Chapter 8

Jerys had been an innkeeper for twenty years, and he had never seen so many minstrels, bards, and singers on the roads as he had the past few sennights. They would come, sample his beer, play their tunes, and move on. That was not out of the ordinary for them, of course. What was strange was that they all played the same new tune. They would wait until the crowd was entranced in the music, and then they'd begin the same triumphant tune about the stag king and his wolf queen, as rhythmic as the Mander flooding. Always some lout in the crowd would call for an encore, and the bard would bring forth their own verse about the passionate, fated love.

It was strange, no doubt. He wondered where they had all picked up the damned song, since he had never heard it before the Rebellion. Still, he couldn't deny that the crowds loved the ballad, and it drew a hearty cheer from his regulars when they played it. Jerys decided not to question it. It made the crowds happy, and happy folk were far more generous with their coin. Who cared where the song came from?

…

Tywin Lannister was not pleased. His efforts to finally get his line linked to the throne had seemed so close to fruition - while Robert had proved surprisingly more adept than Tywin remembered, his actions in ending the rebellion decisively had still seemed sure to ingratiate him with the newfound King. He had effectively ended most of the threats to Robert's rule, though the death of the Martell girl was unfortunate. Yet instead of gratitude the King seemed displeased with the whole matter, and had sent two of his tools to Dorne for justice. That, at least, made some sense; though they were handy, they were only tools, and securing peace in the realm was an understandable enough goal.

No, what was most vexing was the King's stubborn refusal to end his betrothal with the soiled Stark girl and marry Cersei, despite the fact that the Westerlands could provide gold and resources to the crown far better than the North ever could. Still, there were other avenues into the royal family. If Tywin could not get Cersei married to Robert, perhaps the younger brother Stannis would do. Once they were securely married, Robert could have an accident of some kind. Tywin had seen what independent, headstrong kings could do, after all. Better to have someone more pliable on the throne, open to wisdom from more experienced men. He acknowledged that the King had done him a great favour in returning Jaime to him; but he also could not allow the slight started by Aerys to continue. He would have Cersei married into the royal line, no matter what it took.

As he moved smoothly from his rooms in Maegor's Holdfast, his attention went from the Tower he had called home for several years to the men drilling beneath it. There was proof of the young king's folly if ever there was one - the man had ordered thousands of peasants to be drilled into warriors in peacetime. Such a large expense for a king who was still establishing himself. Tywin understood the value of having a good core of men, but his own red cloaks numbered only five hundred and were taken from sons of the gentry at the minimum; he would not have rabble guarding him, after all. Still, Tywin stopped at the edge of the courtyard, his guards moving quickly to protect him without blocking his view.

Even if the scale was foolish, Tywin could appreciate the training the men were undergoing. The men held themselves well in their formations and moved together instead of bunching up; whether that would work on the battlefield was doubtful. Smallfolk would run like rabbits from cavalry, whether they were dressed in gallant uniforms or burlap. At least with burlap you wouldn't have to waste valuable dragons on them.

Finally satisfied, Tywin continued forward, accepting the greetings of his loyal Westermen with blank courtesy. Pycelle stopped him to offer a report of the first small council meeting. Tywin had been pleased that Robert had accepted Damon in such an important position, though from the composition of the council it seemed that he was just gathering men from each region. Though most of it was learning the state of the Realm, there were several important things. Robert had approved funds for roadbuilding, maintenance, and the building of numerous new bridges. That, along with the efforts below to rebuild cisterns and give some sense of order to the city, earned Tywin's approval. A king who underestimated his works was a fool. Apparently Robert had also been funding the construction of many new ships of strange designs, with the intent of going on large trade expeditions. Clearly he was trying to establish some source of wealth outside of his lords, though for what purpose Tywin could not say.

Of most interest was his plans for the Crownlands. It seemed he had been serious about reorganizing them into lands directly held by the crown, and he had been placing a bevy of Stormlander second and third sons in positions of seneschal and castellan for many of these castles. He did not seem interested in going further than that, which was for the best. Tywin would never allow such an insult.

The crowd in the court began to hush suddenly, and Tywin's focus snapped to attention. Whatever was happening was important to distract the courtiers from their simpering whispers. The King in question was making his way down the center towards the throne, flanked by his Kingsguard. He cut a striking figure, at least; he would have made a valuable figurehead in Tywin's hands.

Ascending the steps to the barbed, jagged monstrosity the Targaryens had called a throne, he paused at the top, still standing. "Before petitions will be heard, I will announce two things; that Ser Oswell Whent shall take up the white cloak once more and rejoin his brothers, and that in addition to my other leal councillors, a new position has been formed. They shall be the Fist of the King, to ensure the maintenance of the army and the navy during the peacetime and to lead them if the King is otherwise preoccupied during war. The first Fist of the King shall be mine own brother, Stannis Baratheon." The court applauded at that, murmuring amongst themselves. Would it mean war? With whom? The realm was at peace. Tywin almost smiled at the news. The poor fool was weaving his own noose. Once Cersei had the boy ensnared - and she would, he could not be a day older than eighteen - the command of those armies would allow him to depose the king. So Tywin applauded along with the rest of them.

…

Eddard Stark did not feel like a Lord. He had not been raised for it, had not been prepared for it. That was Brandon's role. And yet, Brandon was dead. So was Father, the man who had been an unyielding pillar when Ned was still young. He looked down at the bundle cradled in his hands. His son. A tuft of auburn hair poked forth from his swaddling blankets, and his hand grasped upwards towards Ned curiously. Ned smiled, letting his finger dip down to tickle at the boy's chin. A surprisingly strong grip met him, fiercely bringing his finger towards gnawing gums. It brought forth a chuckle from him. Catelyn stepped up to his side, holding Brandon with easy care. They were still in Riverrun, waiting for the Maester's approval before Catelyn could travel to King's Landing to witness Robert's wedding and coronation. But Eddard wanted to spend time with his new wife, to let their love grow and blossom. He needed to put old loves to rest, after all. Purple eyes still haunted his dreams, sometimes wielding a flashing, flowing blade, other times a flowing dress that swirled with each spin in the dance.

Robert was different. He had explained what had happened - a strange, wondrous land of machines and prosperity. But he was different in other ways, too. His basic traits were changed - gone was the rash, brash, boisterous man, replaced with something altogether different. Sometimes his old traits would flicker through, but it seemed more a performance, a gesture to some half remembered self.

Ned shrugged internally. He would witness the coronation, see his sister wedded, then return North. Set his father's lands to rights - they were not his, he was not sure they would ever feel like his lands. Perhaps the changes would even be better. The king drank wine sparingly, and did not dally with whores; perhaps he had simply turned over a new leaf. There was an inkling of doubt, a soft pain at the change that had so deeply affected his friend. But he did not need to feed it. With time, his friend would prove himself worthy of the crown. Perhaps he would make a progress North, and Ned would find joyous little nieces and nephews meeting their cousins for the first time.

Perhaps they would meet again rallying for some war or another. This Robert was not incapable of making enemies, after all, especially with the few changes he had made thus far. Perhaps they would not see each other until they were old and grey, their sons soon to take over after them. Ned could not know; in truth, he would not know even if it was possible. Better to leave some things in the dark.

Catelyn placed her hand on his shoulder, and he was broken from the strange, cyclical reverie that so often seemed to take his mind away. "They're sleeping," she said in a hushed tone. Ned looked down and saw that she was right, his son's once fearsome attack on his finger having waned in favor of drifting to sleep. He placed Robb back in the crib, and Brandon soon joined him. The wetnurse looked up from the corner where she had been embroidering, watching as the couple slipped away to enjoy their newly wedded status after so long a separation.

…

The future was uncertain. Not in the way it had once been; that had been like looking in a fractured piece of glass and trying to discern the image it reflected. No, now it was nothing but a mist, a haze that even he could not see through. He cursed the king. Whatever foul forces had sent him here, all his plans lay in ashes. He doubted the heir he had seen would come around. He should have known. If anyone could muddy things, it was a king. His time on the Wall had been proof of that. Tossed aside for protecting the realm.

No matter. The Blackfyres were dead, and he still lived, if one could call it that. The roots snaking through him helped nourish him, keep him together, and more and more often he delved into the past in search of answers, anything that could allow him to once more glimpse future possibilities. He felt blind, not just because of the darkness of the cave but because of his own frustrating inability. So he sent dreams to the King, cryptic and mysterious, anything to set him on some firm path that would clear this fog.

That failed too. So Bloodraven sat, and thought, and plotted. He knew the old lion grew frustrated, that he coiled up to sleep or to pounce. His plan would never work, not with how steadfast and iron-willed the King's brother was. But that did not mean the creature could not be misguided, toyed with, sent on a path that would come smashing through whatever the King was planning.

Anything to return his sight to him, to allow him to begin fashioning plans once more for the greenseers to rule once more. But first, he would need an heir - and greenseers were few and far between. One had already flown, though he was no fine specimen, rooted in his ways as he was and so intent on godhood. But Bloodraven could work with that; he just needed time. Time that seemed to be running out, if his growing sense of paranoia meant anything.

The Others would come, sooner or later, to wipe man away like a flood. And the Green Kings could not rule over ashes and snow; certainly not.

…

The masked men gathered, ring and rod firmly in hand, each a different metal to separate them. They came to consider the message from the Grand Maester, about developments in the castle under this new king. There was both hope and destruction, balanced on the thinnest of edges. The king desired a court of learnings and art, and hoped to introduce some kind of school for young men of both the gentry and the merchant families to learn from without celibacy or dedication to the order. That was a grave threat, and one that would need to be snuffed out quickly in order to maintain their power. Yet there were also words of great interest to the Archmaesters; of a machine the King wished to create which would allow books to be created far faster. They all knew that one of the worst things the Citadel had to endure was the withering away of books they simply could not copy fast enough; the library was far too large to maintain all the knowledge, after all.

Yet with this device that could change. No longer would they need to rely on their opposites, the Septons and Septas, in order to copy more books. Money that went to that could go to training new maesters, expanding their influence to further holdfasts. So they plotted, and considered, but they did not come to a decision. Not yet. Not in the infancy of this new king's reign, when they could not yet ascertain if he could be made an ally or if he was to be an enemy.

So caught up were they that they scarcely noticed the defection of small handfuls of novices and acolytes, even a handful of full chained maesters, all hoping for greater glory than being glorified servants to the old Archmaesters. They had heard the rumours, after all, that the king had generously rewarded a maester from the Riverlands from saving him from a wound; how much more would they be rewarded for helping his plan of a place of learning to challenge the Citadel come to fruition? There was word, softly spoken, that the king had been allowing merchant's sons into higher positions in court, that he raised smallfolk to sergeants in his great guard. None of them bore the great names that made up the Archmaesters; few of them even had a house to call their own.

When the opportunity arose for them to seize a new position in the order the King was building in his capital, seize it they did. And so the Archmaesters, with their high and lofty view, did not notice the first cracks forming in their foundation.

…

Mostly unnoticed by the rest of the city, celebrating the new king and the renewed effort to rebuild as they were, a ship slipped forth from the docks with little fanfare. The Swallow was a strange looking ship compared to the fat bellied cogs, trim galleys, and various others plying the waves. Smaller, with triangular masts and several different tools aboard (including a sextant that had needed much refinement from Maester Pycelle and his acolytes before it could be used) it plied the waves swiftly, its maiden voyage bringing it around the coast before the captain dared to sail it away from shore, the newfound tools helping to keep track of their position as they guided themselves to one of the myriad Iron Islands. Lord Farwynd met them at the docks, finding himself intrigued. When he learned that the traveling time had been cut down quite a bit, he was thrilled. Within was a note sealed with the king's stag. Find me fine men to sail this, do as we agreed, and you shall keep the lion's share of this first voyage, as is your due.

Lord Farwynd laughed. Well, the greenlander king had been right about one thing, at least. The rewards had come, eventually. Then he set about finding the finest men on the isle to crew the ship, practically salivating at the idea of silks and spices from Yi Ti, so difficult to acquire here on the western side of Westeros.

And when he thought of old Balon learning that the greenlander king had cut his legs out from under him, of vassals being richer than the old lout, well, that would just sweeten things even further. Farwynds would have their place in the sun, no doubt about that. And they had a greenlander of all things to thank for it.

…

Pate walked along the muddy trail, and cursed as his boot got caught for the fifth time. Just his luck to get fired by Joryn because of some fool wheel and sent packing along the muddiest road in Westeros. It wasn't even a proper road like the Kingsroad or the Goldroad, just a cleared path of dirt and muck leading towards Maidenpool. Pulling his boot from the muck, he rounded the bend and heard men singing. It took him a moment to place the song, before he recognized it. The new one that all the bards and singers were singing, that was the one. But why would bards be here on this trail, so far from the main roads and their taverns?

Then he came around fully, and realized that it wasn't proper singers or the like, just a dozen men with various tools and a cart. It took him a second to realize that they weren't travelling along, instead they were cutting away at the foliage, and placing down stones at the edges to keep it at bay. Looking further back, they had clearly made some progress. Pate decided to ask them some questions.

"Ho, boys. What are you lot doing?" He asked, calling out to them.

"We're making the King's roads better, what's it look like?" One of the men asked, with a thick Northern accent.

"Why? Kings ain't cared about roads before," Pate asked, confused.

"Dunno. This one does. Pay is good, and the headmen don't bother us none as long as we do our work." That did sound good, not having a master breathing over his neck all the time, waiting for him to fuck up.

"How much are you lot paid?" Pate wondered. If it was on the king's purse, the money would be good. Kings had to pay to keep their honor, everyone knew that.

"Stag a day. Good solid silver too." Said one of the others. "Gonna work here, save up, buy me a mule and some land in the North."

"Why the north?" Asked another, confused. "Reach would be better. I hear they just toss seeds and t'Mander does the work for 'em."

The other man scoffed. "No land in the Reach to buy, unless you got a fat sack of dragons. Up north, hardly anyone around, it's nice and cheap. Plus the Starks ent so bad, far as lords go. They give shelter in the winter." Some of the men nodded at that. They all remembered the cold that had only recently passed.

"'S true. Me and my old lady, we had a rot in the larder, went to the winter's town and they gave us a roof and food. Course, we had to share with Hillmen, and they're half wildling, so maybe we'd been better off freezing." The Northerner chuckled at his own joke. Then his face became grim. "Just don't buy no Bolton land. That flayed man, it's no jape." His sudden turn filled the air with a tense silence as the other men considered him. Pate took the opportunity to step in.

He cleared his throat. "Well then, where can I get some of this king's coin?" One of the others jerked his thumb back towards the cart where a greybeard - maybe a veteran, if the scars meant anything - was leaned against the cart, eyes moving back and forth across the road. The greybeard wasn't so bad, not like he looked, and soon Pate was with the rest of the men working. And when they began to sing that new song, well, his voice was added to the chorus.