Copyright Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 44: Wayward Sons
"Justice; maybe bloody, but swift…"
- Prince Willam Stark
The trial was to be had in the throne room, where King Joffrey had died. Ser Addam Marbrand marched the accused through the towering bronze doors and down the long carpet as all eyes fell upon him. Hundreds had crowded in to see Tyrion Lannister be judged. At least Suko assumed that was why they'd come. For all he know, they were all witnesses against the dwarf. Queen Margaery was up in the gallery, pale and beautiful in her mourning; twice wed and twice widowed at only sixteen. Her mother stood tall to one side of her, her grandmother small on the other, with her ladies in waiting and her father's household knights packing the rest of the gallery.
Perfumes of lords and ladies tickled annoyingly at Suko's nose: lavender and orange oil. Away from courts, shit had the decency to stink…
The dais still stood beneath the empty Iron Throne, though all but one table had been removed. Behind it sat stout Lord Mace Tyrell in a gold mantle over green, and slender Prince Oberyn Martell in flowing robes of striped-orange, yellow, and scarlet. Lord Tywin Lannister sat between them.
The Dornishman and the Highgardener despised each other. It hadn't taken a genius to learn that much.
Oberyn had crippled the fat flowers son in some tourney, though the Viper swore it was an accident and claimed Willas Tyrell as a good friend of his.
The High Septon began with a prayer, asking the Father Above to guide them to justice.
When he was done the dwarf's father below leaned forward to say, "Tyrion, did you kill King Joffrey?"
To the little lion's credit, he did not waste a heartbeat. "No."
"Well, that's a relief," said Oberyn Martell dryly.
"Who did do it, then?" Lord Tyrell demanded of him.
"The gods killed Joffrey. He choked on his pigeon pie."
Lord Tyrell reddened. "You would blame the bakers?"
"Them, or the pigeons. Just leave me out of it."
The court filled with nervous laughter at that.
"There are witnesses against you," Lord Tywin said. "We shall hear them first. Then you may present your own witnesses. You are to speak only with our leave."
There was naught that Tyrion Lannister could do but nod in response. Suko watched from his side of the hall as if he were watching a play unfold. In a manner, he was.
Ser Addam stood guard as the first man was ushered in. Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard. "Lord Hand," he began, after the High Septon had sworn him to speak only truth, "I had the misfortune to see the accused during the Blackwater. I name him a craven, for he tried to flee when the usurper's forces arrived!"
A murmur of surprise went through the hall as Ser Meryn gave his account, and Tyrion's faced looked wholly confused by the accusation.
Ser Trant went on to speak of how he had pulled Tyrion away from Joffrey on the day of the riot.
"He struck His Grace unprovoked," the Knight vowed. "I believe – Lord Hand – that he sought to rile up the mob against us!"
"In the days of the Targaryens, a man who struck one of royal blood would lose the hand he struck him with," observed the Red Viper of Dorne.
Tyrion Lannister was for all his ugliness not in fact missing a hand.
"Did the dwarf regrow his little hand, or did you White Swords forget your duty?"
"He was of the royal blood himself," Ser Balon answered. "And the King's Hand besides…"
"No," Lord Tywin said. "He was acting Hand, in my stead."
"He knocked the king to the ground and began kicking him, Lord Hand." Ser Meryn Trant was pleased to expand on the account in greater detail for the court and its judges. "He shouted that it was unjust that His Grace had escaped unharmed from the mobs, truly a vile creature; wishing such upon his own nephew…"
Suko grasped Cersei Lannister's ploy easily enough – as doubtless did anyone with a brain – every witness would no doubt continue to pile on stories.
Ser Blount himself came next, to echo more sorry tales. The knight was without his sword-hand and without a white cloak since Cersei had dismissed him…
He said the words she wanted all the same, despite whatever bitterness he held against Cersei for dismissing him from the Kingsguard.
Tyrion Lannister could no longer hold his tongue. "Tell the judges what Joffrey was saying at the time, why don't you?"
The big jowly man glared at him. "I'll tell them the truth, dwarf; how you struck the noblest King this realm had ever known!"
"Tyrion," Lord Tywin said. "You are to speak only when we call upon you. Take this for a warning."
Tyrion subsided, seething, while Suko watched with interest from his side of the hall.
The Kettleblacks came next, all three of them in turn.
Osney and Osfryd told the tale of his supper with Cersei before the Battle of the Blackwater, and of threats he'd made…
"He told Her Grace that he meant to do her harm," said Ser Osfryd. "To hurt her."
His brother Osney elaborated. "He said he would wait for a day when she was happy, and make her joy turn to ashes in her mouth."
Ser Osmund Kettleblack, a vision of chivalry in immaculate scale armour and white wool cloak, swore that King Joffrey had long known that his uncle Tyrion meant to murder him. "It was the day they gave me the white cloak, my lords," he told the judges with a forlorn look for show.
"That brave boy said to me, 'Good Ser Osmund, guard me well, for my uncle loves me not. He means to be king in my place.' "
That was more than Tyrion could stomach.
"Liar!" He took two steps forward before the gold cloaks dragged him back.
Lord Tywin frowned. "Must we have you chained hand and foot like a common brigand?"
Tyrion gnashed his teeth. "No. I beg your pardons, my lords. His lies angered me..."
"His truths, you mean," said Cersei. "Father, I beg you to put him in fetters, for your own protection. You see how he is!"
"I see he's a dwarf," said Prince Oberyn. "The day I fear a dwarf's wrath is the day I drown myself in a cask of red…"
"We need no fetters." Lord Tywin glanced at the windows and rose. "The hour grows late. We shall resume on the morrow."
Maesters Ballabar and Frenken opened the second day of trial. They had opened King Joffrey's noble corpse as well, they swore, and found no morsel of pigeon pie nor any other food lodged in the royal throat. "It was poison that killed him, my lords," said Ballabar, as Frenken nodded gravely.
Then they brought forth Grand Maester Pycelle, leaning heavily on a twisted cane and shaking as he walked, a few white hairs sprouting from his long chicken's neck. He had grown too frail to stand, so the judges permitted a chair to be brought in for him, and a table as well. On the table were laid a number of small jars for him to name.
"Greycap," he said in a quivery voice, "from the toadstool. Nightshade, sweetsleep, demon's dance. This is blindeye. Widow's blood, this one is called, for the colour. A cruel potion. It shuts down a man's bladder and bowels, until he drowns in his own poisons. This wolfsbane, here basilisk venom, and this one the tears of Lys. Yes. I know them all. The Imp Tyrion Lannister stole them from my chambers when he had me falsely imprisoned…"
"Pycelle," Tyrion called out, risking his father's wrath, "could any of these poisons choke off a man's breath?"
"No. For that, you must turn to a rarer poison. When I was a boy at the Citadel, my teachers named it simply the strangler."
"But this rare poison was not found, was it?"
"No, my lord." Pycelle blinked at him. "You used it all to kill the noblest child the gods ever put on this good earth."
Tyrion's anger overwhelmed his sense. "Joffrey was cruel and stupid, but I did not kill him. Have my head off if you like, I had no hand in my nephew's death."
"Silence!" Lord Tywin said. "I have told you thrice. The next time, you shall be gagged and chained."
After Pycelle came the procession, endless and wearisome. Lords and ladies and noble knights, highborn and humble alike, they had all been present at the wedding feast, had all seen King Joffrey choke, his face turning as black as a Dornish plum. Lord Redwyne, Lord Celtigar, and Ser Flement Brax had heard Tyrion threaten the king; two serving men, a juggler, Lord Gyles, Ser Hobber Redwyne, and Ser Philip Foote had observed him fill the wedding chalice; Lady Merryweather swore that she had seen the dwarf drop something into the king's wine while Joffrey and Margaery were cutting the pie; old Estermont, young Peckledon, the singer Galyeon of Cuy, and the squires Morros and Jothos Slynt told how Tyrion had picked up the chalice as Joffrey was dying and poured out the last of the poisoned wine onto the floor.
The mummery was so laughably amusing that Suko struggled to not burst out laughing throughout it all.
"Lord Varys," the herald said then, "Master of Whisperers."
Powdered, primped, and smelling of rosewater, the Spider rubbed his hands one over the other all the time he spoke. Suko listened to the eunuch's mournful account of how the Imp had schemed to part Joffrey from the Hound's protection and spoken with Bronn of the benefits of having Tommen as king.
Half-truths were worth more than outright lies. And unlike the others, Varys had documents; parchments painstakingly filled with notes, details, dates, whole conversations. So much material that its recitation took all day, and so much of it damning. Varys confirmed Tyrion's midnight visit to Grand Maester Pycelle's chambers and the theft of his poisons and potions, confirmed the threat he'd made to Cersei the night of their supper, confirmed every bloody thing but the poisoning itself.
Prince Oberyn asked him how he could possibly know all this, having not been present at any of these events, the eunuch only giggled in reply.
"My little birds told me," he was smiling a thin smile. "Knowing is their purpose, and mine..."
How does one question a little bird? As if anyone here seemed to care what the truth actually was.
Suko wondered who truly performed the deed, having put a great deal of time into the thought. The boy was not loved and had too many enemies to count.
Poison was a woman's weapon – said the andals – fools that they were; but it held some merit here among these knights with their hollow chivalry who no doubt believed themselves above such tactics. Oberyn Martell would laugh at them for the sentiment no doubt… as would Suko… or anyone that had ever lived at court…
"Have we heard it all?" Lord Tywin asked his daughter as Varys left the hall.
"Almost," said Cersei. "I have two more witnesses, with the last for the morrow."
"As you wish," Lord Tywin said, looking half bored with the whole charade.
Suko swallowed his urge to burst into laugher as he took a step forward with a charming smile.
"Prince Suko Loong," the herald named him as he stepped in front of the judges.
"Lóng," he corrected the man's pronunciation oh so helpfully.
Oberyn was smirking at him for the correction.
"Speak," Lord Tywin told him.
"Lord Hand," he bowed respectfully.
The Mummers Farce was almost at its ending.
"My name is Suko Lóng for those of you fair lords and ladies that do not know me," Suko shot smiles at the crowd only briefly, catching a glare from Tyrion Lannister in the process. "I hail from the far reaches of the east, further east than even the lands that your noble folk know as Yi Ti!"
The crowed muttered their surprises at that. Half of them no doubt barely knew that Yi Ti even was…
"You rode with the Starks," Lord Tywin countered, his emerald eyes judging as the crowd hushed.
"I rode with Prince Willam Stark," Suko admitted, all smiles and honey. "This is true, Lord Hand, we were misled to march against this fair city of yours by the Prince's distant kin – but that I believe is precisely the reason your son reached out to me; I fear – he wrongly believed my friends and I to be murderers…"
Cersei was trying and failing to hide the smirk on her lips as he spoke.
"My son spoke to you?"
"Oh yes," Suko hummed, raising his voice somewhat. "He snuck into my chambers under the cover of night and-"
"LAIR!" Tyrion snapped in anger.
"Silence," Lord Tywin hissed at his son.
"Dwarves are cunning creatures where I hail from Lord Hand, full of bile and trickery…"
That much was nonsense, but the Westerosi ate it up.
"What did you speak of with my son Prince Lóng?"
Suko's smile didn't falter under the lion's steely gaze.
"Lord Tyrion invited me to leave the city with him…"
"Is that so," Lord Tywin was frowning deeply. "Why?"
"He was adamant and believed I too would wish to leave, but refused to say why…"
"And why would he need to flee," Cersei asked him. "Why would you wish to join him?"
If Tywin meant to stop his daughter asking, he'd made no effort to scold her at all.
"I do not know, Your Grace; in the Empire we do not trust creatures such as him…"
"He meant to poison the king and flee!" Lord Tyrell barked out loud like a dog finding a bone.
His outburst hadn't been part of the plan but… well… trust a fool to act the part...
The crowd erupted into whispers and curses thrown the dwarfs way.
"I could not say," Suko summoned his best frown. "I refused him, of course, what reason have I to leave this fair city?"
"Oh truly, it's a wonder to behold," Oberyn rolled his eyes at that.
"Why did you not report this," Lord Tywin was scowling at him.
"I thought nothing of it I confess, the dwarf is a known drunkard Lord Hand." Suko made a show of cowering slightly under the man's gaze before he continued. "I dismissed it as the ramblings of a drunk angry creature and returned to my bed. Perhaps if I had known that-"
"My brother is a known drunk," Cersei offered helpfully. "You couldn't have known…"
"Very well," Lord Tyrell hummed his agreement.
Tyrion Lannister had long since hung his head in defeat.
Oberyn's eyes shun like a man who could see right through the nonsense, but he said nothing.
"If that's all," Lord Tywin dismissed Suko and the court for the day with a wave of his uncaring hand.
Suko had been smiling so much these last days that his damn cheeks hurt. Willam had better be grateful.
In the doorway stood a woman with golden sunlit hair, even here in the darkness of his cell…
A gaoler thrust a jug at him. He grasped it with both hands and gulped eagerly, water running from his mouth and dripping down through his unkept beard.
"How long?" he asked weakly when he could drink no more.
"A week," the woman answered him, her voice strained and uncaring for him.
"Cersei Lannister," Willam had been expecting her, and he smiled a charming grin. "I admit, not who I was expecting…"
The woman eyed him, looking the man up and down in the torchlight from one of her redcloaks.
"I had not thought to be here," she muttered eventually.
She didn't look as he remembered. Her eyes burnt with fury rather than pride.
"I know that look," He did not lie before asking the question, knowing its answer. "Who's dead?"
The lioness glared at him harshly.
"My son," she answered. "Murdered."
Willam thought to mock her, to crack some jest; but knew it was a thought born of madness.
"My condolences," he opted instead, getting up to his feet as a sharp pain stabbed in his leg. "I'd offer you a seat but…"
"I did not come here for a seat," she growled at him like a lioness.
"No," Willam knew exactly why she was here. "Who killed the boy, Your Grace?"
The woman's eyes burnt with a hunger that he knew. A fury meant to mask a great pain.
"Tyrion Lannister," she spoke the name with malice.
The dwarf killed his own nephew, huh? Varys hadn't mentioned that. It made the look of surprise on his face all the more believable.
"Kinslaying," Willam said after a moment, squinting his eyes to adjusting to the light. "Whatever our differences; that is… a foul thing…"
Something else sparked in her emerald orbs behind the hate and the pain. A low cunning, like she'd gotten something she desired.
"The monster is on trial," she told him, taking a step inside his cell and trying to ignore the stench.
"May the gods judge him justly," Willam offered easily enough.
A statement that could mean anything, in truth, justice was a matter of perspective.
"I don't care about the fucking gods," Cersei snapped at him. "I want him to pay!"
Hear Me Roar. Willam tried not to smile at the thought, keeping his face a stoic stony mask.
"Why are you here, Your Grace?"
"Prince Suko speaks often of you…"
"He does," Willam hummed at that.
"Often," she nodded in reply. "He suggested we speak…"
"A wise man," Willam told her, allowing a smile for his friend. "He gets it from his father…"
"Emperor Ving," Cersei laid out what she no doubt thought to be a cunning trap for him to step in.
"Qing," he corrected her. "Imperial names are a hassle, I'll admit – but don't tell Suko that. Our little secret, yes?"
The corner of her lips twitched a little at that. This woman wasn't nearly as good a trickster as she seemed to believe.
"What would you have of me then, Your Grace?"
"So forthcoming," Cersei narrowed her eyes. "House Lannister is your enemy. Why so eager to discard your honor, Stark?"
It was an easy thing to discard something you cared so little about.
Loyalty and Honor weren't two sides of the same coin.
"Do you remember what I said of the Frosts?"
"What of it?" Cersei said after a moment, barely recalling the story he'd told King Robert once upon a time at Winterfell.
"War isn't honourable Your Grace," he told her plainly. "My father taught me that much, when he drowned that boy in a barrel of blood, but the rest I learned with time; that there's a time and place for such things. You ask why I'd discard my honor? I can only say that it's difficult to discard something I lost many years ago…"
The best lies held some semblance of truth to sweeten the sound, he'd found; if only a little. Words were wind and this was a dance he knew too well.
Lóng was born and raised in a den of snakes back home that made King's Landing look like a peaceful walk in the Godswood by comparison. Cersei was an arrogant fool of a woman – this much was clearer by the second – though she was a fool with power who thought herself smart. That was by far the most dangerous type of fool.
The question was, what exactly was the plan? How best to play along? Suko had managed to get her here… on the eve of her brother's trial…
"Your friend Prince Suko suggested the same," she blinked, plastering her face with a fake smile that was terribly done.
"Wise man as I've said," Willam smiled back at her, his far more genuine than her own; for he found her confidence wholly amusing.
That was the trick to faking a smile. You had to think of something terribly funny, thus the words "you stupid Lannister whore" ran through Willam's skull.
"Tyrion must pay for his crimes," she continued, taking a step closer to him; just within his reach if he was so inclined.
He could wrap his chains around her neck in this moment. One sharp SNAP would be enough… but that was the madness talking…
"Kinslaying is a crime against the gods both old and new," Willam agreed with her easily, for it wasn't a lie at all.
"We agree then," her smile was honey sweet. "He is guilty…"
"Guilty as sin Your Grace," Willam promised with his most innocent look.
"I'm glad you've seen reason Prince Willam," she smiled oh so sweetly. "Now-"
"One thing Your Grace, if I might be so bold…"
"Speak," the lioness scowled at him. "Make it quick Stark."
It wouldn't do to be seen agreeing too easily too quickly… not without motive…
"My companions are alive?" Willam pried steadily, judging her features for any sign of a falsehood.
"Safe and whole for now," she answered after a moment. "My brother was quite adamant, especially for your dear wife…"
Willam paused as if taken unawares. The woman's smirk had turned sour, cunning, as if she'd caught him in a trap.
"Ashlyn is well then," he muttered the words and called on the ghost of a smile; as if the twitch on his lips had betrayed him. A mummers farce of a thing.
"Your Princess is safe," the Queen's smile was sickening. "My newest handmaiden; for so long as we've an understanding…"
The threat did carry weight. She wasn't his wife – that was Suko's idea no doubt meant to up her value – but he did care for her…
Willam frowned deeply both from worry for her and to sell his emotions to the lioness, but also to scold himself. If you valued something, it could be taken away.
"And what of Ned Stark?" He knew the answer, but it gave the lioness an opening. Her emerald eyes and saw them practically sparkle with delight at the question.
"He didn't see reason," Cersei told him with a beaming smile. "When you play the Game of Thrones, you win or die; there's no middle ground."
She had the gaoler unlock his shackles and quickly gave him his story to tell, making certain to fill his head with the not-so-subtle hinted rewards for those that pleased her; all while the wolf nodded and hummed his agreements. She walked in front of him, hips swaying with each step up from the darkness of the cells. Foolish woman…
It was not difficult to play the role she sought for him. He allowed her to catch his eyes lingering once, just to sell the farce.
"Sorry Ash," his thoughts chuckled nervously at the mental image of her cutting Cersei… and probably him afterwards…
He knew Cersei's type all too well. Years at imperial court had taught him enough to see the signs as clear as day – the subtle smiles, the sway her hips, the tone of her voice and the choice of clothes she'd picked – all conscious; he knew it. Most men would call him paranoid, but he knew, he'd learnt it all the hard way after all...
It was all too common a mistake fools made, underestimating a woman, as if being the 'fairer' of the sexes meant they were somehow harmless creatures. The love of a woman like her was as unfair as any crook. She'd steal all reason from men and commit every treason with nought but a look. The andals especially seemed to believe their women were flowers. Roses had thorns though, just as lionesses had claws, as did dragons. He'd fallen for Suko's sister once when he was younger and less distrustful.
Princess Nuwa had played his heart like a fiddle, all smiles and comfort and feminine charms coming to his side - and his bed - believing him easy prey.
She'd been right of course... he'd been very easy...
It took Suko taking pity on him to learn the truth of his sister: that she'd been fucking half the court.
Willam hadn't believed it at first, she'd filled his head with tales of how her brothers were liars.
"He forced himself onto me," she'd said once with wet tears in her eyes.
Liars and far worse, she'd cried to him. She'd cried and it had broken his heart to see.
Gods, he'd burnt with hatred over it for so long...
After all, who would lie about such things?
The thought never crossed his mind all those years ago.
She named her brothers as monsters, and he'd trusted her.
And why wouldn't he trust? His heart had ached to see her cry.
It was funny looking back at things, he'd once hated Suko with a passion simply because the man's sister had her claws so deep in his heart that to doubt her wasn't even a thought. Her brothers were monsters she'd said – spinning all manner of foul tale to keep him away from them...
That had been the point of it all. He knew now, years past, that it was so much easier to manipulate a person if you separated them from others. Controlling the narrative was paramount to any liar's arsenal. The less people involved in the fable, the easier it was to control its narrative.
Most people didn't ask questions. If they heard from one they trusted – loved or lusted for – they believed blindly.
Willam had been that foolish too once, he could admit as much. There was no shame in admitting mistakes of the past; so long as you learnt from them.
Time had worn away at all the innocence in him, he often feared; though Ash had once insisted he was a "good person" he didn't truly believe her either... ...even if he wanted to sometimes. That was the thing about trust, once broken it was damn near impossible to fix even if a person deserved to be trusted...
Cersei led him through the halls, servants eyeing them warily, the Queen Mother opened the doors to a modest chamber.
"You must change," she insisted as they entered the room. "I've prepared clothes."
She'd expected him to agree, it seemed. Confident little lioness...
"Are these necessary?"
He rattled the chains for effect.
"I'm sure they are not," Cersei smiled sweetly, motioning for one of the red cloaks to unlock his shackles. "You may leave us now..."
"Your Grace?"
The redcloak looked confused.
"Leave us," the Queen insisted, her emerald eyes sparking. "Need I repeat myself?"
"N- No-"
The redcloaks scurried away.
Cersei motioned over to the bed.
It was covered in crimson silk sheets trimmed with gold, very Lannister-ish, but upon them laid a set of perfectly folded clothes.
A tunic, crimson silk trimmed with gold outlay alongside some fine black trousers and a fresh red cloak.
"Red is such a pretty colour," Willam smiled his best smile. "I've always been more partial to silvers and blacks though..."
"I'm sure you'll look quite dashing."
The woman wasn't leaving room for denials.
"I had the servants pour you a bath," she motioned across the room to a bronze tub beside the far window. Cersei's smile was beaming like the sun.
She expected him to falter, to flinch and make excuses. Her feral grin spoke volumes.
He would give her the satisfaction in this for it cost him nothing to do.
Willam lifted off the rag that was his shirt and threw it to a corner of the room, walking to the tub and finding it was still quite warm.
"Your scars," Cersei asked, eyeing his back.
"Your Grace?"
"Tell me about them," she insisted, sitting down on the bed and crossing her legs.
"You might not believe half of them..."
"Try me," her smirk grew devilishly.
Willam reached his hand up to touch one, by far his greatest wound – claw marks that reached across his shoulder. "As a young boy I spent time in a place you Westerosi know as the Grey Wastes, full of raiders and bandits and worse than those too…"
"Those are claw marks," the Queen tilted her head slightly. "A beast, or a lover perhaps?"
Again, she expected him to blush or flinch. He would do neither for her.
"A beast," he answered truthfully. "I was set upon by what my people know as Skykes..."
She couldn't seem to fight the scoff of derision.
"I did warn you wouldn't believe me Your Grace," he turned to face her.
A mistake. On the bed she'd crossed one leg over the other, revealing a great deal too much.
"Are you going to stare at me all night, Prince?"
"N- No," Willam scolded himself, damn traitorous thought. Ash was definitely going to kill him. "My apologies, your Grace..."
"It's no matter," she waved it away. "I've no jealous husband to see your head mounted on a spike for lingering eyes..."
Only her brother. He didn't voice that thought...
"You must get lonely," he pried, stepping into the bath.
It was a welcoming thing – circumstances aside – he'd lingered too long in that damn cell.
The Queen eyed him closely. A lioness stalking its prey…
"I have my family," her voice shifted.
Her children. That's what she was thinking.
And where was their father? Willam did wonder if Ser Jaime knew how his sister acted around other men.
Was he fine with it? Was he perhaps blind?
Did she often go further than simple mummery?
The woman reminded him of Suko's sister – although Cersei was not quite so beautiful as he remembered the imperial princess. Nuwa Lóng was bronze skinned with wider hips and fuller lips, although her chest was smaller than Cersei's he somehow found that to be a positive. She was beautiful...
Beautiful, but with a heart as ugly as sin…
Cersei and Nuwa shared that much.
"Family is a blessing Your Grace."
"It is," she agreed, getting up from the bed and walking over to the tub. "Tell me about yours..."
"Has dear Suko not bored you with the details?"
"He has," Cersei smiled sweetly, leaning closer.
Knowing him, he'd done more than bore her with words.
"There's not much to tell," Willam diverted his eyes somewhat from the woman as she leaned towards him in a too obvious attempt to catch his eyes. "My father is a ruthless man that'll do anything to protect family, while my brothers the dutiful type; my sister long dead..."
"A shame," Cersei pried, looking far too relaxed. She was good at this. "How did she pass?"
"She vanished one night," Willam saw no reason to lie. "Nobody has seen her since..."
"I see," Cersei was still leaning on the side of the tub. Her choice of dress left little to the imagination... but she knew that...
Ashlyn was going to geld him with a damn spoon...
Not before carving out Cersei's eyes though he reckoned. That was an amusing thought.
"So," the Queen looked ever so pleased. "Prince-"
The knocking at the door interrupted her.
"WHAT IS IT!"
"Prince Suko and Lady Stark here to see-"
"Wait outside," the Queen sighed after shouting at the guard by the door. "Another time then, Stark... I trust to see you at the trial..."
"As you say Your Grace," he replied, while silently thanking the gods for timely arrivals.
Suko winked coyly at the Queen as he passed her by.
Willam splashed some water up to his face, washing off some of the dirt from his cell.
"Stark," Suko walked over with a shit-eating smirk. "Had fun with our dear sweet Queen?"
"I too would like to know the answer to that..."
Ashlyn's eyes were aflame at the notions flying through her thoughts. Willam smiled at her.
"Gods," he looked at the woman with her bronze hair. "Wife, you're adorable when you're angry..."
"Answer," she frowned and stared daggers.
That tugged at something deep in his chest.
"Nothing happened," Willam promised her, getting up from the bath. "Not for lack of trying on her part but-"
"We can see that," Suko snickered.
"-but I wouldn't do that Ash..."
She was blushing like a maiden.
"Pass me the damn towel Suko!"
"Why?" His smirk grew tenfold, holding the towel in his hands. "It's nothing your dear wife hasn't seen bef-"
Ashlyn grabbed the towel off him and threw it at Willam with a muttering of "damn imperials."
Suo hadn't changed, even with a missing eye…
"Thanks Ash..."
"You're-" her eyes lingered on his chest…
They weren't hungry like the lions, sizing him up as a meal. Ash's eyes held worry.
His side was a dark blue bruise of flesh.
"You're hurt," she'd rushed over then.
"Tis just a-"
"Shut up," she scolded. "You need a healer you damn fool – does it hurt?"
"Only when-"
"Never mind," she sighed. "You'd only deny it, of course it bloody hurts. Fool."
"Do I get a say in this Ash?"
"No," she answered.
"Listen to your wife Stark."
They both glared daggers at the man.
"Where's Grey?"
"Here," Ashlyn told him quietly.
"The outlander is meeting with the old lion at present," Suko spoke in the Old Tongue.
Willam raised a brow at that choice of language. Suko was no great fan of the old tongue…
"There's some dornishman here," Ashlyn explained. "He speaks – or at least understands a little Imperial..."
"He's bluffing," Suko scoffed. "I doubt he grasps enough of it or that any other would but... well, we cannot afford to take risks..."
"This whole farce is one grand risk Suko..."
"That it is Stark," he mummed. "Reminds me of home – only the players are mostly fools."
"You've lost an eye," Willam pointed out rather pointedly.
"Bah," Suko shrugged. "It was my least favourite eye; besides, Oberyn says the eyepatch looks dashing!"
"The dornishman," Ashlyn explained with a groan.
"I see," Willam pushed aside that confusing notion.
"Better than me," Suko jested. "Get it? Eh?"
"We must get you a healer Will..."
"You're ignoring me," Suko pouted.
"Later," he ignored Suko and shrugged – the action hurting like a knife in his chest.
"The trial is tomorrow morning," Suko revealed. "If the Queen wasn't too busy to tell you..."
"She-"
Ashlyn stared daggers.
"-reminds me of your sister."
Suko's face twisted in disgust.
"Dawn," he cursed. "Don't say that. You'll bring my lunch back up to greet you Stark..."
Why so disgusted by... oh...
"You dog," Willam laughed at it.
The act sent another stab through his chest.
"Argh," he groaned, clutching his side.
"Don't laugh," Ashlyn scolded him.
"Indeed," Suko huffed, swapping back to Imperial. "My sacrifice is no laughing matter! The next time that harlot comes to my bed all I'll be able to think is..."
"Nuwa?" Willam fought the urge to laugh least Ashyn scold him to death.
"Don't speak that name," Suko scowled. "You'll summon her here, just you try and see!"
Willam wasn't willing to risk that...
"If you two are done being fools?"
"You wound me so Lady Stark..."
"Shut up Suko," Will and Ash said together.
"Message received," he held his hand up high in mock surrender. "I shall leave you two young lovers alone, fear not, it is-"
Suko ducked under the pillow thrown his way.
"So eager Princess," he laughed.
The door shut with a thud as he left.
"I hate that man," Ashlyn sighed.
"No you don't," Willam smiled, kissing her forehead. "He grows on you..."
"Aye," Ash scoffed. "Like the damn plague…"
"Exactly, see? You understand Princess."
She rolled her eyes at that, but she'd smiled too.
"The harlot gave me clothes," Willam kept his tongue to the old. "On the bed..."
"Reds," Ashlyn eyed them.
"Not my colour..."
"A shame," Ashlyn hummed.
"Whatever shall I do without clothes..."
"Alas," she said innocently. "I do not know..."
"I can think of some things, dear wife."
She bit her lip at that. "Oh can you, husband?"
He kissed her then, hands wrapped around her waist as they moved to the bed.
In the moment it was easy to forget the situation they found themselves in; surrounded by enemies.
In the moment though, despite the lingering threat of the unknown, neither truly cared.
The lion was pristine with its golden fur shining in the sunlight as it lunged, red-gold mane brushed aside by the wind; it roared and the whole world shook with it. Its fangs sank into flesh and cracked bone like a hot knife through butter. He didn't feel the bite, nor an ounce of fear within him. He felt nothing except a gnawing dread.
When dawn broke, he cursed the gods for the dreams and sat up in his feathered bed. There was something to be grateful for at least… no more black cell…
Ashlyn was sleeping at his side with the covers held close to her chest, she laid facing away from him with her amber hair against white sheets.
"You like her," the voice in his head teased. It was right too, that's exactly what he feared as the morning sun beginning to creep through the window.
That wasn't exactly true though, was it…
No. He feared it was something more than merely a liking.
If you cared for something, it could be taken away. It made you predictable. It made you weak.
At the door some servants delivered some fat pork sausages, keeping their heads down and averting their eyes from them as Willam pulled on the clothes Cersei had prepared for him the night before. A fine red-and-gold tunic with a white wolf stitched over the heart, with black leggings and a black silken cloak to go with them.
No doubt the woman thought herself terribly cleaver. Red for Lannister. Black for his moniker but also a black cloak for the Night's Watch.
"Morning," Ashlyn had awoken to find him dressed like a Lannister.
"Morning wife," he smiled at her like a fool. "How'd I look?"
"You like that title," his thoughts betrayed him. He was being a fool.
She squinted and rubbed her eyes, uncaring when the covers fell. She caught him looking.
"Like what you see, Husband?"
Too much so…
"Maybe," he said instead.
She rolled her eyes. "How lucky I am…"
Amber eyes, gods they were beauty-
"Stop it," Willam scolded his own thoughts.
"What was that?" Ashlyn asked, up from the bed; making no attempt to cover herself up.
She was no Nuwa Lóng to look at. Ashlyn's assets were far smaller than the imperials – or Cersei's for that matter – or even sweet Elssa's for that matter; young as they'd been so long ago. It was her eyes that hooked him, blazing amber on a heart-faced face, with a smirk that was devilish and spirited…
"She's prettier than the others," his thoughts suggested, mocking him.
"Maybe, eh?" Ashlyn smirked at his starring, turning away to the side table.
He watched her backside as she went, thinking how perhaps they wouldn't die today if he could still find time to watch a well-crafted bottom…
"The trial is today," he told her, shaking his head and mentally scolding himself for his wayward thoughts.
"I haven't forgotten," Ashlyn huffed, awkwardly putting on the handmaiden's dress Cersei had so generously gifted her.
It was red – because of course it was – but trimmed with amber instead of gold.
"You look beautiful," Willam blurted out at the sight.
"I-" She blushed like a girl half her age. "Shut up…"
"It's true," he insisted, crossing his arms as if the at finalized things.
"It's bloody uncomfortable. How am I supposed to fight in this thing?"
"You're not," Willam supposed, his treasonous eyes wandering over her.
Not that they'd given back their weapons, even if they wanted to fight.
"I hate it here," she scowled.
"Aye," was all he could say. "It won't be forever…"
"You have a plan?"
"Don't I always, wife?"
She rolled her beautiful eyes again.
"Is this going to be one of those times when you pretend to have a plan until the last moment," she asked.
"I never do that," Willam huffed in denial at her.
"And then at the end, you've no plan at all?"
When had she started to know him so damn well?
He stabbed listlessly at a pork sausage, wishing it were his enemy
"Lord Stark," said a voice from the closed door. "We wait without, to escort you to the trial…"
"They're early," Willam sighed. "Or maybe we slept in, gods know…"
"I'll stay and protect the sausages," Ashlyn jested, all smiles.
"What would I do without such a courageous wife?"
"Perish the thought," her smile faded somewhat.
There was a sadness in her eyes, he saw it; however briefly.
"Stay safe," she asked of him then. "You hear, idiot?"
Willam chuckled at that. "I always come back."
"Promise me," she insisted boldly.
He paused at that and did not wish to lie to her.
"I promise Ash…"
It was more hope than lie.
"Stark," the knock at the door was less polite this time.
"I'll be right there," Willam scowled at the closed door.
"They'll not wait forever," Ashlyn sighed. "Goodluck..."
Willam mustered his best smile for her and said "I always come back" as he walked to the door.
His escort to the trial had little to say, it seemed. They likely thought him some savage or at least as the enemy.
The whole castle seemed to watch him as he crossed the yard; the guards on the walls, the grooms by the stables, the scullions and washerwomen and serving girls. Inside the throne room, knights and lordlings moved aside to let them through, and whispered to their ladies.
No sooner had he taken his place before the judges than another group of gold cloaks led in Tyrion Lannister.
"Prince Willam Stark," Lord Tywin named him without wasting a breath. "Do you know the man accused here?"
Willam's eyes made a show of glancing towards the dwarf; where nothing but judgment burnt for him.
"We've met my Lord," he told the court and let some weight gather on his words for a moment, mustering his most charming smile; just as he'd done a thousand times in far worse places. "Me and Mine travelled with Lord Tyrion for a time, on our way to the Watch; though we did not speak often I confess…"
"What did you speak of with my brother," Cersei pried so very helpfully.
The woman was a terrible actor. It was the arrogance that gave her away, the smugness, a pride that beamed too brightly for any lie to shadow it.
"He was drunk Your Grace," Willam explained, sparring a glance to the dwarf who only starred daggers at him.
"When isn't he?" Oberyn jested, earning a laugh from the crowd that was silenced by a glare from Lord Tywin.
"Quite so," Willam admitted with his usual smile. "I hesitate to say how true his words were under such influence but-"
"You will tell us regardless, Stark," the Lord Hand demanded of him firmly. As if he'd ever intended not to speak.
A little hesitance lured the listener in, for no bait was so tempting as a secret… no matter if the secret was nonsense…
"As you wish," Willam made a show of seeming reluctant.
Tyrion Lannister was a mix of rage and sorrow by the looks of him.
"In his cups the dwarf spoke of a great hatred for his family," Willam explained with a plastered frown to the audible gasps of the crowd. "I put it down to the drink – men say strange things under such influence – but perhaps there was more to it? I could not say…"
"And what exactly did my brother tell you, Prince Stark?"
He made great effort to avoid Tywin's gaze.
"It was half mumbling Your Grace," Willam lied as easily as he breathed. "I heard little from my tent, perhaps I misheard entirely; but he seemed to wish something foul would befall his nephew – so that he might influence young King Tommen into securing his inheritance of Casterly Rock…"
"Why would he do that?" Lord Tyrell demanded aloud. "Ser Jaime cannot inherit, thus he is already Heir!"
"I could not say good Lord," Willam looked as confused as Tyrell.
"It's said that dwarves are devious and cunning creatures," Prince Oberyn supposed for them.
The dornishman knew the game. It didn't seem that he cared though, if anything the man seemed terribly amused.
"Forgive me my lords," Willam butted in. "That was not the last time I spoke with Lord Tyrion…"
Lord Tywin had merely starred him intently in reply to that. Waiting.
"Oh," Oberyn leant forward in his chair. "This ought to be good."
"I was visited in my accommodations one night…"
A damn fancy way of saying 'damp shit-covered cell in the dark' but court called for fancy things.
"It was Lord Tyrion, hard to mistake him," Once more the crowd made a show of their surprise, as if the whole damn thing was some grand puppet show… and one supposed it was little but that. "He asked if I wished vengeance upon House Lannister – though I denied – he told me how he meant to become King…"
The court erupted into sneers and gasps and curses as Tywin yelled for order.
"The Stark's are in open rebellion," Lord Tyrell puffed his chest out like a pufferfish. "How do we know he didn't play a role in this!?"
"Forgive me Lord Tyrell," Willam sounded oh so sincere. "I was locked quite firmly away in a cell, what harm could I have done?"
"You-" the fat flower mumbled. "You could have warned us!"
"Forgive me again," Willam frowned. "I was not summoned, nor did I have any visitors besides the dwarf, until the fair Lady Cersei came to me..."
"Prince Willam confided in me at his earliest ability and has spoken honestly now as well," Cersei smiled sweetly at the flower. "He did what he could, surely?"
"I-" Lord Tyrell blinked, eyes darting between Tywin and Cersei as if looking for directions.
"As for the rebellion my Lord," Willam's charming smile returned within the beat of a heart, as if it had never left his face. "Distant kinsmen, surely; being from a house as large and illustrious as your own, you of all men can understand that I had no hand in the decisions of such a distant branch of the family?"
"Of course my boy," Tyrell went right back to puffing up proudly.
"There you have it," Cersei was beaming proudly. "Farther, surely we've heard enough?"
Tyrion at least had indeed heard more than enough...
"MY LORDS!" he shouted as loud as his lungs would allow.
He had to shout, to have any hope of being heard over the whirlwind of shouts for justice.
Tywin Lannister merely raised a hand. Bit by bit, the hall grew silent.
"Get this lying bastard out of my sight," said Tyrion, "and I will give you your confession…"
Lord Tywin nodded, gestured, then several Goldcloaks escorted Willam aside to the other witnesses.
Tyrion stared up at his father's hard green eyes with their flecks of cold bright gold.
"I'm guilty," he said, "so guilty. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
Lord Tywin said nothing.
Mace Tyrell nodded happily.
Prince Oberyn looked mildly disappointed.
"You admit you poisoned the king?"
"Nothing of the sort," said Tyrion. "In Joffrey's death I am innocent. I am guilty of a more monstrous crime." He took a step toward his father. "I was born. I lived. I am guilty of being a dwarf, I confess it. And no matter how many times my good father forgave me, I have persisted in my infamy."
"This is folly, Tyrion," declared Lord Tywin. "Speak to the matter at hand. You are not on trial for being a dwarf."
"That is where you err, my lord. I have been on trial for being a dwarf my entire life!"
"Have you nothing to say in your defence?"
"Nothing but this: I did not do it. Yet now I wish I had." He turned to face the hall, that sea of pale faces. "I wish I had enough poison for you all. You make me sorry that I am not the monster you would have me be, yet there it is. I am innocent, but I will get no justice here. You leave me no choice but to appeal to the gods…"
Willam watched from the sidelines and shared a knowing glance to Suko.
As the dwarf spoke the whole court fell in silence.
"I demand trial by combat!"
"Have you taken leave of your wits?"
"No, I've found them!" Tyrion roared. "I demand trial by combat!"
Cersei Lannister could not have been more pleased by the turn of events. "He has that right, my lords," she reminded the judges happily and helpfully.
"I will stand for the crown," Willam stepped forward suddenly as all eyes fell upon him.
"Let the gods judge," Cersei was practically glowing with joy. All according to her plans.
For all the woman's foolishness, she'd not failed to predict her brother might demand such a thing.
Lord Tywin's face however was so dark that for half a heartbeat Willam wondered if he'd drunk some poisoned wine as well. He slammed his fist down on the table, too angry to speak. It was Mace Tyrell who turned to Tyrion and asked the question. "Do you have a champion to defend your innocence?"
The crowd was deathly silent, eyeing left and right to see who would be fool enough to-
"He does, my lord." Ser Jaime Lannister stepped up to Tyrion. "I will stand for my brother."
The uproar was deafening. Tyrion took especial pleasure in the sudden horror he glimpsed in Cersei's eyes. It took a hundred gold cloaks pounding the butts of their spears against the floor to quiet the throne room again. By then Lord Tywin Lannister had recovered himself. "A Kingsguard cannot act as champion against the crown he is sworn to protect," he declared in iron tones. "Stand down Lord Commander. If there is no other that will-"
"So be it," Jaime Lannister snarled, unclasping his white cloak and throwing it to the marble floors.
Lord Tywin was – perhaps for the first time in his life – seemingly at a loss.
"I renounce my position," Jaime declared. "I will be Tyrion's champion."
This hadn't been part of the plan. The trial by combat was a possibility, but the Kingslayer?
The Lord of Casterly Rock strode from the hall like a child throwing a tantrum, out through the king's door behind the Iron Throne.
Willam drained the wine back in his chambers, put the cup aside, then stared at his reflection in the silver mirror.
He looked like his father. His beard was unkept – far longer than he'd like – his eyes still the same dark grey he'd known all his life; though some Stark's he'd known had eyes so light they were almost silver at times. The beard had to go though, gods forbid he died looking like his father… or worse, like an Umber…
Taking the blade to it, he took quite some time until his face was smooth and cleaned with fresh water from the basin.
"If I'm to die," he told Aedan. "I'll do it looking my best, eh?"
"You cannot do this," Aedan scolded him. There was fear in his eyes.
"I'm a Prince," he told his friend with a smirk; as if that was all the reason needed to do anything.
"You'll be a dead one soon," Suko scoffed at him.
"I find your lack of faith distrusting, Imperial…"
It wasn't that bad. Sure, his chest still hurt like all seven of the andals hells; but it was nothing.
"Tis just a flesh wound," Willam shrugged it away and tried his best to ignore the stab of pain that rutted through his side.
"The Outlander right," Suko looked unusually serious.
"Not words I ever expected to hear," Willam almost laughed. "Is the world ending Lóng?"
"Stop making jokes," Ashlyn scowled furiously.
He'd never felt so outnumbered. That was odd, considering…
A faint singing came from behind the oaken doors to his chambers.
"As he lay on the ground with the darkness around," the singing came closer as Suko and Aedan and Ashlyn all continued their objections. "And the taste of his blood on his tongue. His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer, and he smiled, and he laughed and he sung…"
Whoever they were, they knocked at the door after a moment.
"Come in," Willam barked, ignoring the complaints of his friends.
"Prince Willam," her voice was velvet.
"Lady Ellaria," Suko named her with a strained smile.
"Why so sad," she pried from them and the cloud that hung around the chambers.
"Indeed," Prince Oberyn was not far behind her; who's voice was singing through the hallways before.
"He means to fight," Ashlyn practically growled.
"It was the plan Ash," Willam sighed. "You knew-"
"Not him," she denied, frowning deeply.
"An unforeseen turn of events…"
"Very unforeseen," Oberyn was smiling charmingly as he often was.
Jaime Lannister was skilled, whatever the man's faults; there was no denying that much.
Cersei had failed to foresee that her lover might side with his brother.
Willam hadn't ruled the possibility out.
"Can you win I wonder?"
Willam eyed the dornishman.
As if there was room for such doubts.
"Aye," he was decidedly certain. "I always win…"
Oberyn chuckled. "Is that how you became a prisoner, Prince Willam?"
"He's got you there Stark," Suko agreed without any hint of his usual mirth.
"That he does," Ashlyn jumped to agreement with her scowl.
"It's madness," Aedan practically begged him.
"Not madness," Willam denied. "Justice; maybe bloody, but swift…"
For all the dead. For Ivar and Ned and all the men and women taken too soon.
"You're still hurt," Aedan pleaded. "Stand down brother, let me take your place…"
Oberyn was leaning against the doorframe with a look of determination in his viper's eyes.
"It's no use," he seemed certain. "I wouldn't stand down willingly either, if I were him."
"He's being a stubborn fool," Ashlyn was pacing back and forth restlessly.
"I've always been that Ash," Willam took the refilled cup from the dornishman.
"Drink," Oberyn bid him. "No man should go into battle entirely sober, my friend."
When had they become friends, exactly?
No matter. He took the cup in steadied hand.
It was red and sweet and rich. He drank deeply.
"I met the dwarf not long after his birth," Oberyn began to speak while Willam emptied the cup. "I don't believe I've told you this tale, Suko?"
"You've not," the Imperial Prince had sighed for one reason or another.
"My sister and I travelled to Casterly Rock many years ago – with my brother Doran betrothed to the Lady Mellario of Norvos he was left behind – but dear Elia found our grand quest very exciting. She was of that age you see, and her delicate health had never permitted her much travel. We went from Sunspear to Starfall then the Arbor to Oldtwn, the Shield Islands, Crakehall and finally arrived at Casterly Rock… but our true destination was marriage…"
"Is there a point to this tale Prince Oberyn," Willam asked with a sigh of his own.
"Always," he insisted happily.
"He enjoys the sound of his own voice," Lady Ellaria suggested teasingly.
"It is a beautiful voice I'm told," Oberyn was smiling at her almost hungry. "I used it often even all those years ago, largely to amuse myself mocking my sister's suitors. There was Little Lord Lazyeye, Squire Squishlips, one I named the Whale That Walks, that sort of thing. The only one who was even halfway presentable was young Baelor Hightower. A pretty lad, and my sister was half in love with him until he had the misfortune to fart once in our presence. I promptly named him Baelor Breakwind, and after that Elia couldn't look at him without laughing. I was a monstrous young fellow you see; someone should have sliced out my vile tongue..."
"Gods forbid," Ellaria protested. "I rather like your tongue where it is…"
"Lannisport was the end of our voyage," Prince Oberyn went on, giving a sly look to his paramour that suggested she was in for a private audience later... …or at least dawn wiling Suko hoped it would be private. "My mother was good friends with Lord Tyrion's, did you know?"
"They had been at court together as girls," Ellaria added helpfully.
"Just so. It was my belief that the mothers had cooked up this plot between them. Squire Squishlips and his ilk and the various pimply young maidens who'd been paraded before me were the almonds before the feast, meant only to whet our appetites. The main course was to be served at Casterly Rock."
"Cersei and Jaime," Suko assumed, the two prize lions of the pride back then one supposed.
"The very same," Oberyn confirmed. "Elia and I were older, to be sure. The bitch and her brother could not have been more than eight or nine. Still, a difference of five or six years is little enough. And there was an empty cabin on our ship, a very nice cabin, such as might be kept for a person of high birth. As if it were intended that we take someone back to Sunspear. A young page, perhaps. Or a companion for Elia. Lady Lannister meant to betroth Ser Jaime to my sister, or Cersei to me. Perhaps both…"
"Perhaps," said Aedan, "but Lord Lannister hasn't struck me as the type of man to agree to both… or either…"
"He ruled the Seven Kingdoms," Oberyn admitted with a shrug. "Ruled at home by his lady wife though, or so my mother always said. At Oldtown we learned of Lady Lannister's death and the monstrous child she had borne. We might have turned back there, but my mother chose to sail on regardless."
"No marriage came of it clearly," Suko pointed out the obvious.
"Years later, on her deathbed, my mother told me that Lord Tywin had refused us brusquely. His daughter was meant for Prince Rhaegar, he informed her. And when she asked for Jaime, to espouse Elia, he offered her Lord Tyrion instead."
"Which she took as an outrage," Suko assumed, as anyone likely would.
"It was an outrage. After all those years of friendship, to insult us so brazenly…"
"Well," Suko hummed, drinking his own cup of white wine. "If I recall reading on the matter during my stay in this fine stinking city, then the Prince Rhaegar Targaryen married your sweet sister Elia Martell and not Cersei Lannister, did she not? It would seem your mother won that tilt in the end."
"She thought so too," Prince Oberyn agreed. "Lord Tywin is however not a man to forget slights. He taught that lesson to Lord and Lady Tarbeck once, and to the Reynes of Castamere. And at King's Landing, he taught it to my sister. Elia and her children have waited long for justice…"
"They'll have it," Suko replied, sipping his wine and savouring the taste.
"Soon enough," Oberyn poured his own cup as Aedan left them there in some hurry.
Justice was but a word and words were wind. If you wanted something, you had to make it happen.
The outer ward had been chosen for the combat. The morning was grey and windy with the sun struggling to break through the clouds.
It looked as though a thousand people had come to see who would live or die. They lined the castle walkways and elbowed one another on the steps of keeps and towers. They watched from the stable doors, from windows and bridges, from balconies and roofs. And the yard was packed with them, so many that the gold cloaks and the knights of the Kingsguard had to shove them back to make enough room for the fight. Some had dragged out chairs to watch more comfortably, while others perched on barrels. Some of the onlookers even had small children sitting on their shoulders, to get a better view. They shouted and pointed at the sight of his arrival.
Cersei seemed angry beside her brother. The Kingslayer wore armour decorated with the Lannister lion; all gold plate thick and heavy with a gilded longsword and ornate lion's helmet. Long gone was his white cloak and silver-white armour. This morning he fought as the Heir to Casterly Rock.
Tywin looked an odd mix of annoyed at his son's defiance but also thrilled at the prospect of earning back his golden heir.
Was the old lion truly oblivious to his son and daughter's relationship? It was hard to imagine…
A platform had been erected beside the Tower of the Hand, halfway between the two champions. That was where Lord Tywin sat his vigil.
The man glanced briefly at his dwarf son, then lifted his hand. A dozen trumpeters blew a fanfare to quiet the crowd. The High Septon shuffled forward in his tall crystal crown and prayed that the Father Above would help them in this judgment, and that the Warrior would lend his strength to the arm of the man whose cause was just.
Ser Addam Marbrand brought Jaime his shield, a fanciful polished thing of light steel engraved by the typical roaring lion.
Ser Jaime's opponent wore full plate not so far removed from his own; all grey-and-silver steel with a full helm, visor and shield of hammered iron.
"If you kill him," Tyrion warned in a hushed voice. "My father will never let you leave the city alive…"
"I'm aware," came the reply. There were fifty yards between. He approached more ominously, watching his footwork, while Ser Jaime circled.
When the two men were ten yards apart, Ser Jaime stopped and called out, "Yield and I'll make it quick, Stark!"
He grunted under his helm. Men that spoke during a fight were either confident or foolish… or both…
Jaime drew his sword when no reply came with a muttered curse of some annoyance.
They closed the space between them in an instant, with no flourishes or balletic leaps for the bards to sing of; every swing was a death blow countered, every exchange rapid and breathless. "Not bad," Jaime mocked his foe; their blade missing its lunge as Jaime clamped down on his sword arm.
Jaime stabbed, straight for the gap in his visor; only for the wolf to duck at the last moment.
The gilded sword punctured the air and little else.
"Fast," Jaime swung his blade effortlessly. "Not bad Stark…"
A slash replied instead of words, but Jaime jumped back; earning a long slash across his breastplate.
"Very fast," Jaime chuckled, apparently enjoying himself.
Both men swung, their swords locking in a moment as the world seemed to still for the crowd of onlookers.
Jaime shoved him free and relaunched his attack, striking with a flurry of blows and tiring his opponent.
"Come on Prince of Winter," Jaime mocked with bated breath. "Is this all you have!?"
He charged in reply, not wasting breath on heated words – swinging with an explosive fury and all his might.
Any other opponent would've faltered by now, he was sure of that; but he felt his sword arm tiring while the Kingslayer seemed no worse than a little winded as metal screamed on metal and each swing seemed heavier than the last. "You're better than this," Ser Jaime was frowning at him, less mocking and more disappointment.
"Are we talking or fighting?" He asked from beneath his helmet, breaking his own rules and falling back into a defensive stance.
Jaime smiled brightly beneath his own, readying his gilded blade.
"We're doing neither Stark," the lion landed a quick slash to wolfs shield. "You're dying!"
He replied with a thrust to the lion's belly, to no effort; sparks flying from the gilded steel chest-plate.
Jaime kept circling, jabbing, then darting back again, forcing the wolf to turn and turn again.
He was losing sight of him. His helm had a narrow eyeslit, limiting his vision…
Back and forth they moved across the yard, and round and round in spirals, the wolf slashing at the air while the lion clawed at arm, and leg, and twice at the temple. The wolfs shield took its share of hits as well, though no less than the lions took. For a time, they fought in solemn silence with nought but the sound of steel against steel.
"This is pathetic Stark," Jaime taunted, though he was winded; try as he might to ignore it.
He dodged a looping cut from the wolf's claws.
Another jab nicked for his throat, only to glance off Jaime's gilded steel gorget with a screech.
"Come on," Suko was watching from the crowd with a look of worry in his eyes; alongside the others.
Tyrion Lannister watched with dread, his stomach in knots, win or lose he feared the results.
All around the yard, the throng of spectators was creeping in toward the two combatants, edging forward inch by inch to get a better view. The Kingsguard tried to keep them back, shoving at the gawkers forcefully with their big white shields, but there were hundreds of gawkers and only six of the men in white armour.
The wolf parried a savage cut that was sent for his eyes, so fast that he'd flinched back.
Another swing bypassed his shield to scrape against his breastplate – metal against metal – sending him reeling backwards.
The wolf retreated from the lion's flurry. A backward flight mere inches ahead of Jaime's claws as he slashed at the chest, arms, head.
In that moment, the sun broke through the low clouds that had hidden the sky since dawn.
A shaft of sunlight blazed blindingly off the lion's polished shield, into the narrow slit of his opponent's visor.
The wolf lifted his own shield against the glare as the lion flashed like lightning and found a gap in plate, the joint under the arm.
The point of his gilded sword punched through mail and boiled leather in one swift stabbing motion.
There was grunt as Ser Jaime yanked his blade free.
"I thought you were better than this Stark," he was circling, bloodied sword at the ready.
The blood was trickling from his armpit, bleeding heavily inside his breastplate; he didn't doubt it.
In silver-grey plate wet with a stream of crimson, he held firm with white knuckles around his swords grip.
With sudden and explosive fury, the lone wolf charged swinging with all his might in each blow.
The lion parried and dodged every swipe of those claws before he returned each and every one in kind.
The wolf blocked and blocked with steel and shield. Ser Jaime lunged at the wolf with all his might, his gilded sword shining in the sunlight.
The lion's sword lunged past the iron of the shield…
It cut through the steel of the breastplate next…
With a roar, it plunged straight to the wolf's heart.
"For my brother," Ser Jaime said, his breath haggard and short.
He put boot to steel and kicked it free. A great silence washed over the witnesses as Jaime knelt by the wolf.
"I- I'm sorry," he spoke a name before the light faded from his eyes, so quiet that only the lion himself heard it.
Ser Jaime Lannister let the sword relax at his side, the tip bloody and red; he looked upon his defeated foe while the crowd was awash with cheers and his father somewhat reluctantly announced the god's supposed verdict. Tywin should be happy, Jaime thought absently; the man had finally gotten what he'd always wanted…
The look in Jaime's emerald eyes was not contempt for his father however or joy for his brother nor even pride for his victory. It was something else.
My Note(s): This is your Christmas present – you're welcome – please direct your tears to the reviews and I shall bask in your sorrow :) but that aside; this chapter was always planned from the beginning. I won't say much about it except to say that I do nothing without a solid plan behind it. Things happen the way they do because I design it so and no number of complaints will ever sway me from my vision. I eagerly await the hatemail, it's going to be simply amazing – don't disappoint me now…
Merriment aside I've seen a great deal of fic writers seemingly afraid of "upsetting" their readers and I'll just say this: if you're writing anything, write it for You first and foremost. Never let anyone else's opinion make you afraid to write a story. This'll be even more prevalent in a couple chapters from now. Spoilers.
Lastly, happily holidays to all! I don't know if you'll get another chapter before the New Year soooo if not we'll pick up again in 2022.
246vili: The whole "looking good for the Sunset Starks" comment has NOT aged well this chapter.
Wolftamber96: Oh yes, winter is coming and it's really not going to be a happy one for the Lannisters… or maybe anybody…
Dave: Thanks for commenting as always :) this chapter hopefully doesn't drive away too many people, but it'll be hilarious if it does.