A.N. - Sorry for the long delay between chapters. First, the World Cup along with marriage within the family gobbled most of my time away. I couldn't just find the scope to sit down and think.
Secondmost, there has been a bizarre development. I was alerted by a reader that this story is being published on WebNovel. I tried to placate them by saying I was the one publishing this same story there. But that person was insistent. Naturally, I went there to verify. And I found that there indeed has been someone who was posting chapters of 'Champion of the Winter', under a different name, and a few jpegs inserted between the lines as their contribution. I reported it and confronted that individual. They tried to tell me that they wanted to ask for my permission but couldn't find me. How can that be possible if the one who objected to it the first can reach out to me and this person cannot? Although the posts were taken down later (or re-posted under yet another different name), it did some damage to my enthusiasm about this story. I will try to finish it, if not, the story arc before the canon at the least. As for the rest, I don't know. I also plan to revise the older chapters and revamp the hell out of them. I am getting tired of receiving comments about how this is not a gamer story and that I should burn in the fire of hell for deceiving poor, unsuspecting readers and luring them in to read my crap.
Enough of my rant, do tell me how this chapter turned out. Cheers!
Requiescat in Pace
Old Town
Lord Mace Tyrell's tourney of Old Town had garnered the interest of almost every one of the Seven Kingdoms. People in the know, however, had shared an amused laugh among themselves over a cup of ale. Truly, to blatantly show off one's wealth in such a way, only in defiance of the Crown was quite similar to arranging a parade for one's bloody linen after the first night. Added to the fact that said Crown hadn't even had the blessed notion that they were insulted, only proved how far the empire had fallen. The Dragonborns were cruel and cunning rulers, but the Stag King, even while dragonblood flowed through his veins, had allowed the fire to die with wine. Then, above all of that, he had a pacifist to act as his Hand.
He shook his head and let out a sigh of despair. At times, he wondered, if the Targaryens were truly so detrimental to the collective good of the kingdoms. The current situations surely sang in a different tune.
"We are here, Maester." The guard called him out of his musings. On the long ride, he had let his mind wander.
"Thank you, Righel," He gave the man a nod, "if you kindly ride ahead and inform the Citadel of our arrival?"
"O' course, Maester." Righel gave a return nod and spurred his horse to gallop away.
He smiled at the man's departure, a good and loyal man. He would need to see about getting the man a raise, or a bottle of Arbor's finest. Or mayhaps a bedmate from Muriel's brothel, whatever tickled his fancy. If he took care of his men, his men, in turn, would gladly give their lives for him. It was a proven fact. And he would surely need trusted men around him if what he thought would happen turned out to be the truth.
He tried to begin his long journey from the Vale to Old Town as soon as he received information about Maester Luwin's upcoming presentation at the Citadel. But all his planning was for nought since Lord Yohn had sent a treasure back to his home. And what a treasure it was. The ancestral sword of House Royce? Found after over a century by a mere boy and a drunken half-man? Stories had more fantasies in them, but reality seemed to throw a much greater shock of revelation. Runestone, or himself, was under strict order from the lord, all the history of House Royce must be dug up and rectified before the lord's return from King's Tourney. He only sighed as he combed through dusty tomes of centuries of House Royce history. A comprehensive report regarding the sword needed to be prepared as per Lord Royce's instruction. He would have made the acolytes do the work, but he didn't want to take the risk. Turmoil had come to his attention, after five long decades, he could feel the winds bringing a chill to shiver his bones. A feeling he hadn't felt for a long time. He needed to prepare for the inevitability, he needed to gather more information, and for that, he needed to stay where he was.
"Maester Ken, welcome to the Citadel." Once more he was brought out of his thoughts. He was truly getting older. A thought that made him grimace. He looked down from atop his pony, Acolyte Thornigold was standing in his garb of Citadel guard.
"Acolyte Thornigold, do you expect hostility from me?" Maester Ken asked.
Thornigold hurriedly shook his head. "No, Maester. Your man came and informed Archmaestar Theomalt of your arrival, and as I was just released from my shift, the Archmaester asked me if I could receive you and bring you to his solar."
Maester Ken got off the saddle and arched his back. Several loud popping noises came from his old and stiff joints. "I am getting too old for these long travels. Even the ship from Gulltown wasn't comfortable for me."
Thornigold hastened to come to the side of the Maester with the intention to help him get steady on his feet. But the old Maester stopped him from doing so. He adjusted the satchel slung over his shoulder as he started to walk ahead.
"May I carry your satchel for you, Maester Ken?" Thornigold offered. The acolyte was well aware that the Maester of Runestone, despite not being an Archmaester himself, held enough sway within the walls of Citadel to accomplish almost anything he desired.
"My satchel stays with me, Thornigold," Maester Ken replied in a cold voice. "I believe we were to go to the solar of Archmaester Theomalt?"
"Of course, Maester, I meant no offence, kindly forgive me."
Maester Ken marched with his head held high despite the ache in his bones. He shouldn't have been so aggressive to Thornigold, but he just couldn't afford to be apart from his satchel. All of his findings, all of his studies were accumulated within the sheaf of parchment he carried in that satchel. If his doubts were proven right, the Secret Keepers would be in need of his information.
He stopped short before Theomalt's solar and took a deep breath to calm himself. He knocked on the door.
"Archmaester Theomalt," he called out to the older man sitting inside the room.
"Maester Ken, it is truly a pleasure to see you again." Theomalt stood from his desk with a smile, "We had thought that you'd come earlier, Maester."
Maester Ken entered the room and tried to rub the weariness off his face, "My thanks, Archmaester. Yes, I did plan to arrive quite early for Maester Luwin's presentation. Much earlier than the Maester himself, in fact. But I had my duties to attend."
"Ah, yes. I should have thought of that. The discovery of the Royce ancestral sword was sure to put some additional burden on your already quite full list."
"Indeed," Maester Ken agreed. He indicated to the chair at the front of Theomalt's desk, "May I?"
"By all means. You must be starving. I will send for a platter of food."
He called for the acolyte who had relieved Thornigold and asked him to fetch a food platter and some beverage.
"I had thought that the presentation would have been scheduled quite late. Imagine my shock when I heard about stories of the same on my way here." Ken peered into the older man's eyes.
"Ah, yes, the presentation." Theomalt grimaced, "The Seneschal had to convene early because a request from Lord Hightower prodded him to."
"Baelor? Since when did he start to interfere with the Citadel's decisions?" Ken asked incredulously.
"Not Baelor, but Leyton Hightower."
Ken sat silent for a long time, his disbelieving eyes never strayed from the wizened man's face sitting opposite.
"Pardon me, Archmaester, but I thought you said Lord Leyton Hightower has come out of his self-inflicted isolation."
"He did." Theomalt nodded gravely, "It was quite surprising to hear that the old lord has suddenly made an appearance during the feast Lord Mace threw to honour the Northerners. I have heard tales that he then invited the Northern Bastard to sit with him at the High Table." Theomalt shook his head at the absurdity of his tale. Ken was leaning in, trying to absorb each word coming out of the Archmaester's mouth.
"And then?" Ken prompted.
With a sigh, the old Archmaester replied, "Then Lords Hightower and Tyrell together coaxed the Bastard to take part in the tourney. When they heard that the Northerners are solely here for Maester Luwin's presentation, Lord Hightower quilled a request to the Seneschal, urging to move the date forward so that the Bastard can join the tourney." He shook his head in disappointment, "It is truly a shame that the Citadel has to cater still to a lord's whims."
"All of a sudden, Lord Hightower came out of his isolation and integrated himself with the Northern Bastard? Didn't anyone find that troubling?" Ken asked with a frown.
"That is not all, my friend." Theomalt chuckled ruefully, "It appears that the Mad Maid of Hightower is cured. She has been out from her perch to roam about the town. I have seen her from afar, there hasn't been even a shadow of her past delirium."
Maester Ken leaned back in his seat, his face had taken an angry scowl.
"I am afraid the situation is much direr than I previously thought."
"What situation? What are you talking about, old friend?"
Ken replied with his own question instead, "Have you heard any word of a Vale woman in recent times?"
Theomalt nodded slowly, "The only one of note would be the Pryor girl. I have heard that her brother and she have taken to travel with the Northerners. So much so, they are even living with the Northerners. What is the matter, Maester Ken?"
Ken shook his head, "I am afraid I cannot say more, Archmaester. How soon the Council of Keepers can be convened?
Theomalt, not taking his eyes off of the man sitting before him, waved a hand towards the open window, "Not until this farce of a tourney is over, I am afraid. Many have taken to reside at the Tower for the duration to save themselves the tedium of going back and forth. Lord Mace demanded the best of services, and his goodfather provided him with that. Can you give me a little indication?"
Ken shook his head, "I can't, Maester, not now at least. But if you must know, then know this, history is repeating itself." He looked at the older man pointedly.
Theomalt sighed, "Very well, I won't ask you any further. But tell me, Maester Ken, if this time a proposal of becoming an Archmaester is placed before you, would you finally abide by our wishes?"
Ken smiled sadly, "I am afraid I must decline once again, Maester. You above all else know how much I wanted to become an Archmaester. It has been my dream for many years. But if my doubts are proven right, I am to stay where I am, for I will then need to account for the unforeseen difficulties."
Theomalt reached out and patted Ken's hand, "I understand, lad. I am well aware of the sacrifices you have made for your dream, for us. I pray to the Gods that you finally receive the reward for your hardships." He grabbed one of the still-ignored cups of ales and raised it. Ken copied his action.
"Tell me about acolyte Thornigold, Archmaester."
Theomalt hummed in thought, "Loyal, hardworking. Cleaver but brutish when the situation calls for him to be. He does remind me of the younger you, Ken."
Ken smirked, "Is it a wonder why I don't like him much then? I cannot stand my past self."
Theomalt laughed at his old pupil's reply.
He didn't know where he was being kept prisoner, or who it was that brought him here or on whose order. He was asked by the brothel master, Lyneas to attend to the man who came calling during the day. He, the patron, was quite into his cups if the slurring of his tongue and swaying feet were of any indication. He was a bit afraid of once more venturing out of the brothel's safety after what had happened the last time he was asked to, but no one could say no to the brothel master's orders if they were to retain their place and livelihood.
The creaking of the door broke him out of his musings and he turned towards the door of the room he was locked in. There stood a lad a little younger than him. He was truly confused, he had been expecting some grown men to come to either beat him, rape him or kill him. But now they had sent a little boy?
"Er… you want somethin' to eat?" The boy asked.
Even though his clothes were of good quality, his tongue and manner of speech screamed his station, the same station he himself was born in, he had enough training in the brothel to discern the anomaly.
"Uh… yes, I could eat…" He replied carefully.
The younger boy nodded happily, he gave him a huge smile and opened the doors wider to come inside. He was carrying a small bundle in his other hand. He watched on silently as the boy padded towards the almost bare bed and put down the bundle. It turned out to contain a loaf of freshly baked bread, a wedge of cheese and a few strips of salted meat. There was water plenty in the pitcher at the corner of the room to quench his thirst.
The young boy looked at him expectantly, he was yet to move from his spot.
"Well… go on. Eat."
He nodded and carefully reached for the bread. His hand stopped only an inch from it as he looked back at the boy, he received an encouraging smile to proceed. He tore a small chunk of the bread and stuffed it in his mouth. It was still pleasantly warm, he had to keep himself from moaning from its rich taste.
"My name is Kurt."
He didn't know when he had closed his eyes as he chewed on the fresh bread, which was quite a luxury for him. The boy had, in the meanwhile, poured a cup of water from the pitcher and handed it to him. He gave him a tiny nod of gratitude as he gulped the cold water.
"S-Satin, my name is Satin…" He stuttered a little. The boy, Kurt, only smiled at him. Satin concentrated on the food before him while keeping a wary eye on the boy. Once he was full and had a long chug of the cold water to wash the last of the cheese down, he thought to ask his next set of questions.
"Um… wh- where am I?"
"You are in our manse, innit?" Kurt cocked his head to a side, Satin knew that he asked the right question, but apparently to the wrong person. Still, he decided to test his fortune, well or ill – whatever it might be, a little more.
"An' um… do ya know why I am here?" His nerves wiped the polish off of his speech.
Kurt nodded happily, "Milord an' Ser wanted to speak with ya."
However, Satin didn't feel the assurance the reply Kurt thought would bring him. He was wanted by a lord, for a secret he never wanted to know or pass on. But who could make the nobles listen to the pleas of smallfolk? And wasn't the lord's brother a knight? The Lord himself was trying to earn the spurs if the rumours he had heard were true.
"T-truly?" He squeaked.
"Aye," Kurt nodded happily, "I was tol' to bring ya to them after ya finished yer meal."
So the loaf of bread and the wedge of cheese were his last meal before his execution? He should count himself fortunate because he had heard about the gruel they serve at the Black Cells. His last meal was moderately better than that, or the bowl o' brown from Flea Bottom. His meal at least consisted of meat.
Kurt jumped down from the bed, he was bouncing on his toes before the disbelieving eyes of Satin.
"Come on, then. They are waitin' fer ya!"
Satin nodded reluctantly and slowly got to his feet. Kurt almost ran out of the room in excitement as he followed after the boy with stumbling feet.
The previous day, he hadn't paid any mind to his surroundings. The man who got him out of the brothel had changed his behaviour that much abruptly that he had been scared witless since then. He was scared still, but there was a kind of calmness about his fear now. Did he accept his fate? Anyway, his eyes landed on the yard where a group of men were practising. There wasn't any banner or colours of the house on display, but he was almost certain that he was among the Northerners. It didn't make any sense to the youth. Why would the Northerners bring him into their midst?
Kurt led him to what seemed to him as the solar of the lord of the manse, and if his observation was correct, then it was the solar of Lord Robb Stark, the heir to the North. And his brother, the knight was none other than the White Wolf.
Kurt stopped before the closed doors and spoke quietly to one of the guards standing on either side. The man nodded and ducked inside the room. Kurt turned to face him.
"They'll be seein' ya now. I'm gonna go an' find Maester Wade for me lessons now."
Satin was even more confused; what lesson was the boy talking about? As far as he knew, no Maester ever went through the pains of teaching the smallfolk. He had learned his letters from the acolytes who frequented the brothel and if they were feeling generous.
The guard returned and held the door open for him. Satin took a deep breath and gave Kurt a grimacing smile.
"My thanks… for the meal…"
The near-empty solar had no other fixtures than the lord's desk and seat. Lord Robb was sitting behind the said desk with a few parchments on the desk along with a few quills and an inkpot. A single chair was placed before the desk which remained empty. The other occupant of the room, the White Wolf, was standing beside the window leaning lazily against the wall.
"Milords." Satin bent from the waist as he was taught and greeted the lordlings.
"Your name is Satin?" Asked Lord Robb.
"Y-yes, milord."
Lord Robb nodded. He turned his head to look at his brother, "Jon?"
Ser Jon straightened and walked forward to the desk. Satin could feel that his knees were trembling, he didn't know for how long he would remain standing. Should he have relieved himself before following Kurt? He was sure that pissing inside of a lord's solar would never be taken lightly. Would they exact the punishment before or after his beheading?
"You are afraid of us, Satin," Ser Jon stated as he sat down on the desk. "I can assure you that neither I nor my brother wishes you harm. You have nothing to fear from us. We only wanted to have a few words with you. Go on," he indicated with his head, "take the seat."
Sitting down? In front of a noble-born? Not any noble-born but a future Lord Paramount? He was sure that his sweat would cause a flood inside of the room if he didn't piss himself.
"Go on, lad, sit," urged Lord Robb.
Gulping in fear, he tentatively reached out and touched the chair. When neither said a word, he sat down, painfully slow. The lordlings patiently waited for him.
"Excellent," Ser Jon leaned forward rubbing his hands together. "I gather that you have recently acquired a very powerful enemy. We would like to hear about your account."
His nails dug painfully into his palms to draw blood.
"I-I know nothin', Ser… I tol' no one. Please, don' kill me…" he broke out in a sob.
Ser Jon reached out and grabbed his shoulder, making him flinch under the touch.
"Trust us, Satin, we don't seek to harm you. We want to help you, and keep you alive. A very powerful individual, more powerful than any of us, asked us to help you. You are needed for the betterment of Seven Kingdoms, lad. The Realms of Men are in need of you."
Satin didn't know whether it was the knight's gentle words or his unbelievable claims, but the boy did stop crying. Eyes bursting out of his sockets, he looked at the living legend sitting on the desk in front of him.
"I-I am jus' Satin, Ser… jus' a whore from Old Town… R-realms of Men…?"
Ser Jon removed his hand from his shoulder and sat back.
"Not long ago, I was just Jon. A bastard from the North. But fate made me Ser Jon, the White Wolf. Instead of being just a lowly bastard, albeit noble-born, now, I have become the Protector of Innocents, the Sword of Justice. We each have a role to play in fate's game, my young friend."
Satin still looked at the man with disbelieving eyes.
Ser Jon sighed, "Very well then, let me tell you a secret. Do you believe in the Gods?" Satin nodded, his look of incredulity had spoken in volume about what he thought of the man for asking him the question. "I do too. And I have met a woman of faith. She blessed me with this." Ser Jon plucked a charm tied to a leather cord that hung around his neck. "It was her who asked us to lend a helping hand to you. She can speak with the Seven, lad. She is truly as powerful as I am saying. She said that you are an important cog in the Seven's plans, and I would be damned if I don't do my best to keep you alive. Do you understand what I am saying?"
Satin didn't. Still, he nodded.
"Good, now, can you please tell us what you witnessed?"
Stutteringly, Satin told his story. He thought even if the Northerners were lying to him, he would abide by their ridiculous claims. They couldn't kill him more than once, could they?
"I-I worked in Lyneas' brothel from th' day I could walk. Never knew me mum. Some say she was a whore, some say she was a lady. I never saw her. After me ten name-days, Lyneas trained me to become a bed-mate of visiting lords an' ladies. He arranged for the acolytes to teach me letters. 'Cause, he said, the lords an' ladies like to fuck someone who can beg fer more in polished words. I… he was asked fer me more than any other boys or girls in the brothel. 'Cause I speak sweetly, an' can sing summat.
B-before the tourney, a young lord came ta me brothel, an' asked fer me. He dinnit bed me there, but he took me inta the forest. He fucked me there sayin' how much he liked me. He said he would visit me soon before leavin' me to the brothel again."
"You didn't see this young lord before?" Ser Jon asked.
"No, Ser. Old Town has many travellers. An' he dinnit wore his sigil or colours. I thought he was one of the passing traders or summat like that."
Ser Jon nodded, "Go on…"
"I saw him again when you went ta Citadel with yer Maester, Ser. I saw him sittin' beside Lord Tyrell. It was me day off an' I wanted to see ya swing yer sword. I dinnit know his name so I asked. Summan tol' me he was Lord Loras."
Ser Jon and Lord Robb exchanged a look between them.
"He came fer me again the same day. An' in the forest, when I called him by his name, he started to beat me. He was chockin' me but there was noises in the forest. He left me on the ground and ran with his horse. I was hurtin' to move so I lay there. I looked from between the branches. It was ye, milords. Ye went ta visit yer wolves, an' that's the noise chased the lord off. Ya saved me." Satin was trembling. He had his head lowered and his arms wrapped around his torso.
"After you gone, I picked meself up an' gone back. I thought ta leave by ship, but all o' 'em was under th' command o' Highgarden, I could tell by th' colours they flew. I dinnit wanna run on foot. He will chase me down an' kill me."
A mug of cold water was placed under his nose.
"Drink this, lad, you will feel better."
Satin grabbed the mug and drained it, nodding his head in thanks.
"Idiot!" Lord Robb growled, "What was he thinking? Nobody would recognize his face. He is the youngest son of the Lord Paramount!"
Ser Jon had gone back to the window and was looking outside. "Was he drunk, Satin?" He asked without turning.
"Yes, Ser… deep in his cups, he was… both days…"
"So," Ser Jon turned around slowly, "when Loras Tyrell is drunk out of his gourd, he can't contain his cock within his breeches, and afterwards when he is found, he tries to silence the voice."
"Why would he want to kill Satin?"
Jon rubbed his face tiredly, "The lad now holds a threat over his head. If it comes out that the Lord of Reach's youngest son prefers the company of men, he could be banished from the lands of his forefathers, if not summarily sent to the Wall to alleviate the shame he would bring to his family. On the other side, if the boy dies, it only would matter to his immediate acquaintances. For the rest of the crowd, he was just another whore who lost his life to one of his unsavoury patrons. Not a cause of concern, to the nobles of this city."
Satin had gone white as bone. He had heard what the two lordlings before him were talking so carelessly about. He understood that his life meant nothing to these nobles, but… Ser Jon did swear that he wanted to help him, did he dare to hope for his mercy?
"You do realize that your life is forfeit in this city, don't you lad?" Satin was broken out of his thoughts by Ser Jon's question.
"Y-yes, Ser." He stammered.
"So, what do you want to do now?"
Satin grimaced, what could he do by staying? He would be dead, even if he swore to not reveal the lord's secret, they would never let him be to become even more of a danger further down the road.
"I-I could leave…er… I don' have any coin… but I can ask for a passage an' pay my way by workin' at the ship." He offered.
"You want to leave the Seven Kingdoms?"
Satin shook his head, "I don' wantin' to, Ser… But them Tyrells won't let me live…"
It was Lord Robb who spoke to him, "And if we are to give you another option, are you willing to trust us and abide by our plan?"
Again, Satin was rendered speechless, "Why would ya do that, milord? 'M just a lowborn whore from Old Town."
"As my brother told you, lad, we were asked by a woman of faith. Now, do you want to hear out our plan or not?" Receiving a nod, he continued, "You do know about our Maester who travels with us?" Another nod. "Well, his journey with us is at an end. He will be returning to Winterfell, and we, the Wolf Pack, will continue with our journey to the eastern continent. What I want you to consider is, travelling with our Maester. You will act as his acolyte on his way back to North. Do you think you can do that, Satin?"
"I-I know me letters an' numbers summat, milord, but I ain't good enough ta become an acolyte…" Satin stammered.
"We are not asking you to become an acolyte, lad," Ser Jon spoke up this time, "we are merely asking you to act like one. A mummer's farce, if you will."
Satin nodded confusedly, "Um… I think I can…"
The lordlings nodded happily, "Good, we want you to act as our eyes and ears on the journey back. But the real purpose of your journey is to discreetly deliver a chest to Lord Howland Reed, the lord of Greywater Watch."
"I've never been ta Greywater Watch, milords…"
"We are aware of that." Lord Robb said as he pulled a piece of parchment back to him and started to write something on it, but he still spoke to the boy, "Chances are that Lord Reed will have his men there to receive you when you reach White Harbour. If not, you will then need to give this missive to Lord Manderly. He is to provide you with means to travel to the Moat and from there, to Greywater Watch." The young lord rolled up the parchment he wrote and sealed with wax, making an impression of a direwolf sigil on the still soft material with a little bronze stamp.
Satin looked on as the young lords put together a small bundle that contained a small wooden chest, and what looked like an old and worn-out leather glove.
"Am I to stay at Greywater Watch, milord?" Satin wanted to know what they had thought about the rest of his life.
Ser Jon smiled at him, "That is a decision for you to make, lad. While House Reed may not be one of the wealthier houses, they will not turn you away if you decide to become a part of their household. But that will mean that you have to stay within the Marshland indefinitely. The rest of the North may not take kindly to you because you are from the south.
Or, you can travel further up north and visit the Wall. The Watch is always in need of capable men to serve. You can start your life there anew. It may not be an ideal life, but Northerners still think of it as a noble calling. There, if you take the black, you can become a brother of the Watch, and forever lose the blemish of being Satin, the whore of Old Town."
Ser Jon sighed and looked down at his hands, "It may seem insincere if not cruel coming from me, for advising you of joining the watch… But if life had taken a different direction for me, mayhaps I would have donned the black cloak myself…"
Lord Robb reached over and patted the knight on his shoulder. The brothers looked into each other's faces and seemingly had a silent conversation before they both nodded. Ser Jon turned to look at Satin once more.
"If you, however, decide to continue your journey to the wall, you should reach out for the First Ranger, Benjen Stark and the Maester of the Watch, Maester Aemon. Tell them that Robb Stark and Jon Snow sent you."
Satin slowly nodded. He had a lot of things to mull over and to make certain decisions about the rest of his life.
[CotW]
"Hvat gerþúr hugshansr decision munu munu?" (What do you think his decision will be?)
"At er entirely inn hans hands, er þat eigi, bróðir? okkarr lady hugsr hon megdiscernr veileðinn images ór fate. en fran hvat lorð bloodraven tolð oss, vér megeingar glimpse inn í futurerinn. Þeir Mayeðar Mayeigir komtruer. Fyrir hon sá sveinnrinn á á ór veggrinn mit mér. Ok hí ek em, um til líðár sjaurinn kingdoms. Okkarr paths Mayeigir kross inn þessi life again." (That is entirely in his hands, is it not, brother? Our lady thinks she can discern the veiled images of fate... but from what Lord Bloodraven told us, we can only glimpse into the future. They may or may not come true. For she saw the boy on top of the Wall with me... And here I am, about to go beyond the Seven Kingdoms. Our paths may not cross in this life again.)
"Vér trieð til deter hann fran hans andlát, gerði eigi vér?" (We tried to deter him from his death, didn't we?)
"Mayhaps vér gerði, eðvérr eigeigir. Vætki er setjinnr stone anymore, bróðir." (Mayhaps we did, or we haven't. Nothing is set in stone anymore, brother.)
"Hvat eru vér til gernúr?" (What are we to do now?)
"Nú, vér þorfutilr ascertain at falconinn khick's frændagreesr til sail með okkarr missive, ok fyrir oss til ensconce khickinn hann sjálfr within hárinn tower." (Now, we need to ascertain that the falcon chick's friend agrees to sail with our missive and for us to ensconce the chick himself within the high tower.)
The entirety of the city was enshrouded in a festive frame of mind, the grown men and women had a smile on their faces as they slowly made their way to the tourney ground. Running ahead of them were the children, waving sticks in their hands, pretending to be the knights they had seen fighting in the melee days prior. Only stopping their ever-busy feet to look at the passing noble on the horseback in reverence. For these men would participate in the joust on this day. Bedecked in their finery – from the armours they wore to the drapes on the back of their horses – the mounted men made quite intimidating figures.
But among them, rode in the group of four, trailed by a few of their men a little further, for whom the children broke their awed silence and cheered at the top of their lungs. For this group consisted of the famed White Wolf, the young knight who had made himself famous for his deeds at such a young age. And unlike the other nobles, this man never sneered at the unwashed masses but had a smile on his face when he looked at the cheering children and waved at them.
"They are going to be quite saddened when they learn that the White Wolf won't be riding the tilt today." Asher thought out loud.
Jon only shrugged, "I was never one to compete in jousting, we don't see the need of doing that back at home. I only did it once for a certain reason." He looked at his brothers pointedly.
"Nonetheless, you would need to take part in some of them. If not now, then in the future, for sure." Torrhen, ever the voice of reason, returned the look.
"Aye, he does. And do not forget, quite a few ladies also expected to be crowned by Ser White Wolf. Instead, today they have to be content with Forrester." Robb said with a smirk.
"Your faith in my abilities is astounding, Stark, but I could do without the veiled insults." Asher snarked, making the others laugh.
"I wanted to speak with you about the joust, Asher…" Jon hesitated.
"What is it?"
With a sigh, he turned to look at the young man in his eyes, "If you go against the Chick, I want you to hold back…"
Asher frowned, "You want me to forfeit the bout to him?"
"Not deliberately, no, but you will need to make it look like he won after quite the struggle."
"To entice the Rose even more, mayhaps?" Asher nodded understandingly.
"We can only hope. From what we heard, the elder brother is quite the rider himself, and the younger may be flashy with his swords, but still, was trained to ride the tilt since he could discern a horse's head from its arse. I will have to look at the list and calculate your opponents. It is a possibility that you will be going up against one of them, if not today, then tomorrow or the day after. It seems that the Reach produces knights by dozens. Just take a look around us. We didn't have this many participants in the melee as the men wanted a chance to get the purse for the joust and the bigger purse, along with the chance to be recognized by the Warden of the South, or moreover, his daughter."
The observation was not wrong, for there were many mounted men on their way to the tourney ground. Noble lords of the Reach; knights and their squires; hedge knights; even one or two commoners from the ranks of the guards had come out for a chance to the winning purse. The Northerners were quite taken aback by the sheer number of men. They did come from a tourney at Kings' Landing, but even the King's Tourney didn't boast this strong a number. If nothing else, it proved the strength of the Reach's claim about being the host of one of the largest armies in all of the Seven Kingdoms.
"That would mean no wager this time." Robb made a face.
"Father will tan your hide if he comes to know about your gambling, Robb," Jon shook his head. "However, I don't think you will have the chance to wager this time around. You are to convince the Forlorn Lady's paramour to act as our little guard. Remember, you need to entice him enough so he could be persuaded to leave the Chick behind for a journey to White Harbour."
Robb sobered up, "Aye, that should prove challenging enough."
They stopped their conversation when a little girl ran forward to offer the flower in her hand to Jon. He leaned down from his saddle to accept the gift with a gentle smile on his face.
"Seeing them, I do feel guilty about leaving Kurt behind at the manse." Robb looked down.
"And how else do you propose to keep an eye on our guest, brother? Kurt is a good lad, he knows his duties."
"At his age, we would have snuck out of the manse to see the tourney at any cost."
"That only proves the fact that Kurt is better than we ever were. If nothing else -" Jon suddenly stopped speaking. The others looked at him to find his gaze fixed on a small knot among the walking crowd, consisting of a few old men in Maester's garbs. They failed to find any suspicious or threatening presence in their immediate vicinity for their brother to act in such a way.
"Jon?" Asher reached over and touched his shoulder, which seemed to jolt him back to his awareness.
"Forgive me, I was lost in my thoughts for a moment."
"What is it, Jon?"
"It was nothing, truly," Jon smiled at his brothers, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "We are finally here. Come, Asher, let us find our place." He spurred Midnight from walking to a slow canter and pulled ahead of them, leaving the other three quite confused in his wake.
While the Lord of Highgarden could be called a pompous, vain man, his lady mother was nothing of that sort. The old lady from the houses Redwyne and Tyrell were one of the sharpest minds of Westeros, with an even sharper tongue. From her general appearances to her daily schedule, everything was planned to the utmost of her abilities to only make her family the strongest among all. And for that matter, she had invited the most sensible of her grandchildren – namely Wilas and Margaery, for a discussion of their observations and gleamed information, for she had neither the patience nor care of her son's oafish behaviours, much like her late husband – Lord Luthor Tyrell, to her never-ending shame.
Margaery matched her gait to her brother's as they approach their lady grandmother's solar. Twin brothers Erryk and Arryk, the ever-faithful personal guards of Lady Olenna stood as still as stone-hewn statues on each side of the doors. Lady Olenna called them by Left and Right, she claimed that she could never distinguish between the twins, but Margaery thought differently. It could be yet another layer of the Queen of Thorn's intrigue that she had layered upon her persona. For even she, as her loving granddaughter, doubted the frailness of her appearance. Nevertheless, she smiled brilliantly at the pair as they passed the doors. Wilas only gave them a nod.
"Grandmother!" She enthused as she almost bounded up to her seat and pecked her cheek. Wilas approached far more sedately as permitted by his lame leg and carefully bent down to place a small kiss of his own on the older lady's other cheek.
"Yes, yes. My old shrivelled heart swells to see you this morning. Now, please close the door and take your seats. We have much to discuss." Margaery dutifully obeyed and closed the doors, she was habituated to the rebukes. Harsh might her words be, her deeds were much harsher and it was all because the old lady had taken to heart the words of the house she married into – Growing Strong. Lady Olenna Tyrell would do anything she deemed worth to see her family's ever-growing influence.
"Why don't you start today, Wilas," she looked pointedly at his eldest and the cleverest of her grandchildren. Sometimes she doubted Mace to be his and Margaery's sire – for Garlan and Loras, she was certain of it.
"The most astonishing fact for me is still grandfather's sudden appearance, and the subsequent miraculous recovery of Aunt Malora." Wilas sighed in contentment as he leaned back in his seat, stretching his injured leg in front of him.
"I had a meeting with Gormon," Olenna stopped to eat a small piece of cheese from the platter on the table. Her grandchildren were waiting eagerly for her to finish and continue the conversation. They knew asking her about it would prove nothing but their eagerness, and they were indeed eager. For Gormon was their granduncle, a brother to the late Lord Luthor, and a Maester of the Citadel. Anything he had to say in the matter of the 'Miracle Maid' as people had taken to call Malora Hightower, was to be intriguing for certain.
Olenna proceeded to sip a little wine after she finished her cheese. Wiping her mouth, she observed the pair of youths in front of her. Even though her face never showed it, she was quite amused to see their impatience.
"Gormon was baffled, obviously." Olenna finally took pity on the pair, "It was not even two months since he and a few other Maesters went to check up on the Mad Maiden, and they didn't see anything that could have indicated her recovery. However, now we are witness to a girl who, most shockingly, after spending more than a decade without any coherent thoughts of her own, appears to be the most learned individual outside of the Citadel. I heard from Gormon that Malora Hightower has engaged in a friendly debate with an acolyte on the verge of forging his bronze and red gold links as completion of his studies in history, money and accounts, believe it or not, the lass had the man loss for his words with her observation of some hard to agree with facts regarding the history of Westeros."
"The Maesters can't think of anything? Anything at all?" Margaery asked with a frown. It is rather strange and very much unbelievable, after all.
"Absolutely nothing." Olenna said with a nod, "Appearance-wise, she was never neglected. Leyton had the oldest and most loyal of the household staff under his strict confidence and employ, solely to serve his daughter with utmost care. They were paid by the man himself and were ordered to cater solely for the two. They were to have no connection with the rest of the family.
So Malora, while insane, was never neglected. As for her speech and babblings. It was even stranger. Gormon said she spoke in a language which was unknown to most of the Maesters."
"Most?" Asked Wilas.
"I wanted to see if you were paying attention." Olenna gave an approving nod to her grandson. "Yes, I said most because only one of the men from Citadel apparently understood her babbles and tried to talk to her."
"Who is this man, Grandmother?"
"Marwyn." Olenna spat with disgust.
"Marwyn the Mage?!" Wilas said in a disbelieving tone, "He said he understood the madness?"
"Not the madness itself, no, but her babblings. He said she was speaking in Old Tongue-"
"Old Tongue? But that is the dead language from-" Margaery couldn't help herself as she blurted it out.
"From the North. Yes, I know child. Now if you will stop interrupting me and let me continue?" Olenna snapped at the girl.
Suitably chastened, Margaery shrank back into her chair. "Forgive me, Grandmother."
Olenna glared with narrowed eyes before she continued speaking. "According to Marwyn, Malora Hightower, who never set foot out of Old Town, suddenly developed a strange understanding of a dead language of another place. Well enough to carry out a conversation in the said language. Marwyn tried to convince the Maesters who regularly looked after the treatment of the girl, but they scoffed at the idea naturally. But the Mage made himself available to regularly attach himself to the Citadel contingent to check up on her. Leyton was said to learn some of it from the Mage to help his daughter, but at his age, he wasn't able to take up a new language save for a few short phrases.
When asked, the Mage said that most of their conversation was about old lore, from all around the continent. Things about children's tales and myths. Stories about kings of old and their legends. He said that these talks, while intriguing, were nothing of import to others. He tried to track down the acolyte who was teaching the girl her letters and numbers and supplied her with books to see if she took up those stories before she went mad, but I heard that search was for nought because the man was dead. He didn't try for anything else."
Wilas nodded thoughtfully, "Did Marwyn find some cure for her at his last visit?"
Olenna shook her head, "One would think so. But no, Marwyn didn't visit her for over half a year. He was on another of his trips to Essos and didn't return till the group already had their visit, which is once every three months. So, it wasn't Marwyn who cured her."
"Could the Northerners be responsible for this?" Margaery asked timidly, she didn't want to be rebuked for a second time. But when she didn't receive the scolding she expected, she jumped forth with her reasoning, "What I meant to say is, Grandfather broke his own rule and came out of his seclusion, only to dine and talk with the Northerners. He even ventured out of the keep for the first time in years only to watch the presentation of the Northerners. And the Maester of Winterfell is currently residing at the Citadel."
Olenna nodded, "While possible, I can't say it was the cause for certain. The Maester never came to the castle and while the lordlings did visit, none of them are trained in medicine. My source from North said that the Stark boys only attended for the basic lessons, well, the lord's lessons for the heir and the more basic ones for the bastard. However, neither of them was inclined to medical learning. They were more interested in rolling around the mud as all boys do."
Margaery had to put her hand up to her mouth to stop herself from snickering at the affronted look on Wilas' face. While her eldest brother was more gentle and studious of the siblings, he too was quite fond of swordsmanship and jousting before his injury.
"The bastard was studious and was found often to be reading large tomes in their library," Olenna continued, ignoring her granddaughter's antics. "But they were all historical accounts that he read only to tell the stories to the Stark children later. But that was before they went away for their fosterage, and I don't think that they became acclaimed healers or such while they were away."
"If it weren't the Northerners, then what it could be?" Wilas asked.
With a heavy frown, Olenna replied, "That is a question I want the answer to more than anything. I don't believe in miracles... or as Marwyn would have us believe, in magic." She sighed and poured some more wine into her goblet. Sipping it, she observed the two over the rim. "Furthermore, a girl who never received any proper instruction after she was ten name-days old, now suddenly appears as a proper scholar, with all her behaviours apropos to her station? Her poise is perfect, manners impeccable. It is as if she had not spent the last decade and a half secluded in her rooms because of her mental instability. How is that possible? And her sudden religious urges? I hear she is a frequent visitor at the Starry Sept. Granted, I would become a devotee after recovering from a long illness. But not to the point of being second to a Septa? She herself has said to me that she doesn't have any plan to join the Faith, then why does she spend most of her time with the Seven? What is she trying to hide?" Olenna said the last bits to herself before she shook her head to rid of those thoughts.
"That was my most concerning matter. What have you learned?"
From a silent discussion amongst them, Wilas was elected to present his information first.
"I have received credible information to complement the rumours we have been receiving that the Mountain was truly slain. It was not some drunken rumours as we are led to believe at first. Once again, the Bastard of Winterfell is at the centre of this story. He rode against the Mountain at one of the final bouts. After a few broken lances for the both of them, Ser Jon's lance somehow found the gap between his helm and chest armour, the lancehead bypassed the gorget and pierced the soft area just under the man's throat. It is also said that Ser Jon was the first to attend to the injured man. He was seen to try and staunch the bleeding till the Maester on duty arrived. But the Mountain was beyond anyone's help. I believe it was only his physic that let the man cling to life and prolonged his suffering. Ser Jon, after getting the Maester's confirmation, took a sword from his friend and granted him the mercy of death by beheading him."
"So it wasn't a planned assassination then?" Olenna asked.
"By the way the whole incident happened, I would say no to that. Helms are made to prevent this kind of accident. And even if somehow something gets lodged within the gap, the gorget is there to protect the part. I don't think a man like the Mountain would be baring his throat to an opponent, and the said opponent would not have the time to aim his lance in that precise manner.
Furthermore, Ser Jon immediately after beheading the Mountain, surrendered himself to the King. I hear an impromptu council was convened with the King, the Hand and Lord Tywin where they asked the aiding Maester about his findings. The man corroborated what everyone saw and declared the whole thing as it was, an accident, so Ser Jon was deemed innocent and let go."
"Very well, we shall move on from it then. What else?" Olenna urged.
"Once again, this next bit of information is regarding the Mountain."
"What, don't tell me that the man rose from his death?" Olenna snorted in her goblet.
"No, it was the fact that there was nothing of his corpse left to bury the man properly."
It was fortunate that the older woman had already placed her goblet back on the table, else she would have choked on the wine. "What do you mean?" She spluttered, "I thought it was a simple beheading."
"Oh, it was. But his corpse was vandalized while it was held in the vigil. And the biggest chunk they found was what remained of his left foot."
Margaery had turned green hearing that gory description, but Olenna became short of breath.
"Targaryen loyalists?" She wheezed.
"No, hungry dogs."
"Pardon?"
Wilas sighed as he put his empty goblet down on the table, he was thinking about pouring himself another one, but he too was afraid of his grandmother.
"The Mountain's loyal men, who were holding his vigil, gorged themselves with food and wine in another room and left the body alone. They didn't close the doors properly in their drunken revelry. It was the next day that some neighbour found a Gold Cloak petrol and complained to them about a quarrelling bunch of dogs making an unholy din. They came to the spot to find that the dogs were fighting over human body parts – the Mountain's body parts."
Margaery jumped to her feet and ran off to the privy. It didn't shock Wilas as he was afraid that would be the result when his little sister heard the sorry tale right after the morning meal. But he was astounded by his grandmother's reaction. The old lady had her head thrown back and was laughing a deep, belly laugh.
"It seems that fate has a great sense of humour. Eaten by dogs! House Clegane has the sigil of three dogs, is it not?"
"Yes, Grandmother."
Lady Olenna was still chuckling when Margaery returned. "Forgive me, Grandmother, Wilas. I couldn't control myself." She was still looking a bit ill.
"Understandable, sweet girl. You are still much young. But you need to become better than that. You need to show the world that you are made of sterner stuff."
Margaery nodded, "Yes, Grandmother, I promise that I will not let you down."
"Anything else, Wilas?"
Wilas shook his head, "Further confirmation about the dragon eggs and the bandit activities on the Rose Road. I believe I have disclosed both of my findings before. Other than that, there was a spot of trouble in the city about a missing boy from a local brothel, I have nothing else."
Olenna nodded, "Margaery, what have you, child?"
The girl took a deep breath to calm herself. It wouldn't do for her to appear excited and say things out of sequence to her grandmother. The old lady wasn't averse to tanning her hide if she had done so. Not even her father, the Lord Warden of South would have any say if that was to happen.
"As you wanted, Grandmother, I have tried to ingratiate myself with the Queen. But I am too young for her to confide in even by mistake. I tried to exchange places with Mother so she can get some information from the Queen, but I have my doubts about her success."
Olenna impatiently waved her hand, "I already know that, girl. That is why I advised you to befriend the Princess. What have you learned from her?"
"Oh, I have heard the sweetest tales from her." Margaery gushed, "Once more, the Northerners, or to be more precise, the Bastard paints a dominant figure in these tales. As you have heard, he won the jousting and declared the crown for the Queen. But what was lost in between the rumours was the fact that he apparently stood up on his saddle after declaring for the Queen and presented a blood rose from the said crown and hand it to the girl and declared her as his Princess of Love and Beauty. She appears to be quite smitten with the handsome knight."
Olenna nodded thoughtfully, "Ned Stark's bastard trying win favours with the King and his family. What is he after? Recognition, or legitimization? But after him earning the spurs, it is not recognition he would seek after, would he? Does he want to become a landed knight with the King's blessing? A small lordship somewhere near the Crownsland, mayhaps. That would certainly be the more attractive reward for someone of his station."
"Well, he may not be Ned Stark's bastard, at all…" Margaery trailed off.
"You mean to say the other rumours about him being Brandon Stark's get?"
Wilas cleared his throat for a way in the conversation, "That could be the truth, Grandmother. Granted, almost none of the people who were present at Harrenhal are alive now. But we have one such person within our household at Highgarden. The helper who assists my stablemaster was just a lad of thirteen name-days when he, along with his father who was a horsetrader, was there at the Tourney of Harrenhal. Neither Brandon Stark nor Ashara Dayne had forgettable personalities. The man swears in the name of his ancestors that he had seen the then heir of Winterfell in a quite compromising position with the lady of Starfall."
"And the air was rife with various rumours and stories right after that accursed tourney. Rhaegar's plan of naming a Grand Council or his plan to dethrone his father was prominent among them." Olenna muttered.
"Prince Rhaeger planned to usurp his father's crown?" Margaery asked excitedly.
Olenna waved her hand dismissively, "That was the talk within the shadows. And quite intriguing such talks were. After Duskendale, Aerys seemed to become madder by the day. The curse of the dragonblood afflicted him so that he himself became the cause of rifts between his relation and friendship with two other Great Houses. First, he insults Tywin Lannister by rejecting his offer of betrothal between Cersei and Rhaegar. Then he had the man removed from his position of the Hand of King.
Later, Aerys seemed to have employed the last of his cunning in removing Steffon Baratheon when he sent him and his wife to the eastern lands to find a proper wife for the Crown Prince. Their ship never returned to Stormfall. It is said that Stannis Baratheon saw his parents' ship sinking from the castle when it came up against those traitorous rocks. None save a fool named Patchface made it alive to the shore."
"It is of no wonder that King Roberts hates the Targaryens. His parents were killed off doing their bidding, then there was the whole affair about Lyanna Stark." Margaery said sagely.
"Yes, quite." Agreed Olenna, "As I was saying, the tourney at Harrenhal was supposed to be the secret convention of this so-called Grand Committee. But Aerys - through that eunuch Varys, no doubt – came to know about it and decided to visit the place himself. Then all seemed to fall apart from under everyone with the incident of that damned Knight of the Laughing Tree. And a couple of years later, the war broke out.
But it was the years in between leading to the year which should be our concern. Brandon Stark was called the Wild Wolf, for it was said that there was no maiden safe from his pounce. It's a true wonder that there are no bastards by that man's loin cropping up by the bunch. But in those years, he was said to be out of the North more than he stayed at his home. Visiting his betroth, they said, Hoster Tully's eldest daughter. But was it true? Ashara Dayne also made quite a few journeys to and from Kings' Landing and her home at Starfall during this time, with her being a handmaiden of Elia Martell."
"So Jon Snow is truly Brandon Stark's son?" Margaery wanted to know.
Olenna shook her head irritably, "For the lack of better proof, let us say he is. But why would Eddard Stark claim him as his bastard? To honour his dead brother? To spare his now wife but the then betrothed of Brandon Stark – Catelyn Tully of the heartbreak because of her betrothed's dalliance? Or was it indeed true that Eddard was enamoured with the Lady of Starfall and tried to protect her name?"
"This White Wolf is as wild as the Brandon Stark if the rumours about him hold even a shadow of truth in them – Venturing over the Wall; racing down the Kingsroad with a direwolf on horseback; his battle prowess. And above all, he is the only warrior in recent history to proficiently wield dual swords – just the same as his apparent uncle, Ser Arthur Dayne. And all of these are apart from the very glaring fact, his purple eyes – eyes that the Daynes are famous to have been born with." Wilas looked pointedly at his grandmother.
"Are you trying to say that the Dayne blood sings true within the wolf's veins?"
Wilas only shrugged, "Mayhaps."
Olenna hummed in thought, "It still doesn't shed any light on the fact that Eddard Stark lied about the boy's birth. Why did he do it? I want to see the man's reaction by mentioning the bastard to him. Since the man is reluctant to leave his frozen hell, it will only be possible if we make the journey to him."
Wilas smirked hearing the lady's comment, "Mayhaps I can be of some help in that. I have recently received a missive from the North about increased orders of grains and fruits. Highgarden is quite within its rights to verify the talks of export taxes and other levies that may incur with this increased order."
Margaery jumped in her seat, "Oh Grandmother, can I please accompany Wilas on his trip to the North? I am sure it will be a very enlightening journey." She implored her grandmother with a wide-eyed look of innocence.
Olenna huffed at that, "Put those eyes away, girl. Don't forget that it was I who taught you the trick. Wilas can make the journey, but you have to convince your father about accompanying him. I can't make it because it will raise questions about the truthfulness of my ill health. But a visit to Winterfell is inevitable it seems."
"Oh, thank you, Grandmother!" Margaery gushed. She was quite certain that her father wouldn't be able to say no to her. It was her grandmother who would have raised an objection. As for her mother, neither her father nor grandmother paid any mind to her. So, Margaery was already planning the journey to the North in her mind. She was only broken out of her thoughts when her grandmother spoke directly to her.
"We have deviated quite far from what you were saying, child. Now, please continue."
"Oh, of course." She took a moment to rearrange her thoughts, "So, Ser Jon has declared the Queen and her daughter, the Princess as his Queen and Princess of Love and Beauty. Of course, that alone seems nothing out of the sort. But do you know that the Queen had the knight break his fast with her afterwards?"
Olella was startled hearing that, "Truly?"
"Truly, Grandmother. The Princess let it slip out during our talks. She has also seen her mother observing Ser Jon and his brothers practising in the yard quite regularly after the tourney. And then there was the dance here at Castle Hightower. None of you was at the floor so mayhaps you haven't seen it as clearly as I, but I would put the dance of the Queen and the knight of one between lovers."
Olenna was agog, she almost salivated hearing that, "Lovers, you say?"
Margaery nodded enthusiastically, "I can only wish that my future betroth deems to dance with me in such a way if Father doesn't flog him for indecency. The Queen clung to him and won't let go of him if it wasn't for Meera informing Ser Jon about her brother's overindulgence with the wine and throwing up. The knight left without a backward glance, but the Queen looked at his departing form with deep longing, and later, she would have set Meera on fire if she could for her daring to interrupt them. I saw the whole thing, Grandmother."
Olenna leaned back with a devious smile on her face, "Imagine the stories that may make the rounds. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms chasing after a bastard - highborn yes, but a bastard nonetheless – a young man who is also the son of her husband, the King's best friend. Now, the question is, shall we use this, or sit on it to reveal it at the right moment? What do you think?"
Margaery shrugged, "We should reveal it. It will cause a rift between the King and Eddard Stark, which could prove profitable for us."
Olenna nodded, "Wilas?"
Wilas drummed his fingers on the table in deep thought, "If you ask me, I would say to hold on to that information."
Both the grandmother and granddaughter frowned upon hearing that, "Explain yourself, Wilas!"
"Please, hear me out. Right at this moment, Ser Jon can do no wrong. The smallfolk love him. The lords from his lands sing praises of him. The King and the Hand both feel ingratiated with him because he helped uncover the Mad King's scheme of wildfire. In addition, he contributed to the Royal Coffer by discovering dragon eggs. Yes, it did cause us some strife without our leverage of the increment of loans or taxes and thus stopping us from negotiating some favours. But in the end, if we remain patient, the tide will turn in our direction once again. I do have faith in the King's frivolous nature. Who is to say that we won't be seeing bigger tourneys with larger winners' purses in immediate future?
On the other hand, we have Tywin Lannister. Queen Cersei is his daughter, so the Old Lion would come after anyone who would point a finger. And let us not forget that Ser Jon did quite a few good deeds for House Lannister in recent times. First, he made sure that the lion's share of the praises finds their way towards Tyrion Lannister. Then he made it possible for Tywin's other son, Jaime to absolve his sins from Robert's Rebellion of killing the Mad King. You do remember their unspoken words, don't you – A Lannister always pays his debt."
Olenna sat quietly, pondering the words of her grandson. Wilas continued –
"At this moment, we are not in any favour with the Crown. If we dare to fling mud in any of these three directions, it would prove detrimental to us. Stannis Baratheon, moreover than Robert, is yet to forgive the Reach for the Siege of Storms' End. Renly, truthfully speaking, is a pompous idiot without any substance in him. We may use him for our purposes, but we first needed to gain that position. After we make sure that we have all our defences covered, then we should let our arms bare."
Olenna mulled it over in silence. Finally, she spoke her opinion, "Very well. We will abide by your suggestions, Wilas. We shall be patient for the time being. But you need to make the journey to Winterfell as early as you can." She turned towards Margaery and held her hand up to stop the girl from speaking as she had just opened her mouth to do so, "And you… You are free to join your brother if you can convince your father of it."
Margaery nearly jumped out of her seat, "Of course, Grandmother! I shall go right now to ask him for permission! May I be excused?"
"Yes, you may."
Wilas watched as his sister quickly marched out of the room. He turned back to the Queen of Thorns.
"I should start preparing for her also, should I?"
Olenna scoffed, "Of course, you should. I do not doubt that your oaf of a father would be able to say no to her. Why couldn't I have borne a son with a modicum of intelligence…"
Wilas chuckled as he left the old woman muttering angrily about the idiocy of her son, the lord of Highgarden.
He cursed fate for the weariness that settled in his bones. He had spent a long day sitting under the sun, sweating and enduring the raucous around him. Never in a hundred years would he understand why others love experiencing this. Was it the feeling of rippling flesh between their legs that drove men to ride the horses as hard as they could? Was it the air in their faces? It certainly couldn't be the long wooden sticks they were wielding about to maim each other, could they? And the fools all around him cheered those feckless brutes on. Was it any wonder that the entire continent was suffering as it had been?
He was broken out of his thoughts as a pair of drunkards jostled him out of the way. They were singing songs about some knight's bravery. Truly, their idiocy knew no bounds. He was almost sure that such a brave and chivalrous knight had never even seen a proper battlefield, and these fools thought him to be the warrior reborn. He felt the need to quicken his pace lest he became infected with such foolishness himself.
An urgent need to relieve himself forced him to go inside the small cove of trees near the statue of Dearon I. He went behind a tree and hiked his robes up to squat and take a piss. He was in the middle of his business when he thought that he had heard something or someone come towards him. He thought to make his presence known.
"I will be done in a moment!"
The expected reply never came, however. Nor was there any indication that someone came after him with similar needs. He frowned slightly, could he have heard it wrong? He got up after finishing and adjusted his small clothes. He walked around the tree and started to get out on the main street, but something felt odd to him. Was there truly no one? He looked back over his shoulder but couldn't see anything other than the shadows cast by the lights of the dying sun. Shrugging, he turned to continue on his way.
Suddenly, pain erupted in his chest. Looking down, he found something protruding out of the right side of his chest. Its metallic and pointy head was telling him that whatever this thing was, it had ruptured his lung. He coughed and felt the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He knew his lung was getting filled with blood. But, there was a tugging sensation and he felt his feet leaving the ground. The pain in his chest doubled as he almost lost his senses from the pain. His head was spinning, there was some strange buzzing noise in his ears and he was short of his breath, of course.
Even in his pain-filled delirium, he had not mistaken the sound of footfall this time. For certain, there was someone either behind him or just beyond his immediate visible area. He couldn't turn around to see. This hook or somewhat of the like which was used to hang him from a tree is making him suffer like he never had before. He could feel the flesh in his chest tearing open from his own body weight as it made the shaft of that hook thing dig deeper.
"Wh-who…" He tried to say but couldn't form the words. His hands struggled to feel up the side of his body. He wanted to be certain that he was attacked by some bandit.
He heard the footsteps again. But this time, the person did come into his view. If he wasn't gasping from the pain in his chest, he would certainly have been yelling for help. For he knew the person… or rather, he knew the garb that the person wore. He had seen this garb almost half a century ago. The same hooded garb in a dark colour haunted his dreams. The same fear that drove him to travel to his haven with all the haste, to begin with. Even in his fear, he felt justified that his theories were correct.
"Haytham Kenway!" The person spoke in a raspy voice, not unlike the one he had heard before, a long time ago. But there was something wrong. It was a voice that belong to a male. How could that be?
"For the conspiracy against the Lady Mary of House Reed," the man continued, "for your betrayal against her person, and ultimately, for being instrumental in her painful and lonely death, I sentence you to die!"
He feebly tried to move, to scream… to do anything to stay the hand of this madman, but the pain and the blood loss had stolen his strength away. He could feel his almost empty bowel losing whatever remained in them.
*Snikt!*
The unmistakable sound of a blade leaving its sheath seemed loud within the shadowy place.
He wanted to protest. He had so many questions to ask. He had so many things to say. But he couldn't get the chance as another pain bloomed in his throat. He could feel something sharp tearing its way through right into his brain. His vision turned black.
In the end, Haytham Kenway, Maester Ken in his later years, knew nothing but pain in his last moments.
As the late Maester's body was cut loose and dropped unceremoniously on the ground, a whispered phrase blew with the evening breeze –
"Mayþinnr soul vitpeacer!" (May your soul find peace.)