, Greyjoy." Somehow, the sorcerer's words managed to pierce the darkening fuzzy of his mind. Then, finally, the pressure let off of his throat, and Balon collapsed forward onto his hands and knees, greedily sucking in air.
"What…the…fuc—"
Balon had been flogged in the past. He'd been beaten bloody by the Captain of the first ship he'd served on for overstepping his bounds. But never had he felt anything like what happened next. There was a flash of light, and then pain shot through every part of his body. He could hear…someone screaming. Someone…that turned out to be himself. A scream he didn't even realize he'd given because the pain was so overbearing.
Without warning, the pain stopped. Gasping for air and trying to fight through it, Balon slowly tired to scoot backwards away from the sorcerer. Glancing around, he desperately sought out someone – anyone! – to help him. But all fight had left his men in the face of the sorcerer. 'By the Drowned God…He has been blessed by the storm!'
"You forgot something very vital when trying to make a deal, Greyjoy," the sorcerer's voice was deep and menacing as he advanced on Balon. "You need to have an advantage to hold your position. Right now, you have none. The only thing you can offer me is a plot of a land and your daughter to basically be my sex slave. The first I can get on my own. I need only ask. And the second… Well, I have never been one to force someone into my bed. I never will take someone against their will. And, quite frankly, I find those that are willing to sell their daughters into such a life to be the lowest scum imaginable. Unworthy of the very air they breathe."
He felt something grab him around the chest, but when he looked, he found nothing. Even as he was hoisted up into the air like a sail on ship with his feet just barely off the ground, Balon still couldn't figure out just how this was happening. Or even what was happening to him.
The claw-like gauntlet of the sorcerer grabbed him by the chin, forcing him to stare into the unseeing eyes behind the man's helmet. 'Impossible! How, how can he see?!' "Luckily for you, Balon, King Baratheon ordered me to bring you to him alive." Balon felt an undeniable surge of relief for a moment, but that moment passed quickly as the sorcerer's grip, both visible and invisible, tightened. "However, he failed to specify in just what shape you were to be in when I brought you to him. So, my advice to you, Balon, is to pray to your gods. For that is the only thing that you can do now."
Standing on the bridge on the mainland side of the Pyke, Ned Stark stared up at the fairly imposing sight of the Great Keep of the Pyke. It wasn't the structure itself that made it imposing, but rather it's layout. The only way to reach the Great Keep was to cross the large stone bridge that connected the keep to the mainland. The problem was that the bridge had no cover and the Great Keep had more than a few places that Ned could spot that could easily hide archers or scorpions.
"Well, the gatehouse fell quickly enough," Robert sighed, almost seemingly disappointed with just how…simple the siege had been to this point. "I expected better of the Ironborn than this pathetic showing."
"I believe we have the sorcerer to thank for the low morale of the krakens, your grace," Lord Tywin said, standing on the other side of the Robert as the three men surveyed their next target. "If not for him and his initial assault, the fight would've been significantly more difficult. However, without him with us, the taking of the Great Keep will be costly."
"Yeah, you're right on that one, Tywin," Robert grumbled, spitting off the side. "Well, Ned, where the fuck is that fucking sorcerer of yours? I'm sure he could take this fucking keep just as easily as he took the damned gatehouse."
Ned felt something, a stirring of the wolfsblood. Something—no, someone was coming towards them from within the Great Keep. And Ned only knew of one individual that could cause such a sensation within the blood. "I do not believe we will have to worry about that, your grace," Ned stated, pointing towards the Great Keep. "If I am not mistaken, I believe that the Greyjoys have already fallen."
Before either Robert or Tywin could question him, one of the shuttered windows over twenty feet directly above the stone bridge flew open as one, then another, and then a third body were thrown out of the window and down to the stone bridge below. Looking back up towards the open window, the two Lords and King watched as Nox's frame filled the opening. Then, as if he didn't care about the distance, Nox simply stepped off the edge and dropped down to the bridge, his fall slowing unnaturally at the last possible moment and allowing him to land as gracefully and quietly as a cat.
"Well…pay me a gold fucking dragon and call me a whore," Robert grumbled, shaking his head. "The fucker apparently did it. Well, what the hell we waiting for, eh? Barristan! Kingslayer! Get your useless fucking asses up here already!"
At the name, Ned saw the quick look of contempt Tywin gave him before the Lord of the Westerlands focused forward and proceeded to ignore him. Ned regretted many things in his life, and one thing he mildly regretted was giving Ser Jamie the moniker that had stuck with him. The man had killed the king he was sworn to, so he'd earned the title. But at the same time no one, not even Ned, had ever actually questioned why the man had done what he did. Not that Kingslayer even seemed of mind to tell them even if they had. The man didn't seem to simply care what he had done nor what people called him behind and in front of him. And his uncaring attitude, not to mention Ned's feeling of being robbed of the justice that he was due, was what stayed his tongue.
With the two Kingsguard in front of them, along with over two dozen knights of House Baratheon forming a shield wall in front of the King, he, Lord Tywin, and Ned made their way across the stone bridge towards the sorcerer. As they drew close, Ned noticed something strange about Nox. He had a sword pummel sticking out over his right shoulder. A sword that Ned knew full well Nox didn't have at the start of the battle. 'Nox never carried a sword before. He has no need of one with the…lightsaber he carries. So, why does he carry one now?'
"Well, sorcerer," Robert called out, pushing his way past the Kingsguard and his men to stand before Nox and his three prisoners. "Where the fuck have you been? And who the fuck are these three sods?"
Reaching up, Nox disengaged his mask from his face, the metal making a strange hiss as it released, revealing his face to all. 'Gods, he doesn't even look tired after all of this? Just how powerful is he?' "Your grace," Nox responded, bowing his head slightly in a show of respect. "I've been winning this war for you and your men. And as for these three, may I present to you Balon, Euron and Victarion Greyjoy. Alive and in one piece, as requested… Well…mostly one piece."
Looking down at the three prisoners, whose arms were shackled with what looked like metal rings that'd been repurposed and bent around their arms, Ned took note of their condition. Each man was not in good shape. Euron had a seared slash across his face that had clearly destroyed one of his eyes, the wound more than likely from Nox's lightsaber. Victarion was battered and bruised and was missing an arm. And for Balon, the Lord of the Pyke's neck was starting to bruise and was twitching periodically as if he couldn't fully control his body. 'Gods…Perhaps Robert should've been more specific about what condition he wanted the Greyjoys to be delivered to him in. Although, I can't find it in myself to pity them. Not after all of the innocent deaths they've caused in this ill-conceived rebellion of theirs.'
"Fucking hells, sorcerer," Robert chuckled, looking the three prisoners over. "If you keep this shit up, I might just have to find a spot for you in my council, despite your Valyrian looks."
Nox merely nodded as he took a step back. "I gave you my word that I would see this war over quickly, your grace. And I'm a man of my word."
"That you are," Robert nodded before stepping up to Balon Greyjoy. The Lord the Pyke was still twitching slightly as Robert squatted down in front of the would-be King. "Well, Greyjoy, here we are. I would love to know what possibly made you think that you could say 'fuck you' to me in a such a fashion. But truth is I don't care. You've fucked up, and now you're going to pay for it."
Balon glared hatefully at Robert for a full minute, and then he started chuckling. A low growling noise that quickly grew to a full laugh. "You think you've won? Ha! What a fucking joke!" Balon spat. "This victory is not yours, Robert! You had nothing to do with it! This is all because of…him. The sorcerer fuck that your pet dog has on a leash! And, even then, you still haven't won! Because before you leave my island, you will come to me on your hands and knees begging for me to take my fucking crown back, you whore-mongering drunkard!"
Ned cast a quick look towards his King and friend. Robert's face was starting to turn red as he glared at Balon. "Sorcerer…this piece of shit is talking. Shut him up for me."
"As you wish."
The moment Robert gave the command, Nox idly pointed a finger towards Balon. A small bolt of lightning, almost insignificant compared to the bolt he'd summoned at the start of the battle, shot forth out of his finger and hit Balon in the chest. The Lord of the Pyke screamed in agony, an ungodly sound that Ned was sure would haunt his dreams for nights to come. The torture, for that was what it was, lasted for only a moment before Nox let go of his attack and Balon slummed forward, his body twitching.
'So that is why…How many times did Nox use that…magic against him before he brought him to Robert?' As a rule, Ned despised torture, especially after what happened to his father and brother, but he wasn't a fool. He knew that as a Lord – and especially a King – sometimes you needed to go to extreme lengths. He himself had ordered a few men tortured since his ascension to Warden of the North. But while he might understand its usage, it didn't mean he liked it in the least.
Robert seemed surprised, but even more than slightly pleased at seeing the Lord of the Pyke and leader of the Greyjoy Rebellion suffering so. And as for Lord Tywin, the man was completely stone faced. But Ned could see the interest clear as day in the Warden of the West's eyes. 'I cannot let Nox fall into his hands. No doubt Tywin will offer him something in the future to try and tempt him into his service. But I cannot let that happen. I'll need to think of how Tywin might approach him, and what I can do to counter any offer that Tywin will give him.'
"Huh, well, that's one way to shut him up," Robert chuckled, leaning over the twitching Greyjoy. "Now, Balon, kneel. Your fleet is destroyed, and your army scattered. You have nothing left. Kneel, and I will show you and your family mercy."
Glaring up with hate-filled eyes, Balon spat at Robert's feet. "I will never kneel to you! You've already lost! You just don't know it yet! But soon…oh, so soon, you will know! Perhaps I'll order you to kill this fucking sorcerer first before you give me back my crown!"
Scoffing, Robert stood back up. "I don't fucking play games, Greyjoy. What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Oh, how forgetful of me," Nox suddenly spoke up as he began patting at the outside of his clothes and armor before reaching into the inner recesses of his robes. Ned may not have known him for long, but he did recognize when Nox was doing something for performance's sake. And this was such a time. "Ah, here it is!"
Withdrawing his hand, Ned saw he had a raven's scroll in his hand. He couldn't make out the emblem on the scroll as Nox handed it off to Robert, but Ned had a feeling he knew what contents of the scroll were. "The night before our forces arrived at the walls of the Pyke, I made a trip back to Lordsport. When I arrived, the Maester of Lordsport informed me that he'd just received a raven from Dragonstone, and I offered to take the message to you."
Breaking open the seal, Robert unrolled the small scroll and read its contents. His eyes grew wider and wider with each word read, and by the end his eyes were as wide as Ned had ever seen them and his face was an impressive shade of red. "Kingslayer!" Robert bellowed. "Get my brother Stannis here now!"
Ser Jamie, sensing Robert's clear displeasure, immediately set off to do as commanded. While he did, Balon's smile grew even wider and Ned could swear he could feel the sensation of victory coming off the man. "Are you going to beg ye—?"
"Sorcerer," Robert cut in, making Balon quiet with the one word. "He opens his mouth again, do that lightning thing again. Only next time hold him under for twice as long. And each time he opens his mouth again, hold him under for even longer."
Within minutes of being sent away, Ser Jamie returned with Lord Stannis is tow. "Your grace," Stannis bow slightly as he approached. "You sent fo—"
"Read this!" Robert demanded, thrusting the raven scroll at his brother. "And then tell me how the fuck you missed this!"
As Stannis read the raven, his expression remained the same. But just like how he could sense victory coming from Balon, the wolfsblood was telling him that Stannis was angry. A burning anger that could rival Robert any day. "And you, Ned," Robert continued, rounding on him. "How the fuck did you know to send the Manderly fleet south to help reinforce the few ships Jon had stationed in the bay?!"
The sense of victory fluttered within Balon, replaced by one of concern.
"Your grace," Lord Tywin cut in, clearly not pleased with not knowing what was happening. "What does the raven say your grace?"
"The Greyjoys hid a dozen ships along the eastern shore," Stannis answered before Robert could. "The moment the Royal Fleet was well and truly clear of the waters, they launched an assault on Dragonstone. An assault that was broken by the timely arrival of the Manderly fleet, who took the Ironborn by surprise and managed to sink or capture every ship that made up the fleet. The captains were then put to the question. And it was discovered that the Ironborn were tasked with the infiltration of Dragonstone to…to…"
Stannis's anger clearly started to get the better of him as he couldn't finish what he'd been saying. But he didn't need to, as Robert continued for him. "They were sent to take Shireen, my fucking niece and a babe, hostage!" Robert spat. "And then they were to try and infiltrate King's Landings and try to take one of my fucking children as well!"
Balon's face paled at the news of his assault having failed while Tywin's eyes narrowed. "The attackers were fully routed then?" Tywin half asked half demanded.
"Yes, thanks to the Manderlys," Robert nodded, turning once more to Ned. "Alright, Ned, how the fuck did you know they were going to do that?"
"I didn't," Ned answered honestly, surprising everyone as he motioned towards Nox. "Master Nox strategized that the Ironborn could not defeat our armies through conventional means. So, he reasoned that they had an alternative means to achieve their goal. And after studying the initial assaults, he theorized that they would be after Lord Stannis's daughter or your own children, your grace."
Robert stared at him for some time, weighing his words before turning to Nox. "Well, sorcerer, it seems you've more than proven your worth so far. You ended the siege of the Pyke in less than a fucking day and figured out a plot that none of our most skilled battle commanders, including myself, could see. The crown owes you a debt, it would seem." Pausing, Robert took a moment to consider Nox. "That sword over your shoulder. You weren't wearing it before. Where did you get it?"
Reaching over his shoulder, Nox drew the sword out of its sheath. The moment the blade was clear, everyone knew what it was. The distinctive red tint and rippled patterns along the blade clear as day. "Valyrian steel," Lord Tywin stated, his eyes growing hungry as a wave of pure desire emerged from the stoic man. "Red Rain, the ancestral sword of House Drumm. Lord Dunstan Drumm would not have parted with the blade willingly."
"He didn't," Nox answered simply.
Seeming to come to a decision, Robert approached Nox. "Honor dictates that such blades should be ransomed back to their Houses once the war is over. However, as the Ironborn decided to rebel, including House Drumm, not to mention trying such a backhanded tactic like kidnapping my niece or children, a plot you smelt out, you can keep the blade. Consider it payment for your services."
Ned highly doubted that Nox would've given the blade back in the first place, which would've caused more than a few problems. But now with Robert's decree, none could argue with Nox taking the weapon. Although judging by the hungry look from Lord Tywin, Ned was sure the sorcerer would not be able to escape the island without receiving at least half a dozen offers and requests for the blade.
"You have my thanks, your grace," Nox nodded, returning the blade to its sheath before nodding towards the defeated Greyjoys. "Now, what about these three? Want me to kill them?"
The almost causal way he suggested executing the three men nearly made Ned do a double take. 'He—He couldn't mean it? Could he? I can't sense anything from him…so I honestly don't know if he was being serious or not on the offer.'
Robert however waved the offer off. "No. No need for that. They're defeated. But that doesn't mean they're going to get off lightly. Even more so now that you tried that fucking stunt with my niece and children! So, here's what you're going to do, Greyjoy. For each ship that was destroyed, you will fucking replace them with ships of your own or your own gold. You lost one son to my brother around Seagard, right? What does that leave you with? Three children?"
"Two, your grace," Nox interjected, drawing everyone's attention. "Unfortunately, his eldest decided to try and run his blade through my back. He didn't survive the attempt."
"Two then," Robert nodded. "A son and a daughter, right? Both will be wards of the North until they turn twenty. At which point they will be returned to you. Perhaps they can actually learn some fucking honor if they live with the most honorable man I know. Right, Ned?"
Ned wanted to protest but knew he couldn't. Robert had made his decree, and all he could do was accept it. "As you wish, your grace," Ned nodded.
"Good," Robert nodded before turning back to Balon. "Now, swear your allegiance to the Iron Throne and me again, you useless cunt. Before I decide to toss your ass over this bridge."
"A moment, your grace," Nox said, stepping forward before Balon could retake his oath.
"What is it, sorcerer?" Robert asked, clearly displeased with being interrupted. "You've been paid for your services."
"Yes, and I appreciate your generosity. And I seek to aid where I can." Nox acknowledged. "I will preference my words with the knowledge that I am still new to these lands. But, in my homeland, we are no strangers to dissidents. Dissidents that are put down fast and made an example of to prevent others from following in their footsteps. Children to be raised as wards, taxes increased, and ships confiscated. These are things that in a short time, perhaps a decade or less, will be forgotten. Others will see this and take note. They'll begin to weigh the risks associated with rebelling against you again, and conclude that they are not that steep. Your grace might wish to make a more…permanent reminder."
Ned did not necessarily like where Nox was going with this. Even more so when he could see approval in Lord Tywin's eyes at what Nox had said. It wasn't honorable. The Greyjoys had surrendered. There was no need to escalate things further. But Robert, and even Stannis, seemed to be considering his words. "What do you have in mind?" Robert asked, much to Ned's dismay.
Nox turned to the three kneeling men. "Killing them would be too easy for them. However, simply exterminating their House would leave a power vacuum here in the Iron Islands as the Lords would begin a new war to claim dominance. So, an alternative. Under their orders, the Iron Fleet raided Lannisport, Seagard, Barrowton, and four other settlements on the Reach's coast, making seven in total. Eight, if you wish to include Dragonstone. Eight settlements raided. Eight cuts upon their flesh. A constant reminder both to themselves and others of what will happen they choose the path of violence again."
Scratching at his beard, Robert considered the suggestion for all of a few seconds before nodding. "Sounds fair. Kingslayer, Barristan. Get Lord Greyjoy to his feet and strip him of his armor." The two Kingsgaurd complied without question, grabbing Balon under the arms and hoisting him to his feet before removing his chest piece and tearing off his shirt, exposing his chest and back to the king. "Well, sorcerer, you made the suggestion and you're serving the Starks now. So, what's that saying in the North, Ned? 'The man who passes the sentence swings the sword'? So, you'll do this. And if he dies, then so too shall you."
If Robert expected Nox to revoke his suggestion, it failed. "As you wish," Nox complied stepping in front of Balon. "Lord Tywin. Lannisport was hit the hardest of the towns and villages raided. For justice to your people, I would use your dagger. My lightsaber is not delicate enough for what is about to happen. And I have not had practice with this sword yet to truly use it effectively."
Without a word, Lord Tywin immediately pulled out the dagger from his waist and held it out hilt first towards Nox. "Thank you, my Lord," Nox nodded, taking the offered dagger before spinning the blade around his hand and through his fingers as if he were in a mummer's show. "This is a good blade."
He moved in a blur of motion that Ned could hardly follow. Within the space of a heartbeat, Balon's chest was marred with six deep cuts. Deep, yet nonfatal from what Ned could tell. The last two cuts were delivered to Balon's face. One cutting diagonally from hairline to the opposite cheek across his nose. And the last was delivered vertically, from ear to the corner of his mouth. 'Every time I think he cannot surprise me again, he does so.' Ned thought, frowning as he took in Balon's bleeding form. 'To move so fast and with such accuracy to inflict the most damage yet to avoid a fatal injury… Just what type of training did he endure? And what type of training have I resigned Jon and Robb too?'
"Well, that's a statement huh?" Robert gaffed, taking in Balon's bleeding form. "Someone fix this fucker up and then he'll swear his allegiance back to the crown. And someone break out the ale and whores! It's time to do the two best things after winning a battle! Fucking and drinking!"
The men around them, save for Nox, Tywin, Stannis, and Ned, all cheered as the King turned his back on the bleeding Balon and made his way towards the Great Keep of the Pyke. Stannis was quick to follow his brother, with Tywin and the Kingsguard close on their heels. The servants arrived quickly and, under escort of a mixture of Baratheon, Lannister, and Stark men-at-arms. Ned however didn't move. He remained on the bridge. As too did Nox.
Soon enough, the two were alone as could be on the bridge, with the nearest man well out of hearing range. "You don't approve, Lord Stark."
Frowning, Ned's eyes flickered down to the small pool of blood. Balon's blood. "There was no honor in what you did," Ned stated. "He was defeated."
Nox didn't say anything as he turned his unseeing eyes towards the ocean. "Tell me, Lord Stark, what is the sigil of your House?"
Taken slightly aback, Ned answered immediately. "The direwolf."
"And tell me, Lord Stark, when the pack is threatened, does the direwolf merely slap the ones who threatened them on the wrist and think they will just go away? Or do they destroy all threats to their pack?"
"There is a difference," Ned countered. "They are beasts. And we are men."
"Yes, that is true," Nox conceded. "But the idea is sound. Do you truly think your ancestors were able to conquer – let alone hold – a land as vast and as inhospitable as the North by simply patting everyone who dared to go against them on the head and sending them to bed without dinner? No, it took more than a wolf to conquer and hold the North. It took a direwolf. One who will do whatever is necessarily to protect those within its pack. And one willing to do whatever is necessarily to keep anyone from threatening said pack."
Turning on his heel, Nox took two steps towards the Great Keep before stopping. "Honor has its place, to be sure. But I have seen honor get the better of many and make them blind to the world around them. And when that narrow world they erected around themselves was brought low, they were not the only ones to suffer for their mistakes. Be a wolf, Lord Stark. Not a stag, nor a falcon, nor a trout. No, not even a wolf. Be more than a wolf. Be a direwolf. For winter is coming for us all. And when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives."
And with that, Nox left Ned on the bridge overlooking the Pyke. His words cutting deep into the Warden of the North. 'How… How does he know that saying?' Ned thought, reflecting on the last bit of Nox's speech. 'Those words… They were spoken by father just before I was sent off to the Eyre. I thought I knew what they meant, but…Could my father have meant something else? Was he trying to tell me something before I headed off to the Eyre? If so…what?'
With a more than slightly troubled mind, Ned made his way into the great hall to join in the celebrations. Though he knew it would not be a joyous occasion for himself.
It took far longer than he would've liked after the Ironborn had been brought to heel and Balon Greyjoy forced to once again give his oath of servitude to the Iron Throne. But nearly a month after the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion, Lord Tywin Lannister, head of House Lannister, Warden of the West, and father of the Queen, finally found himself back in his solar in the great castle of Casterly Rock. He'd been received, as decorum required, by the steward he'd left in charge and his son Tyrion at the Lion's Mouth, the cavern that gave entry to the small mountain upon which the ancestral seat of House Lannister sat. During the ride, Tyrion had informed him of any developments that'd transpired during his absence, which thankfully there were none truly of note.
Truthfully, Tywin cared little for the current going's or the most recent gossip within the castle. There was only one thing Tywin truly wanted to know about. And thankfully Tyrion apparently possessed enough of a mind to wait until they were in private to discuss the matter of the Northern Sorcerer, Nox. But for what awaited Tywin within his solar, Tyrion's solution was not what Tywin expected. Nor what he wanted to see.
"I gave you a single task while I was at war with the King putting down the Greyjoy Rebellion," Tywin just barely kept himself from growling at his son, who was sitting in the chair across the desk from him in his solar with a smile on his face as if he'd done something incredibly clever. "And you present me with these…whores."
To their credit, neither woman standing behind his son recoiled at his tone nor the name. 'They are not meek. A small consolation, all things considered.'
His son didn't appear to be off put by his tone either. If anything, that infuriating smirk of his grew only larger. "But father, I have done exactly as you requested. These two beauties behind me are my answer to the task you assigned to me. And I must say, it was quite a confusing task to say the least. You never cared about the goings on of the wolves, but now you do. I can't help but wonder why that is?"
Resting his elbows on his desk, his gaze went from his son to the two whores standing behind him. The more he thought about it, the more he realized Tyrion, as galling as it was to admit, might have had a decent idea. Neither whore had the look of a woman from the Westerlands, their hair dark of color, their skin pale and their faces more round instead of angular. Perhaps…Perhaps the idea had some merit. But he was not ready to concede the point just yet.
"Leave the room. But do not venture beyond sight of the door," he ordered the two whores, who immediately bowed to him and left the room, leaving Tywin alone with Tyrion.
"Explain your plan." Tywin ordered his son the moment the door shut behind the two.
His smirk still in place, Tyrion lounged back in his chair. "It's simple, father. I take it that you want information. And whores, if one cares to look, are a wealth of information. For men's lips are often more lax than they normal are after enjoying their services. One of the whores will travel to Torrhen's Square and the other will ply her trade in Winter Town just outside of Winterfell. The two will communicate with one another, with the one in Winter Town passing information to the one in Torrhen's Square. To get the information, we will simply reroute the ship that takes prisoners that've elected to take the Black to Torrhen's Square, where the whore will deliver the information to the captain of the vessel, a man we trust. That information will then be brought back to us. We may have to increase the number of times we make the trip to deliver prisoners, or perhaps find a reason to trade with the North. But this would be the quickest way to get the information you so desire. Although, it would be beneficial if I could inform the ladies what exactly it is that you are looking for."
Leaning back, Tywin thought the plan over in his mind. It was relatively solid. A way to put a spy in Winterfell without putting one in Winterfell. And his son was right, weaker men often had loose lips when it came to whores. And he had even devised a method to pass information to and from the spies. But still, he was not willing to admit Tyrion had completed his assigned task just yet.
"And what of their loyalty to us?" He asked, fixing Tyrion with a look. "I need not remind you that a whore's loyalty is to the one who holds the most coin, do I?"
He could see genuine anger in Tyrion's eyes at the reminder of the whore he'd taken for a wife. A union Tywin had turned into an example and lesson.
"No," Tyrion replied. "You've made that point painfully clear already, father. And we will have their loyalty. Unquestioned loyalty. For not only can we out pay anything the Starks – or any Northern House – could offer, we will be holding something each hold dear. One has a sister and the other a brother, both younger. With your blessing, the brother will be initiated into the guards here at Casterly Rock, and the sister will be sent to the kitchens to work as a scullery maid. Perhaps not the most glamorous of rewards, but each girl does not want what remains of their family to have to follow them into their chosen profession. And they both understand the price of betraying the confidence of House Lannister."
Rising from his seat, Tywin passed his son by and went to a shelf next to the window that overlooked the Sunset Sea. Pulling down a dozen scrolls, he made his way back to his desk and set the dozen scrolls down in front of Tyrion. "The whores will be your responsibility. So too shall it fall to you to see our threat followed through upon should they break faith with House Lannister." He stated, taking his seat before motioning towards the scrolls. "These are tax reports from some of our lesser lords for last year and the year prior. You will go over each and look for any discrepancy. Should you find one, you will come up with an appropriate action to take and present it to me along with your findings."
The cocky smirk faded from Tyrion's face as he looked down at the scrolls. "I – I will see it done," Tyrion swallowed heavily. After a moment, he looked back up to his father with a searching gaze. "Although, I feel it would benefit our search for information if I could inform the girls what exactly you are looking for."
Folding his hands, he met Tyrion's mismatched eyes. "Lord Stark has recently gained the allegiance of…a foreigner. I need every scrap of information that the whores can find out about him in order to present him with an offer that will take him away from the wolves and ensure his loyalty to House Lannister alone."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed in confusion. "All of this because Lord Stark has gained the allegiance of some foreigner? He must be quite the fighter for you to go through all of this just to try and change his allegiance to us. Is he stronger than the Mountain? Or perhaps more skilled with a blade than Jamie?"
"Both and neither," Tywin answered. "The man is a sorcerer."
He didn't have to wait long for the rebuttal that he knew was coming. "Forgive me, father, but I think I might've misheard what you just said."
"No, you didn't. You heard me correctly. The Starks have a sorcerer serving under their banner. A sorcerer that I intend to coax to serve House Lannister."
Tyrion merely shook his head. "I didn't think you were one for tales of grumpkins and snarks, father."
"I am not. But I believe what I see with my own eyes." Leaning forward, he made sure he had Tyrion's undivided attention before continuing. "I watched as a blind man killed four of Ser Armory Lorch's men with his bare hands. I watched as after the last man fell, Ser Lorch was crushed to death in his armor by an invisible force before being beheaded by a blade made of fire. I watched as that same man summoned lightning and thunder from his hands powerful enough to fell the walls of the Pyke with a single strike. And I witnessed that same man made his way unscathed through the Pyke, killing all in his path, capture the Greyjoys, and then bring them bound and broken before the King."
Pausing for a moment, he let his words sink in before continuing. "And if his power wasn't enough, he is intelligent. And politically knowledgeable to give even myself a challenge. He managed to arrange events within moments of stepping off the boat so that he could brutally kill five Westerland men right in front of me, and there was nothing I could do and no legal way to seek retribution. And he also, without having ever met nor fought against the Ironborn, deciphered a plot they had hatched simply by looking at a map and tracking their movements. A trap he in turn decimated with the aid of Lord Stark, earning the favor of the King. And he also has the look of one borne of Valyria, yet he claims not to hail from those cursed lands. Nor does he claim any kinship with the surviving Targaryens. A tale that the King, Stark, Stannis, and I are willing to accept. Now, do I need to explain to you further why this man needs to be securely under our control?"
"…No, father," Tyrion replied after sitting in stunned silence. "Should we instruct the girl that will be sent to Winterfell to seduce him? She is quite good. She can do this thing with her tongue where she licks the underside of your coc—"
"I do not need to hear tales of your debauchery and shaming of our noble House." Tywin cut in harshly. "And no. The whores will not seek the sorcerer out unless he comes to them first. We are working with a very limited amount of information at the moment. And as such, we do not know the full extent of his powers. Until we know more, they will not seek him out. Is that clear?"
"Yes, father," Tyrion nodded before rising to his feet and collecting the tax reports. "If that will be all, father, I will send the girls on their way and begin work on this."
"Good, now go," Tywin responded, waving Tyrion away. "And send for the Maester Creylen. I have need of him."
"As you wish, father," Tyrion bowed awkwardly before shuffling out of the room, scrolls tucked firmly under his arm.
'He performed far better with the task than I thought,' Tywin thought as he sat and waited for the Maester of Casterly Rock. 'But that still does not mean anything yet. I know there are three discrepancies in the tax reports I gave him. We will see if he truly is clever enough to spot them or not. And if he has the ability to do what is necessary to make sure our bannermen do not believe they can keep our due from us.'
Soon after Tyrion left, Tywin heard a light knocking on his solar door. "My lord, you sent for me?" Maester Creylen called out, shuffling his old frame into the solar.
'I need to request a new Maester from the Citadel. Creylen has served House Lannister since my father's tenure, which is reason enough to get rid of him.' Tywin thought as he watched the elderly man slowly make his way towards him. 'But more so, a lame Maester who can barely do his duties is of no use to me.'
"Yes, I did, Maester," Tywin nodded. "Tell me. You have your link in animal husbandry, do you not?"
Creylen blinked and nodded. "Yes, I have my lord. Why do you ask?"
"Tell me," Tywin said, leaning forward on his elbows once more. "From what region would I have to enquire in order to procure a bantha?"
Making his way into the meeting hall within the uppermost level of the Citadel, Archmaester Ebrose took stock of the Maester that were seated around the table within the small hall. These five men, along with himself made up less than half of the Archmaesters currently in the Citadel, but to Ebrose, they were the most important. For each Archmaester present was responsible for leading their own sect within the Order, quietly known as the Guiding Hand, the true Maesters. The men responsible for guiding the land of Westeros into a new age of enlightenment and peace. A goal that had been nearly obtained. Until recently.
Taking his seat, Ebrose met the eye of each of his fellow Archmaesters one at a time before setting on Ryam. "Archmaester Ryam, do you have word from the Iron Islands?"
"Yes," Ryam replied, looking more than slightly uncomfortable. "Both the good and the bad. The Ironborn are defeated. And unfortunately, the Maester assigned to the Pyke was killed during the assault."
"Good riddance," Archmaster Castos cut in dismissively. "The Maester we sent there was the very definition of incompetence. That was why he was sent to the Iron Islands in the first place."
"Yes, but with his death we are now forced to fill his vacant position," Archmaester Agrivane stated. "In times past, the Islands may have served as a decent location to drop the less desirable of our order. However, with the King's new proclamation and…Stark raising the future heir of the Iron Islands, perhaps it is time we rethink that mentality. Perhaps a new initiate in the Guiding Hand should be sent instead of just the dregs of the Maester Order?"
"I agree with Archmaester Agrivance," Archmaester Benedict said. "Despite where the children of the kraken are being raised, we may not have a better chance of bringing enlightenment to the Iron Islands. Such a situation needs to be handled delicately."
"The status of the Maester within Pyke is not why you called this meeting, Archmaester Ebrose," Archmaester Sandhu cut in with an impatient glare. "It was because of the tales of this so-called 'Northern Sorcerer'. Well, Ryam, have your sources been able to disprove this man's supposed abilities?"
Ryam's face scrunched as he shook his head. "No, they have not. In fact, they have done the exact opposite. I've received word from over a dozen sources, all with unknown ties to our order, and they have all told the exact same tale. The Starks truly have gained the loyalty of a sorcerer. And a powerful one at that."
That was the last thing Ebrose, or indeed any of the Archmaesters present, wanted to hear. He was sure that Marwyn 'the mage' would be overjoyed to hear of such powers still existence. But such powers went against everything the Order of the Guiding Hand stood for. Their predecessors had been working to unify the lands of Westeros into a new age of order since before the Doom of Valyria. And after the Targaryens managed to unite the lands, the Order changed their objective. The Targaryens had been useful to unite the lands, but they did so by using dragons and magic. Things that were not in the vision of the future the Order wanted. Despite their misgivings with it, the Maesters, including the Order of the Guiding Hand, didn't hate magic. Not like the Faith did. No, to them, magic represented what they were fighting against. For magic in is basic form was chaos. Pure unadulterated, uncontrollable chaos. And that was not something that was needed nor wanted in their visions for the future.
It'd taken years, centuries in fact, but eventually they managed to cripple the dragons through forced encampment in the dragonpit and with the usage of poisons. And once the Targaryens lost the last of their dragons, it wasn't long before the madness that plagued the family took hold and they were ousted from their position. A madness that was easily avoidable if only the fools didn't interbreed so much.
The inbreeding of the Targaryens to madness had been one of the more successful endeavors of the Order, almost on par with the ending of the dragons. Through very selective removal of books, the Order managed to paint the illusion that the reasons why the Targaryens couldn't hatch their dragons was because of impure blood, which wasn't the case at all. Incest, according to a few of the more well secured tomes in the Citadel, was relatively rare in the land of Valyria. And was only done to keep the noble lines free from commoner blood. Much like the practice here in Westeros. But the Targaryens bought the lie and began to attempt to 'purify' their bloodline by breeding exclusively within family, which brought instability into their line. The perfect slow death. The only pity was that it took so long for the nobles and smallfolk of Westeros to grow tired of the dragons' madness enough to revolt. And even then, the revolt only truly took place because of the carefully whispered words of Grandmaester Pycelle into the ear of the Mad King about who to choose as House Targaryen's champion during Lord Stark's trial by combat.
And now, after centuries, the Order of the Guiding Hand were finally free of the Targaryens and their magic and dragons with a new king that was easy to lead around. All they had to do was dangle a jug of wine or provide him with a whore, and he would do whatever they wanted. But now, now their endgame was threatened by the untimely arrival of this…sorcerer. And in the worst possible location as well.
Had he made himself known in the South, the Faith of the Seven would've taken care of him for them. Their hatred of magic was well known to all. But instead, he arrived in the land of the First Men, the land unconquered by the Andals. The only worse scenario would've been if he'd arrived in Dorne and encouraged the Martells to rise against the Baratheons in revenge for the death of Elia and her children.
"And what has been the King's response according to Pycelle?" Ebrose asked, looking towards Agrivane, who served as Pycelle's primary contact within the Order of the Guiding Hand. "
"Mixed," Agrivane informed them. "While he's impressed with what the man managed to accomplish and is in slight awe over his abilities, the fact that the man looks like he is a descendent of the dragon lords has made the king wary of the sorcerer. Not as much as we wanted, but he is still wary."
"Inform Pycelle that he is to try and encourage these fears," Ebrose commanded. "If he can plant the idea that the sorcerer is poisoning the mind of his dear friend and brother, Eddard Stark, against him and his throne, the king might take care of our problem for us."
"I will see it done," Agrivane nodded.
"But that will take time. Time we do not have, not when we are so close!" Sandhu nearly shouted, his anger at having their plans foiled at such late stage clear.
"Patience, Sandhu," Ebrose said, trying to placate the man. "Our Order has been working for centuries on our designs. We managed to help unify the lands, gotten rid of the dragons, and helped to oust the Targaryens. By comparison, this sorcerer is but a slight hiccup in our plans. One that can be removed easily if we are to be a little bit more patient."
"Perhaps then, we should begin the next phase of the 'plan'," Castos suggested, drawing attention back to himself. "It is far past time for the next part to come to fruition. And if we play it correctly, then we might be able to tie the removal of this sorcerer in with the next phase."
"And it will also give us the time to bleed some more information from him as well," Benedict nodded, earning some curious stares from his companions. "According to a very cryptic raven sent to use by Maester Luwin, apparently the sorcerer has a wealth of knowledge beyond just the mystic arts. He could provide us with some advancements that can be tested out in the North, away from the civilized world. And then possibly integrated if they are proven to work."
Ebrose nodded. "See to it that it is done. Archmaester Castos, as it was your idea to tie the sorcerer into the next phase, I want to see your altered version on how to do that within the next month."
"Of course," Castos nodded. "Such an alteration to the plan might delay it by a few years as it will require a very specific set of circumstances as well as the careful positioning of a few key players. But I feel that it will be doable."
"It would be easier if we had one loyal to the Guiding Hand in Winterfell." Ryam lamented. Before his untimely death, Maester Walys had also been a loyal member of the Order during his time in Winterfell. Maester Luwin unfortunately took his vows to the castle of Winterfell too seriously, which was why he was not inducted into the Order of the Guiding Hand.
"It would make things easier." Ebrose nodded. "Removing a Maester of Luwin's age does not have precedence. But from what I know of the man, Luwin will not accept being removed unless Lord Stark specifically orders him out, which is unlikely. Or he dies. Another scenario unlikely to happen, and I will not authorize the removal of such a capable member of our order. So, no, while it will be cumbersome, we will deal with the situation at hand as is. Gentlemen, we have our work cut out of us. Let us begin."
Standing on the balcony attached to her room high within the keep of Highgarden, Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns and unofficial ruler of the Reach, watched absentmindedly as the residents of Highgarden mulled about the castle grounds below her as they worked to return to their normal lives after returning from one of the shortest wars in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. 'The idiot pirates actually thought they could slap the lions in the face and say piss off to the 'Demon of the Trident'? Fools, all of them. But useful fools as their war has given the Reach the chance to confirm our allegiance to the new Baratheon regime. And we have done just that.'
That was the one thing that Olenna truly feared about the war with the Ironborn. Not that the Ironborn would win, no, there was very little to no chance of that happening. No, what she was truly worried about was that her idiot of a son would do something or say something during the campaign that would once again paint the Reach and House Tyrell specifically in a bad light in front of the new King. But thankfully, despite offending Randyll Tarly yet again with his mouth, her son had actually managed to worm his way into the King's good graces enough to allow the Reach lords to finally make their appearance at the Stag court.
'But House Tyrell will not be making an appearance. No, not yet. We cannot leave the Reach just yet. We need to reaffirm our hold over our vassal houses before we start making any plays for the Iron Throne.'
Walking away from the balcony, she considered the map of the Reach that was held up on the wall of her room. 'Mace insulted Randyll during the Rebellion by claiming a victory that wasn't his. And now he just had to open his fat mouth again and antagonize one of our most powerful and influential Lords. Not to mention the most skilled military commander in the Reach. We will have to take some time to strengthen our hold, make the Lords realize what a mistake it would be to try and take House Tyrell's rightful place as Wardens of the South.'
Marriage of course, was the easiest path to securing their hold. And Willas was old enough to be betrothed. And despite the damn viper crippling her grandson, he still had his looks, a good head on his shoulders, and the prestige of being the future Warden of the South. A fine catch for any noble lady despite his handicap. Garlan was another option, and while he was still a few years from being of age, he was starting to prove himself as a true knight of the realm, even if he hadn't been knighted yet.
'We need to get in good with the Baratheons. That will halt any of our lords from thinking of usurping us. It would be easy enough to simply betroth Margaery to the crown prince…but the boy is still but a boy and Margaery still only a girl. And while that is the future we are aiming towards; we need to approach it carefully. So, no, Margaery will not be brought before the court just yet. She needs to flower, mature. Grow strong and beautiful. But then how…hmmm…yes. Yes, that could work.'
Sitting down at her desk, she began to write up a draft to be sent to the King. 'Loras is of age to be a squire. The King won't take him. And even if he did, it would probably be as little more than a glorified cupbearer. Stannis hates anything and everything to do with our House thanks to how Mace postured and mocked him during the siege of Storm's End. So, that leaves one option: Renly. The boy is only a few years older than Loras, but the age difference is enough that Renly taking Loras as his squire would not be unheard of. Plus, Loras can begin to whisper in Renly's ear about Margaery's beauty and skill as a once those tales reach the King, from his brother's own lips, then Margaery will have a leg up on the other noble ladies of the realm.'
After going through two separate drafts of the letter, Olenna was finally satisfied with the letter she'd written to the King. 'Enough ass-kissing in here to make me want to lose my lunch. But unfortunately, such things cannot be helped. We don't have the clout yet to be blunt with the King. So, ass-kissing it is. For now, at least.'
Setting the letter aside, her thoughts turned once again as to how to reaffirm the Tyrell's hold on the Reach. And inadvertently, her thoughts drifted northwards. Towards the outlandish tale she'd heard not only from her oaf of a son, but from multiple other men of considerably brighter intellect that'd gone to the Iron Islands with her son. 'Lord Stark has an honest-to-Seven sorcerer under his control. I'm sure the Maesters are just loving that factoid. Their displeasure with magic is well known, especially here in the Reach in conjunction with the Faith of the Seven. They were perfectly willing to accept that magic died out with the last of the Targaryen dragons. But now, here we are. A sorcerer, alive and well. And in the land o the First Men no less. Oh, what I wouldn't give to see some of those 'knowledgeable men' squirm like little girls at the sight of spider.'
At first, she hadn't believed her son's tales of the man's capabilities. But after talking to a few more reputable sources, she discovered that her son had undersold the man's capabilities. 'I may not have the greatest mind for martial matters. But I know keeps. I know what it takes to claim one. And this sorcerer claimed Castle Pyke in less than a few hours. Partially on his own to boot. My, if only I were in my youth once more, I'd be ripping my dress off and offering to do whatever he wanted to gain even a fraction of that power.'
Despite being a daughter of House Redwyne and a Lady of the Reach, Olenna was not religious in the slightest. Sure, she went to the Sept as a good lady of the realm should. But it was more lip service than anything. Religion had its place. But it could also heavily narrow one's viewpoint of the world around them. 'The Septon's will no doubt try to disavow anything to do with the man. But, luckily, he's safe in the North where the Seven have no hold. Well, besides the Sept in White Harbor and the tiny little thing Lord Stark built for his wife…and what a mistake that was. It'd be like planting a weirwood in the middle of the Great Sept of Baelor and expecting people to come pray before it. Gods only know what was passing through Stark's mind when he made that decision. No doubt Catelyn Tully's tits or cunt.'
Shaking her head to refocus herself, Olenna forced out thoughts of Stark's marriage and back to the sorcerer. 'If House Tyrell could gain the favor of the sorcerer, then none would dare challenge us. Especially Tarly as he's seen what the man can do firsthand. But gaining his favor will be the trick. No doubt Tywin is already trying to create a scheme to do just that. There is no way that one like him would ever let an individual as powerful as this sorcerer slip away from him once he'd laid eyes on him. So... the question remains. How to gain his favor?'
While she didn't know the man personally, or even at all, she did know the Starks. Or their reputation at least. 'It is through the Starks that we will gain his favor,' Olenna decided, her mind wandering. 'But how to gain the favor of the Starks then? Betrothal? Lord Stark has a son of similar age…no. I will not give Margaery's hand to just anyone, even if that anyone is the future Warden of the North. And Stark's daughters are too young to be betrothed just yet. Maybe in a few years perhaps. But not now. Fostering? It has possibilities. But Willas and Garlan are both slightly beyond the time of fostering and Loras will hopefully soon be on his way to Storm's End. And I cannot send Margaery, I need that girl here so she can be properly raised. Perhaps we could foster one of Stark's daughters here in Highgarden? Yes…that might work. The eldest preferably to encourage a friendship between herself and Margaery, and even parade Willas in front of the girl like a prized peacock. Yes…that might just work.'
Pausing in her musing, Olenna stared out at her balcony. 'But I cannot make the offer just yet. No. So soon after the reveal of the sorcerer, such a move will seem to be act of desperation for favor. And our bannermen would smell the weakness and begin circling Highgarden like the sharks they are. And the Starks have had little interaction with House Tyrell over the years. Mostly due to the North's preferred isolation to the rest of the land. But perhaps it's time to start bringing that isolation to an end? We'll start by working out new trade deals with the North. Deals that are slightly more favorable for the North but won't hurt the Reach in the slightest. And the Northmen have a fascination with the Wall. Those legends of theirs make it seem like it's more than just the glorified penal colony that it is. Perhaps encouraging more prisoners to take the Black or even a few second or third son's that have nowhere to go. Yes…yes. But it will require time. Time that I only hope we have. And time that I hope I won't regret wasting.'
Pushing her correspondence to the king aside, she pulled out another sheet of paper. "Left, Right! Get in here."
The door to her room opened almost immediately as her two personal young guards entered the room. 'Ah, twin boys…handsome…strong. But unfortunately, not the brightest in the head. But still, if I was only younger…ah youth.' "Left, get me more parchment and ink." She ordered. "And Right, bring me food and wine. I'm going to be working here all night. So, bring some extra candles as well. Now shoo."
Sitting at his desk in the Tower of the Hand in King's Landing, Jon Arryn, Warden of the East, Defender of the Vale, and Hand of the King stared down at a map of the Seven Kingdoms that was sprawled out across his desk. Across the map, each kingdom was represented with several figurines depicting each kingdom's potential strength and what they could provide to the royal regime. The map was much more favorable to Robert and the Baratheon royalty now than it had been before the Greyjoy Rebellion. A rebellion that had gone exactly as Jon had organized. Especially now after Robert's victorious return to the capital.
'It took over two years while working through proxies of proxies,' Jon thought disdainfully as he remembered just what he had had to go through in order to goad the Greyjoys without implicating himself as the one who'd been pulling the strings. 'But in the end, everything went exactly as planned. The Reach was now firmly back under the control of the crown and Robert was even allowing some of the Reach Lords back to court. Ned's and Robert's relationship has finally begun to really mend after their falling out over the deaths of Elia and her children and Robert's refusal to seek justice for their murder. The people also now view Robert as a 'defender of the realm' rather than a Usurper. Although, there will probably always be a select few who refer to him as such for several years to come, but they are few and far between. But most importantly, the lion's growing influence within the court will be halted, at least for a few years.'
Truthfully, Jon did feel sympathetic for the people of Lannisport. Even with his predictions and his careful machinations, he had not fully anticipated the brutality and effectiveness of the Ironborn raid on Lannisport. He sent a prayer for the souls lost, but he took solace in the fact that their sacrifice was not for nothing. It would take years to Tywin Lannister to reclaim the loss of reputation due to the attack on his primary port town. Years during which his eyes and far reaching influence would be lessened at the royal court. Years during which Jon could begin to weaken the lion's influence on the Iron Throne.
'But despite the war turning out exactly how I wanted, not everything went according to plan,' Jon thought, his eyes flickering to the northern kingdom. 'And it is all because of one individual. The man who has been dubbed by Robert as the 'Northern Sorcerer'.
As an Andal, the very thought of a sorcerer in a position of power made him uneasy. But at the same time, his position as a Lord of the Realm, and as Hand of the King, gave him the perspective to ignore such feelings. The man and his power were becoming a symbol of fear, hope, inspiration, and wonder. Things that were of great use in controlling the masses. Thankfully, the sorcerer had found his home in the North and had all but sworn allegiance to the Starks. He would've preferred that the man was here in King's Landing where he could keep a better eye on him, but the North would suffice, and he would take comfort in the knowledge that he was not under Tywin Lannister's thumb. Gods only knew what the Realm would become should the lions gain the allegiance of a sorcerer. Let alone one as powerful as Robert and the many others he'd questioned who'd been at the Pyke claimed he was.
'And he will not be the last individual with these powers, if Robert's word is to be believed, which I have no reason to doubt.'
It'd taken a surprisingly large amount of wine, not to mention a lot of gentle prodding and more than a few mentions to his status as an almost-father while raising Ned and Robert, but eventually he got Robert to open up more about what Ned planned to do about the sorcerer now under his command. Ned planned on partially using the sorcerer to help train up both his trueborn son and heir and his bastard son. Both of whom, according to the sorcerer, had the born ability to command the same magic as he.
Jon wasn't sure just when Ned had become as wise in terms of the game, but he was playing his usage of the sorcerer perfectly. His sons would train together and form a bond as strong as any trueborn siblings under the tutelage of the sorcerer. And by keeping their abilities quiet, at least for a few years, he could ensure that there was be no outside interference in the boys' training. Specifically, if a Lord targeted Ned's bastard son and tried to tempt him with lordship of the North in return for something. It also gave Ned time to prepare. Because he had no doubt that the moment the knowledge that the Northern Sorcerer was training a Lord Paramount's son officially became known to the people as a whole, the other Lords of the Realm would be sending their heirs and throwing their daughters at the sorcerer in hopes that he will grant their house the prestige of having a sorcerer as their head of house.
'I will have to keep a close eye on the boys training,' Jon thought, idly tapping his finger on the map as he stared at the Northern kingdom. 'But the boys abilities make it imperative that the crown keeps a good relationship with the Starks. Just as the dragons served as a deterrent for years under the Targaryen rule, so too can these sorcerers act as a deterrent during the Baratheon rule. Perhaps a fostering, not for years as I don't want to disrupt Ned's careful plans to cultivate a good relationship between his sons. But perhaps when the boys are older…or mayhap I can convince Robert to send Joffrey North. Wait… No… That won't work. The boy may still be young, but the lioness has shown her claws when even the mention of her 'precious golden son' is brought up.'
Putting thoughts of the sorcerer and fostering aside, Jon allowed his gaze to flicker to the last problematic region of Westeros. And it was this region that truthfully frightened Jon the most. For if Dorne were to want to remove the Baratheons from power, they could not do so through a strength of arms. No, they would simply send assassins, poison the Baratheons, and then they would retreat back into their desert where no foreign army has managed to claim victory. Not even the Targaryens in the height of their power could rein in Dorne through strength alone. It took marriage to bring Dorne into the fold. And perhaps marriage might be the answer again.
'Doran Martell would not agree to a marriage with any Baratheon, nor any Lannister. And I have no heirs yet to offer him. The Reach will not be willing to marry into Dorne, not with the recent slight delivered upon them with Oberyn Martell wounding Willias Tyrell. Edmure Tully is an option…but I do not believe that would be viable. By Dornish customs, the eldest Arianne Martell is next in line to become the ruler of Dorne. And I doubt that she would be willing to give up such a position to become Lady of the Riverlands. No, Doran will not accept just any Lord or Lady for his sons or daughter. But…perhaps there is another option. Perhaps, just perhaps, Doran would be willing to accept a son of Dorne for his daughter. One that would not be a threat to the Martell's control of Dorne. Quite the opposite in fact. And one that could help to ensure that the Martell's stayed loyal to the crown. And, amusingly enough, the solution to that lies once again in the North. And he is gaining value as we speak.'
Ned refused to speak of just who the mother of his bastard son was. But Jon was not a fool. And he knew his foster son perhaps better than the man knew himself. And Jon knew that there was only one woman in the whole of Westeros that could make the Honorable Eddard Stark forgo his honor. And that woman was Ashara Dayne.
The timing worked out; the babe was just born slightly on the smaller size. And the story is well known that during the Rebellion the Lady Dayne grew large with child. House Dayne claimed that the child was a stillborn girl, but Jon didn't buy it. No doubt Ned took the boy in the hopes of raising him, which was understandable considering what just happened to his family. And it was Ned taking her son, as well as the loss of her brother that drove the Lady Dayne to her sad fate.
'The Dayne family will more than likely deny the claim, especially as they have not come forth with the claim yet. Perhaps they are ashamed of his Northern roots. But it doesn't matter. In time when the boy's abilities become known, his value will be elevated to a level that no bastard in history has ever experienced. And the Daynes would be foolish to deny Ashara as the mother when that day comes. Doing so would hurt their reputation perhaps to a point of no return. And it is not without precedence for the ruler of Dorne to take a bastard as their consort and gift them with the ruling families name.'
He would have to time it carefully. He needed to give the boy time to grow into his powers and prove his worth. And he also needed to give Ned time to reaffirm the boys' allegiances to not only the North and House Stark, but the royal family as well. He would give the boy five years, maybe a year more if the knowledge of his powers hadn't spread through Westeros by then. And then he would carefully begin to spread the rumors of who the boy's mother is, making sure that said rumors reached Dorne, specially Doran and Arianne Martell.
Yes. That would be for the best. But again, those were plans for years from now. He needed to focus on the here and now. With the lion's gaze off King's Landing, he was free to implement his own people into the court. And he had one candidate specifically in mind. 'It would solve many of the problems I am having. Specifically, the problem of Robert's extravagant spending habits and my wife's complaints of having no companionship here in the capital. And according to the reports I've seen, he has done an extraordinary job in the Vale so far. Rumor says that he can rub two coppers together and produce a gold dragon. An ability which I find difficult to believe, but one that could prove useful as well. Yes. I will offer him the position as Master of Coin and put his skills to the test. But I will have to be careful. I am aware of his history with my wife. I will have to have the two of them watched and make sure they do not spend any prolonged time together outside of what is socially acceptable.'
Putting such thoughts aside for the moment, Jon pulled out a blank raven scroll, dipped his quill in his ink well and began to write the summons of Petry Baelish to court in order to assume the position of the Master of Coin.
