I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire or the Fate Franchise. They belong to George R. R. Martin and Type-Moon, respectively.
Thank you for all the reviews!
Harrenhal, The Riverlands, Westeros
The immense dreadful visage of the derelict accursed castle of Harren the Black grew more prominent as the royal procession drew nearer. Its blackened walls absorbed all light that dared to touch it, thus, severing it from the lively and colourful landscape that girted it. Five broken black towers grasped into the air like an immense hand of a dying giant, casting long bleak shadows onto the fields and waters below.
Cersei felt an odd sense of kinship towards Westeros's largest castle. A grandeur robbed of its rightful glory, pushed beneath its potential and sold to lessers like a tourney prize. Yet, despite their oppression, they could still cast mighty shadows from great stature and bring many to fear their presence.
I may restore Harrenhal to its rightful majesty after I claim the Grail and crown. Cersei delightfully mused from her wheelhouse. After all, even in its dilapidated state, the castle still outdid the Red Keep in size. The view of The God's Eye would be beyond pleasant as well. And not to mention that it wouldn't have King's Landing's omnipresent stench of shit and piss. Yes, it would be the perfect royal keep for the Lannister dynasty.
"Is that Harrenhal!" An excited voice spoke from her side.
"Yes, Tommen, that is the famed cursed keep of King Harren the Black." She replied, mustering a small maternal smile of amusement at her youngest child's inquest.
"It's enormous." Her daughter Myrcella spoke this time, her bright emerald eyes locked onto the approaching castle. She sat diagonally from her mother, having to lean forward and turn her head to steal a view.
"The first won't affect us, will it, Mother?" Childish worry themed Tommen's voice.
Cersei reached her arm out to hug Tommen close to her body and stroked his familiar golden crown. Usually, she would've dismissed the notion of a curse as the shoddy tale spun by a drunken Flea Bottom mummer. However, her old mentality had been cut down like a ripe sheaf of wheat with the advent of the Holy Grail War and its irrefutable associated magics. But Cersei was not afraid of a curse. "Of course not, my sweet. The curse is not real. Besides, it only affects the house that rules the castle. And Lady Ruler can protect you from any wicked curses."
"Of course. There is no need to fear such trivial matters, my Prince. For one such as myself can easily handle such jester's tricks." The final occupant of the royal carriage retorted, dressed in a dark conservative gown her master had acquired for her. Cersei did not want a representative of herself clad in that whorish 'battle attire', after all. No, would not allow shame to be brought to her name on account of her servant's dress. It is unfortunate enough we were born cockless.
Aside from the whore's garb, Cersei had been satisfied with her allotted servant. Ruler held the authoritative disposition that she and her father also harboured. Her divulged abilities and proficiencies possessed power and versatility, ideal for actualising the deserved victory she sought. But most paramount, she was a kindred spirit who also despised the lackwits who flouted them for boasting cunts instead of cocks, and denied them their rightful due. The Queen had no doubt that the Heroic Spirit of Arbitration would serve as a faithful instrument to attain all she coveted.
The twilight silhouette of Harrenhal now stood before the royal procession. Yellow banners bearing black bats, the sigil of the incumbent House Whent, draped down the scorched walls of Harrenhal like waterfalls. Beneath the high walls blew more pennants of the various Riverlords come to bask in the 'eminence' of King Robert Baratheon. Cersei glanced at the Tully trout at the gathered crowd's forefront. Beneath it stood the famous Blackfish, Brynden Tully, clad in scaled armour as dark as the castle's walls. Cersei would not admit out loud that the Blackfish held an intimidating presence despite his withering age. She also spied the heraldry of other Riverlands houses such as Frey twin castles, the scarlet salmon of Mooton, the Darry ploughman and the pink maiden of Piper. Although, she couldn't care less about them. As far as she could tell, there was no servant amongst the gathered lords.
The Riverlords dropped to their knees as her fat oaf of a husband dismounted his horse. Simultaneously, the short plain form of Ser Preston Greenfield, the most forgettable member of the King's Guard, opened the doors to the wheelhouse as a brown-haired squire placed a set of portable steps beneath them. Hiking up her skirts, the Queen vacated the wheelhouse with a dignified and regal composure, her children and servant exiting shortly after her. Robert gestured for the Riverlords to rise early for her liking.
"Blackfish! It has too long!"
"Indeed, your grace. I can't remember the last time we spoke."
"Well, that changes now." The King tilted his head upward, stormy blue eyes nostalgically scanning Harrenhal's dilapidated ramparts, a frown now marring his features. "Gods, this brings back memories. Not all of them are pleasant... We'll speak more inside after we've all settled in and rested from the journey. Then we can get to planning and finally some drinking and feasting!"
The King and the Blackfish disappeared into the blackened castle, leaving everyone else, including his wife and 'children', to unpack from the tiresome journey. Cersei looked back at the royal procession, consisting mainly of houses assembled from the Crownlands. Robert had sent his youngest brother, Renly, to gather the Baratheon's traditional bannermen in the Stormlands. Robert's other brother, Stannis, finally broke his impromptu silence, announcing that he would dock at the Saltpans before going to Harrenhal with his servant. The savages of The North and the glorified smallfolk of The Reach had also proclaimed to have summoned their servants and were departing for Harrenhal. Though neither had arrived as of yet. So far, the whores of Dorne, the cow of the Eyrie and the ever-irrelevant Ironborn had refused to answer their lieges correspondence. While the Queen held no love nor admiration for the King, she did despise their conceited defiance of the crown. Finally, her father, Lord Tywin Lannister, the Warden of the West, would attend this tourney, much to her jubilation. This was her chance to prove to her father that she was his rightful heir, his true 'son'.
Cersei's eye caught a short golden mane in royal regalia, accompanied by a taller figure clad in dark vestments that blended with walls. Her beloved son, Joffrey, would soon sit on the Iron Throne for her once the craven Robert finally perished, and his servant: Alter Ego, whose presence was a dichotomy of dread and ease. There was also the less significant presence of the crown Princes sworn sword, Sandor Clegane, or 'The Hound', as he was most well-regarded. However, his importance was beyond negligible when contrasted with her son and an opposing servant.
The Alter Ego likely sensed the Queen's green gaze and turned his head to face her with his swarthy brown one, an unsettlingly humble smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. She broke her gaze and avoided his. Her progeny's uncanny servant disturbed her to no end. His precise inexpressive movement and paternal discourse all unnerved her. Nevertheless, her son would follow her direction and his servant in turn. After all, a child was an extension of their parent.
The dour form of Stannis Baratheon stood overlooking the assembly of lords and smallfolk from the blackened ramparts of Harrenhal. From his view, he could spy the banners of numerous houses waving above their respective camps. As expected of the house that held the throne, the crowned stag on a yellow field stood most eminent against the walls of Harrenhal. A protective semicircle of Crownlands and several Stormlands houses surrounded the Baratheon colours. Stannis could spot the black war hammers of house Rykker, The lamb and goblet of Stokeworth, the black porcupines of Blount, and his contributions of the cloured Massey spirals and the chalky Velaryon seahorse. Most Stormland houses had yet to arrive, but he could spot the stars and forked lightning of Dondarrion and the pines and crescent moon of Fell. Eventually, the Crownland banners faded into Riverland banners: the Tully trout, the Frey twins, the Mallister eagle, the dark Bracken horse and the pale Blackwood tree as far from each other as permitted. He even spotted the Golden links of house Roxton and the silver caltrops of house Footly, two Reach houses, amongst the canopy of fabrics. The two appeared to have arrived before their overlords, the Tyrells, who he heard would soon be advancing alongside Renly and the gathered Stormlords. Are they here as vanguards for Highgarden, or are they serving their own ends?
Stannis's ruminations were broken by the appearance of a glimmering azure shower to his left, signalling the arrival of his servant, Archer. "your report?"
"I have ascertained the True Names of all three of the present enemy servants."
Stannis gave a brief nod of satisfaction, still facing the mingling lords and smallfolk below. "Go ahead then."
"The Tully servant is Rider. Her True Name is Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons." Stannis's eyebrows rose at his stern servant's declaration; he didn't take that young girl for a queen. He was further confounded by the notion that house Tully had summoned someone of royal blood. After all, unlike Stark, Lannister, Arryn or Martell, the Tullys were never kings, nor did they claim to be descended from kings like the Tyrells. Of course, the Roverlands had kings like the Mudds, Justmans, Teagues, Fishers, Brackens, and Blackwoods, but the Tullys were not among them. Perhaps the enigmatic Emrys was playing some cruel jest upon the Lord's Paramount of the Riverlands? Archer had stated that the summoned servants would align with their masters somehow. But the humourless Lord of Dragonstone could not see any connection between a girl Queen and the notorious Blackfish.
His servant continued. "While ferocious, she is the one that is the least of our concern. I'm confident I can defeat her when the opportunity arises."
"The battlefield is no place for a woman. Especially one of royal disposition."
Archer frowned and gave him an odd look. "The Amazons were a tribe of warrior women. A Queen who's not proficient in warfare would be seen as having no place amongst them. Furthermore, don't Dorne and Bear Island possess warrior women?"
Stannis didn't appreciate his servant's sarcastic tone. "They do. Tis unnatural. What of the other two?"
"...Your Queen's servant, and presumedly one of the Lannister's servants, is Ruler. Their True Name is Morgan le Fey. A petty, sly, deceitful witch passed over by her homeland in favour of her younger sister, who was crowned the King of Knights-."
"Don't you mean Queen?"
"No. Artoria was crowned as a King and is regarded by many as the greatest of Britain's monarchs."
"..."
"Anyway, that witch is considerably dangerous. Her exceptional prowess in Magecraft makes her a challenging opponent, even for me, to defeat in single combat."
Archer's words made Stannis's face morph from its usual deadpan to a deep scowl. "So we can't defeat her. At least not directly."
A subtle delinquent smile tugged at the corners of the servant of the bows mouth. "You are correct, master. Our chance of victory would be slim in open combat. However, despite Morgan's infamy, she is arrogant, ill-tempered, and considered a villain by most."
Stannis took the hint. "So the other Heroic Spirits would be more inclined to oppose her over us if they knew her identity. I do not appreciate underhandedness."
"Revealing her identity to the others would be truthful, not deceitful." Archer argued.
"You speak the truth, as will I. Tis still irksome, though. And what of the last one."
It was now the scarlet Archer's turn to don a heavy scowl. "The Alter Ego's True Name is Gregory Rasputin, or Kirei Kotomine, a Christian priest. He is a profoundly vile, inhuman individual and the most dangerous of the three."
Stannis didn't like that information, as Ruler's presence was already troublesome, especially in the hands of the Queen, knowing what he knew. "Can you defeat him?"
"Difficult to say. The man's a wild card. He's not a powerful servant, like Morgan or Hippolyta, but cunning and cruel. The outcome will depend on the situation around any future confrontation." Archer's further divulgation didn't improve upon Stannis's move. If it wasn't clear before, the war would not end favourably with ease. It would be hard fought with much cunning. Luckily for Stannis, he was no stranger to the subtle side of warfare. The Sea Battle off Fair Isle during the Greyjoy Rebellion could attest to that notion. His red Archer also clearly possessed sufficient wit, as did vital advisors like Ser Davos Seaworth, the 'Onion Knight', Ser Justin Massey, the 'Smiler' and the indispensable Red Priestess Melisandre, who served as his principal counsellor and paramour. Not to mention Stannis also possessed critical information that could turn any future conflict in his favour. Information that got Jon Arryn killed.
However, revealing said information could prove detrimental to Stannis if mishandled. He could frame himself as desiring to usurp the throne from Joffrey. Hence, why he left King's Landing in the first place. He needed others to uncover the reality of the royal children on their own.
Nevertheless, duty demanded that he not sit idly while the Queen and her brother committed the foulest treacheries. But who could he trust? Robert is too indulgent. Renly was too whimsical. Jon Arryn was dead. The unfaithful Pycelle, the furtive Varys and the whoremongering Littlefinger were all untrustworthy in Stannis's eyes. That only left the Lord Commander of the Kingsuard, Ser Barristan Selmy, and the soon-to-be Hand of the King, Eddard Stark, as viable allies on the Small Council who could unveil the treachery that was afoot. Robert would be more inclined to listen to someone with nothing to gain from the revelation, especially if that person was as trusted as Ned or respected as Barristan. As for supporters outside the den of vipers, there were, unfortunately, few. Tywin and the Westerlands would back Cersei and her spawn. Stannis would not delude himself into thinking otherwise. The Ironborn were oathless reavers. Lysa is a paranoid hermit. And the Tyrells and Martels were shameless opportunists who wouldn't be averse to backstabbing if it bought them ascension or vengeance. Stark and Tully were the only verified masters that could be relied upon. As for the other three, only time would see.
Thus, with this knowledge accounted for, Stannis developed his stratagem. He would nudge Brynden, Ned and Barristan toward the truth. On the advice of Archer, he'd sent a force of loyal bannermen comprising Ser Davos Seaworth and his two eldest sons, Dale and Allard, Ser Axell Florent, Ser Godry Farring, Ser Clayton Suggs, and an escort of 100 men-at-arms, before he departed from Dragonstone to acquire select individuals and a book from King's Landing to aid in this endeavour. With the testimonies of two respected knights and the honourable Ned Stark, Robert and Renly will follow suit. The Martels may also capitalise on the opportunity to exact vengeance for the deaths of Elia Martel and her children at the hand of The Mountain and Ser Amory Lorch. However, time was his enemy. There was no telling when Cersei would make her move. Though she would likely wait for her father to arrive first, he was a more dreadful opponent than her. There was not a man in Westeros that did not know the 'Rains of Castamere.' They had to watch their opponents and begin reigning in their prospective allies.
"Master. On the northern horizon." Spoke Archer.
Stannis turned his cold gaze towards the distant northern horizon. Rising over and pouring the rolling green summer hills was a shimmering mass. Stannis immediately recognised the mass as an encroaching army. At their current distance, he could not identify whose host this was. Thus, he turned to Archer for an answer. "What banners do they bear?"
Archer's eyes fixated on the distant mass, subtly shifting from side to side. "A black battleaxe, A man with broken chains, a grey wolf... Ah, so the Starks then."
Stannis nodded in satisfaction. "Indeed. Let's go greet them."
"So that's Harrenhal." Came Robb's awe-filled voice from Ned's side. "Mother said it was enormous, but... It's different from glimpsing it in person."
Ned's eldest's comment plucked at nostalgic strings within The Quiet Wolf's depressed heart. A young Benjen had said something similar, though he couldn't remember the exact wording, only that it was eerily akin to what was said when they arrived at Harren the Black's accursed keep on those fateful days so long ago. The days that sowed the baneful seeds of the deaths of most of his family and the vengeance that he, Robert and Jon Arryn brought forth in Robert's Rebellion. The stoic Lord of Winterfell had no illusion that this Tourney of Harrenhal would end differently than the first. It would start with laughter and wine and end with screams and blood.
"Indeed, the house of King Harren is a testament to the power of the Iroonborn at our height." His ward Theon Greyjoy spoke with his signature smirk adorning his features. "We were the greatest of all the kingdoms back then. Now dared to look down on us back in those days."
"Then it all collapsed in a single battle." Jon sarcastically replied to the Ironborn's boasting.
"At least we fought in a battle. Can The North say the same?" Theon declared in repost.
"You better watch your mouth there, Greyjoy." Growls a large heavily-muscled northern lord atop a hardy black Garron. This man was Jon 'Greatjon' Umber, the current lord of the Last Hearth and one of the Stark's principal bannermen. The Greatjon was a proud, fierce and boisterous man who possessed a dogged loyalty to the former Kings of Winter and the northern people. He held no love for the southern Andals and Rhoynar and outright despised the Wildlings and the Ironborn. "Or I'll teach you like Ned and Robert taught your sire."
Theon noticeably flinched at The Greatjon's threat. Who wouldn't? The Greatjon was more bear than man, standing nearly seven feet tall and built like a prized summer-fed ox.
Ned, not wanting his ward to be cleaved by the Umber's ugly greatsword, decided to intervene. "Enough, all of you! We'll be in the presence of His grace soon enough. I'll have none of you embarrassing The North with your jabbing and prodding."
"Yes, Father/Lord Stark." Came the near-universal replies, to Ned's relief.
The Lord of Winterfell briefly looked back upon the assembled northern host that he'd marched south with him. Due to The North's immense size yet sparse population, it took time to gather its current force of around 18,000. This war host mainly comprised men gathered from lands under direct Stark control and bannermen close to or south of Winterfell. Slate, Cerwyn, Condon, Tallhart, and Bolton had all joined Ned at Winterfell before he'd begun to march south. A few days into the trek, Greatjon caught up to them with less than a hundred men. According to the boisterous lord, he'd left his uncles to finish gathering the full might of house Umber since he didn't want to "miss out". As they continued southward, more northern houses joined their growing army; Manderly, Dustin, Stout, Locke, Hornwood, Woolfield and the Flints of Widow's Watch and Flint's Fingers.
If Ned had delayed the journey south another week or two, the northern host would've likely numbered about 25,000 to 30,000 strong. However, further delays could risk enemy consolidation or an outright break into violence. And wasn't about to abandon his foster brother to deal with such a scenario alone. Especially considering that he was to be named Hand of the King. Regardless the Lord of Winterfell was acutely aware that the extra manpower could come in handy later. Hence, he'd left Rickard Karstark, Galbert Glover, Rodrik Ryswell and Maege Mormont to gather the remaining houses of Karstark, Glover, Bole, Branch, Forrester, Woods, Whitehill, Mormont, Ryswell, Glenmore, the majority of Umber and The Mountain Clans: Wull, First Flint, Norrey, Burley, Harclay, Liddle and Knott.
The crannogmen, the houses of Reed, Blackmyre, Boggs, Cray, Fenn, Greengood, Peat and Quagg would not be marching south. Instead, Ned had ordered that his old friend Howland Reed remain in The Neck and hold Moat Cailin to defend The North from invasion.
As for the Skagosi... They could not be relied upon. Hence, Ned was not expecting any significant contribution from houses Magnar, Crowl and Stane.
"Yeeeah shut your gobs, you're gonna embarrass top knock in front of the king!" Then there was Saber, who Ned was confident was sent by the Old Gods to punish him for his failures. Bluntness and crude words The Quiet Wolf could handle. He was a northerner, after all. Although Saber seemed to get along splendidly with the northern host, especially with the likes of Greatjon, he'd taken a noticeable disliking to Ned since they'd first met in Winterfell. It didn't take a Maester to realise it was because of how the servant perceived Ned's treatment of his bastard 'son', namely his grievances his Jon's desired wish. Consequently, Saber refused to follow any of Ned's orders and would often do and say as they pleased. It infuriated the usually calm and collected Warden of The North.
*Sigh* "That includes you, Saber. You want to make a good impression before King Robert."
"I don't care what the King thinks. And from what I've heard, no good northerner should care about what southerner thinks." Replied a smug Saber.
"Yet that 'southerner' is his grace, King Robert Baratheon, and you'll show his grace the respect he is due. For The North remembers its oaths." Ned replied in a tone of finality.
"Tch, whatever." Ned really hated that response.
By the time the northern host drew close to the absurd dark walls of Harrenhal, Ned had spied the gold and black banners of houses Baratheon and Whent, accompanied by the familiar silver Tully trout. Beneath it stood a small gathering of men and women dressed in noble attire, with one man of significant girth flanked by seven knights draped in white. It took Ned a moment to realise that this fat man was, in fact, his best friend and King Robert.
When the procession slowed, Ned immediately dismounted and knelt before Robert, the men behind him following his example. All except for Saber. Ned's eyes widened in horror.
"Ungracious curr!" One of the King's Guard, who Ned could not recognise, shouted before stepping forward to confront the servant before he could order the servant to kneel. Ned frantically gestured for Saber to kneel, only to be met with his usual defiance. "You'll bow before His grace, King Rob-"
"Fucking shut up, Blount! As if you could do anything!" Robert interrupted his guard, causing them to turn sheepish. "And get off your fucking knees, Ned! There's no need for you to bow before me!"
Ned released a tense sigh as he and his entourage slowly got up off their knees and stood before the more... cumbersome... King.
"Fucking seven hells, Ned. It's been too long." Robert reached out to envelop Ned in his massive embrace, which he returned.
"Aye, it has your grace. Please forgive our servant's lack of decorum."
"Enough of this 'your grace' shit, Ned. I'll always be Robert to you." Robert turned to Saber. "And I like people with guts."
"Looks like I didn't embarrass you in front of the King, now did I, top knock. I made a good first impression. You should really trust me more from now on." Spoke Saber eliciting a roar of laughter from Robert and a couple of treacherous chuckles from Ned's entourage. Ned released another exasperated sigh.
"HA! You've summoned a good one, Ned! I can't wait to drink and fight alongside this pipsqueak."
"Pipsqueak! Your one to talk, fatass!" Ne'd face morphed into one of absolute horror. But it got worse.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Because Robert laughed. "Wow! None of King's Landing's fools and mummers has given me that good of a laugh! I like the way things are going. This tourney will be amazing!"
Desperately wanting Robert to stop enabling Saber's atrocious behaviour, Ned sought to change the subject. "Robert, I would like to introduce you to my eldest son and heir, Robb Stark, and this is my bastard son Jon Snow."
To Ned's immense relief, Robert ended his exchange with Saber. He then redirected his attention to his friend's sons at their introduction. His blue eyes examined the boys up and down. Finally, he grinned and nodded in satisfaction. "Fine young men you have here, Ned. Your eldest, in particular, has the makings and name of a lord. Bah! Enough of the pleasantries! You and I must have words, Ned. And bring your hilarious servant too."
Sighing... Again. Ned briefly considered taking Jon with him but decided against it to maintain the secrecy of the Stark master's identity and... to keep Jon safe. "Robb, Jon, take the banners and camp outside the main encampment. I'll join you shortly. Saber with me. Saber?"
But Saber wasn't taking heed. For once, Saber was still and quiet. Yet Ned could see an incredible tenseness in their shoulders and curled fists. He followed their helmed gaze to the dark ramparts. Atop stood a woman dressed in a gown of blood and gold thread. An expertly braided mane of gold and a fine diadem sat upon her fair head. Ned instantly recognised this woman as the Queen, Cersei Baratheon nee Lannister. However, it was the woman beside her dressed in a simple black gown that Saber seemed to be transfixed upon. The woman's cold turquoise eyes returned Saber's stare conveying no overt emotion other than a subtle upward curve of her lips. An uneasy feeling pooled in Ned's stomach, the same one he had felt when he first met Saber. Clearly, this woman was a servant, likely summoned by the Lannister queen. That fact, alongside the fairer servant's subtle smirk, put Ned on edge. Based on their reaction, Saber had clearly figured out the woman was a servant.
"We'll deal with them later. Come along, Saber." Ned spoke. It took Saber a few moments, but eventually, they turned and followed Ned and Robert into the gaping maw of Harrenhal.
After a short walk conversing with Robert along the way. Ned and Saber eventually found themselves in the dark and damp room deep within the black castle, inside the room where three men and one woman were. Two of the men he immediately recognised as Stannis Baratheon and his good-uncle Brynden 'the Blackfish' Tully. As for the man and the woman. Judging by their queer attire and ambience, they were most certainly servants. And they likely belonged to the two present men. The male servant was clad in a scarlet mantle with black light-armour accented by silver underneath, highlighting his form in a way that would have maidens swooning. His skin was tanned, and his hair white despite his appearance being too young for such a thing. His scrutinising steel grey eyes were locked onto Saber, his face impassive like Stannis beside him. The female servant was dressed in a revealing assortment of cloth and leather that Robert seemed to enjoy. An ornate red sash was draped over her shoulder, making Ned feel heavy just looking at it. Her skin was peach-coloured, her firey her was kept in a crown bun, and she had ethereal golden eyes that bore into him and Saber. Once inside, Robert closed the door behind him as Ser Barritan and a younger King's Guard that Ned did not recognise stood sentry outside the room.
"Alright, now that we're all here, we can begin to lay down our war plan." Said Robert clapping his hands together, a toothy grin overtaking his features.
The red servant's iron eyes broke from their vigil on Saber, now fixating upon the portly King. "War plan, huh? So you intend to create an alliance amongst the servants in this room. A sound strategy, your majesty. But pray to tell why your wife and son have not joined us in our conspiracy?"
Robert didn't seem too bothered by the servant's invasive questioning. "Because my wife's a bitch under her father's thumb, and my son's servant is just... wrong."
Ned's brows furrowed at Robert's explanation. The but about Cersei he could understand. She was a Lannister, after all. And Tywin and his spawn were as sly and dishonourable as they came. But for Robert to not trust his own son. "Why so, Robert? Don't you have faith in your son?"
"You would understand if ever have the displeasure of meeting the Prince and his servant." Answered Blackfish, seemingly unconcerned with Robert's presence in the room.
"To not trust one's own kin. Tis horrible thing."
"We're getting off topic." A frowning Stannis interrupted. "What do you have in mind, your grace."
Robert's face became serious. "Thanks to Emrys, the realm will be thrown into war. And considering the prize, everyone will be fighting harder than ever. As much as I love a good war. I would be remiss if I didn't honour the peace Jon Arryn built while I've been drinking and whoring myself to an early grave. And I'm still the King at the end of the day, so I should at least act like it for once."
Robert paused momentarily, seeming to muse over the words he was about to state. "What I'm proposing, no, demanding as King, is, as stated by Archer, an alliance to combat the other masters and minimise the destruction of this war. I can not fathom a world where the likes of Tywin Lannister, Doran Martell or Seven forbid Balon Greyjoy to have their deepest darkest wish granted. No, as King, I only permit those worthy of having a chance at the Grail."
There was a tone of absolute finality in Robert's voice. For a moment, Ned once again saw the visage of the Demon of the Trident, who'd shattered his enemies beneath his Warhammer, won three battles in a day, and brought low the Targaryen dynasty.
"You think us Worthy?" Sabers's voice, typically loud and boisterous, was lighter and meeker than usual, Ned noticed.
"While I do not know you, servants, I trust the men that summoned you. And I'd prefer if a good man like them got a wish rather than an Ironborn cunt. Any objections?"
None were raised.
"Good. Any questions."
"Do you plan to bring anyone else into the fold?" Spoke to the female servant for the first time. The girl's tone was irreverent, and she seemed unimpressed by Robert.
Once again, Robert didn't seem to notice. "I originally planned to pull the Arryns into this. But with the passing of Jon, Lady Lysa has retreated to the Vale and has not responded to my summons. The Greyjoys, Lannisters and Martells are entirely untrustworthy. We could rope in the Tyrells, but the Queen of Thorns will make it costly. The four unknown masters will depend on who they are, so we'll deal with them when they finally appear."
Stannis put a hand to his chin. "As much as I loathe the Tyrells, it's probably best we get them onside and as quickly as possible. Tywin will likely have the same idea as us."
His servant, Archer, followed up on his master's suggestion. "You already have an avenue for bringing the Tyrells into your alliance, your majesty. I hear your youngest brother, Renly, is... close with the youngest Tyrell boy, Loras."
"You mean they suck each other's cocks. Well, at least one good thing has come out of that." Ned cringed at Robert's blunt statement. Renly's... preferences were open secrets amongst the nobility. Openly such relationships were shunned in Westeros, save for Dorne. However, it was often tolerated behind closed doors. Ned didn't necessarily approve of Renly's not-so-secret activities with his former squire. But there were always more pressing matters to attend to.
"Okay, so Renly will work on the Tyrells. What about the other servant?" Ned inquired.
"I'll take down the 'bitch' and her whore of a servant."
Saber's eager statement drew eyes from across the room. Ultimately Blackfish was the first to respond. "Why are you so eager to take them down, ey?"
"He likely just wants the prestige of taking down the esteemed Ruler class," Archer responded in Saber's stead. The suspicion of the room wavered at his words. "Rider and I will deal with the Preist in the meantime. We should be enough to take him down when things go south."
"We should be prepared to revise our plans, though. Other masters and servants may show up, and Assassin or Pretender may be lurking about." The female servant, now identified as Rider, contributed.
"In that case, all servants should remain by their master's sides indefinitely to avoid assassination," Ned stated in response to Rider's suggestion. He then turned to Saber. "Saber, return to camp and keep your master safe. I'll fill you in on anything you miss."
Saber merely nodded in response before disappearing in a blue shimmer.
"Wait, you're not a master, Ned." A confused Robert asked his long-time best friend.
Ned shook his head. "No. My bastard, Jon Snow, is the true master of Saber."
"Your bastard." The Blackfish and Rider grimaced at this revelation. Ned ignored him for the time being.
"I'll trust your judgement on this." Robert turned back to the rest of the room. "Now, we should probably inform our most loyal bannermen of our little conspiracy so they know who the murder when the fighting finally breaks out."
Bran fell.
He fell.
He fell.
And he fell.
He continued to fall endlessly down the old burnt tower. A three-eyed raven flew around him during his endless descent. Between its caws, it spoke in the tongue of men. "Fly. Fly. Fly. You must fly."
He fell.
Above him stood the monster that pushed from its heights. A broken chain dangling from its wrist blew southward in the wind.
He fell.
He passed a twisted sword impaled upon a burning heart.
He fell.
He passed a blue hound with blood-red eyes filled with... nostalgia? A wreath of golden roses around its neck.
He fell.
He passed a snake gently coiled around a dishevelled falcon.
He fell.
He passed a black trout and a flock of predatory birds carrying it through the air.
He fell.
He passed a sun on a silver platter. The metal rippled under its heat.
He fell.
He passed a lioness wearing a crown of black and turquoise, which spikes drew blood from the scalp and metal creaked. Molten metal lay in the lioness's paws, taking form.
He fell.
He passed a twisted crown. Pure malice spilling from its crakes.
He fell.
He passed a dreadful mass of black tentacles that grasped out at him as he continued his eternal drop. A single baneful red eye amidst the boneless arms met his eyes, acknowledging his presence.
He fell.
He passed a red dragon covered in snow. A false dragon covered in blood guided its path.
He fell.
He passed a clean red dragon. Another false dragon, this one wreathed in fire, whispered in its ear.
He fell.
He passed a black dragon casting a pale shadow.
He fell.
He felt ice form upon his body, burning his skin. A blue dragon emerged from beneath, opening its jaws wide to swallow him whole.
He screamed.
And he awoke in his room.
Reviews:
I'll be answering reviews from now on.
Arya: Pan-Human History in the Nasuverse (Fate) is the term used to describe the 'approved' timelines by the counterforce. Essentially in Fate, dead-end or deviant timelines, like the Lostbelts in Fate/Grand Order, are Pruned away like branches from a tree. Archer, in chapter five, is essentially trying to figure out what's going on as Planetos is highly deviant from the PHH.
Jon Snow: Pretty much.
Guest: Maybe you weren't.
Perseus12: Here you go
Please leave a review so I can improve my writing.