Welcome back everyone! Not much really to say heading into this, but I do want to address everyone that keep asking me about when I'm going to update my other stories. I've learned the hard, very hard way, that I write my best when I focus on one story at a time. Because of that, I will not be working on the next installment of 'In All Things Balance' nor the re-write of 'The Song of the Master of Death' until I finish this story. And given just how long this is right now and how much I have planned out…it will be awhile.
Huge shout out to my beta reader and brainstorm partner Tellemicus Sundace. The help has been invaluable so far. And another huge thank you to everyone who has favorited, alerted or reviewed this story so far. Your support is what keeps me going! So if you feel so inclined to leave a review, please do! They really do help me get my mojo going and get the next chapters rolling on.
Lastly, I do not own Disney, nor am I Lucas or Martin; so I have no ownership of A Song of Fire and Ice, Game of Thrones or Star Wars. This is purely for fun with no profit being made. And with that out of the way, let's get to the chapter! Stay safe out there everyone!
Chapter 19
Standing in the center of the grand Citadel library, Darth Nox, formerly of the Sith Empire, allowed himself just a moment to simply stand and marvel at what he was seeing. The library within the Citadel was, quite simply, awe inspiring even for one such as himself. The library of Winterfell was impressive, but the Citadel was something else completely. An apt comparison would be to liken Winterfell's library to his own private collection and then to liken the Citadel to the entirety of the archives on Korriban, both those known to everyone and the one known only to the Dark Council. The part of him that had once been the Head of the Ancient Pyramid of Knowledge had immediately started to try and sort the best possible way to acquire as much knowledge from this place as possible. But, given the sheer size of the place and the fact that he didn't have an army of acolytes to dedicate to the job, he was left with the unfortunate conclusion that even if he spent his lifetime in this place, he would barely scratch the surface of what was here. As it were, he'd already set Jon and Robb to work aiding in the sorting through the information pertaining to House Stark and the North that was kept by the ousted Order of the Guiding Hand.
Sensing an intruder to his observations, Nox turned as a dark-skinned young acolyte made their way around the shelves. Strangely enough, this acolyte of the Citadel did not seem to be trying to avoid him, quite the opposite in fact as he could sense no trepidation coming from the acolyte as they approached him. "My Lord Nox, I was sent by Archmaester Marwyn. He wishes to speak with you in his private chambers if you are willing."
"Lead the way…"
"Alleras, my Lord. Though many here referrer to me as Sphinx."
"A curious name, but an apt one for a place such as this," Nox replied, motioning for the young acolyte to lead the way out of the library and up a flight of stairs.
As they walked, Nox took careful note of the acolyte leading him. They hid it well, but there was a rather acute peculiarity about the acolyte that amused Nox. Mostly because of how brazen it was, and because it also went to show just how blind the Maesters truly are in certain respects. But there was another thing about the acolyte that drew his attention. It was faint, barely a glowing ember, but this young acolyte had a touch of Force sensitivity. Something that he was finding to be more and more common the longer he stayed on this world. It almost made him wonder if the people of this world were a near-human species much like the Miraluka's, who as a species were all Force-sensitive. Or perhaps there was a chance that he was not the first Force sensitive to arrive at this planet and that many of the people of this world were descendants of that Force sensitive. It gave him something to ponder. And honestly, it wouldn't have surprised him if that was the case. There were still well-preserved records of the war between the Sith and the Ratakan Empire on Korriban that occurred nearly twenty-thousand years ago. So, he wasn't about to rule anything out just yet.
"Tell me, Alleras. Your Archmaester Marwyn seemed to know of our impending arrival. I have several ideas about just how this is possible, but perhaps you would be willing to shed some light on the subject."
Amusement poured out from the young acolyte as they reached one of the uppermost levels of the Citadel and started down a short stretch before stopping in front of a nondescript door with no identifying markings that Nox could discern. "Archmaester Marwyn will be happy to disclose that information to you, Lord Sorcerer. In fact, I do believe that is the very reason why he is so interested in speaking with you now. He's been as giddy as a maiden bride since he learned of your impending arrival. I do believe that he will be taking the rest of your time while you are here present in the Citadel, my Lord."
The room Alleras led him into was…well, organized chaos was the best term that Nox could use to describe it. Stacks of books nearly shoulder high were spaced evenly throughout the room, every wall was covered by shelves that were filled to the brim with loose paper, books, and relics of various designs. But while the chaos around him was jarring, it immediately fell to the back of his mind as he spied a glowing green glass candle that stood alone in the center of one of the many desks that were within the room. A relic that he just happened to know quite well, seeing as how he'd gathered a large chest full of them during the Valyria expedition just a few months past. "So that is how you knew I was coming," Nox muttered to himself as he walked into the room, taking care not to disturb any of the chaos around him as he made his way to the glowing glass.
"Ah, Lord Nox," the Archmaester called out from behind a stack of books that was large enough for the man to hide behind, "I apologize for having pulled you away from your studies, but I was hoping that, now that certain unpleasantries have been seen to, that we might have a chat. Just…give me one…moment…to finish this…"
"Take your time, Archmaester," Nox replied as he came to a stop before the glass candle, taking note of the slight pulses from the Force that was emanating from the inanimate object. "You have until Stark and Hightower are ready to leave the city to ask whatever questions you will."
He could hear the Archmaester working fast to finish whatever it was that had him preoccupied as the acolyte Alleras stepped up beside him. "I heard it said that you, the Northmen, and a Dornish Prince made a venture into the ruins of Old Valyria." There was a slight hitch in the acolyte's voice that was almost unnoticeable when the acolyte mentioned the Prince, which only went to reaffirm the theory that Nox had about the acolyte. 'Quite brazen indeed. Must run in the family.' "Archmaester Marwyn has made a lifetime of studying this very candle and the three others that are used as a test to the acolytes before they become full Maesters. But it's only recently that he's been able to discern what it can do. And it was how we knew of your impending arrival, Lord Sorcerer."
'That solves that mystery,' Nox thought. "You two used it as a way to see across a great distance I gather," Nox stated, drawing the acolyte up short. "We collected a number of artifacts like this one, and I have spent some time studying them. Far sight is just the beginning of what it can do and is, quite frankly, perhaps of least value of its full potential. But still, for two individuals like yourselves who lack formal training, being able to unlock that aspect of the relic is quite an achievement."
"Your praise is much appreciated, Lord Nox," Archmaester Marwyn stated, finally coming out from around the pile of books he'd been behind. "Though I do feel that young Alleras here takes a touch of offense at being considered a novice considering the years of study the two of us have poured into the mystic arts. But you are correct in that neither of us have had formal training, or at least what you consider 'formal training'. A fact that I hope you will be able to correct now that you are here."
Pausing in his study of the glowing crystal, Nox took a moment to get a feel of both Marwyn and Alleras once more. Marwyn had more than a touch of Force sensitivity, but he was far too old to begin formal training. But he had already used, either knowingly or unknowingly, several Force-based techniques during the few short hours Nox had known him. Perhaps a few tricks here or there would help him along. Alleras though, this was one with a keen mind and a great intellect, much like Sam. But, unlike Sam, this acolyte was Force sensitive. "You are far too old Marwyn to receive formal training. Unfortunately, I cannot stay here in the Citadel. There is far too much work to be done and a wife's warmth that I am eager to return to. But I am willing to leave instructions for you two and even start up a correspondence between us. And who knows, perhaps in time you two will surprise me and figure out the full nature of these glass candles."
Marwyn hummed disappointedly. "I thought that might be the case. Such is my curse, I guess. Being born a few decades too early to learn proper magic. But what of young Allares here?"
Humming to himself, Nox crossed his arms over his chest. "Allares has some skill with the Force. Perhaps if she had started instruction on the Force at a younger age, Allares's skills would be able to manifest in a much more significant manner than what they are now. At best, I would only be able to teach a few tricks. Helpful tricks to be sure, but tricks only. Allares could maybe even learn the same from you as well. Perhaps more as you two have already started down the path of discovering your powers on your own. But the real question is: are you willing to let go of such a talented student? Especially one as…unique as Allares here?"
A spike of apprehension and a slight of amusement came from Allares and Marwyn respectively at his question. "So, you noticed as well, sorcerer? I was wondering if the rumors about your 'sightless sight' was true or not. And apparently it is, and far more preceptive than the normal eye." Marwyn chuckled, drawing a sudden intake of breath from Allares. "Oh, don't be surprised, girl. I will admit that you managed to fool me for quite some time, but a secret such as yours could not stay hidden forever, Allares. Or do you prefer 'Seralla'? Daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne?"
The fear that was in Allares, or Seralla, was slowly being replaced by confusion as the young woman's attention shifted back and forth between Nox and Marwyn. "You – You've known? I – Why didn't you say anything? Why – I – I don't understand?!"
"Change, my dear," Marwyn stated plainly, though the simple answer didn't seem to satisfy Seralla.
"He means that he was planning to use you to force change into the Citadel," Nox stated, drawing a look of surprise from the young girl and a nod of acknowledgement from Marwyn. "Once you had your links and proved yourself a cut above the rest, he would then expose your secret to the rest of the Archmaesters, forcing them to concede the point that a woman bested the other acolytes and became one of the more learned Maesters of your generation. Such a revelation would hopefully be enough to force the other Archmaesters to withdraw their restrictions on men only when it comes to whom the Citadel allows within its walls. Though, the point is moot now, seeing as how all the Archmaesters besides Marwyn here are currently decorating the sides of the Roseroad north of the city. Judging by what I can only guess you have uncovered about the Order's actions, there is about to be a slew of requests for new Maesters to be sent to multiple keeps across Westeros. And because of this sudden increase in demand the Citadel will be in no place to turn away any who want to forge their links, be they woman or commoner. I daresay, Archmaester, that you will suddenly find yourself in a position to change the Citadel in any way you deem fit so long as you can provide the replacements that will be needed."
"If only such change did not require such death," Marwyn lamented. "But I suppose that on occasion such things are necessary. It is the way of time. The young grow old and die. To continue forward the new must replace the old. Unfortunately, the old often find it hard to let go of that which they believed to be best." Pausing, Marwyn gave himself a shake. "Bah! Forget me. Just an old man sprouting nonsense, and with your time limited, Lord Nox, certainly not what I was hoping to discuss. I've followed your exploits quite closely, my Lord. Most interesting of which has been your recent expedition to Valyria. A feat thousands have tried yet failed to accomplish. I was hoping that you could shed some light on some of the mysteries surrounding Old Valyria. Then there is also your creation of the northern glass…and I've even heard rumors stirring around about one of your students, a Tarly, having a hand in creating a horseless carriage."
Though he would never admit it aloud, Nox actually enjoyed the time he had to sit back and have a discussion with another mind that was, well not on par with his own, but definitely more open and well learned than many he'd met so far on this world. The two, well three though Seralla mostly stayed in the background taking notes while only periodically interjecting, talked well past sundown and late into the night. The only reason they stopped was because Marwyn's age and lack of endurance caught up to him, and he ended up passing out cold midsentence with only a few hours left until sunrise. Seralla was no better, in fact worse, as the bastard daughter of his friend Oberyn ended up passing out cold at least an hour before the Archmaester with the young woman's face planted onto the scroll she was writing and smearing the still fresh ink.
"Amateurs," Nox chuckled, finding the duo's positions quite amusing as he gathered himself and left the room. "Still an hour or so till sunrise. Let's see if I can't find my Apprentice and Acolyte and get a bit of meditation in before we set out for King's Landing in a few hours."
The following morning, Nox found himself sitting astride a horse that'd been provided for him while he waited for the rest of the Northern retinue and the retinue from Oldtown that would be accompanying them to King's Landing. The Greatjon and Lady Mormont had the option of returning North, but both were confident in their children to run their keeps while they were away, so they opted to stay south and continue to speak with the King. What was mildly surprising to Nox was the fact that Leyton Hightower had apparently meant what he'd said when he made the promise to ride with them to see the King. The old man was sitting atop his horse with his head held high as he waited next to Ned and Nox for the rest of the retinue to ready themselves. Despite holding himself well, Nox could sense that the man had seemingly aged at least a decade overnight. No doubt the weight of the Maesters' betrayal occurring right under his nose and the noses of his family. 'A fool is only a fool if he makes the same mistake twice.' Nox thought as he carefully observed the Old Man of Oldtown. 'And this man is certainly no fool. There will be no recurrence of the Order of the Guiding Hand any time soon under his or his children's watch.'
Once the last of the riders were saddled up, Ned and Leyton both pulled their horses around and led the march out of the city gates with Nox, Robb, Jon, and Theon close behind. Just outside the wall, they were greeted with the sight of the Maesters that'd been part of the Order of the Guiding Hand. Many had perished over the course of the night, their hearts giving out or their brains forming aneurysms due to the large amount of blood pooling in their brains. But a few were still alive and reaching out desperately with the last of their strength while begging weakly for mercy.
"Keep your eyes on the horizon, boys," Nox instructed the boys as he could feel waves of pity coming from them. "This is not a time for mercy or pity. Remember, these men all willingly took part in a conspiracy that sought to kill yourselves, your family, and countless others across the land and throughout the centuries. Mercy has its place, but it is neither here nor now."
The feelings of unease did not leave the boys, but each kept their faces forward on the road, trying their best to ignore the macabre display lining the side of the road.
If he were being truthful with himself, Jon Snow would admit that despite his status, which he now realized was necessary to keep him safe, he had a very fortunate life. He was raised with brothers and sisters whom he loved and who loved him in return. He was given training and an education that few received. He'd been across the known world and ventured into the heart of Old Valyria. He'd dined with the ruling family of Dorne and even seen the Princess…well, best not to think too much on that subject as he was still riding his horse. He'd seen the sprawling cities of Braavos, Volantis, and Oldtown. And if it wasn't for those last two, Jon might've considered his first sighting of King's Landing to be an awe-inspiring sight.
A city built upon the very ground Aegon the Conqueror first set foot upon when he decided to unite Westeros into one Kingdom. Situated upon three distinct hills, the throne city of Westeros was a sprawling mass of buildings that stretched for miles, surrounded by high walls that would make any advancing army think more than twice about attacking. The Red Keep dominated atop the highest hill, overlooking the city below. But despite the impressive look of the city, awe was not what first came to his mind. But rather…the smell of the city is what first hit him. Even from a half day ride out from the main city gates, the Northmen and the contingent from the Reach led by Lord Hightower could smell the stench of the city.
"By the gods old and new," his brother cursed, rubbing at his nose. "What is that smell?!"
He, Robb, Theon, and Lord Nox were all riding a slight distance back from the head of the column where his father and Lord Hightower rode with Winter while Ghost and Grey Wind ran circles around the horses and their mother. Riding just behind them were the other Lords and Lady of the North and the few men-at-arms that followed them brought up the rear. "Over half a million people living in a small, confined space with either inadequate or ill-maintained drainage," Lord Nox remarked, sitting perfectly upright and not seeming to even notice the smell of the city.
"And how come you don't seem at all affected?" Theon commented, scrunching up his own nose as they tried to get used to the smell. "Some magic trick to keep it away?"
"No," Lord Nox replied simply. "But if you were to tally the worst smelling places I've ever been to, this doesn't even rank in the top ten."
"Shit," Theon cursed, rubbing frantically at his nose now. "Remind me never to visit your homeland if this is the common smell. No wonder you left it all behind and came here."
Unfortunately, the stench of the city did not lessen at all as they drew closer to the city gates. But by the time they had reached one of the massive gates leading into the city, the River Gate his father called it, Jon had at least somewhat gotten used to the smell. Not enough to dismiss it entirely, but enough so that it wasn't the only thing that he was able to focus on as they passed through the wall leading into the city proper. Their entrance to the city did not go unnoticed, not that Jon necessarily expected it to. But what he wasn't expecting was for the smallfolk of King's Landing to immediately start scattering to give them a clear way through. 'Winter is probably playing a role in that,' Jon thought as he caught more than one set of eyes eyeing the horse-sized direwolf that was walking at the front of the column with her head held high while Ghost and Grey Wind trotted along close to her flanks.
'Gods, how can people live like this?' Jon thought as the road made a sharp turn and began leading upwards towards the Red Keep. 'It's just like in Volantis, with the people practically standing atop of one another just to have enough space to live.'
"Think we'll have time to visit the famed Street of Silk while we're here?" Theon asked lowly so that only he, Robb, and Jon could hear. "Just look at all the women here…They have to have such a variety of cunts to sample from…It would be a shame to not let them experience riding a kraken once in their lives. We might even get Snow here to stop staring at that trinket he brought with him. He's been worse than a woman with a new piece of jewelry."
Despite the swipe at him, Jon held his tongue. In a sense, Theon wasn't necessarily wrong. Ever since they'd set out from Winterfell, his Master had given him a task to try and duplicate the armlet that he found in Valyria that made it easy to manipulate fire. 'You're my Apprentice now, Jon,' his Master had told him after giving him the task. 'I expect more from you now than I do your siblings. Study every aspect you can of this armlet. I want you to not only discover just how and why the armlet allows such easy manipulation of fire through the Force. But I also expect you to be able to create a new armlet as well that can manipulate an element other than fire.'
Unfortunately for Jon though, the task was proving far harder than he'd originally thought. Even after weeks on the sea and on the road with little to do save for his studying of the armlet, and yet still he was no closer to figuring out just how it did what it did than he was the day he'd first received the blasted thing. He'd been tempted more than once simply to toss the damn thing away, but he knew that he would never do that. He wouldn't be able to handle the look of disappointment on both his master's or his father's face for not only being unable to complete the task set upon him, but also because he wasn't able to control his anger. So, Jon kept studying the armlet, day after day and night after night. Hoping and praying for any type of clue as to how the thing worked.
"Word of our arrival seemed to have traveled quickly."
Jerking himself upright, Jon forced thoughts of the armlet to the back of his mind as he spied off into the distance where Lord Hightower was pointing. There was a separate wall which separated the Red Keep from the rest of King's Landing, and at the gate leading into the keep was a contingent of men on horseback wearing brightly polished armor and holding the stag banner of House Baratheon. The only one who was not wearing armor was a young man who looked to be only a year or so older than Theon who was sitting astride his horse at the forefront of the guardsmen. The man's dark green and yellow trimmed velvet doublet had numerous stags stitched across his sleeves and chest. His face was clean shaven while his jet-black long hair framed his face. And given how, well, immaculate he looked, Jon was willing to bet the man spent more time in front of a mirror than his sister Sansa did.
"Lord Renly," his father called out in greeting, holding his hand up to stop the column of riders. "We were not expecting such a welcome."
'Lord Renly Baratheon, youngest brother of King Robert Baratheon. Named to the Small Council as Master of Laws and he is currently the Lord of Storm's End.' Jon thought, trying to remember everything he could about the young lord before them, which unfortunately wasn't much.
"Lord Stark, Lord Hightower and…Lord Nox I presume." The young Lord of Storm's End and brother of the King greeted the three men with a smile on his face that seemed genuine, though the way that his eyes kept flickering towards the massive direwolf and the slight fear wafting off of him made Jon doubt its sincerity.
"You would be correct," Lord Nox stated, his tone flat and emotionless to such a level it nearly made even Jon shiver in slight fear from just those few simple words.
"Well, umm, its uh, nice to meet you in person, my Lord," Lord Renly stammered awkwardly, his eyes shifting over them before settling on Lord Hightower. "Lord Hightower, it has been sometime! I'm sure you recognize your nephew, my squire, the soon-to-be-knighted Loras Tyrell. He has done quite well under my-"
"Enough, Lord Renly," Lord Hightower sighed. "We are here to see the King, not to stand here under the eyes of the city exchanging pleasantries like a couple of old women. And I'm sure the King wants to see us as well, otherwise he wouldn't have sent you out to greet us."
Renly was clearly not pleased with the way the introductions were going, and the man in shining armor that was standing sitting astride the horse next to him, perhaps this Loras Tyrell he mentioned, didn't look too pleased either. "Of – Of course," Lord Renly nodded, urging his horse to turn around. "His grace has been anxious for your arrival ever since word reached his ears about what transpired at the Citadel. Truly…such a travesty."
"The only travesty is that those traitors were able to assassinate my wife and son before they met their demise, Lord Renly," Jon's father growled, actually growled, making the younger Lord clearly hesitate as they passed through the last remaining wall separating them from the Red Keep.
The young Lord clearly did not know how to take that. "Um, but of course, Lord Stark. We were all shocked and appalled by what transpired in the North. His Grace was ready to lead the charge into the North personally to see that the traitors met justice. And to think that the Maesters of all people could've been behind all of this is just…appalling. Of course, the Grand Maester has assured us that such a thing is not possible, or if it is it was done by only a small group of Maesters. But despite their involvement, the actions taken in Oldtown have shocked the court almost as much as what brought it about. I do hope that you have come to explain your actions in the Citadel, Lord Stark."
Sighing, Jon shared a look with his brother, who wore an equally unamused expression as he was sure was across his own face. His upbringing had taught him to respect all nobility, but Lord Renly's words and tone was beginning to wear on him. His lips never stopped moving from the moment they passed through the gate to when they tied off their horses at the stables. Hells, the man even kept talking while his father, Lord Hightower and Lord Nox led the lot of them into the Red Keep itself. Mercifully, he did shut his mouth, but only when they walked into what Jon could only assume was the throne room given the sheer size of the room and the herald announcing their arrival.
"Your grace King Robert Baratheon of House Baratheon, her grace Queen Cersei of House Lannister. Announcing the arrival of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. Lord Leyton Hightower, Lord of Oldtown. And – And Lord Alim Nox! The Northern Sorcerer! Accompanying them ar – wait! My lords!"
Neither his father, Lord Hightower nor his Master seemed to care what the herald had to say as the three men marched into the throne room of the Red Keep leaving the people within to quickly rush to the sides to create a path. He would like to think that it was his father's reputation and presence that had the people moving so quickly, but that just wasn't the case. The reason why everyone was seemingly tripping over themselves to get out of their way was because Winter had apparently decided to lead the procession into the throne room. The giant wolf doing a better job of parting the crowd with a single glance than a dozen men at arms. As Jon stepped foot into the throne room, he couldn't help but feel a sense of…awe. The room was enormous, perhaps even large enough to fit the entirety of the great hall of Winterfell within and still have room to spare. Tall, vaulted ceilings. Glass windows with intricate works of art decorating their surfaces. Pillars with ornate carvings embellished with gold and jewels. The room was like a work of art…with one notable exception. The monstrosity that was the Iron Throne perched upon the dais at the far end of the hall.
During their lessons, Maester Luwin had informed them that after he'd conquered the Seven Kingdoms, King Aegon I had taken the swords of over a thousand men from his fallen adversaries and used them, along with the fire from his dragon, to forge the Iron Throne. Luwin had told them that the throne was designed purposefully to be uncomfortable, and that many a king had cut themselves on the throne. It was even believed that King Maegor I had died from accidently slitting his wrists on it. He hadn't truly believed the tales when he was a boy. But now, now that he was looking at the monstrosity that was the Iron Throne, the tales he'd been told as a boy almost seemed inadequate. Standing in front of the throne, separating it from the rest of the crowd, were seven men wearing gold tinted armor with heavy white cloaks around their shoulders, the Kingsguard. The best knights of the realm.
Just behind the Kingsguard were a handful of others that must've held some high position as they could stand near the throne. Of them, he only recognized one, Lord Stannis Baratheon, the lord of Dragonstone. There was only a single woman standing amongst them, and she was standing closest to the throne of the group. 'Queen Cersei, no doubt,' Jon thought as they drew closer to the throne. He'd heard tales of the Queen's supposed beauty. Gods knew that Sansa had gushed about her often enough. Looking at her now, he would agree that she was indeed a very beautiful woman with her long golden hair and sharp green eyes. But there was something about her, something dark that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. And he realized then that her beauty was only skin deep.
Standing on the opposite side of the queen was an old man who was wearing a golden hand pin on his chest. 'The Hand of the King,' Jon thought. 'Lord Jon Arryn. Foster father to my own father and King Robert. And my namesake I suppose. At least for now.' The man was, again, not what he'd expected. He was old, very old. And going by the look in his eye, extremely tired. Though from what Jon had no idea.
The only other person standing beside the throne that caught Jon's attention was an extremely old man that stood hunched over with more chains wrapped around his neck and shoulders than Jon had ever seen before. The Grand Maester. Though it was odd. The man was hunched over and he was shaking, but what Jon could sense from him was the opposite. He could sense anger, overwhelming anger. But also fear. A lot of fear. And lastly, sitting atop the Iron Throne was the King, Robert Baratheon, First of his Name. And he…he was not what Jon was expecting. From the tales his father had told him, the King was a man who was larger than life, could turn his enemies into friends with only a few words and was perhaps one of the fiercest warriors in the realm. But that is not what Jon saw when he looked upon the king. What he saw was a man whose girth rivaled that of Lord Manderly's and looked as if he was in dire need of a proper grooming.
"Ned!" the King bellowed, rising from the throne and descending the iron steps towards the line of Kingsguard standing between them.
"Your grace," his father said before dropping to a knee, prompting the rest of them to do so as well as the King reached the line of Kingsguard.
But as Jon's knee touched the ground, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Lord Nox had not gone to a knee. Instead his Master merely held his hands in front of him and gave the slightest of bows to the approaching king. An act which caused no small amount of murmuring to spread throughout the hall.
"You dare show such disrespect to the King in front of the Kingsguard, cur?!" one of the whitecloaks yelled, palming the hilt of his sword and taking a half step forward.
"Oh, fuck off, Blount," the king groaned. "The Sorcerer's knees don't bend easy. Hells, I'm surprised he even fucking bowed to me and I'll take that. And what the fuck do you think you can even do about it? Hm? This man could probably kill you just by snapping his fingers. Now keep your tongue behind your teeth or I'll have it fucking removed. And the rest of you, get up off your knees."
Rising with the others, Jon took several deep breaths to try and keep himself calm as the king stepped past the line of Kingsguard. His advance halted though as his eyes bounced off Winter, the direwolf now sitting calmly on her hind legs but still almost as tall as the king.
"Fucking hells, Ned. A fucking direwolf… Only you, Ned," the king chuckled as he raised his hand before apparently thinking twice about it. "Is it tame?"
"No," his father replied, causing several of the kingsguard behind the king to shift their feet to make themselves ready to jump to the king's defense should the need arrive. "She is as wild as the day we found her and her pups after a Wildling attack. But she will not harm you, your grace."
"Only you Ned," the king laughed, his belly shaking slightly as he did while he reached out a meaty hand and lightly touched the top of Winter's head. The next part was said so quietly, that Jon wasn't even sure the king said anything at all. "A she-wolf… She would've had one of you as well…I know it."
"Your grace," Lord Stannis said, stepping forward from the throne, "I doubt that Lord Stark and Lord Hightower have traveled all this distance to speak of idle matters."
Jon could've sworn that the King growled in annoyance as he stepped back from Winter. "Well, Ned, let's hear it. What in the Seven blazing hells is going on? An attempted coup in the North. Then you head south and slaughter the Maesters –"
"An action which requires justice, your grace!" the Grand Maester shouted, taking a step forward. It was brief, but for a second the man's shaking and quivering stopped, and he held himself straight and his eyes became hard. 'It's an act,' Jon realized as the man quickly reverted to the hunched over and shaking stance he'd had a moment before. 'But why?'
"Keep your mouth shut, Pycelle," the king said, glaring at the oldest man in the room with a look that made Jon realize that, despite his appearance, there was still quite a bit of strength left in King Robert. "I told you we would be giving Ned the chance to explain his actions once he'd arrived. And seeing as how he's standing here with Lord Hightower, I'm sure he has a good explanation for stringing the Maesters up and using them to line the side of the Roseroad. So, let's hear it, Ned. What the fuck is going on?"
Jon's father didn't respond immediately as his attention had shifted from the King to the grand maester standing next to the Iron Throne. It might've been just a trick of his eyes, but Jon could've sworn he saw a wisp of black smoke coming from his father in much the same manner as it did from Master Nox when he got extremely angry. "Several moons ago, a coalition of lords from the North and the Vale came to Winterfell and attempted to assassinate myself, my family, Lord Nox and his family. The attempt failed, but at the cost of the life of my wife and my son and Lord Nox's yet unborn son. Before the traitorous Lords were executed, Lord Nox questioned them thoroughly and learned that they were not acting alone. They had help. Help that provided transportation and coin for several sellswords and assassins from Westeros and Essos. And help that provided the poison that was used to try and assassinate Lord Nox during his own wedding feast. Help, that came from a select group of Maesters that called themselves the Order of the Guiding Hand."
"Preposterous! There is no such order!"
"Pycelle!" the King boomed, turning and glaring at the Maester. "If you open your mouth one more time before I call upon you, I will have your jaw shattered! Ned, continue." The anger that was so prevalent in the Grand Maester started to fade, being replaced by a choking fear. "And why the hells didn't you inform me of this 'Order'? I would've called the banners and wiped them out."
"And that is why I did not inform you immediately, your grace," his father answered. "Their Order has eyes and ears everywhere. Had word reached them that their secret was known, they would have scattered like rats. So instead I took those I trusted and ventured to Oldtown to deal with the matter directly. But our arrival was…preempted by another. One of the Archmaesters, who is not part of the Order, captured those responsible and imprisoned them. Upon our arrival, he delivered all those who were part of the Order within the Citadel to Lord Hightower and myself while also providing us with evidence of their treachery. After dealing with the traitors, Lord Hightower and I decided to come to King's Landing and explain ourselves in person. But on the road…I discovered from reading the evidence provided by Archmaester Marwyn that I had another reason to come here."
All eyes and ears within the court were on Jon's father as he paused, seemingly taking a moment to collect himself, before pressing onwards. "My father. My brother. They were murdered in this very room under the guise of a farce Trial by Combat. Some of you in here even bore witness as my father was roasted alive in his armor while my brother strangled himself trying to save him. The true nature of the Mad King was truly shown that day. And ever since their deaths I have laid the blame solely at the feet of the Mad King. But now, now I have learned that there was one amongst the Order of the Guiding Hand who whispered into the Mad King's ear, encouraging their deaths in such a horrendous manner while others cautioned leniency. The same one who whispered into the Mad King's ear to trust Lord Tywin Lannister, which led to the Sacking of King's Landing. Grand Maester Pycelle."
The entirety of the throne room went silent as, almost as one, all eyes turned towards the Grand Maester, who had gone a remarkable shade of white as all the blood left his face. "Y-Your grace! It's–It's a lie! A lie! I–I have only ever been loyal to you!" But the Maester's pleas did not seem to reach the King as the man merely glared at the Grand Maester with a steadily reddening face.
His fear overtaking him to the point where he was shaking, the Grand Maester started looking around wildly. "Queen Cersei!" he shouted, falling to his knees, "I – I have always been loyal to House Lannister! E–Ever since the time of the Mad King! Pl-Please, your grace! You must–!"
"Silence!"
King Robert's voice cut through the Maester's words like a hot knife through butter. The Maester hesitated for but a moment before shifting and nearly pressing his face to the floor as he groveled before the King. "Pl-Please, your – your grace. There – There is no proof of their words!"
"Proof?" Master Nox's voice was calm and gentle, but it carried throughout the hall as if he'd bellowed out at the top of his lungs. A Force technique he had yet to teach Robb and Jon. Reaching into the folds of his robes, Master Nox pulled out a leather bound book that he recognized as the same one he and his father had been pouring over almost every night since they left Oldtown. "Would written proof of your transgression work? Or perhaps the marking on your body that identifies you as part of the Order of the Guiding Hand? Which would you prefer to go first?"
The whimpering from Pycelle grew louder and more pathetic as the King held kept his eyes trained on the prostrated Maester. "Oakheart." No further orders were necessary as one of the Kingsguard drew his sword and advanced on the Grand Maester, not to kill, but rather to ensure the old man didn't get any foolish ideas. "Give me the damn book."
"Of course," Master Nox said, handing the book over the king. "The Order was impressive, but foolish. They kept detailed records of their actions and even categorized them based on location. This book here details the actions taken by every Grand Maester who a member of the Order ever since the founding of the Seven Kingdoms was. There's quite a detailed accounting for how they caused the Dance of the Dragons. And there are even a few short pages on Pycelle's attempted manipulations of yourself. I believe you'll be most interested in the pages Lord Stark and I marked for you, it details his orders to turn yourself and the Small Council against myself and the actions I've been taking in the North under Lord Stark's watchful eye. Then there are also a few pages that we marked where Pycelle gave his recommendation that it would be most beneficial for the Order's long term plans if your father, Lord Steffon Baratheon, did not return from his venture to Essos to secure the former Prince Rhaegar with a Valyrian bride. And Lord Stannis, while the Maester on Dragonstone seems to have not been a part of the Order, he did inform the Citadel that your daughter was showing…unique abilities, and that you were considering requesting my aid to sort the matter out. The Order took this information and decided that it would be best to curb the influence of magic across the land by ending your daughter by sending her a doll that'd been in possession of one with greyscale."
The entirety of the throne room was silent as the catacombs beneath Winterfell as the King flipped through the pages of the book, his face becoming redder and redder the further he read. And while he managed to keep calm on the surface, Jon could sense the pure fury swelling within Stannis. "Someone get a block and get Payne's ass up here. Time for him to earn his keep."
"Your grace, please!" Pycelle all but screamed, his hands held before him in a begging fashion. "Please, mercy, your grace! E – Everything I have done has been for the realm!" The king, nor any of the others standing next to the throne, seemed to care as the Grand Maester started begging everyone who was near to him for any form of mercy.
"You have only one hope left, Pycelle." Again, his Master's soft voice carried throughout the hall, making the Grand Maester perk up at the chance offered to him. "The only question that remains is how will you convince someone to stand for you?"
Jon wasn't quite sure just what his Master was talking about, but his father, the King, and Pycelle all did going by the looks each man was giving Lord Nox.
"Trial by Combat!" Pycelle shouted as loudly as he could. "I – I demand a Trial by Combat!"
A shocked silence went through the throne room. Slowly, the silence was replaced by chuckling, then full out laughter as the people of the court laughed at the Grand Maester.
"A Trial by Combat, huh, Pycelle?" the king asked, a hint of amusement and a look of excitement entering his eye. "Alright then. Doubt you can even hold a sword, so you'll be naming a champion then, eh? Who here with stand for this decrepit piece of shit?"
No one answered the call. And as the time stretched on, Jon could sense dread reaching higher and higher levels within Pycelle. 'Is this why Master Nox brought the option forth?' Jon frowned as he tried to reason out just why his Master had even brought the option up in the first place. 'Was it just to give the man some semblance of hope to escape death, only to take it away from him? That's…cruel…but…I can't say that the Grand Maester and the Maesters don't deserve to suffer for what they've done.'
"A hundred gold dragons to the man who will st-stand for me!" Pycelle screeched, drawing a few mumbles from the crowd. "T-Two hun – no, a thousand! A thousand dragons to the one to stand for me!"
Jon felt his eyes widen as shocked murmurs spread throughout the throne room. A thousand gold dragons was, gods, that was more coin than even most nobles had at any one time. Hells, a family of smallfolk could buy a large piece of land and live comfortably for the rest of their lives on that much coin. It was…a very tempting offer. But despite the promise of enough gold to support a family through several generations, there were still none who were willing to stand for the Grand Maester.
That was until Master Nox started chuckling, drawing looks from the King and Jon's father. "If it gives anyone the courage, I will not stand as champion for the crown," his master stated, drawing more murmurs from the crowd. Yet still, the Grand Maester's plea for a champion went unanswered. "Meryn Trant…Your feelings have betrayed you. You want to stand for the Grand Maester…Not for him, but rather for the coin he offers. Such a shame to think that a member of the Kingsguard could be bought for such a paltry sum."
The king blinked, then quickly turned around and glared towards the line of Kingsguard behind him before settling his sights in on one of the men standing near the end. "Trant."
One of the Kingsguard who was wearing a tall helm depicting a sunburst with a red beard coming out from under the edges of the helm took a step back, his hand twitching towards the hilt of his sword. "It – It's a lie, your grace! He's a liar!"
"I am many things, Ser Trant, but a liar is not one of them," his Master stated, folding his hands in front of himself and taking a few steps towards the knight. "Your feelings have betrayed you. Your desire for the coin is fueled by your lust. Which has turned into an inferno consuming you from within. A lust…driven by the want of a child…a girl. A slave girl…here in King's Landing. One of with golden hair and green eyes. One said to resemble the Princess. One that you can use and brutalize for your own twisted sexual pleasures."
"H-How dare you say such things about me!" the Kingsguard shouted, taking a step back and resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, "I will have your tongue for daring to slander my name, you worthless sack o-"
"There is a way you can clear your name, Trant." The movement was slight, but Jon could've sworn that when his Master unfolded his hands, he made a short cutting gesture across his front with two fingers extended. "Stand as champion for Pycelle. Should the gods favor you, then I will concede that you are innocent, and I was wrong. And you will get the bonus of the thousand gold dragons from Pycelle here, provided he actually has the coin to pay you."
Trant seemed to waver for a moment before shaking his head. "I will stand as champion for the Grand Maester and prove you a liar!"
The king was clearly confused as to just what had happened and judging by the looks on Jon's father's face as well as the face of many others, he was not the only one. "Fine," the king snapped. "Trant will stand for Pycelle. Who will stand as champion for the crown?"
There was certainly no lack of volunteers to stand as champion for the crown. For as soon as the words were out of the king's mouth, more than a dozen voices, most of them from the men of the North, quickly went into the air offering to stand against the Kingsguard who was standing as champion for the Grand Maester.
'You want to make a name for yourself, Jon, beyond just being a Stark or my Apprentice?' Hearing his Master's voice in his head made him start, his eyes darting to his Master who still had his back turned to him. 'Now is your chance. Set your nerves to steel. Do not fear or falter. To fear is to hesitate and to hesitate is to die. Do not let others dictate who or what you are. Charge forth and forge your own path. As is the true way of the Sith.'
The words stirred something within Jon. His Master was right. He wanted to prove himself more than just a bastard or…or the child of his parents. And this was a chance to do just that. "Your grace," Jon called out, drawing the king's attention and surprised looks from his father and brother. "I would stand as champion for the crown and the North."
Somehow, Jon's voice had managed to cut through the din of the others who were also offering themselves and the hall went silent. A silence which was quickly ended as more than a few of the Southerners started outright laughing at him, including one or two of the Kingsguard. The king however wasn't laughing. Instead, he was just…staring at Jon. "One of yours, Ned?" The king asked, never taking his eyes off him.
"Aye," his father said, a note of fear in his voice. "My son, Jon Snow."
The king nodded as if expecting the answer. "Ah, your bastard boy. And the sorcerer's squire from what I've heard. You got a set of balls, boy, but a Trial by Combat is no place for a greenboy."
"A greenboy?" Jon wasn't sure why, but the label stung more than being called a bastard. "I killed my first man over a year ago while traveling with the Wolf Rangers to hunt down the sellswords who were plaguing the trade roads in the North. I stood with Lord Nox and other brave men and women from both the North and Dorne as he led us into the very depths of Old Valyria. I killed a dragon that'd been slumbering in Valyria since before the Doom while on foot. I fought and defeated Ser Gerald Dayne in Sunspear with nothing more than a training blade while he used live steel. And I am Lord Nox's Apprentice, your grace. Not a greenboy."
The laughter that'd been ringing through the hall was silenced yet again by the time Jon finished speaking. And without even realizing it, he'd taken a few steps closer to the king, an act which had drawn the attention of several of the Kingsguard who were now flanking the king on either side. But the king didn't seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, he had a small smile on his face as the two stared each other in the eyes.
"Gods boy, how in the Seven hells do you get through doors with balls that big?" The king laughed, slapping his thigh. "You remind me of myself when I was your age, boy. And your eyes…I see those rumors about you Starks and your wolf eyes aren't just tales. Hmm. Ned, he's your son. But I say let him fight."
Turning to his father, Jon was met with a look he'd never actually seen. Worry. His father was…worried. About him. "I can do this, father," he said, keeping his voice low so it didn't carry.
"Aye, I know you can, son," his father replied sadly before turning towards the king. "Jon has my blessing to stand as champion for the crown in this matter."
"Ha! Let's see what you can do, boy!" the king laughed. The look of excitement from earlier had returned to his eye before he turned to look out over the court. "Clear a space, you lackwits! Time to see what a man trained by the sorcerer can do against a Kingsguard!" Immediately, the crowd surrounding them pulled back as the king ascended the steps up to the Iron Throne and retook his seat.
"What in the hells are you thinking, Jon?" Robb hissed as he made his way to one side of the room with his father, Robb, and Lord Nox. "This isn't – You could die!"
"I could, but I won't," Jon replied, his voice far calmer than what he felt as his heart hammered away inside his chest.
"Of course he won't. Have faith in your brother Robb," Lord Nox said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You've been well trained, Jon. And you've faced far greater challenges then this sorry excuse for a Kingsguard. The only thing that can defeat you is yourself. Remember, this is a fight to the death, Jon. Hold nothing back, cause he won't."
Robb was clearly still not fully free of worry. "He should get some armor," he said, waving towards the simple studded leather Jon and the rest of the Northmen were wearing. "And he should get some rest. We've been riding for days and he—"
"Robb," their father said firmly, ending whatever Robb had been about to say. "Have faith in your brother. He will succeed."
Shrugging off his traveling cloak, leaving him in only a studded leather chest piece for any sort of protection, Jon gave his brother a squeeze on the shoulder before stepping past him and into the midst of the circle that'd been created for the Trial. The moment he stepped forth, he could immediately see a shift in the Kingsguard, Ser Trant. His expression went from one of anger, to one of confusion to one of amusement.
"This…This is who you send against me?" Trant laughed, which was echoed by many within the throne room. "A greenboy who doesn't even have a sword or armor? I wasn't expecting much from a bastard. But you must have a true death wish, boy."
Jon didn't say anything as he slid his left foot forward, grounding his stance with his left hand crossing the front of his body while his right was position over the metal cylinder that was still mostly hidden from view.
"Well, get on with it already!" the king shouted from the Iron Throne.
Bellowing out a war cry, Ser Trant charged at him, his sword held in a high guard with the clear intent of cleaving Jon in two. Holding his ground, Jon waited until the Kingsguard fully committed himself before launching an attack of his own. The moment Trant's sword began to descend, Jon moved. Pushing off with his right foot and using his left as a guide, he sidestepped the overhead strike and brought himself even with the kingsguard while using the Force to pull the hilt of his blade into his waiting right hand. The hiss of quenched steel was followed by a cry of pain from Ser Trant as Jon's lightsaber came to life in his hand and cut through the man's scaled armor and bit into his side.
"Fuck!" Trant screamed, his hand going to the wound at his side, only to have jerk his hand away quickly as the cut in his armor glowed red from the heat of Jon's blade.
Shocked murmurs filled the hall as Jon settled himself into a makashi stance while rotating his blade slightly in his right hand. Blocking out all sound, Jon opened himself to the Force, letting it fill him completely as he focused on keeping his breath steady. What mocking there was in Trant's eyes was now gone, replaced by true fear as his eyes stared hard at the glowing white blade in Jon's hand.
"Fucking sorcery horse shit," Trant hissed through clenched teeth as he held his sword in a two-handed grip. "You should've killed me on that blow, boy…Cause now I'm going to cut you to fucking pieces and feed you to the dogs, you pathetic bastard!"
Shifting his stance, Jon gripped his lightsaber in a two-handed grip as he shifted from makashi to juyo. 'Pathetic bastard?' Jon seethed as he launched himself at Trant with a thrust aiming for the man's neck. 'I'll show him who's the pathetic bastard!'
Trant immediately parried the thrust, and for a brief second Jon was surprised his lightsaber hadn't simply cut through the man's blade. 'Valyrian steel!' Jon cursed himself as he ducked and spun around Trant, avoiding the man's counter. 'That's right! Master Nox gave the king enough swords to arm the Kingsguard as tribute. I forgot that and it nearly killed me. Focus, Jon!'
Letting his frustration over forgetting about the Valyrian blades take hold, Jon righted himself and launched a flurry of attacks at Trant's shoulder, his leg, his off arm and his midsection. Never once attacking the same place twice in succession as he kept pressing the Kingsguard, forcing him onto the defensive and not giving him room to breathe or think. It didn't take long for the heavily armored Kingsguard to start slowing as he struggled to keep up with Jon. And quickly enough, Jon started to land light blows against the man's armor, leaving gouges in the plate and often cutting clean through to the flesh underneath.
Ducking underneath a wild swing, Jon threw out his left hand, palm facing Trant and pushed with the Force. The knight could do nothing more but grunt as he was sent tumbling backwards head over heels, the front of his armor dented from the sheer force of the push Jon had sent his way. Not wanting to give him time to recover, Jon rushed forth and brought his lightsaber down in an overhead swing. But Trant managed to recover far faster than Jon thought possible and managed to get his sword up in a guard just in time to block the strike and lock their blades.
In his short time of wielding a lightsaber, Jon had started to fully adapt to the many, many benefits that the weapon granted him in a fight. However, there was one area in which regular swords still held an advantage. And that was in the simple fact that a lightsaber had no weight behind it's strikes, which meant its power was created purely from momentum and the users own physical strength and strength in the Force. Normally, the weight discrepancy wasn't an issue. However, he'd noted that when he locked blades with an opponent, usually only his Master, he was usually at a disadvantage. Which was why, after locking blades for a moment and stopping his momentum, Trant was able to push him back and regain his footing.
'I can't let him lock blades with me again,' Jon thought, letting his lightsaber sing through the air as he idly rotated the blade. 'I suppose it's time to see if this technique really does work as well as I think it should.'
Holding his blade in a two-handed grip and in a mid-guard, Jon spread his legs with the left foot forward and waited for Trant to reset himself. The moment Trant got his bearings, Jon threw his whole weight behind a single strike aimed towards the Kingsguard chest plate. Trant moved his sword to intercept while stepping forward, no doubt hoping to lock their blades once more. But just before their blades could touch, Jon retracted his lightsaber, making the white blade disappear back into the hilt. Trant's block hit nothing but air as Jon pushed with his right foot to change his placement before activating his lightsaber once more, the white blade coming to life between Trant and his sword.
Letting out a yell, Jon swiped downwards. His lightsaber met resistance for only a moment before passing through both of Trant's forearms. Gasps and cries of alarm were raced through the nobles as Trant's sword clattered uselessly to the tiled floor, his hands and half of his forearms still attached to the hilt. Not giving the man time to realize what'd happened, Jon slashed again, this time cutting clean through the man's knee. The knight cried out in agony as his leg collapsed, no longer able to support his weight.
Grapping a hold of the collar of the knight's armor, Jon yanked him closer and held his lightsaber to the man's throat, close enough to singe his beard. Trant's breathing was erratic and his eyes wide and full of fear as he stared first at the white blade about to cut through his throat and then up to Jon.
"Hold Jon. The fight is over. And Meryn Trant has lost." Glancing over his shoulder, Jon was more than a little surprised that it hadn't been his father who'd spoken, but rather his Master, Lord Nox.
"Your grace," his Master pressed on, stepping up next to Jon. "I would ask that Trant be given over to me for questioning. This…desire of his to purchase a girl to use and abuse has…unsettled me. Particularly if slavery is involved, which is against the laws of Westeros. And I would like to see just how deep this rot goes and pull it out root and stem from this city and Westeros."
Still keeping his hold on the knight's armor, Jon turned his attention back to the king. But the king didn't seem to be paying attention to Lord Nox at all as he just stared down from the throne at Jon. Or more specifically, the blade Jon was holding in his hand. "You never said that you could make swords like your own, sorcerer."
"No one ever asked me to construct another. At least not directly," Lord Nox replied to the king's comment with a shrug. "And before anyone gets any ideas, no amount of coin or promise of power will convince me to part with one. Only those that I deem worthy will be allowed to carry a lightsaber. Jon here is but the first, but he had to go through hell and back to earn the right to wield it. Now, can I take this sack of shit here for intensive questioning, or no?"
"Wh – Oh, yes," the King stumbled, obviously having difficulty turning his sight away from Jon's lightsaber. "Trant, you got your ass beat by a boy less than half your age. You're no longer a member of the Kingsguard and will be questioned by the sorcerer about that buying a little girl thing. Sorcerer, you learn anything about this shit, and I want to be the first you tell."
Withdrawing his lightsaber, Jon retracted the blade and clipped the hilt onto his sword belt. "Thank you, your grace," Lord Nox said, taking Jon's place as he grabbed the former kingsguard by the collar of his armor. "I will keep you appraised of what I discover. And Pycelle…where do you think you are sneaking off to?"
With a start, Jon spun towards the kingsguard who'd had a hold of Pycelle, only to find said Kingsguard standing there alone with a dumbfounded expression on his face. As for the grand maester, somehow the old man had managed to get to the far corner of the throne room near to a small door that led somewhere further into the keep. Pycelle's chains rattled as he jerked, his hand pausing in the act of trying to open the door to his freedom.
"Pycelle!" the king's voice was near deafening as he shot up to his feet. "Stop him!"
Several swords cleared their scabbards as the remaining kingsguard made to follow the king's command, and Pycelle gave off a shout of alarm as he wrenched on the door trying to open it before they could reach him. Summoning his lightsaber back to his hand, Jon's thumb passed over the mark on the hilt, bringing the white blade to life as he made to go after the fleeing Maester. But none were fast enough as a loud whistle sounded, followed by a large blur of grey and white, followed by two smaller blurs, racing across the tiled floor.
With a snarl, Winter's powerful teeth dug into the flesh of the Maester's leg before the massive direwolf dug her claws into the tiles and shook her head violently. A wet tearing sound came from Pycelle as he screamed in agony before being tossed easily a good ten feet into the air and landing in a bloody lump on the floor. What was left of his leg still clenched tightly in Winter's jaw. Dropping the severed limb, Winter pounced onto Pycelle's back, pinning him to the floor. Now pinned, Pycelle could do nothing as Winter reached down and lightly bit down onto the back of the Maester's neck with just enough force to drag the old Maester across the floor and back towards the steps of the Iron Throne. The bleeding stump from where his leg had been leaving a trail of blood on the tiles as he was dragged. Not to be outdone by their mother, both Ghost and Grey Wind worked together as the two young pups each grabbed an opposite end of the severed leg and dragged it along behind their mother.
More than a few Lords took a step back, and more than one Lady fainted from the sight of the blood, as Winter passed them by, giving the direwolf plenty of space. Those at the base of the throne though all had differing reactions. The moment Winter had released the Maester, the kingsguard swarmed the old man with swords drawn, ready to cut him down should he try another escape. Which was unlikely given he was short a leg. Lord Renly looked more than slightly pale and refused to even look at where the Maester was laying or at the trail of blood he'd left behind. Lord Stannis remained completely impassive, but Jon could sense a not so small amount of satisfaction coming from the stoic man. The larger man and the small one with the thinly trimmed mustache were both avoiding looking at the scene. The old man that stood next to the throne seemed almost…disappointed for some reason Jon could not fathom while the king was almost radiating excitement. The queen though, she had the most complicated look on her face. A mix of anger and frustration and almost…envy.
"Seven hells, Ned," the king laughed as Winter retreated to his father's side with Ghost and Grey Wind quickly following. "Perhaps I should start putting a few wolves amongst my guard. Someone get this piece of filth out of here and close up that wound, he has a date with the king's justice. And it'd be a shame if he died of blood loss before he loses his head. You, boy, you hold a moment. Time to do something I should've done years ago."
Jon wasn't sure just what the king was talking about until he found himself standing right before him after Pycelle had been dragged off by two men wearing golden cloaks and one of the Kingsguard. "Your grace?" Jon murmured as he started to go down to a knee.
"None of that shit now, boy," the king demanded, making Jon freeze where he was. "Years ago, your father wrote me asking to legitimize you with the consent of Lady Stark. Well, I was talked out of it for some horse shit reason as you hadn't earned it yet. But I say now to hell with that. You went to Valyria and spat in the eye of the dead dragonlord sister fuckers and came out alive. And now you just beat a kingsguard in fair combat. I'd say you more than earned this, boy. Therefore, I, King Robert Baratheon, First of My Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, do hereby grant you the name Stark. So long as you do not seek your brother's place as future Warden of the North."
Jon was caught completely unaware, his mouth hanging open as he tried, and failed, to form some type of reply. All his life there was only one thing he ever wanted. And now, now he had that one thing. To be recognized as a Stark. A true Stark. "I – I thank you, your grace," Jon breathed, finally finding the words and dropping to a knee before the king. "And Robb, my brother, he is the future Warden of the North and my father's heir. And I will spend my life serving him."
The king gave off an amused grunt. "Just like your father, boy. Now get on your feet and someone crack some fucking barrels of wine! We have a new son of House Stark to herald! That calls for a fucking drink!"
During his time amongst the Kingsguard, Jamie had seen more feasts than he had seen combat engagements, particularly under the rule of the fat oaf. Usually he stayed off to the side, ignoring all save for his beloved sister. But not this time. No. This time while the feast was raging, he was stuck wading through the ankle-deep layer of shit and grime that was a constant amongst the streets of Flea Bottom. Which certainly wasn't where he'd expected to be when the night began.
Almost as soon as Pycelle's blood had been cleaned up off the floor, the throne room had been redone into a banquet hall with tables set to seat hundreds. The head table of course held the royal family and the Small Council, but unlike usual feasts there was a place of honor set right next to the king for his ever so honorable Lord Stark and his sons. Honestly, if Jamie didn't know the king's preference for women, he would swear that the king wanted to bed Stark given how much he fawned over the damn man. There was another seat of honor that'd been set up for the sorcerer, but the man proved to be just as boring as Stannis was as he decided to forgo attending the feast in favor of questioning Jamie's former sworn-brother, Meryn Trant. Not that Jamie was especially upset with the loss. The man was little more than a thug with next to no skill with a blade. But still, to be defeated so easily by a boy, and a Stark no less, it was pathetic. And in his mind, the kingsguard was far better without the man.
The sorcerer's absence didn't last for long though. As before the first cup had even been drained, the man made his reappearance, apparently having gotten Trant to sing like a songbird. Of course, the fat ass didn't want to stop his revelry, but Stark, Stannis, and the Hand seemed all the willing to put the feast on hold while they went to a side room to discuss what the sorcerer had pulled out of Trant. And while normally the king would just ignore his brother and Hand and keep drinking, his devotion to Stark was enough to pull him away from the feast. As the kingsguard that'd been assigned to guard the fat oaf on this day, Jamie was of course forced to go along with them as an emergency Small Council meeting was called.
The moment the last of the Small Council arrived, Renly of course, the sorcerer laid out everything that Trant had told him. Apparently, a group of slavers from Essos had somehow managed to find root here in King's Landing. According to what Trant knew at least, they were more focused on purchasing slaves and smuggling them to Essos than they were about selling slaves in the city. But evidently there was enough of a demand for those with…exotic tastes in pleasure that they had begun selling pleasure slaves of all ages to those who had the coin to pay for them. And apparently, the young girl that was supposed to have a similar look to Myrcella was indeed real and was soon to be auctioned off to the highest bidder for whatever purpose they deemed fit.
For most of the conversation, Jamie simply stared blankly ahead, letting the words from the Small Council just pass him by. Robert was, predictably, enraged. Not for the people being sold of course, but rather because it was happening right under his nose. Stannis was his normal stoic self, decrying the action and stating that the slavers needed to be hunted down. A thought that was mirrored by Stark and Jon Arryn. The eunuch, in one of the rare few times Jamie could get a read on the man, seemed mildly perturbed. Though again, for what reason he didn't know. Baelish didn't seem to care much. And Renly, well, he seemed to find the issue not worth his time as he simply stated that they could assign a few of the city watch to go to Flea Bottom and route out the slavers in the morning.
In the end though, all of their opinion's mattered not as the sorcerer calmly and firmly told them that he would be taking a group of Northmen and whoever else he could grab and head down to Flea Bottom to deal with the slavers personally that very night. The way he said it, the way he simply silenced and overruled the most powerful men in all of Westeros, it reminded Jamie a great deal of watching his own father in action. Not much was said after that. And, having laid out his plans, the sorcerer marched out of the Small Council chambers to go and collect those he would be taking with him to Flea Bottom while the fat oaf declared that they would leave this matter to the sorcerer, and that they had a feast to return too.
His sister was, predictably, waiting for him the moment he returned to the feast and pulled him aside the first moment she could. From the urgency with which she pulled him aside, he had hopes that his beloved sister wanted to share a night of passion with him while the fat oaf was distracted. But sadly, that was not her reasoning at all as she started asking him just what had been discussed with the sorcerer. So he told her exactly what was said to the word, or at least all that he had been paying attention to. And when he'd finished, she asked something of him that momentarily took him aback.
"Go with them, Jamie."
"What?" he had asked. "Why?"
"Because the sorcerer is using this as a play for power," his sister hissed, even in anger still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. "Pycelle was loyal to our family. And Trant had his uses to us. In one move, he's eroded some of our House's power and now he's seeking to supplant us."
Jamie shook his head, politics being his brother's strong point and not his own. "I doubt that, Cersei. If so, then why has he stayed in the North all these years?"
"Because he was biding his time!" Cersei hissed, casting a glance around for any prying ears. "What better place to hide than under the watchful eye of the wolves? Robert won't do anything about the man and the threat he possesses because he takes Stark's word as law. But I know better. He's playing the game. And I won't let him wander around my city unwatched. Go with him and keep an eye on him at all times."
Jamie wanted to deny the request, marching around Flea Bottom and hunting down foreign slavers wasn't his idea of a pleasant night. But it was hopeless. He could never deny his sister anything. "The things I do for love," he said, taking her hand and pressing his lips to her porcelain skin.
"There's one more thing," Cersei said, now smiling. "This girl. The one who is said to resemble Myrcella. If she truly exists, and if she's still alive amongst those slavers, kill her. I won't stand for a peasant girl, a slave whore child at that, being passed off as Myrcella. Her very existence is an insult to us and our family. And a Lannister always repays those who insult them."
And now, here he was, following the sorcerer through the dimly lit streets of Flea Bottom with shit, piss and the gods only knew what else splashing against his boots. The consolation, it wasn't much of one, was that he wasn't the only one going through this. The frilled rose and Renly's 'squire' Loras Tyrell had come as well on Renly's recommendation, though by the look on his face he was enjoying this about as much as Jamie was, perhaps less so. Even the half dozen or so northerners who were accompanying them did not look pleased with what they were walking into and through. The two who seemed completely at ease were the sorcerer and Stannis's own lacky, Davos Seaworth. The latter was understandable, as the former smuggler was said to have been raised in this shit hole. The sorcerer though, well Jamie was never one to wish to go without eyes, but in this instance, he could see the advantages of not being able to see the shit one was walking through. Though it would be nice if the two weren't talking like a couple of fishwives out for an evening stroll.
"And young Shireen? Has she been keeping up on the exercises that I gave her before I left Dragonstone?"
"Aye, she has at that. Damn near made Lady Baratheon's heart give out when she went into the little Lady's room one morning and found her floatin in the air above her bed. She's here in King's Landing as well. No doubt hopin that ya'll be takin her back North with ya when ya work here is done. And I do believe Lord Stannis will give his consent now."
The fact that Stannis's daughter had the same magic as the sorcerer had caused no shortage of tongue wagging ever since the news came to the court. Cersei had been, well, livid. The fact that Stannis's child had this gift when her – their – children apparently did not was a fact that had not sat well with his beautiful twin. She'd even begun musing about the idea of summoning the sorcerer to the court to train the royal children. In part because their children were certainly not inferior in any way in comparison to Stannis's child. But to also keep a better eye on the sorcerer.
"Her powers are progressing well then," the sorcerer hummed. "I wasn't expecting her to actually have reached the level to be able to perform a floating meditation… But if she has progressed to this point then – Oh, well…here we are."
Looking around, Jamie was certain the sorcerer was losing his mind as he'd pulled them to a stop just before they could enter a small square in Flea Bottom. Whatever it was the sorcerer saw, or thought he saw, Jamie couldn't see it. All he could see was a square filled with shit and piss and a few ragged smallfolk milling around despite the sun having set some time ago. In short, it was just like every other square they'd come across since descending from the Red Keep.
"How can you be certain…Lord Sorcerer?" Renly's greenboy squire asked, his hand gripping the hilt of his longsword tightly and his voice shaking. Gods…the things he did for love.
"There are two guards keeping watch from the windows on the second level of the… Let's call it a house on the far side of the square from us," the sorcerer stated, making Jamie immediately look up to the windows in question to try and see whatever the hell it was the sorcerer was seeing. "Then there are also the two men guarding the streets. One by the entrance and the other stumbling around the square."
Squinting in the light, Jamie finally spotted the two men in the windows and the two that were supposedly on guard on the street. Though how in the hells the sorcerer could tell that without eyesight was beyond him.
"How can you tell, Lord Sorcerer?" Loras again asked, getting far too close to Jamie for his liking. He swore he could still smell Renly on him. And it was not a pleasant smell. "They're not carrying weapons…and they could just be out for a walk."
"Ya don't walk around Flea Bottom for fun after the sun sets, milord," Davos responded before the sorcerer could. "And look at the one walkin around. He's followin the same path each pass. And he keeps his right hand near his waist. If I was a bettin man, he has a dagger tucked in his pants right under his hand." Loras grumbled more than slightly at the telling off by Davos, but a sharp look from the sorcerer, even though it was nothing more than a turn of his head, was enough to shut the fool up finally.
"Davos is correct in his assessment," the sorcerer stated. "You lot will stay here and wait for my signal. Then move in and take out the two guards on the ground before securing the entrance. Make sure no one gets out of there free. I don't give a damn if they're a lord or a lady. Anyone who tries to come out of there will be spending what little is left of their short lives in the black cells."
"And what's your signal, sorcerer?" Jamie asked, surveying the yard and already writing the two 'guards' off as little more than flies to be swatted away.
"When people start dying," the sorcerer answered before jumping straight upwards to the room of the building they were standing next to with no warning at all.
"By the Seven," Loras gulped, staring at where the sorcerer had disappeared to. "How…How is such a thing possible?"
"That? That wasn't nothin," one of the northern brutes laughed at the Tyrell's shocked expression. "The sorcerer won't be needin us for this ramble. We're only here to clean up the mess and make sure nobody gets away. So get ready southern boy. This ain't no tourney you about to be fightin in."
It took all his willpower not to snap at the uncouth brutes from the North, but mercifully he was saved from their presence as the silence of the square was shattered with screams of death. Grasping his sword, Jamie could only watch with wide eyes as part of a wall burst outwards, a body flying through the rubble being what caused the destruction. The man, at least he assumed it was a man, landed in a heap on the ground with the rubble of the house. But before the fool could even so much as let out a groan, he was suddenly flying back into the house were a blood-red blade was waiting to cut the man's head clean from his shoulders.
The attack was so sudden and unexpected that Jamie did something he hadn't done since he was but a boy. He froze. His body unwilling to move as his mind tried to come to grips with what he'd just seen. Davos and Loras were both equally as shocked by what they'd just seen. To his shame though, he wasn't the first to shake himself free of his stupor.
"For Highgarden!"
"Fookin idiot," Davos growled as Loras, his sword clear of its scabbard, charged headlong towards the building the sorcerer had apparently gone into. "He's gonna get himself killed, young fool."
Jamie had a much stronger word for the idiot, especially seeing as how he charged right past the two men who'd been standing guard outside the building. Both of whom drew their daggers as the young Tyrell passed them by, aiming to trim the roses as it were. But House Tyrell would not be losing a son this night as Davos, in a surprising burst of movement, caught up to the first man who was poised to strike Loras in the back and ran said man through with a short dagger. "I'm getting too fookin old for this," he could hear Davos grumble as Loras, finally realizing what an idiot he was being, stopped and stared with wide eyes at the newly made corpse and the man who saved his life.
The second man that'd been standing outside the building quickly met his end at the end of Jamie's sword. "Hardly worth the effort," Jamie said, lamenting the fact that the man posed no challenge. "So…now what?"
"Now you lot actually start doing something."
Jamie gave a start, his sword coming around in a quick arc, only to stop midair as if he'd struck a tree. Standing just behind him, his hand raised in the path of Jamie's sword, was the sorcerer. 'Fuck…How the hell…? I didn't even hear him approach me! How did he get so close?!'
"That didn't take you long, milord," one of the northerners said, his sword out but held with the point towards the ground.
"Wasn't much here," the sorcerer shrugged, whatever had been holding onto Jamie's sword releasing as a body was dragged out from the house and coming to a stop beside the sorcerer. "Only this idiot slaver and a few perverted fucks getting their rocks off raping and brutalizing the children inside. This was nothing more than a sampling post. We'll need to question this one about where the slavers have set up their true operations. You, the dumb fuck who charged in like an idiot while screaming at the top of your lungs."
Loras's face turned an interesting shade of red and purple as he sputtered at the sorcerer. "H-How dare you! I—Do you know who I am!? I am Loras Tyrell! Squire to Lord Renly Baratheon! Son of Lord Mace Tyrell, the Warden of the South, Lord of Highgarden, and–!"
"And from the tales, the Fat Flower," the sorcerer said, cutting Loras off and making Jamie nearly lose it at the look on the young boy's face. "Make yourself useful and go and find some members of the City Watch who aren't corrupt and oversee the transporting of these fools to the black cells."
Loras was nearly shaking with rage. "H–How dare…I am not an errand, boy!"
A chill settled upon Jamie's shoulders as the sorcerer turned and faced Loras. 'Gods, how can he do this? He doesn't even have eyes…yet with but a single turn of his head, you can feel eyes upon you. Eyes of the Stranger.' "You are what I say you are until you prove that you actually have something resembling brains between your ears. Now shoo. The rest of you, get to work getting the sick fucks inside out here and ready to send up to the keep. And make sure not to kill them. I have more than a few questions for this lot that need answering."
Finally showing some semblance that he had a mind, Loras kept his mouth shut and made a hasty retreat to go and do as the sorcerer commanded him. "Davos," the sorcerer called out, already heading back towards the ruined building. "With me. Lannister… Do as you will." Jamie wasn't quite sure just what to make of the sorcerer's dismissal of him, but he didn't dwell on it. It would be far easier to do what he came here to do without the man looking over his shoulder anyway.
The building was just as bad on the inside as it was on the outside. But, after having visited multiple establishments with the king so the fat oaf could satisfy his urges early in his reign, Jamie had come to recognize a brothel when he saw one. And this place was certainly that. Making his way through the place, he peeked behind the curtains that were hung up as walls, trying to find the one his sister had sent him to find.
'Perhaps the child isn't here,' he thought as he came upon the last of the curtain partitions in the far back corner of the house and pushing it aside.
Inside was a small bundle curled into a ball with messy yellow-gold hair. Frowning, he looked down at the bundle as a pit started forming in his gut. It was a child, a girl, perhaps only ten or so. Though, he was a terrible judge of age with children. What few clothes she was wearing did little to hide her bruised and battered state as the girl laid curled in on herself, the small sniffles coming from under the blankets the only clue that she was even still alive. 'It's a mercy,' he thought, casting a look back down the length of the hall to make sure that he was alone while gripping his dagger. 'Freedom from the shit life she'd been given.'
But the moment he went to draw his dagger, the child moved. Her head lifted and turned towards him. Immediately, the grip he had on the dagger loosened as his hand fell away. The girl was…despite her disheveled and battered state…she was almost a mirror image of Myrcella. Save for one detail, her eyes. One was the bright Lannister green. And the other… The other was a dark almost black color. It was a set of eyes he'd only seen on one other in his entire life. "Are…Are the bad men…gone?"
Even the voice… Gods, it was the same voice as one that plagued his mind whenever he thought about what had happened. "Yes," Jamie nodded, to which the girl broke down and lunged forward at him, her small little arms trying their best to wrap around him as she cried.
Feeling more than slightly uncomfortable, Jamie awkwardly patted the girl on her head while his sister's voice rang in his ears. 'Her very existence is an insult to us and our family. And a Lannister always repays those who insult them.' Again, his love to his sister made his hand twitch towards the dagger at his waist, but the love he had for another stilled his hand. He…He couldn't. Not yet. Not until he knew for certain. "What's your name girl?"
"Anna," came the muffled reply, making Jamie wince once more as another memory came to him.
"Anna."
"What?"
"My daughter? Should any woman ever be able to look past…well what I am…and bare my child. I want her to be named Anna. Father would never allow my child to be named Joanna… But Anna…? That is close enough to honor our mother."
Pulling back from the girl, Jamie felt his heart sink even lower as his suspicions were fully confirmed by the cheap bronze pendant he could see hanging from around her neck. An ill-made and obviously poorly repaired piece in the shape of a lion.
"I can't believe you actually paid for that piece of junk, brother."
"What? I have a soft spot for broken things, Jamie. And it can't be too hard to repair it. Besides…I'm sure that my wife will love it!"
"Where did you get that?" he asked, doing everything in his power to try and remain calm as what he was just about to do raced through his mind.
"My mother," the girl answered quietly, her tiny fist closing around the pendant protectively. "She – She gave this to me just before she died of fever a few moons ago. Said…Said it reminded her of the happiest time in her life. Even if it did not end well."
Heart thundering in his chest, Jamie cursed himself to the hells and back. "So, your mother is dead… What of your father?"
Tears still running down her bruised cheeks, the little girl shook her head sadly. "Mommy never spoke of him. Said he was some lord in the west but…but he betrayed Mommy and hurt her. Said we were better off without him."
There was no doubt in Jamie's mind now. He knew exactly who this young girl was. She was Tyrion's daughter by way of the crofter's daughter, Tysha, his brother's first wife. The same wife their father had gang-raped and paid off like a common whore before forcing Tyrion to rape her as well one last time and then tossing the girl out of the Westerlands. The only question now was: what to do with her? He couldn't just leave her on the streets to fend on her own. Not given who she was. But he couldn't keep her in the city. If he did…then Cersei would find out. And as much as he loved his sister, he knew that her hatred of their brother knew no bounds. If she discovered that their brother's daughter was in the city, and that she looked so much like Myrcella…? But he couldn't exactly send her to be with Tyrion either. Considering what their father did to the girl's mother…he doubted their father would ever accept the girl as Tyrion's and a Lannister by blood. Even if she was a Hill. Giving her coin and sending her on her way was an option…but she was still just a girl and would end up dead in a week should he do that. He needed to send her somewhere she would be safe. Somewhere she could grow up without having to fend for her life day in and day out. And, most importantly, he needed to send her somewhere his brother could meet her. After he had a long—and painful—conversation with him that is.
"Stay here a moment," he said, disentangling himself gently from her small arms. "I – I need to talk to someone."
Turning, Jamie suddenly found his path blocked by a figure in black. "Hells," he gasped, taking a half-step back as he instantly grasped ahold of the hilt of his sword, only to pause as he realized the object blocking his path was none other than the sorcerer himself. 'By the gods…How long has he been standing there?' "Sorcerer…Anyone ever tell you it's not polite to sneak up on people like that? Especially when they are capable of running you through?"
Even though he couldn't see the man's eyes beyond the cloth covering his face, he could feel his eyes upon him. "If it was so simple to end me, Ser Jamie, then I would've died a long time ago." Leaving him with that cryptic comment, the sorcerer's head turned from Jamie and down towards the little girl, who was staring up at the sorcerer with unabashed awe. "Hello, little lady."
The look on the young girl's face was one of one who'd just had their dreams come true. "A–Are you real–really the sorcerer from the North?"
A smile broke out on the sorcerer's face as he squatted down in front of Anna. "That I am, young one. And what is your name?"
"Anna," the young girl beamed, still staring at the sorcerer in adoration. "Did – Did you make all the bad men go away? They – They won't hurt me again…will they?"
"Yes, I made them all go away. And don't worry, little one, I will not let anyone else harm you while I am near." 'He knows,' Jamie thought as he could practically feel the sorcerer's attention shift off the girl and back to him. 'Somehow, he knows… But then…Why let me get this close to her? What – What was the point of this if he knew what I was about to do?'
"Sorcerer, I would have a word with you…in private."
The sorcerer didn't say anything in response as he rose back to his full height. "Wait outside a moment, little lady. There is an old man named Davos, he'll take care of you for now. I believe he might even have some sweets that you can have. I can't promise you what your future will hold, little lady. But I can promise you that you will not suffer this place for another moment."
Anna didn't look like she wanted to leave them, but whether it was because she could sense the tension between Jamie and the sorcerer, or more likely the temptation of having something sweet, she pulled a blanket around her shoulders and made a quick exit, leaving Jamie alone with Nox.
"Sorcerer," Jamie began, unsure of just how to word it without giving too much away. His brother was so much better at this. "I need you to take that girl back with you to the North."
Honestly, it was the last thing Jamie wanted to do, sending his…his niece off with the bloody wolves of all families. But he really didn't have much of an option. And it wasn't like it would be a permanent placement either. Just until he could talk to Tyrion and let him know the truth, both of his wife's true nature and his daughter's existence. Then his brother would be able to figure out what to do with her. And as much as he loathed to admit it, the Starks were perhaps one of the few families who wouldn't hold the girl over House Lannister's heads should they discover her true parentage before Tyrion figured out what to do with her.
"Is that so?" the sorcerer asked, his head tilted slightly to the side as if he were studying him.
"Yes," Jamie nodded, gritting his teeth and despising what he was about to say. "Name your price, sorcerer. A Lannister always pays his debts. And I would have this paid before you leave King's Landing with her."
The sorcerer didn't say anything, instead the blasted man just stood there, staring at him without staring. "There's desperation in you, Ser Jamie. Anxiety. Fear. Unc-"
"Enough," Jamie growled, hand going to his hilt, though in truth he doubted his chances against the man in these tight corridors. "Will you take her, or no?"
"I will," the sorcerer replied, the corners of his lips turning slightly upwards.
Breathing out a sigh of relief, Jamie let his hand fall away from his sword. "And the price?"
"A trifle thing," Nox said, making Jamie wince. It was his experience that whenever someone said a price was 'trifle', it was anything but. "You were appointed to the Kingsguard under the rule of the Mad King, sworn to defend the king. Yet you stabbed him in the back."
Huffing, Jamie shook his head as he could begin predicting the insults that man was more than likely to hurl at him. "What of it? Would it have been more honorable if I'd stabbed him in the front?"
Smirking, the sorcerer shook his head. "I don't care about how you killed him, or even that you did. What I care about is the why? Why did you kill not only the Mad King that day, but the often overlooked pyromancer as well? And why then? The battle was over. Your father's army had breached the city walls and the Stark forces were less than a day's ride out. So, why kill him? His fate was already sealed. Answer the question, Ser Jamie Lannister. And I will accept the debt for Anna's life in the North paid in full."
From her proper place of honor at the high table, Queen Cersei Lannister observed the hall laid out before her with a critical eye, taking careful note of the sycophants that were doing nothing more than trying to earn favor with the royal family and her husband's 'dear' friend Eddard Stark in return for some meager illusion of power. Fools, the lot of them. The wolves were just a mere flavor of the moment, a nuisance that held no real power when compared to the true rulers of Westeros. But one that she was forced to endure for the night as she was forced to watch her 'beloved husband' fawn over his friend from the North and his two sons. The bastard and the trueborn.
'If only he showed such attention to my children,' she thought, her gaze passing along the table and spying her three perfect little lions sitting close by. 'On the other hand, it is a good thing he has so little to do with them. I don't want his filthy rot corrupting my perfect lions.'
Her eldest and perfect son Joffrey had already clearly dismissed the Starks. Which was good. He was understanding how useless and unimportant the North was, unlike her husband. Her youngest son Tommen however, he was going back and forth between staring at the Stark boys in adoration and awe at the filthy wolf bitch and her spawn that were lying next to the high table. Honestly, why anyone thought keeping such beasts around unchained was beyond her. She wanted them thrown in the kennels, or perhaps even disposed of, but her husband would not hear of it and instead called for a fresh deer to be brought in and given to the wolves as a reward for catching Pycelle when the fool tried to flee.
And lastly, there was her daughter. Her precious golden lioness who was just a few short years away from the cusps of womanhood. And it was with her that Cersei felt her ire for the damned wolves of the North increase tenfold. For her daughter was making eyes at not only the Stark heir, but the recently legitimized bastard as well. Part of her could understand her daughters look. Despite their origins, both boys were rather appealing to the eye. The heir favored his Tully mother with his thick red-brown hair and blue eyes, yet he maintained the build of a northerner. The bastard, he was all Stark in his hair, eyes and coloring, yet he had a slimmer build than his true-born brother. Perhaps the tales of his mother being Lady Ashara Dayne were true. Such a relation would shed light on just how the boy had become so skilled with the sword, though she was confident that he was still no match for her brother. In fact, now that she thought about it, perhaps it would be for the best if her brother taught the bastard some humility before he began thinking he was better than he really was. But despite their mildly appealing looks, neither were even close to being worthy enough for her daughter. One was a bastard, legitimized or not he was still just a bastard. And the other, while an heir to a Great House, was the heir to the Starks. And she would be damned to the Seven hells and back if she ever allowed any filthy wolf to lay their hands on her precious daughter.
She would have to act immediately it seemed, as she watched her daughter smile brightly as she caught the eye of the bastard, who at least had enough sense to recognize his betters by giving her daughter a polite look before averting his gaze. If her husband got it in his head that he wanted to join their houses, something he frequently lamented about during his drunken ramblings, then all he would need to do would be to see her daughter making eyes at either Stark boy and they would be betrothed before the wolves left the city. That was something she could not and would not allow. She'd have to make sure that her children were kept far away from the Starks during their stay just to make sure her husband didn't get any idiotic ideas in his head. And she would have to make sure that the sorcerer certainly did not get his hands on her children. Gods only knew what he would do with them.
The man had been a mainstay conversation ever since he first appeared in the north just before the Greyjoy Rebellion. Upon first learning about the man, she did as many did. Simply wrote him off as another charlatan who used some sort of trick during the squid's rebellion to win the favor of the Starks. But then she heard from her father that the man was no charlatan. That his power was real. And that he used said power to crush a man to death and to bring down the walls of the Pyke. And if there was one man who would not be taken in by any charlatan 'sorcerer' it was her father. As time wore on, more and more stories of just what he was doing started trickling into court. Many were simply assuming he was being a good vassal to his new Lord and Warden, but Cersei knew different. She knew the man had no loyalty to the wolves of the North. He was simply using the Northern fool to increase his standing, and the Stark fool was too blind to see it.
A new place of learning in the North? A means to undercut the Maesters of the Citadel. New food stuffs and the means to produce them through the glass gardens? A means to stop the Northerner's dependence on southern food during the winter years. The glass trade with the South and Essos? A means to increase the financial wealth of the North but not the crown. His expedition to Valyria? A means of acquiring lost knowledge and Valyrian steel not for the crown, as he should have, but rather for himself and for the North only. Taking the Stark children under his wing and teaching them his magic? A means of wresting control of the North away from Ned Stark. The removal of Pycelle, a Lannister man through and through, and Meryn Trant, one of her own useful tools? A means to weaken the crown and House Lannister. It all led to one obvious conclusion. The man was planning to rebel. To cut the North away from the Seven Kingdoms and install himself as King of a new land. And then eventually he would turn his attention south and march on the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. The problem was no one else seemed to be able to see it. And she would not stand to have her son's future kingdom severed in any way.
She knew that her father was working on something to keep the North, and by extension the sorcerer, in line. But she could not wait for whatever plans he had in place. The quickest and most effective way would just be to eliminate the man. But that option had been wasted by those incompetent northern fools who tried and failed to assassinate him. Now the man would be on guard for years and getting an assassin in position to strike would be next to impossible. So, no, eliminating him was out of the question.
She could use the one weapon all women possessed. A weapon she wielded far greater than any other, and a weapon she had used to ensure the loyalty or obedience of a few here at court that she deemed useful. And looking at the sorcerer, it wouldn't be all that hard of a task either. His platinum hair and strong facial features…yes. It would not be a chore at all to take him to her bed to ensure she had him in the palm of her hand. But that solution had a few problems as well. Most namely was her brother, who did not know of the times she had used this method in the past. And for good reason as well. Her and Jamie were two-halves of a whole. They came into the world together and belonged together. But Jamie didn't understand that sometimes she needed to use her body to ensure their survival and the survival of their beautiful children. She would have to wait until a time when he was out of the capital or not guarding her to make her move on the sorcerer.
The other problem, though significantly less so of one in her mind, was the fact that the sorcerer was a man wed. Not that that was much of an issue. Men often sought the warmth of a woman's bed, even if said woman was not their wife. And the sorcerer was a man in the end. Besides, his wife was of the North. Sure, there were songs that sung of the woman's apparent beauty and skill that captured the sorcerer's heart, but Cersei knew better. The woman was of the North. She could be nothing other than plain and boring. The only reason that up jumped serving girl even became the man's wife was because she was perhaps the first one in this land to wrap her cunt around his cock and get with child. She was a noble hunter. Nothing more, nothing less. Whereas she was the queen and the most beautiful woman in the realm. Men fell over themselves just praying to receive a single glance from her. It would be but a trivial task to make the man forget about his northern whore for a night.
And while the idea of making the sorcerer lose himself in her bed and fall under her power was warming her in the most exciting of ways, she knew that she couldn't be hasty about inviting the man to her bed. There was still the chance that the man was one of the few who knew where to stick his cock when he was married. Perhaps arranging a few whores to tempt him first to see if he was even open to the idea? Yes, that would work. And it wouldn't even be all that difficult to arrange. Her husband often had whores around the Red Keep for his entertainment. It would be nothing to divert one of the prettier ones his way. And once he'd had his fill of her, she could use what knowledge she could gleam from the encounter into ensnaring the sorcerer in her bed and ensuring his allegiance to –
"Haha! You're shitting me, boy!" her husband laughed uproariously, drawing the attention of the entire hall as he slammed his fist against the table. "You jumped up on the dragon's head and fucked it right in its skull with the sorcerer's own blade?! Ha! Tell it again, boy! What sound did the beast make when you ended its miserable existence? Nothing better than a good kill. Well…Maybe a warm woman afterwards. But gods… What I wouldn't have given to be right there with you lot to watch the beast die or to even bury my hammer into its skull and cave it in just like I did before to that silver-haired fucker. Tell the story again, lad."
Grimacing, Cersei delicately took a bit of her roasted chicken that was on her plate while her husband demanded that the bastard tell him again of his 'encounter' with the dragon. A tall tale if she'd ever heard one. The boy might've been skilled enough to defeat Trant, though she attributed his victory to the strange weapon he and the sorcerer carried, but there was simply no way this boy could've killed a fully-grown dragon on foot or even at all. Fully intending to ignore the story, Cersei picked up her wine glass an –
The glass nearly jumped out of her hand, the fine Arbor Red splashing onto the cuffs of her dress as the doors to the great hall were thrown open with such force that the heavy doors rebounded off the wall and nearly closed again. And striding into the hall, dragging something, was none other than the sorcerer himself. His face completely devoid of all emotion, though given the cloth he wore around his eyes, that wasn't necessarily surprising.
Her oaf of a husband made to stand, but whatever he'd been about to say was cut off as Cersei felt a scream rise from her throat as she saw just what – or rather who – the sorcerer was dragging into the great hall. Her brother, her beloved Jamie, was bent over at the waist, his face twisted in obvious pain as the sorcerer dragged him through the hall by his ear.
"How dare you!" Cersei found herself screaming, rising to her feet as the sorcerer threw Jaime into a heap before the high table. "Guards! Kill this wretched man for daring to lay a hand on my—!"
Her words died in her throat as the sorcerer turned his sightless gaze on her. She didn't know how she knew, but she could feel his eyes, or something like his eyes, on her. Her breath froze in her lungs as it felt as if her entire body had been plunged into a river covered in ice. Light faded from her vision as darkness started to claim her as if she were staring down a narrow corridor whose torches were being extinguished one by one. Her body refused to move. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't talk. She – She couldn't move. All she knew was darkness. Darkness and…and fear. She'd never…never felt this fear before. This bone chilling, heart clenching all-encompassing fear tha –
As quick as it came, the darkness and the fear passed, leaving her gasping for breath and falling back into her seat. Breathing rapidly, Cersei looked around desperately for help. Yet, no one, not even her children, had moved to help her. In fact, it looked as if no one had even moved from their seats. 'What? How? It – Whatever he did lasted for – for so long! Why? Why did no one help me?'
"Your grace," the sorcerer's low voice cut through the silence of the hall like a knife. "We have a very, very serious problem."
Stepping off the ship that'd carried him across the Narrow Sea, Domeric Bolton, formerly of the North, took a moment to gain his bearings as he stared at the foreign city of Pentos, the very city that would serve as the birth to his new life away from the North and the Dreadfort. The first thing Domeric noted about his new home was the heat. It wasn't unbearable, but a lifetime spent between the North and the Vale had not prepared him for the constant sun beating down upon his skin nor the heat which caused a constant layer of sweat to cover his skin.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Domeric took a quick moment to categorize what he could of Pentos. There were massive high walls that surrounded the city on all sides save the harbor, but to the trained eye they looked more for show than anything else. The true defense of the city was within the walls in the shape of squared towers that rose up high over the roofs of the houses. He'd also heard from the sailors that there were many walled estates, almost like small keeps, that housed the richest and most influential of the city. Perhaps one day, he himself might find himself in such an estate. But that day was not today. For all he had of value to him was the clothes on his back, a bag of gold, his sword and the strange chest the sorcerer had entrusted him to deliver to this city in exchange for his help in setting Domeric up with a new life outside of Westeros.
"Well lad, this is where we part ways," the captain of the ship that'd taken him from White Harbor to Pentos said as the man joined him on the dock while a few ship hands unloaded the torso-sized chest Nox had given him. "For what it's worth, milord…I'm sorry it ended this way. You're a right sort ya are. Not…well…"
"Not like my father," Domeric said, finishing the captain's thought for him, "I know very well who my father was captain. And believe me when I say I harbor no ill will towards what happened to him in the end. He betrayed the laws of gods and men in a desperate and ill-conceived grab for power. His fate was…well earned."
"Aye," the captain nodded and motioned for two of the crewmen carrying the chest to step up. "These boys here will follow ya to where you want to lay your head down for the night. If I might, there's a nice place just down the docks here called the 'Sailor's Wife'. Soft beds and warm women aplenty. And not too hard on the purse either."
"I'll take your advice," Domeric nodded, thinking of the instructions Nox had given him to stay at any inn along the docks of Pentos and wait for contact from someone under the sorcerer's employ. "Fare well, captain."
"Aye, fare well, lad. May the gods show their mercy upon ya," the captain replied kindly, offering out his hand, which Domeric took in a tight grip before making his way down the docks with the two sailors carrying his chest right behind him.
It didn't take him long to find the 'Sailor's Wife', and true to the captain's word it looked like a slightly higher end location rather than a few of the obviously cheaper inn's he could see along the docks. Entering the inn, he saw that the patrons were all well dressed and a few of the men had women draped over their backs or on their laps, for a price no doubt. Walking up to a bar, he waited as an elderly woman stopped what she was doing and came over to him. "Westerosi?"
"Aye," Domeric nodded, reaching to his coin purse and pulling out two dragons. "A room and food for myself. Privacy is appreciated. And I have no need for…company. How long will these last me?"
The woman picked up the two coins and examined them for a moment before tucking them into a small purse hanging on her belt. "One sennight." The innkeeper stated before turning her head and barking out what were clearly orders in a language he did not understand. A young woman with bronze skin who could stir the blood of any man, if it wasn't for the strange small brand on her cheek, came forward and took a key from the innkeeper before motioned for him to follow her up the stairs.
Reaching the topmost level of the inn, the young lady led Domeric a short distance down the hall before stopping and using the key that'd been given to her to unlock one of the rooms. After opening the room and giving him the key, the young girl made a quick retreat, leaving Domeric and the two men that were carrying his chest alone in the hall. "Just set the chest in the room," Domeric ordered, walking into the room that'd been provided for him. "And you two can head back to the ship with my thanks."
The two men did as he asked, dropping the heavy chest off at the foot of the bed before quickly leaving him alone in his new home for now. The room was…fine. Almost too fine. The bed was soft, and the sheets looked to be made of velvet with freshly stuffed pillows. A brass pitcher filled with a pale white wine along with a set of glass cups sat on one of the bedside tables. The room even had a small desk and chair for him to work at. No doubt this was one of the finer rooms in this place. And he was sure that the innkeeper had given it to him on purpose to make sure that the two gold dragons didn't keep him here too long. 'Lesson one learned,' he thought sullenly, sitting down on the soft bed and burying his head in his hands. 'I don't have a lot of coin. And until I find this person the sorcerer said will find me shows up, I need to make what I have last. Perhaps I can sell my services as a sellsword? Or maybe the old crone downstairs would be willing to let me earn my keep by playing the harp. I guess there's really not much to do but wait here until I'm found.'
Hearing a light knocking on his door, Domeric lifted his head from his hands and walked the short distance across the room to open the door. On the other side, he found a stunningly beautiful woman. She was wearing plainer clothes than the innkeeper had been, yet they were still modest in comparison to some of the other dresses he'd seen some of the women wearing along the docks. Her long dark hair was pulled back into a tight braid and she was staring at him with a look he couldn't quite decipher. But one thing he did know was that she was no native to Pentos.
"Apologies…lady," Domeric said, not quite sure just how to address the woman standing on the other side of his door. "I do not require company this night. You will have to find someone else to earn your co-"
"You are from Westeros, no? The North, in specific?" The woman asked, or rather stated, surprising Domeric not only with the question but with her accent that he couldn't quite place. "Did Nox send you?"
Domeric was stunned. Was…Was it possible that this was who he was supposed to meet here in Pentos? If so…then how did she know he was already here? Or – Or was she waiting for any ship from the North to arrive? But then, how did Nox get a message to her so quickly? "Aye," Domeric nodded, looking down the hall before ushering the woman into his room and shutting the door. "I am Domeric Bolton. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name, my lady?"
At the mention of his name, the woman's eyes widened momentarily in recognition before she reset her face into a blank mask. "Bolton? As in House Bolton of the North? How did Nox manage to convince you to enter his service? And won't your father object? I doubt you will be setting foot back in Westeros for some years."
"I didn't have much of a choice," Domeric huffed, a dull ache forming in his chest as he thought about his fate. "I was forced to decide between either exile or the Wall. And complaining is a bit beyond my father's current ability."
The woman's head tilted to the side. "I'm sensing a tale here. One that I think needs to be shared before we continue on with this partnership."
Nodding, Domeric motioned for her to take a seat on the bed while he took up the only chair in the room. Once both were seated, Domeric proceeded to tell her everything about the failed coup that his father had taken part in. He left nothing out from those who betrayed the North to those who died. And throughout it all, the woman just sat there with an impassive look on her face. "I see," she said simply once he was done. "I always thought those grey rats were not to be trusted. Far too engrained in the landscape of the great game to not be players themselves."
"Aye, it's an oversight that many have made," Domeric agreed. "But now that you know my tale, my lady, I would know yours. What is your name and how have you come to enter the sorcerer's service?"
For the first time, he could see a moment of unease appear on the woman. "Nox found me in Volantis and…helped me with a difficult situation. He promised his aid in a future problem I might face. In return, I am to help him set up various operations here in Essos and perhaps beyond. As for my name…I have discarded it for now. Perhaps one day I will take it up again. But not today. Today, I am simply known as Voice. And you, Domeric Bolton, will be known as Hand to those in the know."
"Voice and Hand," Domeric echoed, thinking over the implications in his head. "Nox is creating a spy network in Essos? And we are to be his Voice and Hands?"
"Yes," Voice nodded. "Though we will be doing much more than that. But we can go over the details another time. I take it that is the chest that Nox sent with you? The one that you were to deliver to me?"
"Aye," Domeric nodded as Voice got to her feet and started running her hands around the wooden surface of the chest. "I hope you have a key or something. Because I have not been able to figure out how to unlock the bloody thing ev–"
His words were cut off as something clicked on the chest as a piece of the metal ring surrounding it gave way, revealing a small hidden compartment underneath. Reaching with two fingers, Voice pulled a small key and used it to unlock the chest. As she opened the lid, Domeric felt his eyes widen as he beheld the contents within. Gold dragons, jewels, a strange cloth covered object the size of a man's head, Valyrian steel daggers and what looked like a large partially melted candle made of black glass.
"Excellent," Voice nodded, shutting the lid on the chest and locking it once more. "This will allow us to start our operations here in Essos."
"And what operations are we speaking of, my lady?" Domeric asked, still trying to wrap his mind around the fortune he'd dragged across the Narrow Sea.
Sitting down atop the chest, Voice delicately folded her hands and placed them in her lap. "You will spearhead the advancement of the Northern glass trade here in Pentos and make inroads to the rest of Essos. There will be quite a bit of competition with Myr, and you will more than likely need to hire guards to protect yourself from their assassins eventually. But do this right, and you could potentially elevate yourself to the position of magister in the city and have a say in its rule."
"I see," Domeric nodded. "So, we set up a glass trade here in Pentos on the surface. But underneath we also work as the sorcerer's spies."
"Yes, but that is not all that we will be doing," Voice said as her tone gained a hard edge. "Tell me, Domeric, did you by chance notice the branding on the flesh of some of the dock workers or even a few of the girls here at the Sailor's Wife?"
"Aye, I noticed," Domeric nodded.
"Those are slave brands."
Frowning, Domeric rubbed at his chin. "I thought that slavery was outlawed here in Pentos?"
"In name only," Voice answered. "Braavos imposed a ban on the practice some time ago, however the magisters found a way around it. They have 'free bond servants', people who are collared and branded just like slaves, but technically free. But while they are 'free', the cost of their food, clothes, shelter, and just basic living needs far exceeds what they are paid. It may not be slavery in the traditional sense, and their lives might be considered an improvement over being a slave in Slaver's Bay or Volantis. But they are still slaves through debt."
As a man of the North, any form of slavery sickened Domeric. "I take it our second task will have to do with the slaves of the city?"
"You are correct," Voice nodded. "We're not going to overturn slavery. To do that would require either an army on par with the majority of Westeros, or to kill it at its source. But even if we succeeded in freeing the slaves, we don't currently have the means of imposing a lasting removal of the practice on the people. So, for now, we will simply do what we can."
"And what can we do?" Domeric asked, leaning forward.
"We can aid those who have escaped their bonds and help them find a new life in the North," Voice stated, surprising Domeric greatly.
"As a northerner myself, my lady, I can tell you that while the North has a strict view on slavery, we are not the warmest to outsiders."
"No, no, you are not," Voice sighed, shaking her head. "But what you northerners do warm up to quickly are those who are willing to work and earn their keep. Slaves, as a rule, are perhaps some of the finest artisans, farm hands, potters, brick layers, pit fighters and pleasure providers. Name a laborious task, and a slave could perhaps perform it better than any other. By sending them to the North, we offer them a chance to live their lives freely and earn their place by using the skills they already have. And it's not like the North is short on room either. It is the largest of the kingdoms of Westeros, but also the least populated. Nox and Stark have plans for the North, plans that require skilled hands and a lot of them. We are to help provide those hands to the North."
Nodding, Domeric took a moment to ponder over everything he'd learned. "It won't be an easy life for those we send to the North."
"No, it won't," Voice agreed with him. "But it will be a far better life than the one they currently have as a slave."
There was no arguing with that. "Fair point, my Lady Voice. When do we begin?"
