A/N: Hi all. We're getting close to the first battles of Rhaegar's Rebellion.
Awesome stuff: I have just started a collaborative project called The Targaryen Dynasty with BlackRose999. It is an interesting take on post-The Bells Targ restoration.
Enjoy and please comment :D
Chapter 47: Remember Your Blood
"My King." Robert Baratheon set the Stormbreaker's head upon the ground. Kneeling before the Iron Throne. "I pledge my eternal fealty to you. My hammer and bannermen are yours to command." Wordlessly, Stannis drew his blade and knelt as well. A second son, even his blood uncle wouldn't care to hear from him. Thank the gods for small favors.
Seated upon the grotesque throne of swords, Aerys Targaryen watched the pageantry with a tiny grin upon his face. "Nephew… it is good that you have chosen the right side. Your grandmother would have been pleased." Eyes shifting, he jerked his hand. "Now, Mace. Do it."
Gold-etched plate armor and pauldrons over a forest green gambeson, Mace Tyrell drew his sword and knelt. He removed his massive helm adorned with bright ostrich plumes. All the way to his growing gut, the man looked much like a peacock. Quite pathetic in Stannis' view, especially compared to the more modestly dressed Willas and Lord Leyton Hightower, both of them kneeling as well.
"My King, the swords and lances of the Reach are yours to command."
"Aside from House Peake, that is?" Aerys' eyes turned fiery. "You can't even control your fucking bannermen, oaf?"
Mace trembled underneath his armor. "Forgive me, your Grace. I was not aware of their treachery until recently." Why does he put up with it? Was it all worth marrying his daughter to the now 'Crown Prince' Viserys? Who was sitting on a gilded chair next to his father while Jon Connington stood on the other side.
"We will deal with them once Prince Rhaegar is dead, your Grace," added Leyton Hightower, much more adept than his goodson.
Aerys huffed. "See that you do." He looked over at Connington. "Where are the Reach and Stormlands armies, Hand?"
"Still marching, your Grace. They took some time to answer the call due to the rains."
Snarling his displeasure, Aerys turned to Viserys. "See son, even the Lords that want to lick your bunghole will try and bend you over and take it." Quiet and very much withdrawn into himself, Viserys merely nodded, which Aerys found sufficient. His gaze returned to the kneeling Lords. "They better be here in a moon or I'll take off your hands, are we clear?"
"Yes, your Grace." Stannis' knees were already aching, but he fought to stay still.
The next words from the King's mouth almost made him topple nonetheless. "Stannis… isn't it? You look a lot like my brother, nephew."
He did not want to be noticed. "Thank you, my King and honored uncle."
"That was not a compliment. Try to not be as much of a fucking fool as he and you'll go far." Standing, Aerys simply walked out, followed by Ser Lewyn and the Prince. Viserys stumbled a bit, his eyes darting in every direction like a jittery dog. It unsettled the second son of Steffon Baratheon greatly, but Robert had to kill the man that took Lyanna from him so here he was.
At least he could stand again.
"Lord Tyrell, I understand your concerns…" Connington attempted to fend off questions as they retired to the Tower of the Hand.
But Lord Mace was not having it, cheeks puffed out and breath halting after the climb of the stairs. "I resent the implication that I knew what Lord Peake was doing under my nose… or my wife and mother." He gestured to Willas. "My son is here to fight for his Grace and my daughter is betrothed to the Crown Prince." The fact his daughter was barely one nameday didn't faze him. "My loyalty is unquestioned.
Connington had chosen not to inform the King of what happened at Highgarden. Gods, Rhaegar continues to dazzle me. But it wouldn't stop him from using it. "Be warned, Lord Tyrell, the fact that your mother chose to release Rhaegar to join his armies nor is trying to stop the Peakes, Blackmonts, and Daynes as they march for the Riverlands should keep you humble before me. Remember what happened to House Thorne." The Reach lords paled. After Alliser Thorne's betrayal, Aerys had his father, mother, and older brother burned before him.
The Lord of Highgarden opened his mouth to speak but merely stumbled and choked as a powerful arm smacked him in the back. "Cheer up, Mace!" Robert bellowed in his grandiose fashion. "We are fighting the righteous cause as all the septons say. What we need is someone bold to command and Craven Chelsted isn't the one to do it. Give me command, Jon," he demanded of Connington.
Shaking his head, the Hand demurred. "That would be impossible."
"Why the fuck would it?"
"Because Lord Chelsted has his Grace's favor after capturing Harrenhal. He will stay as Master of War unless circumstances change." Until he fucks up and gets killed.
While someone with tact would have read the subtext, Robert looked incredulous. "He?! Any man can bribe the fuckin' castillain of Harrenhal and get the damn place to surrender. It takes a proper warrior like me to defeat the rapist and wife-slayer. With my sixty thousand we shall be unstoppable."
"Don't exaggerate your strength, Robert. It's unbecoming," Connington scowled. "You have less than thirty thousand that you can mobilize, and the truth is far lower than that because of the rains."
Stannis raised his eyebrow. "How could you possibly know that?"
The patronizing look Connington shot him greatly irked Stannis. "I have a keep in the Stormlands too, young Stannis." He was doing it too.
"One that you haven't visited in years." Does he have a spy in Storm's End? Does Varys?
"There are such things as ravens." A cagey smile really raised Stannis' warnings, but the Baratheon bit back a response. Allowing Connington to move on to other topics. "Lord Hightower, have you managed to meet with the High Septon?"
Lord Leyton was a cautious man, more here to protect his interests than to fight a war. "That fat fraud holds no influence in my court, so I can't be of service there. As for the Most Devout… they are inclined to oppose the polygamist but…" He drops his voice. "Rhaegar's victory in the Trial by Seven muddles things. They are unlikely to make any pronouncements except the decrying of polygamy."
"See that they do, and I'll take care of the High Septon."
"Of course, Lord Hand."
Supposedly safe behind the thick walls and riverine island of Starfall, such didn't leave the new Queens of the Seven Kingdoms free to sit idle while their husband fought his wars. Her quill scribbling upon a dispatch to Highgarden, Lyanna absentmindedly stroked the now noticeable bump of her abdomen.
Even in her readings, Elia was greatly attune to her wife's movements. "What's wrong?" Eyes zeroed in on Lyanna in a growing alarm. "Is the babe alright?"
Startled out of her work, Lya looked up. "What? Of course he's fine." She gave Elia a queer look.
Sighing, Elia clutched her heart. Relieved. "Sorry… I just saw your hand go to him and…"
Lyanna shook her head, smirking. "You're worse than Rhaegar sometimes."
"Well excuse me for caring about our son," Elia huffed.
Our son… The smirk changed to an actual smile. "I didn't say that was a bad thing, my love." Elia's ire lasted as much as she figured, mirroring Lyanna's smile. "Gods know that I'd be as anxious if you were expecting."
Fat chance of that happening. Putting aside the sad thought, the Dornish Queen turned back to her work. "Any news from Highgarden?"
A nod. "Janna Tyrell is now Lady Janna Peake - cements that clause of Rhaegar's deal with the Queen of Thornes." A few nightmares aside, both Queens wished they could have been there to hug and tend to Rhaegar after his almost legendary victory in the Trial by Seven. "House Peake begins its return to glory."
"Maekar Targaryen rolls in his grave," Elia quipped. "The knights that run the other two Peake keeps aren't going to be happy. Lord Althos tells me that they didn't march with the Hightowers after Lord Mace called the banners." They didn't hope to threaten Starfall without more, but it was still a worry. Elia moved on. "The Rogares said they'd offer Rhaegar a loan, if at a high rate of interest."
Lyanna frowned. "Those cunts didn't hurt our House enough when Larra abandoned Viserys?"
"At least they're accepting our loan, not like the Iron Bank." Letters to the various banking families of Essos were generally rebuffed, most willing to stick with Aerys and the erratic but general stability his reign offered. "Part of me suspects they just want House Targaryen to die."
"Only part?" Lyanna was more convinced. "Westeros needs its own bank. The Dragon Bank or something… I'd even have Lord Tywin send one of his brothers run it - he knows his salt when it comes to coin."
"If your father had his way, then the dwarf could likely do it." Only then did Elia realize what she said, given the sudden pain on Lyanna's face. "Oh, my love…"
Thinking about her father… about her brother… The wound was still raw - even with Elia, the children, Ashara, Dacey, and the new babe lifting her spirits. Only her husband's absence truly hurt her more. "I… I'm fine," she tried to deflect, but it was an obvious lie.
But Elia didn't buy it. Rising from her feet and urging Lya to stand, hugging her close. "I know you're in pain, Lya. I love you, don't hide anything from me."
Lyanna lost herself in the embrace, letting her face bury itself in the crook of Elia's neck. Smelling the scent of flowers, Dornish apple to be exact - she had grown to adore the fragrance as much as winter roses. It is her favorite. Gently, she nuzzled Elia's skin, smiling at her sigh of contentment. Feeling her soft hand rest on her growing swell. If she were the Rhaenyra to her own Prince Daemon, perhaps Lyanna had gotten Laena Velaryon as well.
Lucky, lucky me…
'She's using you…'
Stiffening, Lyanna heard the voice - the same one that tried to poison her when she found out about Jon.
'Your father and brother would be ashamed at your wantonness…'
"My love?" Her heart started to beat fast. "Lya?"
A gentle kiss to her cheek brought Lyanna away from the voice. Back to the present where honey-brown eyes gazed into hers. "Is everything alright?"
Trying to calm herself, Lyanna put on a smile. "Yes, I'm fine." The she-wolf felt her mind clearer, back to the certainty of her feelings. Without hesitation Lyanna pressed a sweet kiss to Elia's lips. Enjoying how the Dornish beauty moaned into it. "All of this… thank you."
Elia was still a bit dazed from the kiss. "Why are you thanking me?" she asked innocently.
That look stirred up prurient thoughts in Lyanna. Ones she still sometimes took time getting used to. "Being here. Comforting me as our husband is at war - away from us."
Melting at the sweet words, Elia cupped her sister-wife's cheek. The woman she had shockingly but happily fallen head over heels for. "There's no need, because I love you… and you do the same for me." Caressing the swell of their babe, they shared another wordless moment before Elia had a thought. "Come, let's go see the children." How Lyanna's grey eyes sparkled at that filled her with a rare joy.
The second largest of the guest chambers in Starfall had been converted into a nursery for the Targaryen children - currently being watched over by their Kingsguard uncle and Lady Ashara. Rhaenys racing around with a sliver of wood, attempting to be Nymeria as she engaged Benjen while the infant Egg cheered her from his crib with babbling praise. It was a beautiful sight for the Queens as they peered into the room.
It didn't take long for the perceptive Princess to notice the new arrivals. "Muna!" She raced over and throwing her arms around them. "Hello, munas." Wriggling out of Elia's hold, she hugged Lyanna. Kissing the little swell. "Hello, little brudder." The love in her voice made Lya hug her tighter as Elia moved to lavish love on Egg.
Behind, Benjen chuckled. "How do you know it's a Prince, niece?" Unlike Ned, there was no awkwardness in adopting Elia's brood into his affections. How can anyone not love them?
She looked at her wolf uncle with the same imperious certainty as Rhaegar was wont to do. "I'm a dragon. I know."
"She has a point, Ben," Ashara remarked rather friendly, stepping forward to place a hand on his shoulder. Not going unnoticed by Lyanna. "These Targaryens, they are unlike you or I."
"And I have the blood of the Starks, as ancient and noble a bloodline as any Valyrian," he replied haughtily, but while Tywin Lannister or Olenna Tyrell could pull it off, Ashara laughed at how silly he sounded.
Lyanna laughed as well, until Rhae pulled on her skirts. "Muna, I'm hungry."
"You broke your fast a few hours ago, sweetling." But the wide-eyed plea and quivering lip simply melted her. "Alright, dear." Lyanna looked at Elia cooing their son, realizing she hadn't had quality time with Egg yet. "Ash, do you mind…"
The Beauty of Starfall thought nothing of it. "I'll take you to the kitchens. See if Wylla has some sweetmeats for you till dinner." A hug and a kiss from each of her mothers found the excited Princess bounding off, while neither Queen missed how Benjen's fingers brushed on Ashara's waist and how the young maiden giggled softly. Seems it isn't just Arthur, then.
"Tell me, brother," Lyanna asked point blank as she moved to her son. "Have you coupled with Ash?"
His eyes went wide. "What? No…"
Elia handed Egg to Lya, laughing as he babbled happily at her. "It is rather obvious, Ben. I've seen less lascivious looks in a Lysene pleasure house." She became aware of a jealous glare from Lyanna. "My brother dragged me into one," Elia defended.
Benjen sighed. "Ashara… few men could resist falling in love with her. Much less when she falls for you."
Lyanna laughed. "Hear that Egg?" she cooed at her son. "Your uncle is in love. Do you like that."
He peered at her with his father's violet eyes. "Muh… muna." Egg looked at Elia. "Muna."
His first words… The little joys were what kept them all alive during the hells of war.
"This is an outrage!" Willam Mooton hollered, banging his fists against the table overlooking he Lord's seat. "We must retake the keeps immediately from those shits that pillage and burn the Riverlands."
"And what forces do you wish to do that with, Lord Ham?" Jonos Bracken sneered, the martial jouster drawing attention to Ser Myles' brother's already considerable girth. The two of them were nothing alike, almost like Daemon and Viserys Targaryen - one a strong warrior, the other a merry lover of revelry. "Aerys outnumbers us, and that's with Lord Robert and Lord Mace closer to us than the damned northerners."
Speaking for the northern contingent, Rickard Karstark sent a death glare at Lord Bracken. "Damned northerners?! Says a lot of a family that prostituted its daughters to a fat oaf of a King!"
"My Lords, please," Hoster rose before Jonos could draw his sword. "Let us calm ourselves…" Rhaegar simply eyed Oswell beside him, his resident expert on everything Riverman. Oswell simply shrugged. "We can reach a proper accord to all of this."
"No, we must attack now!" demanded Ser Myles - in full armor and fresh off being on the victorious side of a trial by seven, he was a far greater presence than his soft brother. "Harrenhal is ruled by fucking Boros the Belly! The Darrys openly defy our Leige's orders. This cannot be allowed to stand!"
Hoster was a good man, but he simply looked over his head. Face flushed and struggling to maintain some level of authority. "Lord Darry has been stripped of his keep by my directive. He will meet his proper end as will Lord Boros." Beside him, Ser Brynden Tully, his brother, rolled his eyes. The man was of few words and wasn't about to leap into the coming madhouse.
His instincts were correct. "The keep must be given to my younger son," announced Tytos Blackwood. "As his Grace's longtime friend, I can safely say that no House has been more loyal to House Targaryen than ours."
"My ass," snarled Lord Bracken. The feud between the two houses was legendary.
"House Piper deserves the keep!"
"You're a bunch of drunks - it rightfully belongs to House Mallister."
"The only proper man that deserves it is Ser Brynden the Blackfish!" a knight sworn to House Tully announced, only to be silenced with a glare from the Blackfish.
And so the bickering continued, each of the Riverlords more eager to try and one up the other than unite. Hoster Tully did his best to wrangle them up, but Rhaegar could tell the man would not be able to. Aegon the Conqueror had elevated the Tullys out of loyalty, but it was obvious that they had the least power of all the great houses.
For fuck's sake… "We will attack immediately," he finally ground out - all voices falling silent as the King-claimant spoke. "This bickering can wait until after Harrenhal falls, which we will make happen upon the morrow." He waited for the first to complain.
That person turned out to be Lord Hoster of all people. "We are outnumbered by the forces of the Crownlands. If they fortify Harrenhal…"
"None of those fucks are close to Harrenhal." Eyes turned to Ser Bronn, idly using a knife to pick his nails. "I scouted that land myself. A rather chatty hedge knight in Connington's employ told me that Lord Chelsted moved his army closer to the capitol to wait for our move."
"They means to ambush us," murmured Lord Mallister.
"Yet they'll be reinforced rather quickly if Lord Robert gets his bannermen there," growled the Blackfish. "His Grace is right, we must strike now."
Appreciating Brynden Tully's support - and noticing a gleam of jealousy in Hoster's eyes - Rhaegar looked back out over the Riverlords. "We will advance and besiege Harrenhal while the Belly is still preparing it. Then we wait for Chelsted."
"And who will command this?" Jonos Bracken demanded.
He and his Kingsguards had already determined this. "Ser Brynden commands half the infantry, while Ser Myles and Lord Blackwood gets the cavalry and the remaining infantry. Ser Alliser will command the siege." A look to the new commander of the Household Guard found him nodding in approval - accepting the commission. "As for the northmen and men-at-arms in my employ," over five hundred assorted hedge knights and wannabe sellswords had simply joined Rhaegar, eager to fight for him. "Lord Reed will command them."
Howland, silent through it all, blinked. "Me, your Grace?" Lord Karstark seemed affronted, but said nothing.
"You know how to bushwhack and raid. We will need that."
The moment he shut the door behind him, the ruckus resumed within the great hall. Likely back to squabbling over who would get the Darry lands once all was said and done once more. "I should give the keep to Ser Myles and be done with it," Rhaegar breathed, heart heavy. Myles was the second son of his father, and thus was behind his brother Willam's brood of children in succession. "Wasn't he fond of your niece?"
Lips tight, Oswell nodded. "Mya, the fair maid. I think she was likely to be betrothed to him if my brother was to be believed." He shrugged. "She and I, the last of the Whents."
"Gods, Oswell…" In his own frustration at the lack of control Hoster had over his bannermen, Rhaegar had forgotten about Oswell's personal connection to the atrocities. "Forgive me my lack of compassion…"
"No, it's alright, your Grace." The knight would spare no more tears while this war was raging. "As long as I get to lop off the head of Boros Blount, Willis Wode, and Qarlton Chelsted, I shall endure."
Rhaegar found nothing problematic with the request. "Done." They began to head towards the guest quarters of the ancient keep. "You would be heir to Harrenhal without the cloak. If you wish I can relieve you of your vows."
Oswell shook his head. "As did Lord Commander Hoare centuries ago, I swore my vow to the true King knowing this may happen. I shall not abandon you, my King." His voice resounded with loyalty and determination. "Besides, that damned keep is cursed. Mya can rule Darry with Myles, give the fucking thing to some other poor bastard."
"If you say so." To think, if the squabbling over Darry was intense, Rhaegar shuddered to think what chaos the ownership of Harrenhal would create. Seeing Gerold approaching him, hopefully the Lord Commander would have some matter to preoccupy his mind from brooding.
"Your Grace," bowed Ser Gerold. "There is someone who wishes a moment for your audience."
For the first time, Rhaegar noticed the tall, stern figure of a knight beside Ser Gerold. "Follow me." The King-Claimant led the others to an unoccupied chambers - what looked to be a storage closet. How… quaint. "Forgive me, but these things are best done in private."
"There is no need, your Grace." The thin knight took to his knee. "Allow me to introduce myself as Ser Bonifer of House Hasty, and I am honored to swear my sword to the true champion of the Seven."
Perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps Lyanna was rubbing off on him, but Rhaegar felt a bit perturbed at the open display of piety in the Faith. Nevertheless, the man seemed sincere. "Heard about the trial at Highgarden, I presume."
Ser Bonifer looked up and nodded. "The fools of the Most Devout and the High Septon may be too corrupt to accept such messages of the gods, but the solemnity of a Trial by Seven is sacrosanct - more than a simple trial by combat or any middling tourney. There is no doubt who carries their favor, and he shall carry mine."
Smiling at the praise, still Rhaegar glanced at Ser Gerold - silent question obvious on his face. 'Why bring him here?' The Lord Commander didn't hesitate in answering. "Ser Bonifer is the founder and Captain of the Holy Hundred."
That did catch Rhaegar's interest. "The force that helped Ser Arthur Dayne defeat the Kingswood brotherhood?" From what Arthur told him, they fought smartly and professionally."
Rising, Bonifer smiled modestly. "The name is a bit of a misnomer - more around two hundred-fifty men as of now. Where my sword is pledged, so too are their swords pledged."
Extending his hand, Rhaegar clasped Bonifer's firmly. The man's hands were lean but strong - a proper warrior. "Where are you from, Ser Bonifer. I must confess that I do not know of House Hasty."
The knight didn't seem to take offense. "We are a small house of Landed Knights from around Summerhall, your Grace. My brother is the master of the manor, I am simply a sword sworn to the Seven and to House Targaryen."
"Not Lord Robert?" Rhaegar was wary of most Stormlanders these days, mostly due to his documented struggles with Robert and Connington. "I must ask…"
"I knew your mother, my King." That Rhaegar didn't expect. "She was a Princess then, and inspired the greatest loyalty in all proper knights of the Seven. Her piety, her grace, her kindness." There was something on his face, though. Something beyond mere loyalty and admiration. "From what I have seen, you are her son in every respect. The Warrior has noticed and showered you with his blessing. No one else is worthy of my sword."
"Well… I am glad to have your loyalty, Ser Bonifer. Move your men into my camp and they shall be part of the advance on Harrenhal."
Bowing, the knight seemed to have some other thing on his mind. "Your Grace… has the Queen ever spoken of me before?"
Rhaegar furrowed his brows. "Ser Arthur has, but I do not recall my mother ever mentioning your name."
He watched as a flicker of grief formed in Bonifer's eye. "Such is no issue. To the battles that come." He bowed once more and left.
"Why would he feel my mother would mention him?" Rhaegar asked Ser Gerold.
"I do recall a knight crowning Princess Rhaella the Queen of Love and Beauty during a tourney at Storm's End," Gerold mused. "That could have been Ser Bonifer."
"Hmmm… odd." A curiosity without necessity. Rhaegar put it out of his mind.
"It truly is a magnificent sight, isn't it?" Ned tried to prevent his nose from wrinkling - or simply shriveling into a husk - from the stench of Walder Frey's breath. He was surprised the old man still had any teeth left… forgetting that he still was able to sire more children both trueborn and bastard at his advanced age. "Troops marching across my bridge. Odd, it's one of the biggest bridges in Westeros according to my Maester, but your columns seem to make it look puny."
"The mind plays tricks on us sometimes, my Lord," he replied, eying him warily. Gods, for the times where all he had to worry about was if Lya would like Robert - all was so… innocent then.
A snort from the Lord of the Twins. "Sometimes I think I'm the only one 'ere capable of thinkin'." Sniffling, he suddenly spat out from the balcony of his keep. The sliver of snot and spit landed upon a random bannerman's head, causing Walder to laugh. "Stupid cunt."
Every man that passes beneath the gates of the Crossing must pay their toll to Walder Frey. Something Catelyn told him before he left Winterfell, surprisingly a good piece of foresight. The more drastic your situation, the higher the toll. Ned hesitated to ask what his toll would be - regardless of House Tully's order to back Rhaegar, Walder would get what he wanted. "Have your banners been called?" he ended up asking.
"I sent the orders… but the smallfolk here are a prickly lot. Might take some time," Walder replied.
"Quite." His experiences and hard truths had wisened Ned up a bit, casting aside the blatant naivete he acknowledged he once had. Walder's statement was horseshit - especially with the 'but' thrown in the middle. "The other Riverlords have already gathered at Riverrun. With Harrenhal captured, when can we expect you?"
Walder looked at him, smiling with a mouth of almost rotted teeth. "Do not worry, my sons will lead our bannermen into battle alongside his Grace very soon." Ned highly doubted that, but he had no evidence to push it further. "About your toll…"
Ned's brows rose. "We're prepared to pay your normal rate."
"That could be a problem." The quiet wolf steeled himself. "Given the times we are in, I must increase the normal toll rate by half… and be paid in specie, though I will take wheat or barley if you have it."
Inwardly, Ned was shocked. That's it? More gold or silver? "We can work with that." Over a century of not getting involved in the South had left the Northern treasuries rather full.
Nodding, Walder chuckled. "Good doing business with you, Lord Stark. Please inform the true King of my generosity and commitment to his cause when you see him next."
No sooner had the Lord of the Twins disappeared into his feted keep did another unwelcome face sidle up to Ned. "So what did old Walder want? Betrothal? Land?" Sinister as Roose Bolton was to people that knew better, Ned couldn't fault him on his knack for the game.
Ned shook his head. "He wants double the normal toll. No more, no less."
Raising an eyebrow, the Leech Lord shook his head. "He has something up his sleeve."
"You think?" Ned would much rather discuss this with someone he didn't have to scrutinize every spoken word for duplicity, but with Jorah and Howland gone Bolton was his only choice. "Probably looking to ingratiate himself with Rhaegar. He is smart, knowing Rhaegar is likely to win."
"More than that, young Stark." A subtle put-down, though the milky eyes wouldn't give away anything. "Walder desires to increase his influence, and given his… personality it is usually through silver and betrothals. Either he's banking a favor or he has something on House Stark or the North already."
Saying nothing, Ned's gaze flickered back to the marching soldiers. Banners of Houses Stark and Tallhart fluttering in the breeze behind a twin column of supply wagons. Bolton could end up being right on both counts… or he himself could be right. But the soldiers were getting through without incident, and if Aerys' advisers didn't think the North was coming then they'd be idiots. "Whatever it is, he won't expose it. We've gotten what we want, and that's what matters right now."
Roose nodded. "Of course, my Lord." He knew when to speak and when to shut up.
Another set of boots found Rodrik Cassel interrupting his Liege Lord's discussion. "Forgive me, Lord Stark, but a raven from the Lady Catelyn arrived from Winterfell."
Sighing, Ned took the rolled up sheaf of parchment. Scanning the well-transcribed calligraphy of his bride.
Dearest husband,
Rejoice, for the Mother has blessed my womb with a child. A strong pup of House Stark to continue your line. I have suffered the malady for several weeks and Maester Luwin confirmed the babe inside me only hours before my writing this.
I shall say a prayer to the Father and Warrior for a strong son and heir to Winterfell, and leave an offering to ward off the Stranger. Gods be praised, Ned, and hopefully you shall return before I give birth.
Lady Catelyn Stark
Your most devoted wife.
Trembling slightly, Ned almost dropped the letter. Mind a whirring gale of different emotions… all of them a mix of worry and joy. "My Lord… is something the matter?" Ser Rodrik looked worried, while Roose merely observed him as if studying a map.
A small smile formed on Ned's face - fingers clutching his chin pensively. "I am to be a father." The smile widened. Regardless of his feelings for Catelyn, this was a moment to celebrate. "My lady wife is with child." I only wish Bran and father were alive to see this…
Roose smiled as well, though unlike Ser Rodrik's it didn't reach his eyes. "Congratulations, my Lord. May the newest pup be born healthy and strong." And be as much a septa as her idiot mother. Oh, Roose would leave an offering at the Weirwood tree for his liege's child to be a female southerner. "Congratulations indeed."
A warm spell had descended over the lower Riverlands, melting whatever snowfall had accumulated and shrouding the waters of the Trident in a dense fog. Glancing out the window, Rhaegar couldn't even see across the river. The steady stucco of marching boots confirmed the world existed outside, and that his orders were carried out.
For now, he finally had time to himself. A moment to breathe… and it destroyed him.
Rhaegar… Rhaegar… Muscles tightened under his loose tunic, leaning hard against the stone wall with his arms stretched high above. Remember… Remember…
"What do you want?" He turned suddenly, staring at the green egg nestled in a chest - just as his father had. Rhaegar felt like a fool, yelling at a sphere of stone, but the words were loud in his head. Calling to him.
Rhaegar… Rhaegar…
A knock broke the trance, Rhaegar blinking and looking up. "Come in." It revealed Ser Barristan, and behind him Lady Melisandre. "Ah, good."
"You summoned me, my King?" the beautiful red priestess asked, curtseying while never taking her red eyes off him.
"Yes. I need your help." He pointed to the egg, walking to stand before it. "This egg is speaking to me and I want to know why." Gods… why not just say you're becoming your father.
Barristan looked upon him with a worried glint, but Melisandre only walked towards Rhaegar. Her eyes alight and a smile of awe on her face. "It speaks to you? What does it say?"
Closing his eyes, Rhaegar picked up the egg. Immediately feeling the warmth - like an ember of a long died out fire, pulsing with residual heat. Smoke and boiling water swirling inside. Rhaegar… Rhaegar… Remember… Remember your blood…
Before he could speak the Red Woman took it from him. "Dragonlords of old… they often said their dragons could speak to them - even from within the egg."
"The egg is stone. Long dead." Rhaegar remembered the tales of the Tragedy at Summerhall. How his grandfather had killed most of his family by trying to rouse eggs of stone to life. "There is no life within it."
"Then why do you feel the heat?"
Blinking, the King-claimant stood stunned for several moments. "How…" Was it all in his head… if so, how did she guess? "Ser Barristan, hold this stone. Tell me if you feel any heat or sign of life." The knight nodded and took the egg from Melisandre - even pressing his cheek against the scales. Rhaegar waited with baited breath, watching every motion on Barristan's face, however small. "Well? Do you feel it?"
Peering at the egg, Barristan finally gave up. "I'm sorry, your Grace. This egg is nothing but stone." He removed his hands from the green scales. "I wouldn't be surprised if this egg was laid before the Conquest."
Staring at Barristan for a moment, Rhaegar shifted back to the eggs. Rhaegar… Rhaegar… remember your blood… remember your fire… "You have my leave to go," he told the both of them - waiting until they both left the room. Placing his hand on the scales, they were still warm to the touch. A shiver of something within.
Remember your blood…
Many within the great throne room struggled to hide their distaste and discomfort, gathered by order of his Grace. Whether the pungent smell of wildfire, the mad glint in their King's eyes, or one of their own strung up upon a stake while the pyromancers smeared his legs and the fetters with the viscous green glow, all was unpleasant but something they had all allowed themselves to be a part of.
None of them would be as foolish as the Lord of Claw Isle.
"Ardrian Celtigar," announced Master of Laws Owen Merryweather. "You are hereby declared guilty for the crimes of treason and taking up arms against your King. Do you have any words before the sentence is passed."
A sour old man, Lord Ardrian's faded lavender eyes fell upon the King he had betrayed. "I've seen your grandfather and father rule before you in my lifetime, and they were proper Kings. Your brother was a proper King to be. You're simply pathetic." He cracked a smile at the anger growing in the King's fallen face. "My son will fight with Rhaegar, and before the sun makes a full turn you will be dead upon this floor."
"ENOUGH!" Aerys roared, standing from the Iron Throne. "Burn him!" A single spark billowed out a cloud of heat only moments later, green fire consuming Lord Ardrian in its malevolent tongues of flame. Even the most hardened of men cringed as even the tough Celtigar screamed in agony.
All but Aerys, that is.
Unfortunately, his good mood was destroyed by a bit of news courtesy of his Hand. "What?!"
"It is true, your Grace. The rebel army of Rivermen and some Northmen have besieged Harrenhal. Lord Boros has withdrawn into the castle but is low on supplies."
"Seven fucking hells, do I have Lords or a bunch of idiots?!" Aerys would not let this stand. "Harrenhal will be relieved by force of arms."
"But, my King," spoke Lord Wallace Massey of Stonedance, a senior commander of the Crownlands army. "Shouldn't we wait for at least Lord Robert's forces to arrive?"
Incredulous, a jerk of his fingers found Lord Massey seized by three household guardsmen - the man bewildered and fearful. "He is no son of mine, fucking cunt!" Spittle flew from Aerys' lips as he snarled. "Take him to the black cells. I'll have his corpse join the pile of ashes on the morrow."
The guardsmen complied, their captive screaming at the King. "Please! Mercy, your Grace!" Wallace Massey's pleas were unheeded, the young man essentially condemned to death already. No one in the throne room bothered to speak in his favor.
Still fuming, the King seemed to go red with rage. "I will not have my rule disrespected!" He slammed his fist on the armrest of the Iron throne, only to cry out in pain at one of the sword-tips slicing a two inch cut on his hand. "I will not let that ungrateful little shit disrespect me and take away my victories!" Aerys gripped his hand, the stinging pain and sticky blood only building his anger. "Chelsted!"
Hearing his name, the Master of War almost tripped as he raced to the side of the King. "Yes, your Grace?"
"Take your army to Harrenhal and break the siege…" Aerys thought for a moment. "And bring me Rhaegar's head."
A/N: Aerys has given his command, so chelsted needs to make it happen.
gotta love Targling fluff.
Ser Bonifer... Rhaella's former squeeze. Wonder how he could crimp Jaime's style XD
Robert is still an ass, while Walder Frey is still sneaky as hell.
Sansa's coming.
Next up, the First Battle of Harrenhal. If I get 35 reviews, I'll update on Saturday.
