Review responses at the bottom
However, quick question I'd like your opinion on:
As you know, the story has been upgraded to an M rating. That, not unpredictably, has lead to a decrease in visibility and traffic.
The offending chapter is no. 13, though looking back I am unsure this story deserves the mature rating.
Is the scene in question explicit? Kinda, however, it is just a clothed masturbation scene and for story purpose and integrity of my fic I will not remove it.
Now, main question. Do you think I should just turn the M rating and just put in a warning at the header of Chapter 13? Interested in your replies.
Title Quote:
"The realm. Do you know what the realm is? It's the thousand blades of Aegon's enemies, a story we agree to tell each other over and over, until we forget that it's a lie."
"But what do we have left, once we abandon the lie? Chaos? A gaping pit waiting to swallow us all."
"Chaos isn't a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some, are given a chance to climb. They refuse, they cling to the realm or the gods or love. Illusions. Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is."
Varys and Petyr Baelish, Game of Thrones, Season 3 Episode 5, The Climb
Taking Lysa away unseen did not prove to be much of a challenge to Shella. Hoster had other problems to occupy him, he would not care about his younger daughter today and he would not step up to Walder Frey with his proposal before tomorrow. No, that would seem too desperate and too grasping. Either tomorrow or the day after at the earliest.
But even as Minisa had died years ago, Shella did still own a good fifth of all the servants of Riverrun. This move could never be kept secret for long, it was the initiative that mattered. Of course, Hoster could always retaliate, but he would be lacking support and the power to take Lysa back in this case. So, Shella left a letter behind thanking Hoster that he had transferred Lysa into her care to look after. He'd see this the move of a sentimental and foolish woman. Idiot.
Linia had been charming Jeffory Mallister while she talked loyalty and betrayal with Brynden. The boy was never a prospect and as soon as Linia tried to move the subject towards the Old Wolf, Jeffory shut his mouth faster than a proper septa did her legs faster at the mention of Oberyn Martell. Seven, five years and still the faith cursed him from Oldtown to King's Landing, no matter what else they all disagreed on.
Simon had been sent down into the village as soon as Edmure had been disentangled from him, and true to form as Rickard Stark had said, everyone knew of Lysa Arryn's dead bastard. How far, how long had the wolves infiltrated the Riverlands that they could spread this information so quickly with none to know where it came from? Or did they use Ironborn leftovers that were somehow kept alive after the Conquest? No, that was as unlikely as those isolationist falcons spreading the news. The implications were chilling. Did this network only spread through the country side? Were there any spies seeded amongst the castles? Most importantly, were any of her own spies working as double agents?
She had never suspected Rickard Stark of guile before his visit to the capital, but now everything new she learned about him scared her. Still, other players less focused on the Riverlands probably did not even know how dangerous this man truly was. Shella blessed her luck for throwing in her hat early with the wolves.
Shella bade farewell to the other lords quickly and sent Lysa with some of her guard to travel with a litter cross country and join up with Lord Blackwood when he left for Raventree Hall. At the same time, two decoys were dispatched to divert Hoster's attention if he proved unreasonable. She pulled Tytos aside so he knew to expect her package and convinced him to visit her as soon as he arrived at home under any flimsy excuse. She did not even have to make an overly obvious reference to the Brackens, the fresh lord had gotten a quick appreciation for her on their ride to Riverrun.
Halfway on the way to the Stark-Arryn camp did their party meet another going the other direction. The first amongst their standards were the Westerling shells on sand followed by their up jumped merchant bride's house. They made for a harsh pace and Sybell Spicer did not look happy on her high horse.
Did they not, then, see the writing on the wall that the wolves bandied with their betters? Shella did not think the lions would be displeased with mere clams over this issue, the Westerlings were ever loyal, but that grasping new lady required watching.
As they arrived at the wolves' camp they were received by Ashara Dayne and Elbert Arryn, almost none of the true movers and shakers awaiting them. Shella would have almost been offended, she knew her own worth, but the resplendent lady quickly assuaged her displeasure at being treated as insignificant with only a few choice words and a brilliant smile. Shella always thought herself above flattery but the starling had the making of a great diplomat, without a doubt picked up in the capital and already trained before.
Linia quickly tried to insert herself at the young falcon's side who displayed a mixture of embarrassment and elation at the attention. Typical Vale knight, the amateur. However, he also could not hide a small hint at exasperation, which in turn gave Linia pause. The Lady Ashara quickly and smoothly cut in between the two, freeing the trapped bird. Linia would have to work better at schooling her irritation, Shella noted at that. However, their talk quickly progressed to marriage talks directly and when Ashara Dayne leaned in to whisper something to Linia, Shella only saw her daughter redden with a smile before becoming a lot more responsive to the Dornishwoman.
Elbert Arryn stepped up to her, but was entirely unreceptive to banter. Straight like a knight's lance, though he did smile at some of her commentary of her daughter. It wasn't that the boy did not understand the game, Shella noted, he was just schooled to play on a different field and he knew it.
A little time passed until a Stark guard approached Ashara Dayne with what Shella saw to be a mix of an astonishing amount of reverence, a large helping of fear and just a sliver of suppressed -. Lust was the wrong word, Shella decided. Appreciation, she decided. The fear had won out over the baser for of the man's instinct. The Dornish star bore watching, she reaffirmed.
Only a few moments after the watchman had stepped away again, Lady Dayne led them in silence to enter the back of the largest tent outside the inn the Starks had rented and motioned for Shella to spy through a slit peephole in the canopy into the main room of the tent as she noticed the words ringing in her ears.
"-less, and justice to all, and I shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire."
Shella Whent spied Stevron Frey kneeling in front of the Warden of the North and his heir as he spoke the First Men's oath of fealty, and she could not believe it. All her reports from Sarya spoke best of Stevron amongst the Freys. No, that did not do the man justice, the letters spoke good of Stevron Frey. Of a Frey. And there the man knelt, in front of a paramount that was not supposed to be his own, witnessed by his Lannister good sister and the Warden of the East, betraying his father. As Shella Whent slowly pulled back from her spy hole, she found Ashara Dayne to be attentively watching her. After a second they shared a smile.
She heard rustling from the other side of the curtain and the tent flap open and close before Lady Dayne swiftly stepped through the hanging veils and stepped up to Rickard Stark's second son, whose countenance visibly softened. While Stevron Frey had already left, Shella was a little surprised that his good sister had remained. Still, it only served her interested to be acquainted with all the upper echelon of this conspiracy of theirs.
"Lady Whent, I am delighted to see you again so soon. I had hoped you would return today ever since your visit to our camp in the morning. I do hope the Lady Catelyn and young Lord Edmure are coping with the events of this day, I bear them no ill in this."
Lord Stark seemed utterly sincere as he sternly spoke to her and her children. Simon sat straighter at his words, too obviously vary of the man to serve him well, and even Linia did not manage to hide a sliver of fear. A kind smile was shot their way, shining through his freshly oiled beard. My, did Rickard Stark look stately in his grey and white doublet. Shella did not recognize the man from Riverrun.
"Please, my lord, won't you call me Shella? After all, I did offer my hand in marriage this morning and you have not declined me yet."
A simpering smile, a fluttering of her lashes, and just as today in the morning when Linia's suit was presented, the Wolf Lord chuckled a deep, sonorous laugh.
"You are a delight, Shella, it would please me if we are to become more familiar. Though I am sorry to say that I have to decline the offer of your hand. I do hope that does not impede our growing friendship. Just Rickard is fine for me, among such a circle of friends as we are sitting her."
His was a smile of knives as Genna Lannister sized her up from the side and Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn regarded her with a stony look hiding whatever they were thinking. Those two were no politician, but they were unlikely to be played by one as well. Elbert seemed a little confused, more than Simon, while Ashara Dayne beside the heir to the North was all kind smiles and starry eyes and Linia tried to emulate the picture of innocence the Dornish presented.
"Of course we are friends, Rickard", Shella almost breathed the words, "I have even brought gifts with me. Hoster Tully received a raven from the capital regarding your daughter."
It was terrifying to behold; not a single muscle moved in Rickard Stark's smiling face, yet the eyes of the man suddenly promised gruesome death and untold horrors. While the Arryns remained rather stoic to the development and Genna Lannister only subtly started to pay even more regard to the Old Wolf, the silence of the young wolf in the room only seemed to grow more… oppressive. The lady by his side squeezed his hand reassuringly as the son's unblinking eyes sook out the father's.
Something unsaid passed between them, but Shella could only fathom at it. Still she'd seen what she wanted. Despite all, the Starks were a family above all. A trade up from Hoster, but having just taken Lysa, Shella was not blind to the inherent debilities such a reliance caused. Not wanting to unnecessarily increase the tension, Shella spoke on.
"Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent prevented Prince Rhaegar from raping your daughter. The Prince has returned to the capital in disgrace as tensions between the factions of the king and the prince are rising. Lady Lyanna is to be returned to you with an honor guard consisting of the two heroic knights and 50 men-at-arms of House Targaryen."
The fury of the Old Wolf did not lessen one bit, but the heir and his lady could not hide their elation at this revelation.
"That", the wolf lord said with just a hint of his accent shining through and a bloody smile on his lips, "is the situation I had most hoped for. Shella, you are a gift. Let me give you three gifts in return, for I am ever a generous man."
She returned his smile in silence, even as she grew wary without end.
"In the North we are lacking in knights, and I am ever gracious to our queen for she has agreed to fund the rebuilding of Moat Cailin, which I have elected to confer upon my youngest son. I intend to help him build his household, and I believe your son Simon would make a splendid Master-at-Arms after a few years as an officer in my guard at Winterfell, do you not agree?"
Shella could only give a tight nod in answer, even as her son abruptly turned towards her with a pleading look. A hostage to be traded, but not one high in the succession. Still, Rickard Stark had been a lone father for 15 years now, he could understand the love of a mother as well.
"Secondly, though I regret to inform you that the offer of the hand of your daughter has been refused for my son Ned, Elbert Arryn, Gerion Lannister and Oberyn Martell, the heir to Runestone Andar Royce has come to love her from afar and is eager so eager to press his suit that no dowry is expected.
Of course, I would be thankful if you could lend your signature to the letters I am to send to Casterly Rock, the Eyrie, Winterfell and Sunspear in which we thank the house heads for their support in this match after the other suits fell through."
A bribe, this, with a warning attached. Now it was her daughter's turn to look at her in askance, if not in fright. She did not believe her mother to have attempted to barter her flesh away to all these men, but she did not understand what was spoken about. Runestone was a match Shella would have had to offer at least a lord's ransom for. Still, Shella would gift her daughter the best ladies' box to help her in the new waters she was to brave. The implication, though, that her new coalition had already had cause to believe that Dorne was to join them hinted at prior communication, and the implication was stunning. Who had made these moves?
"The third gift is a wedding for yourself, even as I regret I had to decline your hand myself. Lord Arryn believes his future demesne should build friendly relationships to other high lords and has allowed for Quellon Greyjoy to present his suit for you. I believe I heard a rumor that Walter Whent mentioned his intent to join the honorable order of the Night's Watch, is that not true? Congratulations, Shella my friend, you are moving up the ladder."
Slowly but smoothly Shella clasped her hands together and inclined her heads in thanks, hoping it managed to hide her shaking. She had sold herself high, her ambition of paramountcy in her grasp. So the Riverlands had already been redistributed. Whent and Mallister and Frey and who else? There was no retreat for her now, her question might as well be blunt.
"Thank you for this gift, Lord Stark, Lord Arryn. Am I to proclaim my fealty to the Eyrie, my liege?"
The older man offered a chuckle and a wave of hand.
"Please, Lady Whent. Such is not required of leal bannermen without an audience."
"Rickard, my cousin Sarya had always only the best words to share on Stevron of all the Freys, what did you discuss with him earlier?"
At her question Rickard Stark only turned his head a little. She was surprised to hear Ashara Dayne speak up from the side.
"Lady Genna was most interested in this new perfume I brought with me. It is in the Lyseni style, those people have made an art of it, I tell you Lady Whent, but this one is particular to Dorne. I swear people above the Red mountains know naught of it, you use other herbs up here for it. Still, we are somewhat famed for it, especially us women. Then again, our princess' favorite brother is known to dabble in it as well, but nobody really wants to know what my friend Oberyn is up to half the time. Oh my, I did not mean to ramble on like that. I hope I did not bore you, Lady Whent, thoughts of home do carry me away sometimes."
"What my son's betrothed wanted to arrive at, is that at Lady Genna's behest we closed a deal to use the Twins advantageous position and increase our trade in exotic products, both from the marshlands of the Neck as well as from our future influx in trade from Dorne."
Lord Stark cheerily wove on the web of lies with the Dornishwoman. A most delightful girl, Shella decided. She would definitely exchange some tinctures with her, and after all, a steady correspondence with the future Lady Stark could only be to her benefit.
The most important bachelor of the North and the Dornish princess' bosom friend - emphasis on bosom – who would have thought. Still the girl seemed to be a boon herself, the obvious affection only helped. The wolf boy in front of her must have hidden depths beneath his quiet surface if he managed to charm the fiery woman at his side still. Shella had been surprised when her brood in the capital had informed her of this steadily growing bond, herself having firsthand accounts of the farce the former Stark heir proclaimed at her castle about Ashara Dayne. Thinking of Eddard Stark's brother left reminded her of another matter she had yet to mention.
"Oh, Lady Ashara, those perfumes sound lovely, maybe we can talk more on them? You must have used them to charm your handsome husband at the Eyrie. You fostered there, did you not, Lord Eddard, along with Robert Baratheon? How come the Lord of Storm's End did not travel with you but is following to arrive here in about four days after today?"
There was a short lull in the conversation, but while Rickard Stark's face gave nothing away, Jon Arryn betrayed his surprise at this news. Gods, the charging Stark was rudderless and lacking a handler apparently. Still there was not even a break before the Old Wolf took the reins and spoke up.
"Shella, why do you not stay a few more days with your children? We had intended to throw a small feast in five days to announce the betrothal of my heir to his lady, but Ned did not want to celebrate without his brother in all but blood. A few more friends only make for more of a merry company."
She had not expected a reversal of the like, but what surprised her was the most was a small predatory glint that came over Ashara Dayne's eyes. The young woman even batted her lashes at Shella, her voice the chime of a laughing bell.
"Oh, please, Lady Shella, do stay. I swear you have not seen the like of a feast thrown by Northmen, I promise you will find yourself well entertained. I do believe Linia must've brought a stunning dress for the wedding, let's not deny her the chance to wear it. I would put my perfumes at your perusal, I'll even let you keep one that you like."
"We both would be delighted to share this moment with friends new and old", Eddard Stark spoke for the first time since Shella had seen him as his promised gifted him a soft smile, "I met Ashara dancing under your roof, I can think of no better company for this occasion. We even might have a few songs you have not heard yet here in the Riverlands."
Shella did not see the harm in that, and her children did seem excited at the prospect. Linia's and Simon's days in the Riverlands were numbered now, best to make the most of it. Ashara beamed as Shella agreed and Genna Lannister was asked to extend an open invitation to the men of the Westerlands. The young Stark bride-to-be quickly pulled her Linia up to her room to go about preparing the party on such short notice. Genna Lannister did not pretend to linger with Lord Stark and quickly left afterwards, taking Stevron Frey with her and her own husband who seemed to have been occupied by some of the people in the retinue of the Arryns.
Rickard Stark did hold back Shella for a second, but only to bid her to send a raven for Darry on his behalf as he did not care to bother any of the knightly houses around that were unfamiliar to him. The Old Wolf quickly penned a letter to his daughter ordering her to travel on to Winterfell and to reunite with him there, continuing to follow the Kingsroad after Darry.
Afterwards he left, sending out his guardsmen to invite the surrounding smallfolk with abandon and empty all the other inns around of food, mead, ale and wine for the feast. Lastly, some men returned to Riverrun disguised as merchants to cheaply buy some of the food stocks prepared for the wedding and spread an open invitation to all the lords in attendance except the Tullys.
The move could be seen as an uncouth but effective slight against Hoster, to barter away the prize the man had sought to another at the Riverlord's home soil, as could be expected of an uncivilized Northman. Or as an effective way to draw the impromptu court of alliances from Riverrun towards Lord Stark's own controlled demesne and challenge Hoster's authority over his own bannermen, as could be expected of a skilled politician and master manipulator. And the people would come. Hoster would rage, Hoster would plead, and Hoster would lose.
He could not command his lords to stay away, not when all the lords of the other kingdoms would flock to this inn. Bumbling savage or master of the game, as ever with Rickard Stark, the people would only see in him what they were ready to see. And to think he threw the plan together on the spot as he heard of Robert Baratheon approaching. Once more Shella was ecstatic at having come under the wolf's protection. Lady Paramount. Even if she should lose in the war to come, she'd never expected to climb so high.
"Jon, do you have a minute?"
His younger foster son sook him out early in the morning the day after Shella had been welcomed into his fold. Kyle had already sent a raven to Runestone to notify his uncle the bronze lord of the betrothal of his son to lady Linia late in the night, so Jon was still tired. Yohn was one of his bannermen more aware of the plans being made, though, so urgency was due for the proper information to be disseminated to him at the right time. However, a little tiredness would not be enough to keep Jon from helping Ned if he needed it. Even if a proper bed after days in the saddle was very tempting.
His son in all but name but name came into his room, looking a little exhausted but ecstatic none the less. He'd had that spark to his eyes since bringing Ashara to the Eyrie from Gulltown, and Jon could not be happier for him, especially as today both Ned's exhaustion and elation seemed to have reached another level. The official betrothal seemed to have worn him out a little in the night. His eyes were shining like dew mist at dawn as he spoke.
"I need to speak with my father soon, and I'd like to have you at my back when I approach him."
At this Ned hesitated for a second before talking on.
"Ashara thinks she might be pregnant. I want to break camp for Winterfell two days after the feast tonight at the latest, and be wed as soon as we reach home. It would give Shara the chance to have Ser Arthur give her away. And I would like for you to be there with me. It would mean a lot to me."
"Ned. Son. Of course I'll come. That's wonderful. But yes, we'll have you two get married as soon as possible. How are you holding up with these news?"
Jon again felt that familiar sensation, joy and dread. His family had grown just yesterday, and today the future looked bright. He desperately tries not to think of his five dead babes, but he knew he was making a poor attempt at a smile. However, Ned did not question him as he spoke. He was a man that understood how to read the nuances of silence.
"Euphoric. Terrified. I want to shout it out to the world but tell no one. I fear that I can never be a father. I thought I was afraid of the war to come an hour ago. Now I know, I did not truly know fear."
"My boy. I am ever thankful for the day I asked your permission to call you son."
Jon looked at his Northern ward, taking him by the shoulders.
"I was afraid that day. I had already come to love you as a son, but I did not know if you reciprocated those feeling. You are quiet sometimes, you know that?"
His son shared one of his quiet smiles, the one he only gifted to a trusted few.
"Let me tell you what my father once told me when I was a young boy. I usually only tell the words, but I trust you to keep this silent. I was afraid of heights. Can you imagine that? I, the future Lord of the Eyrie, was afraid of heights as a young boy."
Jon did not think Ned capable of releasing a snort, but he was proven wrong
"My father took me aside, then, and imparted on me the words that shaped my house words to be more than just 'As High as Honor'. Just like the pack survives when winter comes as you have once told me, honor lies in braving the challenges life throws at us that make us pause.
If, like for me today, your son ever comes to you and tells you he is afraid of something, tell him that is the only time a man can be brave. That way lies honor, for one is fighting to overcome oneself. The only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid, and a brave man will soar as high as honor."
His son did not answer, for nothing needed to be said. Jon pulled him into a tight hug and never wanted to let go.
When he did, he told Ned to bring Ashara to the tent outside and meet him and Rickard there. It was time to share the news and to reveal to Lady Dayne the full extent of what they would bring about. The four of them came together not ten minutes after, and while on Ned's face the euphoria had decidedly won out, Ashara's emotions still seemed to be fighting for supremacy. Even Rickard spied the woman to be conflicted, where before this moment Jon had never seen his son's love to wear such a weakness on her face.
As the pair sat across from them, their intertwined hands kept twitching as Ashara looked at anything but Rickard's face. Ned did not have this shadow of uneasiness stopping him, but he changed the grip of Ashara's left hand into his own to support her with his right in the small of her back. With Ashara he was just so natural. Only then did he speak to his birth father.
"Father. I plead to you, let us leave as soon as possible after the betrothal is announced. I want to be safe back in Winterfell and happily wed before Ashara shows that she is carrying your first grandchild."
Rickard Stark's head immediately turned to Ashara, who still did not look at him. If she had, she'd see that there was nothing but warmth in his gaze after a fraction of a second. As she would raise her head, Rickard rose and walked up to her, only to take a knee in front of her and grasp her remaining hand into both of his, fixing her eyes with his own finally.
"Daughter", he spoke softly, his voice raw and tender, "the growth of the pack is only ever a wonderful gift."
Ashara heaved a sob as a lone relieved tear escape her before Ned put a finger under her chin to gently make her look at him.
"My love." He said intently, and she smiled.
"My wife." He said longingly, and she shined.
"My queen." He said, and she looked at him in question.
"You are carrying the youngest prince or princess of the reestablished and soon to be proclaimed Kingdom of Winter." He said, and Ashara showed awe and love and shock and fear and disbelief.
That moment Jon saw the daughter of his son realize that the latter had no ceiling and all she knew growing up would change more than she had thought possible, but that was always the way of the world when a new child strove to enter it.
The four of them spoke then, of the joy of parenthood, of Ned as a child, where both Jon and Rickard managed to embarrass their son enough to grow red, and of the great and terrible war to come and how they wanted the world to look like when it was finished.
And after that it was calm for four more days, until Jon's other son arrived on the day of the betrothal feast.
The raven for her husband had also carried a letter addressed to her, this one from her mother instead of her brother. Well, they were probably both worded by her mother, but Paxter liked to believe in the illusion that Mace only acted a bumbling fool most of the time to make everyone around him drop their guard against him, and that he was one of the few to understand Mace's supposed cunning and his intricate letter was a sign that Paxter was trusted like few others by mummer Mace. Is the idiot or the one who sees greatness in one were there isn't the bigger fool?
Her mother preferred the term oaf, but one was less blind to the failings of one's brother than the ones of a son. Mina could understand that, now that Horas and Hobber were no longer kicking her ribs but squealing in her arms. Gods, the one slobbered over the majority of her wardrobe and the other's cries were a horror in the night, as he only settled in her arms and not the wet nurse's. Still she loved them more than she'd thought possible.
They were but one year yet and already her mother wanted to wrench her away from them on another errand, this one a lot farther than just to the Arbor, but luckily only for a round trip instead of a lifetime. Still Paxter had been reluctant when she told him she would accompany the boats on to Lys and Volantis, and take part of the fleet further still.
When she was younger she'd wanted to travel, see the world, but now that it was happening, she only felt dread. A Grand Tour, circling the free cities? She'd still welcome that, even if she'd rather sit out the coming storm right here at the Arbor. A place like Braavos or Volantis might have been a nice retreat as well, but Astapor? Gods forbid, sand and dust and Dothraki and slaves. The greatest slaves in the world. And she was sent to buy them.
The part of her that balked at the idea of buying people like chattel, though, was drowned out by Horas' cries and Hobber's baby blue eyes. Before the cargo boats of the Bank of Oldtown carrying her family's worth in gold even left their home port did Mina intend to sail for Slaver's Bay so the ink on the contract was dry before her fortunes arrived after. For if the Lannisters got the idea as well, they could surely outbid them, so the only advantage she had was time and a ready fleet. It would have to hold.
Olenna's letter had sounded urgent enough. Well, the slaver's leash would have to serve as a rope ladder out of the pit, then, for fear it could turn into a noose. Her mother had been demanding in her education, seeing that her brother was oafish and her sister ditzy. Growing strong.
"Did you know, Mina, that roses sometimes grow like parasites on other trees, smothering their hosts?"
Mina could remember those words and the lesson they carried the best. Like it was yesterday she heard her mother's voice delivering her most important sermon.
"All that was left of House Gardener died on the Field of Fire. But then, how come the greatest House of the Reach since time immemorial had been reduced to a line of foolish men, one king and one heir, thrice widowed, by the time the dragons turned up at their borders? Because roses had bloodied the green hand and found their blood was not nourishment that could help them grow farther. No, the shadow of wings were the future then. Smart people had been able to see that. A whispered word, and Mern took his whole kin with him. Another, and the dragons knew where to release their flame. And House Tyrell skipped all the steps on the ladder from steward to high lord."
Mina had only sat there, frightened at the knowledge that the greatest loss of the Reach had not been just a massacre. It had been the most successful of all betrayals.
"But then", a younger Mina had asked her mother, "why have we not ensnared the kings since their dragons died? Why have we not sought kingship of our own?"
"Kings, royal houses, they are like the trees that carry the strangling vine. We don't want to be the tree that dies to the rose. And royal houses always die. When it happens, the tree is not simply felled. It is ripped from the earth, root and stem, the wood burned to ashes and the ashes scattered with the wind."
Her mother fixed Mina's chin with her hand, and Mina had felt the vines and the thorns herself for the first time.
"When a king falls, his successor cannot destroy all the vassals of the old regime. It is important we always stay the most important house after the Targaryens, at least until we have consolidated our rule in the Reach to a point that the foxes are either made subservient, eradicated or disgraced to a point no one associates with them anymore."
There was a fire in the eyes of Olenna Redwyne then, a fire that Mina now knew burned within herself as she listened to Horas and Hobber and truly understood now.
"We need the dragons to stay a few more generations, than we will aid their fall or quell their authority one at a time with the other great houses. Until that day, when House Tyrell can stand unquestioned in the Reach even outside the shade the dragon casts, we will need to prop that foul and rotten tree up with the strength of our vines against all threats from the outside and within."
And Mina would do her part in it. Olenna had not given her exact orders, and left her to ensure favorable terms. Well, she already would be a buyer of slaves. Maybe a few foxes, sold before they were caught, could count as credit to the Masters of Slaver's Bay. It would solve their immediate problem for funds, and their long-standing problems of rivals for Riverrun. When you already would be remembered for trading in slaves, at least do it right. And Mina would see Tyrell rule Highgarden forever. In whose shade was a question for when the dust settled.
Not until after Mina would disembark for a longer break from sea at Lys, more than a moon later, did she find out that she yet hadn't lost her sea legs. It was morning sickness. The little one, she'd decided, was just another reason to fight for, as she then accelerated her travel plans going forward.
She woke to the echo of the lash, only to find that it had only been a dream. Of course it was a dream, there were no whips around her anymore. She'd banned them the day she'd turned into a person and became an honorable lady. Sticks were banned, too, for after all she knew the value of the commodity of flesh all too personal.
And now, now that she'd suddenly found herself in possession of a great amount of chattel, she come to the agreement with her husband that it was a too great a waste to leave marks on trade goods that would lower their value. Even on rebellious ones. Lys had been kind in teaching her that, at least. Or rather, thorough. It was never kind.
It was better to use water; that's what she'd learned Perfumed Garden. A piece of cloth over the head, and then you tilt the bucket over slowly. A drizzle is what you wanted, not drips. Let them think they'd drown. Rescue them. Do not ask questions. Repeat. They did not need to know exactly what they'd done wrong. They'd think of all possible errors they'd committed, and change them. The audience would do all to escape even the thought of such suffering. After all the slaves were in equal measure thankful and afraid of her, she'd only needed to build a few fountains in her new manse, and they all simply turned obedient.
She herself had been born into slavery, her mother sold by her only known kin left alive. Maybe there were still others, somewhere. But seeing that the last of her mother's family had killed her brother, raped her afterwards and then sold her as she carried his daughter to a slaver from Lys, she did not think her mother ever wanted to meet any others. She herself always had known the slaving pit would not hold her down, and already at 25 did she birth her first son a free woman. A higher prize was waiting for her, one day, for her climb had not ended and she would reclaim all that was taken from her family. Her son would never know chains like her and her little brother.
She sometimes felt sorrow for the fate of her brother, but he would have only been an obstacle for her children if she hadn't told that Myrish sorcerer of the boy with the second purest Valyrian bloodline in the world. Of course she hadn't him she herself possessed the superior line. After the man had served his purpose, she had only needed to shed a single tear and all her brother had left to feel for her was gratitude. He'd only ever know of the revenge she'd taken for him, never of the children she'd denied him to have.
The news from across the Narrow Sea were worrying though, and Aegor had sounded scared of the Northern Warden having deduced his identity. Illyrio served her better, for what use was a compromised spymaster? No, Serra Blackfyre would need to order her brother to make bolder moves. Though he was the one that had contacted the old sympathizers under his guise as Varys, they had lost a lot of glory even before Malys' folly. Peake, Osgrey, Costayne, Butterwell, they wouldn't be enough. But Aegor had whispered he was planning to contact the Hightowers, who were in danger of losing agency in the war to come.
Still, even unawares the rulers of Oldtown would prove to be uncomfortable bed fellows, ever grasping as they were, but more chaos in the Reach would be her goal for them, not hegemony. Greater promise came from the newest King Saan in the Stepstones, and the sons of Alequo Adarys, looking to regain their hegemony over Tyrosh. And, most of all, her student the Black Pearl had helped her contact the Old Mother in the Summer Islands, who now was decidedly more ancient.
Toyne was still on the fence, the anonymity she required clashed with the Golden Company's need for securities. A fool, but maybe Illyrio should contact them in person claiming his own interests in the battle royal that Westeros was soon to become. Knightly slaves were highly prized, after all.
"Serra."
The door opened as her husband stepped in. Serra could prize herself on her looks. She used to be prized for them, after all. However, Illyrio was a vision as well. He would have commanded high prices in the Perfumed Garden with his hair a flaxen veil, his eyes a mixture of coal and obsidian, either glossy or matte depending on the light and a sculpted body the artists of Myr could not have chiseled finer out of marble.
"Dear. What brings you to me? Is it news of my kingdom again?"
"In a way", Illyrio chuckled as he stroked his shadow of a goatee. He'd tried to grow a proper beard since he stopped being a bravo, the facial hair no longer a liability in combat, now a sign of good breeding. Her man could not grow sideburns for the life of him, though.
Her husband drew her gaze to a superbly crafted strongbox, made of weirwood and ebony, inlaid with mother-of-pearl dragons and a locking mechanism of YiTish make. The dragons were more serpentine in their stylings, their whiskers glimmering golden and with opulent manes of chipped gemstones. Illyrio out the box in front of her gently, carefully, almost reverently.
"I believe, wifey", Illyrio started again, "that for a someone to claim the Iron Throne, certain… regalias are required. As far as I know, the Targaryens destroyed their last cache of this up during the reign of the Unlikely. Take them as a sign of my devotion to you."
Serra turned the spiral key and watched the intricate clock works turn, before the lid lifted itself and revealed to her three stony eggs with scaly exterior, one of black and red swirls, another off-white with pale gold spikes that seemed do streak the shell like lightning and the last a forest green that seemed to reflect an oily bronze sheen when the light hit it just right. The sight stole Serra's breath for a second.
Illyrio took the black one into his hands as he looked at her, his hand stretched out towards her.
"Dragon eggs, found in the Shadowlands north of Asshai. An YiTish trader purchased them for his collection. The man in question sadly lost his fortune as his main trade route goes through plains that an upstart warlord now lays claim to. This general, a man called Pol Qo, is luckily in need of a lot of capital to finance his warlording. I purchased these from the man practically at a bargain. I hear their original owner died somewhere around Slaver's Bay, and we do have greater need of them, don't we?"
He wore his devilish smile again, and Serra felt the stirrings of affection for him again. She squashed them, for lovers were fools. Even as she knew he loved her. Would he, if he knew how his first wife truly died? Would she have remained a mere slave if she had not done it? She knew of his promise to her brother, but men were fickle. She knew best, after all. Still, the smile she returnedillyrio in the end was not a faked one.
She reached out for the egg, and clasped it into her hands.
"It's warm to the touch."
Serra said it softly.
"Warm? That cannot be. I found it to be like a stone taken out of a spring, cooler than the air."
Illyrio looked upon her in confusion, and Serra did not know what to say. She knew what to think, though, Valyrian ancestry and right and flame and magic. Fire and Blood. The egg in her hand turned warmer, then, and as her eyes opened in wonder and wishes, she did not know anymore.
Then she felt it hot, scalding, and Illyrio next to her retreated a step, the egg in her hand hot to the touch and steaming. No, burning. It was burning her hand, like a branding iron to slave.
The egg dropped from her hand, and as it impacted on the marble floor, Serra thought she heard a shell crack, a lizard hiss and a cackling flame. A flare blazed up, fire licking her feet and burning her, burning her!
It was all at once, everything and the pain, and she was in the court yard, staring at the painful scaly lines imprinted on her palm. Illyrio was by her side talking, but nothing stuck to her, it would not even if she listened.
"They're all gone!"
She turned at the sheer exasperation in his voice.
"What?"
"All of them. All three. The other two burned after the first blaze."
"The eggs? But why?"
Illyrio looked at her almost scared. She knew his thoughts. Of course she did. Magic, big magic had died. Hadn't it? The dragons were gone, and all that was left was addicts in Qarth trying to catch leaking power with a sieve.
Serra shuddered at the thought, of what the sorcerer would have done to her had she not sacrificed Aegor all those years ago. Folly. A folly that claimed more Targaryens than her family ever managed.
No. Fire and Blood was not her way. Magic was a tool for mad men, the mad men that had ruled her kingdom for too long. War and chaos would suffice, for her. Legitimacy were what you made it, and they had the blood, had the look. Serra only needed to wait until the waters were muddy enough with blood, and then her son Daemon would take on the name of Aegon VI Targaryen and use the corpses of Elia Martell and her son as the ladder to reach for the Iron Throne.
And she would be triumphant.
"Why did you come here to darken my hall?"
The man in front of his father did not cower, but then Lord Borrell did not take on a threatening tone, only a tired one. He did have cause for it, though. There visitor today was especially brazen, after all.
"My lord, I have come to treat with the Lord of the Sisters on behalf of the Iron Throne. Is it not natural, then, that I come to you?"
The man's address was not overbearing or deferent towards his father, but Godric could still see the sneer that he tried to hide. Most mainlanders did not bother to even attempt that when they stood under their leaking roof in the great hall.
"Ser, last as I know, I owe allegiance to Lord Sunderland, who rules over all the Sisters. I believe his council is what you seek."
The Knight of Skulls and Kisses showed a smile at the words of the Lord of Sweetsister, but it was good natured, like the four of them were friends sharing secrets. Godric, his father, their Maester and Ser Richard Lonmouth. Two crabs, a rat and a dead man. You could probably make a jape with that premise.
"Please, Lord Borrell, all know that he who rules Sisterton rules the Bite. Maybe, after the war, the king will grant you the respect you are owed, instead of Lord Sunderland. Your port will be needed in the next few years, and the throne will pay to have it ready for the royal fleet."
"The king", his father said the word slowly, "who is your king, Ser Richard? Aerys II Targaryen, the man that cuts himself more frequently on that iron chair then Maegor the Cruel did? Or do you speak for Rhaegar Targaryen, disgraced by his father, who you squired for?"
There was a short shock that went through Richard Lonmouth at the last sentence. When he answered, his voice almost did not waiver.
"Both. Lord Chelsted, Master of Coin, Lord Varys, Master of Whispers and Lord Connington, advisor to the Crown Prince agree that the Sisters' strategic position needs to be secured if the North and the Vale prove rebellious."
"Is it a certainty, then, that Lord Stark and Lord Arryn harbor treasonous thoughts?"
The old Maester did look more eager to please this knight in front of them then the Lord he was sworn to serve.
"No, it is not", Lonmouth gifted the rat a tight smile, "but it is possible. Lord Stark has left the capital in much confusion when he left, and the lords and ladies are divided in their opinion of him."
"What is your opinion of Rickard Stark, Ser Richard?"
His father almost sounded lethargic as he spoke.
"He is either exceedingly smart or a remarkable fool", Richard Lonmouth said after a second, "but whichever proves true, he can call on a large army and the North is difficult to assault."
"Lord Borrell, all you will be promising are securities for a war that might not yet happen, against an enemy that might not be an enemy. The investment for Breakwater will come regardless, and honors await if the wolves and falcons prove treacherous. There is little chance for you to lose, especially once a part of the royal fleet is stationed here."
His father seemed to ponder the decision for a second after his Maester spoke before replying.
"Ser Richard, I require a copy of the contract we will write witnessed by both my Maester and my son and I want the Sisters to become their own constituent region under the Iron Throne in case war with the North and the Vale erupts. Returning to the fold of either region would chafe after what they will see as a betrayal. Breakwater will afterwards become the seat of the Lord of Sweetsister and Overlord of the Sisters. Do your powers extend to promise such change?"
"They do, Lord Borrell. I have a prefilled contract prepared for you to write your conditions into. I intend to leave with the evening tide after, King's Landing will send funds as soon as I return with the letter."
The Maester seemed more respectful of his father than Godric had ever seen him as the four of them put their names to the paper twice. After, Lord Borrell spoke to send the prince's former squire off.
"Ser Lonmouth. You will leave as unseen as you arrived, I trust?"
"At the once, my lord. I will return with the fleet as soon as I can."
"The Night Lamp will guide your way safely."
The man nodded towards Godric one last time before pulled his hood up until it obscured his bright smile. As he left the keep, the Maester retreated up to his quarters. Godric did probably not quite understand, he had to admit to himself, the significance of the recent talks just yet. Good for him that his father invited him to his private quarters.
They stepped through the dilapidated parts of the keep into the cellars carved into the rocks underneath, dry and comfortable under a false bottom of the northern tower. The Maester did not know how to reach this place.
A comfortable fire bloomed in the hearth as his father turned towards him, his face stern as usual but with a distinct measure of uncertainty. He did not look like this back in the great hall. Here, surrounded by their share of the main trade of the Sisters, from furs to golden artworks, his father spoke to him true.
"My smugglers have noticed Lonmouth the moment he disembarked, Godric. They have also noticed little birds flitting around all of Sisterton today."
Godric stopped short as he made to sit on an opulent couch lined with velveteen. The Spider. King's Landing did not bother with Sisterton much; the Night Lamp was lit often enough to deter too much displeasure. Still, the attention was disquieting.
"Father, that will only increase when the fleet makes Sweetsister a permanent base. Whoever wins, they'll not leave."
Godric had realized that early. He understood the position of the Sisters. House Borrell would rise in importance, but the smugglers of Sisterton would dwindle and disappear and the Masters of Breakwater Keep would lose a lot of money.
"Son, you do not understand. The birds will also see Lonmouth leave, quite happy at that. The Night Lamp will shine bright tonight but I need you to make sure that every trusted fake lamp on Littlesister and Longsister shine their light also, along with a good score here on Sweetsister. Take the docks beneath our castle to leave, best before the honorable knight himself does."
The docks of Breakwater. Godric knew them, but they had never been in use to his memory. Hidden from all views, no one would see him leave Sweetsister. However, the Keeper of the Night Lamp had just promised the throne's emissary that the beacon would be lit tonight. There was more to come, so Godric asked.
"Father, what do you need of me?"
"Take three trusted ships, sink Lonmouth out of sight of the coast tonight. No looting, no survivors. Then you make for White Harbor and get to Lord Stark with our copy of the contract."
His father's voice was grave. Godric shivered at his orders. He'd be a traitor, no matter whether the wolves and falcons rose up. He looked at his father, and suddenly saw him an old man.
"Why, father?"
"We have reached the top of the ladder, as far as it goes here on the Sisters. The fishing and the smuggling keeps us fed better than a fleet and the dragon's gold ever could. Sure, Sunderland has claim over us, but that house of bumbling fools can truly only lay claim to their supremacy in name. You yourself saw who the throne turned to, who they remembered of the Sisters once it became necessary."
His father almost seemed angry now, and Godric had never seen Grendl Borrell angry before.
"No, son, either we will remain as we were now that our answer won't reach the king or the Starks will promise us Sunderland's position for our inaction if they rebel. We will just be disappointed that the royal fleet and the royal gold never makes it here, but who's to know what happens in the seas of the Bite?"
Godric smiled at that. He left soon after, and that night another few skulls fed the fishes in the Bite, as they had since time immemorial. Afterwards, the heir of Breakwater turned his ship for White Harbor.
The morning after Richard Lonmouth died at sea a raven left Breakwater Castle for the citadel. The old Maester had died falling down the wet stairs in the rainy night.
The days since they had left the Whisping Woods had mostly left Victarion confused. Since they had left the Whispering Woods. That. Oh, there'd been plenty of amusement here and there. Still, he was a soldier and all this talk of politics left him only wishing to be out at sea again. The first talks between his father, Rickard Stark and Jon Arryn had left him decidedly disinterested, but Balon had been raging for four hours after. The man had not even come with them to the Wedding That Never Was, as some had come to call it; Quellon Greyjoy had confined his eldest son to his quarters like a petulant child.
Victarion could remember it like it was yesterday. Well, it was yesterday, but the scene had branded itself into Victarion's eyes, he would always remember it like it was yesterday. Or rather, like it would be yesterday when he remembered. No, the day before. Like it would be the day before the day he remembered. Fucking Greenlanders and their fucking flowery language. Victarion knew his problem with words well enough, he knew he was better off silent. He'd probably get along well with the new Stark heir, he was a silent type as well, wasn't he? Ned Stark would understand his struggle with words.
Maybe they should bond over a few whores, no better way for hard men like them. He respected the Northerners, they'd seemed more grounded then the other flowery fucks around. How did any house with a trout on their shield ever make lord paramount? Victarion was sure only the Reachmen were bigger cunts, flowery… er fucks. Yes, floweryer fucks. Roses, couldn't get worse than that.
Right, hardy Northmen. Rickard Stark had ripped Hoster Tully a new one that day, that was fun. After all, even father had been laughing, and father was smart. He knew what good fun was. But then, Victarion had become a little wary of the Stark's, too.
"I think I like the Starks."
Drowned god, had Victarion become wary when Euron muttered those words beside him with a tiny smile. There had been something that Victarion thought was admiration in his eyes, along with the usual hunger. Any person that Euron liked, or could smile with honestly, was someone to be wary of. Still, he had not expected his father's announcement when he had returned from the Stark camp. None of the brothers had. But Euron was silently following like always, even while speaking the opposite to Balon.
That was the advantage of silent types like him, they usually listened better. He wondered what juicy secrets Ned Stark knew of the Eyrie for a second. He was the foster brother of Robert fucking Baratheon after all, the whorelord of the Eyrie. No, Storm's End. No, warlord. The whoring warlord of the Eyrie. Storm's End. Or was it whoring warring lord? Whoring warrior lord? Something like that, a man that liked fighting and fucking, just like Victarion. Probably a silent type, too, wordy people were usually flowery fucks. And the man was after all known for his friendship with the quiet wolf, whose whole title screamed not a man of fucking flowery words.
Balon had turned very wordy when Victarion had finished telling of yesterday's negotions with Rickard Stark. Negotiations. That. He'd just been released from his quarters, but then sent back right after his freshest rant, this time without dinner. Should have stayed silent, the idiot. Smart like Victarion.
After that episode, father had turned decidedly morse though. Moose. Morose. That. Just sitting there, sighing. Even Euron was silent. That made Victarion wary, though. The only time Victarion was more wary of Euron then when he was silent, was when he wasn't. It was always better to be wary of Euron. The silence stopped after a second, his father did not look morose anymore. No, he was terminated. Termined. Determined. That. He was determined as he spoke.
"Dagmer. Bring my eldest son down again. Take a page out of Rickard Stark's book, if he speaks when he shouldn't, or starts growing loud, slap him. No, punch him. The numbskull won't get it anyway else. I'll be giving him what he wants."
Dagmer followed the order silently. He was a good man. A hard man. The man had introduced him to whoring, a good man. Ugly fuck though. Split lip looked like shit. Probably the reason he only went to whores. He came down with Balon a minute after. His older brother had a red fist print on his face. Imprint. Fist imprint. Probably had given lip to split lip. Heh. Victarion almost had to chuckle, but he stayed silent as his father spoke while his brother scaled at him. Scowled. That.
"Balon, I am not bringing the Old Way back. It's beyond foolish when we are adjacent to realms that are stronger, can replenish faster and collectively hate us. However, I am giving you the chance to prove me wrong. I am giving you leave to establish a kingdom of your own in the Stepstones build on the Old Way. Pay for it with the iron price. Show me you can be more than a king of ashes and broken hulls."
Quellon sneered at his eldest son, then.
"Take all the men that will follow you, here from our camp and from all the Iron Islands. But know this. If you take this chance, you will either have to take the Iron Islands from me by the iron price you prize so highly or you will have to convince my subjects to follow you after I have died because you were able to prove to them the Old Way is not yet dead."
His father looked down on Balon, from where Quellon sat to where Balon stood, and his eyes were the storm and the waves and the deep.
"After you leave, I will publicly disavow the actions you take as your own, and if on your way to the Stepstones you reave on the Westerlands, the Reach and Dorne, I will hunt you down with the rest of the fleet you couldn't convince to follow you. Have I made myself clear, Balon?"
His eldest brother laughed then, deep and hollow and booming. Euron smiled. Balon spat as his father's feet, then turned to him to talk haltingly. Haughtily. That.
"What fleet will you chase me with, when all the captains follow me to take the world by the iron price? Your men cry out for a return to the Old Way, and you are too old and decrepit to hear it. First I will carve me mine own kingdom, then I will carve myself your kingdom, too."
Wait. Did he just? Victarion was pretty sure you did not say it like that. And what was deprecit. Decrepit? His brother turned towards him and Euron.
"Brothers. Are you with me? Let's make our own kingdom, away from this feeble old man! What say you, Dagmer?"
Victarion was silent. Euron spoke first.
"Are you taking your children, Balon?"
"Rodrik and Maron. Gods, they are 14 and 13. By that time I had my first salt wife from the Reach, and those two haven't gone on a single reaving. Don't want the girl running around on my ship at six and Theon's a toddler. Alannys'll tell right about me, they'll come when they're ready. What's your answer?"
"I'll keep the Seastone Chair ready for you, brother. Raise Theon with your wife. I'll take care of 'em, but you know how it is. Maybe I'll follow you in a few months when father's plan starts to bore me. You know me."
There was a sardine smile to Euron's eyes as he spoke that had Victarion wary. Sardone. Sardonic. That. How would Euron take care of his brother's wife. His eldest brother turned to him expectant, and all Victarion could do was shrug.
"You know me, Bal. I'm a soldier. I follow family. I follow the Lord Reaver of Pyke. When you're that, I'll follow you. For now, I'll be staying with father."
Balon sneered at that. He could be a fucking cunt.
"Fucking cunt."
Did his brother really say that to him out loud? Fucking cunt.
Balon turned to Dagmer then, who outright laughed in his face.
"I'm a king on my ship, boy. On land, I'll follow the Lord Reaper of Pyke. I'm like your brother, I'm a soldier. So I'll stay. Are you going to call me fucking cunt, too?"
He smiled with his ugly split lip, and Balon didn't call him anything as he strode out. The fucking cunt. Heh.
His father's post slackened where he sat. Posture. That. He looked defeated as he addressed Euron and Victarion.
"Euron. You heard him, consider yourself heir presumptive until Theon comes of age. Your older brother is a fucking idiot. Still, I did not like sending the lackwit to his death. You see that, don't you?"
"Aye, father."
"You're not going to reestablish the Old Way like some incompetent imbecile, are you, Euron?"
"You know, pops, I like reaving. I know why you don't like it; it doesn't work for a whole people. Still, a single reaver has the world open before him. I'll try being a lord for some time, but just as likely I'll just leave someday and never look back."
"By the storm god, why did you have to be the intelligent one…"
His father only muttered the words, but Victarion heard them as he was silent. Louder, the Lord Reaper of Pyke spoke on.
"Fuck it, I'll mold Theon into something workable. Worst case I'll make the Reader regent. Until then, you'll have to do Euron."
Balon left the next morning. Out of the delegation of 16 lords that had come with Quellon, none followed him. He took some second sons, a few poached green boys from other crews and the odd lone captain that could not afford a good whore and missed the time he could just steal himself a saltwife. Altogether, Balon could probably man 6 long boats with skeleton crews. That would make for poor reaving, as you had to leave boats behind as soon as a few men died. The whole delegation had come in 39 long boats. Euron smiled when he heard the news.
Later in the day, his father took Euron and Victarion along with his main bannermen from seven islands along to the Stark camp, flying the golden kraken on red. The place was busy when the Ironborn arrived, but they had been expected and quickly they were led through to the main tent. Inside the Lord of Winterfell was expecting them, along with his heir and the two Arryns. The Lannister soldier that had fought the Blackfish was in attendance, too, as were a bountiful woman of middling age and the most beautiful woman Victarion had ever laid his eyes on. She looked rashing. Ravishing. That.
Some of the lord's walked up to Rickard Stark with his father, and Euron joined in with them. Victarion was not really interested in group talks, they were always a primary for what was actually important. Preminary. Preliminary. That.
No, Victarion stepped up to the Quiet Wolf, and found himself regarded by silent iron eyes. For a minute neither spoke, but Victarion felt himself and saw the man across from him relax. This felt right.
"Hello."
"Aye, hello."
"Victarion."
"Eddard."
"Call me Vic."
"Ned."
Drowned god, this man understood him.
"Want to go whoring?"
He was met with silence for a second, before Edd- Ned spoke again.
"I am going to be married soon."
Oh.
"Oh… Last chance."
Eddard Stark gave him a smile, but it did not make Victarion wary. It was kind.
"Vic, you remind me of my best friend, somehow. Robert. I think you'll like him. He will be arriving in a few days, and in three days we are throwing a big feast to celebrate my betrothal. I'll introduce you."
Victarion knew it. Robert Baratheon was just like him, a hard silent man that liked fighting and fucking. Ned really got him. It felt like an instant connection.
"So we'll go whoring the three of us, Ned?"
"No, Vic, I am going to be marrying her. I don't want any other."
Ned pointed behind him, and as Victarion turned he saw that Ned had pointed at the rashing woman he'd noticed earlier. The ravishing woman. Wow. He noticed her looking at them with smiling purple eyes, and Victarion noticed he'd raised his right hand and waved to her. She waved back and seemed to be hiding a grin behind a raised hand. He looked back to Ned, and he could not stay silent suddenly.
"Wow."
"I know."
"Wow."
"I know."
Saying it once was not enough.
"You won, friend. You won."
"Thanks, Vic."
They stayed silent after that. Everything that needed to be said between them had been said. Victarion did not exactly know how he felt, but he was somehow some way of content. It was nice.
"Enough!" Victarion heard his father's voice silence the other Ironborn lords. "We have been in talks about this for three days, and decided to cast our hat in with the Stark's more than two weeks ago at Nagga's Hill. King Rickard, when can we start sending settlers from Harlaw and Pyke to the Stony Shore?"
"In four months. I need to call the Ryswells to heel first. I will welcome the first group personally."
"Then", Quellon Greyjoy, the Lord Reaper of Pyke, the Lord of the Iron Islands, said, "you have my allegiance, the allegiance of House Greyjoy and the allegiance of all the Houses sworn to me in the Iron Island. Drowned god, if this is what it takes to pull my people out of the pit they have fallen back into since the Grey King was swallowed by the waves, I will strap them all to my back and drag them up the ladder you have thrown me. My King."
"Kneel, Quellon Greyjoy, and say your oath."
Rickard Stark spoke the command softly, and yet his voice was more commanding then Victarion's father's when he had not a minute before cowed his lords. Quellon Greyjoy knelt. Behind him, all his lords followed suit, as did Euron and Victarion after a second.
"To Winterfell I pledge the faith of Pyke." Victarion said, his voice a promise in itself. "Hearth and heart and harvest I yield up to you, my king. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to my weak, help to my helpless, and justice to all, and I shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire. Rock King."
""ROCK KING!""
Victarion spoke the echo with all who knelt, and he felt himself tremble as King Rickard Stark answered the ancient pledge of the North and the Kingsmoot. He felt himself tremble at something greater.
"Rise, Quellon Greyjoy, Salt King of the Iron Islands and High Admiral of the Iron Fleet of the Kingdom of Winter."
Notes:
Wooo, second part of the double chapter done.
I know, the quote is from the TV series, but I told you I cheated with this one.
Also, once upon a time, the HBO series was good...
Also, while writing I realised:
THERE CAN NEVER BE TOO MANY FACTIONS IN A WAR!
(*cough* in a fictional story *cough*)
What I intended to write bloated a lot on paper, so I had to reshuffle some points in the order that I told them, but!
To keep the chapter roughly equal in length and with a same amount of POVs, things had to change.
Conclusion: The big set up will continue for two more chapters!
The next chapter will only be one POV, however, it proved too massive to include with in this chapter.
It also involves two key moments people have already asked for:
Robert will enter the stage and we will hear Brandon's confession (#shameless self-promotion)
Also, it's already half done.
After that there'll be another multi-POV chappie, tying up the pit/ladder sub arc that is to span these four chapters.
The next two chapters will still take some time, as pesky real life interferes and I have pledged to update Wandering Wolves by 17th November (#shameless self-promotion 2)
Stay tuned, and comment.
Review responses
Topone: Thanks. That's high praise. It's true though, for a story titled idiots, lackwits and imbeciles, my story is decidedly lacking in all three. It just developed this way. As for Brandon, his story is one of the few I have a more complete picture of where it is headed. I have not so far said he'll be given land, only confirmed that if it ever comes to be it will not be during Rickard's reign. And as much as I intend to kill off a few characters a la GRRM, war has not started yet and Rickard's arc is not at halfway point yet. He's still half my premise. What I truly think of the way the Starks are portrayed is that for them, the wall is and honorable post, not meant to be a punishment, as for much of the North. I would solve potential problems sending Brandon there, yes, but it would cause new ones in their demesne, their standing which draws heavily from tradition still and rifts in their pack. So, for the foreseeable future, Brandon is not send north. Also, remember he's pledged to make his way south to Starfall repeating his confession to all who care to listen and everyone else besides.
Death Lantern (both comments): Well, many romanticize Rhaegar because he's dead, alive Robert is more pig than stag, and the standard of romance is still Romeo and Juliet. If you ever take a look at their actual story, it's actually rather disturbing than romantic. But yes, I agree with you mostly on his failings (though I do have to mention, I recently learned the word ephebophiliac which describes adults with a sexual orientation geared towards adolescents 15-19 and hebephiliac 11-14, which are just perfect for Rhaegar and Humbert Humbert. I digress). As to the other comment. You're right, corrected that mistake. Of course Olenna is Mace's mother.
Limited Imiganition: The stakes can never be high enough, and there can never be too many factions! Glad you like it. Also, while there is fighting with guile and wit, swords will come out.
ChibakuNaruto: Thanks
Avalon Lord: Thanks. Wandering Wolves will be updated by 17th November at the latest, I pledged with another fic writer to update it. Glad to see another Ned fan
InfinityMask: Glad you like it. There can never be too many factions. As for the Tarth's, I would not classify them as weak, nor would I strictly say that of any faction yet. Selwyn has a point in his favor that he's binding a powerful ally, the Baratheons are away and he has both the sea access and short distance to the capital. He's not saying he'll turn to the faction that wins the Iron Throne, only to the faction that wins. Quite a difference. His mercenaryish disposition leaves him with an advantage that factions with a true stake don't have. As for how it'll work out for him, well. No spoilers. Also, the lords paramount know that while for them, there can be too many factions, their own armies cannot be too big. For Brynden, we do not know why he never married in canon. I just ran with it; tragic love always works. A sob story that is plausible enough leaves me without crafting more elaborate thing or inventing an OC for him. Plus, the lady is dead, loose end tied, wooohoooo. Hoster does not have the chance to take Lyanna hostage, she's being escorted North and he needs to be in position near the Reach before shit hits the fan. He cannot start a war with the North now, and I doubt his bannermen would aid him after Rickard's performance in Riverrun. Cards are all around, I am already giddy for what'll be laid bare in Chapter 18.
ashenerden: Thanks. There can never be too many factions.
EternalKnight219: Thanks
snixxjuice214: Thanks. Just like with factions, there can never be too much (interesting) foreshadowing
magnus374: I see, a connoisseur of factions. Thanks,
Artemis0406: I love my first chapter, even if this story developed entirely different from what I set out to write. Few idiots, lackwits and imbeciles around. Most people are at least averagely competent, just opposed to each other. But then there's Victarion this new chapter, who was just a joy to write in the old spirit again.
Nagato21: There's a lot of stories where gunpowder makes an appearance. Maybe somewhere in Yi Ti, but it just would not spread fast enough to arm troops… Rockets would probably the only thing that could be implemented. Ironborn situation is up with the new chappy, and I would mistake neither Hoster nor the Florents for pawns. One has just been backed into the corner and the other has their eyes set on a prize. Just because it is lesser than the big prize does not mean it is less worthy to strive for. And if the Florells win early, they take the board. As long as they are established, plans that really on a chaotic Reach become untenable, and people would have to get creative. Or if the Reach simply cuts off contact and consolidates instead of caring for King's Landing. They might not be in the drivno spoilers hower's seat, but being the bus itself has advantages. They're still the breadbasket of everywhere. No spoilers though, continue to enjoy.
NightlyRowenTree: Thanks
Greatazuredragon (2 comments): Thanks on both
Guest: Glad you enjoy my Rickard. Old Ned, while lacking in cunning in canon, did keep me coming back for his integrity. Keep that, make him a little more politicky and voila. The Great Ned appears. Hope you like the new update.
WhiteDragonWarrior (6 comments): Glad you found this story and that you enjoy it. To address your only semi-question, Syrio is an observer on behalf of the Sealord of Braavos. While he is not a player himself, he is an avid observer in service of the preeminent political and military figure of the foremost naval power in all of eastern Essos (excluding Qarth, maybe). He helped in this POV to introduce plot points as a literary device. Will he return in a role of relevance? Maybe, maybe not. No spoilers. Continue to enjoy.
xiongmao03: Glad you like it. Hope the new chappy doesn't disappoint.
chm01: Things cannot escalate too quickly and there can never be too many factions!