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The Kingsroad, The Riverlands, Westeros

They had just crossed into the Riverlands from the Crownlands earlier today. Their long journey would soon come to an end when they finally the dreaded castle of Harrenhal. Peering outside the window of her family's ornate wheelhouse, decorated in an elaborate motif of roses and thorns, Margaery Tyrell glimpsed the snaking column of men, metal, cloth and horse trail ahead behind them on Westeros's longest road. Hundreds of banners of varying colours and shapes fluttered gently over the head of the soldiers, servants and beasts alike. Her brother, Garlan, had told her they'd amassed around fifty thousand men-at-arms from the Reach. Their force was further bolstered by twenty-five thousand Stormlander swords headed by Renly Baratheon and her youngest brother Loras at the end of the Rose Road. A mighty host indeed.

However, not all was well with their bannermen. Despite the impressive quantity of swords that had answered Highgarden's call, They'd not mustered the full might of the Reach, which could put together a combined army of seventy-thousand, according to her brother and grandmother. Alas, while the Reach maintained the most elephantine population of all the Seven Kingdoms, its lord's paramount, alongside the Trouts of the Riverlands, commanded the least loyalty of their bannermen. Houses Roxton and Meadows had departed for Harrenhal on their own accords in defiance of her sire and grandmother's express commands of consolidation. Crane, Grimm, Peake and the Fossoway's of Cider Hall had sent minuscule token forces, whose combined might scarcely rival that which was brought forth by the Tarlys alone. Even those who heeded their call and marched alongside them at present, and their Footly vanguard, were not loyalists but opportunists. But the most impudent response her family had received thus far was that of the Florents. For the descendants of Florys, the Fox had refused to provide anything to their lords or crown save for a raven damning them to the seven hells for being the practitioners of sorcery.

Her sire and mother could not see it. But she did. Her grandmother did, and her brothers did as well. While possessing the blood of the Gardener Kings, they were never kings, unlike the stags, lions, wolves, falcons and vipers. They were not respected like the first men did the Starks or feared as the Westerlands did Tywin. Thus, their bannermen, also possessing Gardener blood, saw themselves not as subjects but as rivals to their wardens. Even the Hightowers and Redwynes, who were bound to her family by blood and in the eyes of the gods, were a fleeting loyalty that would evaporate in the coming generations. This reality forced the Tyrells to perpetually endeavour to uphold their power by placating their banners in wealth and bed. Therefore, when she claimed the grail, it would not be the coveted throne she would see bequeathed to her via its magic. No, she did not want power that would be doomed to be fleeting and undermined by its subjects. Instead, she would demand the grail the subservience of the world's people to the name Tyrell. And in turn, that would lead to all of the world's thrones and crowns.

Grandmother had been most pleased with her intentions.

But for now, she must remain in the present, tending to the foundations of what was to come, as Loras was. Growing Strong. Her servant, Lancer, whose true name was Cu Chulainn, was the principal foundation for this budding future. He would be the vehicle that would deliver her victory. While Grandmother did appreciate her servant's bluntness and combat prowess, she'd made it no secret that she saw him as just another 'silly boy thinking with his spears'. Margaery couldn't help but disagree. Although he smelt like a wet dog, she enjoyed his humour and physique, partly thanks to his accentuating garb. He'd also provided them with a means of enabling their common men-at-arms to cause harm to a servant.


Harrenhal, The Riverlands, Westeros

A congregation of six northern lordlings, one Ironborn lordling, a bastard, and one servant made their way through the impromptu marketplace erected at the base of the dreaded Harrenhal's blackened walls. Whether out of sheer ignorance or bold opportunism in the face of the carnage to come, smallfolk and merchants alike had gathered to sell their wares to the convergence of lords, knights, squires and other forms of men-at-arms. Jon could spy on many a peddler of a diverse array of trades. A large red-faced man hawked fine tunics and gowns. A family of local fishers cooked and sold their game. And a group of whores beckoned men and women forth to indulge in their more carnal interests. But what led to the young Jon Snows gawking was not the fine wares, amorous food or pretty girls, but the sheer quantity of people that had accumulated into a precise location. The only time Jon could recall being amongst such a wild sea of humanity was the Winterfell harvest festivals and a solitary visit to White Harbour when he was seven-name days old. Yet they held no candle to this obnoxious assemblage.

"Quit staring, pretty boy!" Yelled his unruly servant directly into his ear canal, causing him to flinch and cover the assaulted organ. He could laughter erupt from his companions and even from a few passersby.

"I wasn't staring!" He protested, now realising that he'd been staring at the host whores, many of whom, much to his mortification, had joined his companions revelling in his shame.

"Leave the maid be, Saber. He's got to get his cock wet someday." Mocked Theon between laughs and his signature pompous smirk.

"My master ain't weak."

"Seemed pretty weak to me." Added Jon 'Smalljon' Umber, the eldest son and heir of Greatjon Umber, with his own laugh. Only slightly smaller than his sire, Smalljon towered above most men. He also shared his sire's loud and boisterous nature, although Jon couldn't help but wonder if he was simply trying to live up to his sire's legend. He, Ser Wendel Manderly, Daryn Hornwood, Ser Donnel Locke and Robin Flint had organised themselves into an informal guard for Jon alongside Robb and Theon, considering his importance to The North's participation in the Holy Grail War.

"I wasn't looking at the girls." Jon weakly defended himself.

"Oh! So you were looking at the manly whores! That explains a lot about you, Snow!" Jabbed Theon, still with his cruel smirk plastered upon his face. Damn it! They're ALL laughing. Even Robb. That damn traitor! Jon silently lamented to himself.

"You gotta loosen up, Snow. You're never gonna win a fight if you're getting distracted by tits. Especially considering two of the servants gotta pair." Spoke Daryn Hornwood, legitimate son and heir of Lord Halys Hornwood of Hornwood.

"Aye, and what a pair they have. I wouldn't mind giving them a squeeze." Lecherously replied Theon.

At Theon's lustful proclamation, the large walrus moustache of Ser Wendel Manderly responded in urgency and frustration. "Careful, Greyjoy; they servants have sharper hearing than us mortals, and you know not what blasphemies they may use. If they heard what you're saying, they'd rip us all asunder with their unearthly strength."

Smalljon turned to face the portly knight at his warning to the Ironborn. "So what? Ethereal spirits and a menace to us mortals they are. But so too is Saber one and a man at that, while they are mere womenfolk. The fields of war are no place for them."

"What of Bear Island? Dorne? Or the maid of Tarth?" Jon challenged Umber's rhetoric.

"Deviants they are, Snow!" Smalljon spat. "They put their womenfolk in harm's way! Tis cruel! The gods did not make women to wage wars or run keeps."

"You seem so concerned with the cruelties inflicted upon the fairer sex, Umber, yet I hear your house still practices the outlawed tradition of the right of the first night." Spoke up Robin Flint, the heir to Widow's Watch and one of the mature members of the group alongside Ser Wendel.

"Are you a-!"

"Enough! What did I just tell you about speaking such things? Even if Saber can overpower them, we know not what sorceries they may have. They may not even be inclined to punish us so directly." Spoke the cautious knight of White Harbour.

"If they try to, I'll bash their pretty little skulls in." From behind their horned helm, Saber's voice was rich with eager bloodlust. However, Jon also noticed anger, no, rage laced into her voice. He wasn't the only one either, as Wendel and Robin Flint both grimaced at her words. But the rest merely smiled at the servant's bold proclamation.

The smile on Ser Donnel Locke's shaven face faded as the knight of Oldcastle's gaze fixated on the servant. "What about the other two? The red one and the tall one. Think you can beat them, Saber?"

Saber didn't miss a beat. "Ha! Those two weaklings? Look who you're talking to. Of course, I can."

"Yes, we all remember the sight of that Woolfield boy flying over the tent." Chuckled Daryn.

"It is unwise to underestimate an enemy." Warned Ser Wendel.

"It is also unwise for a knight to become so fat." Saber's repost earned a deep frown and a gripped hilt from the portly knight. Had it been anyone else in the group, save for Robb, Jon felt that Ser Wendel would have drawn contemptuous steel. "But you don't see me complaining now, do you?"

"You're literally doing it right now." Robb blurted out.

"Shut up! Fear not, for I am the greatest servant of the greatest class. I stand above all others."

"You're the shortest one here." This time it was Jon who blurted something he shouldn't have.

Saber grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in so close that he saw his reflection in his servant's helmet. "You want to fucking die, pretty boy!"

"Wouldn't that also kill-"

"Stop before Saber turns on us. We currently got four, soon to be five, enemy servants to worry about." Robin Flint interrupted Theon before Winterfell's ward got himself disembowelled like a plump salmon.

Two actually. Jon silently mused to himself. But best not to voice such things in public, though. Luckily the others were sharp enough to not correct the Flint's intentional mistake.

The group continued to wander amongst the various stalls and performances on display, whose lively colours and movements contrasted the dour and dead castle behind them. They continued to banter and jape each other as the more lighthearted conversation retook root. Occasionally they'd stop to purchase a trinket or food or admire a performance or pretty girls. Nevertheless, the sour truth behind this congregation of humanity would rear its baneful head once again.

"Beware faithful of the seven! Beware! For this land is cursed! The taint of sorcery stains this land and all who dwell within it! Blasphemy of grand proportions is afoot! Beware! The crown and the great houses have sold their souls and delved into witchcraft and devilry! All to satiate their own avarice! Beware! They have forsaken the gods and you, the people! Westeros will be damned unless they are held accountable for their sins! Beware! For the mark of hell is upon their hands!" A lone Septon, grey and shaky, stood upon a wooden box, loudly preaching his condemnations of sorceries and the great houses which 'practised' them. Beneath him was a sizeable crowd of clergy, smallfolk and even some lords and ladies. All of whom were enraptured by the old celebrant's defiant oration, many nodding, cheering and voicing their own grievances in turn. Although Jon doubted that they'd be a physical threat, especially with Saber in tow, it was still an intimidating sight to behold.

"Shit." Smalljon hissed. "That old fucks riling them up."

"At this rate, a riot might break out." Ser Donnel observed.

"And our presence might just make it worse. Best we head back to camp." Robb slowly backed a couple of steps before turning heel, the rest of the group falling behind him as they made their way back to the northern camp.


"Traitors, all of them!" Exclaimed the crown prince Joffrey Baratheon, indignation seeping through every syllable. Emerald eyes locked upon the ancient grey Septon and his flock of bipedal sheep. His pale grip tightened over the leather grip beneath the lion's-head pommel of his personal castle-forged longsword, Lion's Tooth.

"Is he not preaching the faith and word of... your gods, your grace." The wise and eerie voice of his servant, Alter Ego, to his left. The 't' shaped pendant hung absurdly from his well-toned neck. The tall man's oaken gaze had fallen onto his young master. Invisible hooks tugged at the corners of his mouth, forming a singular sinister smile.

"The crown has the divine right to rule. To speak out against it is to defy the gods." Joffrey's scowl remained fixated upon the crowd below the dark ramparts of the blackened castle halls of Harrenhal. Its shadow threatened to swallow the diminutive smallfolk whole.

The servant's smile widened, lips curling back and unveiling white square teeth. "The... divine scarcely makes people the way they ought to be. These defective individuals are born this way and are made to perpetually contend with the reality of their broken existence. Thus, it is inevitable that they will embrace their sinful nature, your grace."

A sinister smile now crossed the Prince's face as he turned to face his vestment-clad servant. "I think you're right, servant. These worms must be defective to defy the crown in such a conceited manner." Joffrey turned his head back towards the crowd and preacher below. Emerald eyes predatorily narrowed onto the beast's intended prey. As he turned, he missed the toothy smile upon the priest's lips faltered and fell away. "And I shall give them the gods justice they're willing to resort to treason for. Come, let us gather some swords to slay this treacherous flock."

It didn't take long for the crown prince to amass a suitable host of around a hundred men at arms. After all, Harrenhal had become a haven for swords and banners across the seven kingdoms. All of them were sworn to his father and, therefore himself. Most of the men wore Baratheon colours. However, there were also some Lannister Redcloaks, Crownlanders and a couple men from one Riverland house he couldn't be bothered to remember. He also had his sworn sword, The Hound, the King's Justice, Ser Ilyn Payne, two members of the Kingsguard, Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Mandon Moore, and of course, his servant at his sides. Now they marched through the sea of cantonments and recreational camps, delightfully sending highborn and smallfolk alike into a panic as they parted and fled at their indomitable march.

Finally, the procession of arms arrived before the treasonous Septon and his gawking crowd of cravens, which had grown significantly in number, even having attracted hedge knights and men-at-arms from numerous houses, most of which Joffrey did not recognise. Heads turned to eye, the encroaching eliciting screams and retreating from the crowd. However, many chose to stand their ground. Knights and men-at-arms drew swords and raised their shields. Two lords drew concealed daggers, as did Septons and Septas. And the smallfolk brought to bear naught but their scythes, sickles, hoes, hammers, hatchets and fists. A noble effort. Yet they only numbered around thirty at most. The grey Septon is a singular boney finger towards the Alter Ego at the Prince's side. "Demon! Tis a Demon! Sprung forth from the seven hells itself! Avert thy eyes, children of the gods! For the mark of the hells is upon the Prince's hand! House Baratheon has forsaken the gods!"

"The senile Septon speaks treason!" Joffrey's voice echoed against the dark walls whose shadows now swallowed the encampments at its base. "Draw your blades and bring me his head! Let none stand in your way!"

And with those words, bloody carnage ensued.

A spear wielded by a Redcloak lodged itself into the rag-coved chest of an old smallfolk man. The drenched metal tip effortlessly cut through the old man's skin, muscles and organs. Lines of red ichor trickled down its wooden shaft.

A blue steel axe held by a Crownlander knight swept through the air horizontally, cutting through the fabric and neck of a young Septa. Her decapitated head spun a solitary rotation before hitting the ground with a thud. Two crimson snakes sprung from the stump of her neck and into the air.

One of the loyal Riverlanders brought his bulbous morning star down upon the head of an unshaven burly butcher who'd been wildly swinging a grimy meat cleaver. The spherical weapon struck the dome of the man's head, inverting it and creating a bowl that quickly filled and overflowed with scarlet liquid and popped both eyes out of their sockets.

Ser Meryn and Ser Mandon descended upon the two treasonous lords that had dared to oppose the crown prince. The Mandon brought his heavy blade down upon the shoulder of the first lord to reach him. The steel maintained its momentum, its power, and its sharpness tore through bone and flesh, only stopping when it reached the lord's waist. Ser Meryn meanwhile charged the remaining lord avoiding the solitary thrust of their dagger before impaling them upon his blade and driving them into the dirt beneath him. The Kingsguard brutally withdrew his sword from the downed lord, eliciting a scream and a rain of scarlet drops.

The Hound and the King's Justice crossed bladed with a trio of hedge knights. Ser Ilyn's greatsword swept low, connecting with the young and clearly inexperienced hedge knight's knee, severing his leg in two before raising his greatsword again and driving it into the younger knight's abdomen. The two other hedge knights engaged The Hound as their comrade was felled by the King's Justice. The first's sword was parried by the more imposing knight, who then proceeded to slam the bottom of his shield into the hedge knight's rusted breastplate, causing it to cave in alongside a wet crunch. The last hedge knight raised his Warhammer high into the air in preparation to pulverise Ser Clegane's skull. However, the action cost him precious time, as The Hound's swords slashed across the man's exposed abdomen. The sword's fine edge had cut all the way through to the hedge knight's spine. Intestines and their contents fell to the ground beneath, crimson ichor pooling around the hedge knight's boots. Dropping his hammer behind his head, the last of the treasonous hedge knights collapsed into his own blood and guts.

"Demon! Stay back! The power of the seven-!" Two firm hands now clasped around the old Septons frail neck, abruptly halting his oration. A fellow celebrant clad in black vestments now stood opposite him. A sinister euphoric smile adorned the face of the Alter Ego. His hands tightened and twisted around the Septon's feeble neck. Light grey eyes widened in horror. Dark brown eyes widened in jubilation. There was a crunch and a rip. And the Septon's head came off.

And the Prince stood back, revelling in its opulence.


"For the sake of seven, boy! You've certainly given us all shit to deal with this time!" Boomed an irritated King Robert. "Mallery, Frey, and the faith are all wailing about that stunt you just pulled!"

"Lady Shella Whent has also expressed her disapproval of the crown Prince's actions on her lands without her knowledge." Added the dower newly appointed Hand of the King, Ned Stark. There was a distinct edge to the hand's voice whenever he spoke of the recent massacre that had just unfolded. EMIYA had instantly recognised it as barely concealed animosity and righteous indignation directed at the Crown Prince. The servant of the bow could tell that the dispensation of 'justice' currently dominated the mind of the hand.

"They were traitors." The Prince's voice was meek in the face of his furious father. "That senile Septon spoke treason, and those lords indulged and defended him. I only sought to protect the realm and bring them to justice, your grace."

"Aye, they were. But you can't just execute lords and members of the faith with a trial." Ahh, there's the real issue. Politics. EMIYA gave a hollow inward chuckle. The deaths of eighteen civilians were hardly a concern to these people. The political ramifications of the five clergy members and two lords were the real issue. Though what was EMIYA supposed to expect? Westeros was a feudal society, with all the degeneracies that entailed, after all. If the red archer had it his way, he'd cut the prick's head off and be done with it. But alas, the fat King would not allow it. Knislaying was something the Westerosi abhorred, even if it was for the greater good. The little shit's punishment, if he even got one, would be sending money and a half-hearted apology to the faith and noble houses and an added beating at most.

"The Prince only sought to arrest the treasonous Septon and acted accordingly when the traitors attacked the Prince and his entourage. If anything, he should be applauded, not persecuted, for upholding the law and crown." Added the Queen, who stood at her husband's side with her own servant at her side. Morgan. While he'd never met the Pan-Human-History version of her as far as he could recall, he nonetheless despised her on both principal and on behalf of his former servant, Artoria, Morgan's younger half-sister.

"The Crown Prince's actions saw the deaths of twenty-nine people." Challenged the Lord of Winterfell.

The Queen's response was immediate. "Twenty-nine traitors who refused to stand aside when he went to arrest a rogue Septon who shamelessly spoke treason in public, Lord Hand."

"Traitors got what traitors deserved. But the Prince should've been cleaner about the whole thing and informed the King." His master was the one who expressed their thoughts on the matter this time. "However, he shouldn't have involved his servant. Alter Ego's participation and... feats only serve to bolster the Septon's treasonous rhetoric."

The servant in question gave his usual unsettling smile. "I was merely performing my role as a servant. Would you prefer me to disobey my master?" EMIYA barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Yes, I'm sure that is the only reason.

Stannis frowned at the fake priest's response. "Your loyalty to the Prince is commendable. However, the Prince is young and should be advised on his decisions. Something which you did not do."

"Why would I advise him on matters that I am adept in. For I am a priest, not a politician."

Not wanting Kirei to continue indulging himself, EMIYA decided to redirect the conversation back to the highest authority in initiating the massacre. "Regardless of the servant's actions and inaction, the Prince was the ultimate authority in this whole debacle."

"You were not permitted to speak, servant." The Queen hissed. Emerald eyes burned holes into him.

"Quiet woman! Neither were you!" Cersei's eyes readjusted themselves to lock with the stormy blue of her husband.

"Someone must defend the Prince for quashing dissent amongst his subjects. If you disagree with his methods, you have clearly failed to teach him."

Robert's face scrunched up in a fury. For a moment, EMIYA thought that the King would leap out of his seat and strike his wife, his legs subconsciously tensing to jump to her defence, hands gripping around the invisible handles of his unsummoned blades. He wasn't the only one who'd thought this either. From across the room, Hippolyta's muscles had also tensed, her knees slightly bent, eyes narrowed upon the King and his wife. "Be careful, woman. You ought to show me respect. Just because you are my wife and mother of my children prevents me from disciplining you." While the archer held no love for the bitch of a Queen, he still found the King's statement disgusting. Hippolyta and Morgan directed scornful gazes towards the fat man with a crown, Joffery remained meek, Kirei seemed annoyed for being blue balled, and the rest of the room seemed mildly uncomfortable.

The heated conversation was interrupted by three consistent knocks upon the door of the chamber.

"What the fuck is it!" Yelled the King. After a couple of moments, the door opened, revealing one of the Kingsguard, Ser Arys Oakheart, if EMIYA remembered correctly.

"Your Grace, outriders have confirmed the arrival of Lord Tywin Lannister and the Westerland host." Cersei's foul mood immediately melted away, now replaced by an eager and smug smile upon her fair features.

"Arrgh. We'll deal with your punishment later, Joffrey. But mark my words; this isn't over." The King made a point of directly looking at the Queen when he uttered those words so she knew who the threat was for.

The group began to make their way to the gates of Harrenhal to greet the Warden of the West and his entourage. The Queen seemed positively elated at the prospect of reuniting with her father, and the Prince appeared to share her opinion only to a lesser degree. As for their servants? Kirei held onto his smirk, no doubt revelling in everyone else's frustration. As for Morgan, she was unusually stoic about the news, which delighted her master so.

His allies had less positive reactions to the Lannister patriarch's impending arrival. The cumbersome King was still seething from his wife's comment, and her father's approach only served to peeve him further. The King's Hand had a deep grimace on his features, as did The Blackfish, though much like the Prince's elation when compared to the Queen's, it was lesser than the Stark lords. Finally, his master and Hippolyta remained outwardly stoic. Still, both held subtly tells that suggested their grievances with the advent of Tywin Lannister. And in all honesty, judging by what he had read and heard, neither was EMIYA.


Awkwardness didn't even begin to describe what Jon currently felt sitting at the high table alongside the King, his family, his hand and other high-ranking nobility in Harrenhal's 'Hall of the Hundred Hearths'. Though by the looks of things, there could have only been around thirty actual hearths in total. A letdown but still impressive, as it was able to hold the absurd congregation of guests from the North, Crownlands, Riverlands, Westerlands and soon the Stormlands and the Reach. He longed to be down with Robb and Theon amongst the rabble where he would usually sit during such festivities. Up here on the high table, hundreds of eyes bore into him, a mere bastard not only seated alongside the most powerful men and woman on the continent but as a master of a servant, given an opportunity to claim any wish he so desired. They stared at him with hatred and envy. While none, save the Queen, had dared voice their dissent due to his position as a master and the King's decree, they whispered their doubts and mockeries in clear shameless view of their subject. "How could a base-born boy be chosen by the grail?" "He must intend to use his wish to usurp Lord Stark's trueborn son." "Oh, how the Starks have fallen."

All of it had plunged deep into Jons's soul and, with its cold embrace, pulled forth his greatest anxieties that now plagued him undaunted under the scrutiny of Westeros's lords and ladies. To them, his mere existence was an even greater affront than that of the massacre that had occurred earlier this very day. And the lack of Ghost's comforting presence only served to further compound his anxiety.

However, what brought him the greatest sorrow was not the scornful pillory that was the hateful rhetoric of the Andals but the complete and utter apathy of his kinsmen to his torment. Not once had any of the First Men, including his Father, Brother and Jory, opposed the Southerners' cruelty in any significant manner. At most, they'd challenge their Andal counterparts to never question the Old Gods and northern valour. But more often than not, they were silent. And worse yet, some agreed, for they did not trust the success and reputation of The North on a lowly bastard such as him.

So far, the only one that had gone out of their way to defend him was Saber. On their journey south, she'd bested a group of northern soldiers who'd questioned his loyalty to The North. Even going as far as to throw one of them over a tent and into a lake. Effortlessly defeated two Riverland knights who'd mocked him in a duel, knocking one's teeth out and breaking another's leg. And she'd also been willing to verbally abuse anyone she'd overheard insulting him. A raft of relief in this ocean of sorrows.

Wanting to distract himself from his brooding, he turned his head to look at Saber, sitting to his left on the high table, stuffing her face with the various foodstuffs served to them. Most of which was probably the best shit Jon had had in his entire life. Understandably she'd refused to remove her helmet, even when eating, instead disassembling the bottom portion around her mouth. To cover for her, Jon had invented an excuse that Saber couldn't remove 'his' helmet because of a knightly oath. This answer hadn't really satisfied anyone, but none of them would publicly question a knight's supposed pledge. Knighthood was held in high regard within Andal culture, after all.

Seeing that Saber was distracted, Jon turned his attention to the rest of the high table. The Fat King was currently stuffing various slices of meat down his throat and downing what had to be gallons of wine. A crown of golden and jewelled stag antlers rested atop his brow.

To the King's right was the newly appointed Hand of the King, his father. To whom this feast was technically dedicated. His father would occasionally smile and chuckle at something King Robert had said but generally remained stoic and somewhat uncomfortable. He would also sometimes look out into the crowd, past the various lords and ladies, seemingly in a trance of short, as if he was seeing things that no one else could notice.

Next to his father was the Crown Prince, Joffrey Baratheon, who seemed positively bored with the entire feast. Though he would periodically smile and greet the numerous lords and ladies who approached the high table to introduce themselves to the Prince. Many of whom, Jon noticed, often brought their young, blushing daughters with them. Although the Prince didn't seem particularly interested in any of the fair maidens presented to him. Yet none of them came to confront the Prince regarding his earlier actions. None dared to scold him on behalf of dead lords, knights, clergy and smallfolk. Yet, they found time to feel odium to Jon for an act that he held no willing part in. For that reason, Jon could not help but feel the treasonous emotion of revulsion towards the crown Prince.

The Prince's servant, Alter Ego, he believed, sat with a blank face watching the ongoing festivities while occasionally sipping at his wine to no reaction whatsoever. He didn't even bother to touch his food, to Jon's chagrin.

Next was the Blackfish and his servant, Rider. Thankfully whoever organised their eating arrangements knew to not sit Ned Starks bastard son next to a member of his lawful wife's family. Which definitely saved Jon from more awkwardness. Out of everyone seated at the high table, the Blackfish and his servant, who Jon couldn't help but see as a more regal Arya, appeared to be enjoying themselves the most as they enjoyed the food and wine and cracked jokes.

To his and Saber's left were Lord Stannis Baratheon and his servant, a red-clad archer. Before his father had given him a briefing about everyone at the table before the night's festivities, Jon didn't know anything about the younger Baratheon other than his relation to the King and his role in the siege of Storm's End during Robert's Rebellion. This made sense since the Lord of Dragonstone was significantly quieter, more well-composed and agelast, unlike his louder and more charismatic elder brother, the King. Stannis would occasionally throw subtle glares at Jon and his servant. However, Saber was usually the subject of his scrutiny, which for a brief moment had given Jon the vain hope that the younger Baratheon's prickly behaviour was caused by the presence of the closest servant other than his own rather than Jon's bastard-hood. Jon dashed those hopes as quickly as they'd come. At least Stannis hadn't openly mentioned his base-born nature.

As for the red archer, much like his master, Jon had had scarce interaction with the man. Much like his master, Archer didn't seem to relax. His eyes constantly scanned the crowd and the high table. Although, unlike Stannis, he didn't seem to focus on him and Saber. He would also periodically cast a glance of distaste towards the various luxury foodstuffs they had before them on the table. The ungrateful display infuriated Jon.

Finally, between him and the King was the Queen and her servant, Ruler. The Queen seated next to her husband, her younger children to her left, and Ruler sat next to him, whose presence brought upon Jon the utmost consternation. The first reason behind his distress was that she was the Queen's servant. If Jon felt uncomfortable by merely being seated at the high table, then sitting next to the servant of the Queen definitely would.

The second reason was that Ruler just so happened to be an ethereally beautiful woman. At the same time, Jon was a pubescent young man at the stage of life where most his age had begun to take notice of the opposite sex, and Jon was no exception. Her blemishless skin, stunning turquoise eyes, face-burning smile and, of course, her curves and décolletage all drew the attention of himself and others. He had to actively remind himself not to stare as to not perpetuate the stigma of bastards as lustful degenerates.

The final reason, and the one that had him the most on edge, was Saber's behaviour and warning regarding the regal heroic spirit. "That woman is a monster! The vilest whore that ever did live! She is the most dangerous one in this war!" Saber had refused to elaborate on how she knew the other servant, although Jon did not question her further. He knew from experience with Arya that prying could lead to a violent reaction.

Nevertheless, Saber was beyond adamant in her assertion of Ruler's malevolent nature. Even now, at the high table, she'd continue to throw hidden glares from behind her helmet at Ruler. Jon could see that her ravenous consumption of the food on her plate was a failing attempt at alleviating her anger. He hadn't known Saber for long, but she'd stood up for him more than anyone else in the short time he had. Thus, he felt inclined to trust her judgement. A viewpoint that was reinforced by his sire's confirmation of the Queen as an enemy in the war. Hence, Jon was anxious beside an enemy servant that could effortlessly spread his body parts across the seven kingdoms if they so desired.

For the time being, Jon attempted to distract himself from all of these culminating stresses with the luxurious food before him. Although they seemed to have killed his appetite somewhat. Every time he took a bite from his meal, he felt ill, not because of the food itself but the sense of guilt that someone like him should not be partaking in something of this quality. Saber had already engulfed five plates worth of food, the King on his third, his sire his second, and he hadn't even finished half of his first.

"You should finish your meal before it gets cold. How else is a handsome young man like you gonna grow his muscles for the ladies?"

Jon froze at those spoken words. A shiver crawled up his back and straightened out his posture. He slowly turned his head to his right. A dull ache and heat burned his cheeks. He forced a polite smile onto his face. "F-forgive me, my lady. Uh... I'm merely trying to saver the food and avoid o-overeating, is all."

The un-earthly servant gave a light giggle and smile in response to Jon's failed explanation. Her turquoise eyes fixed on his grey. She leaned forward on her elbow, turning to face Jon and giving him a rather generous view. The action brings intense pressure on the boy's chest and loins. "It's good to see that such a handsome young man has such pleasant manners and restraint. But there is no need to lie to me, sweet boy. It is clear to me that you are uncomfortable with the special attention the nobles are giving you."

Jon frowned and lowered his eyes once again, self-conscious of the nobility's scrutiny. "They look down on me for being a bastard. They think I'm a monster born of lust. One who seeks to usurp his true-born siblings."

"Well, do you?"

"O-of course not! I could never do that to Robb. He is my brother, even if we do not share a mother."

She gave another giggle that further scorched his face and squeezed his heart. He could feel the pulse of his heart in his flesh and hear its beats. "What a sweet and handsome boy you are. A righteous soul such as yours would make an excellent lord. Just the type of man I like-"

"Hey, quit bothering my master, witch! Or I'll cut your head off!" Growled Saber, the wooden table splintering under her grip. The heads of several people nearby turned silently towards the servant that had just issued the threat.

Rulerer merely gave an innocent smirk. "Why, good sir knight, I was merely having a pleasant conversation with this fine young man here. There is nothing wrong with that, is there?"

"You lie, you wh-"

"Enough! You will behave with proper decorum within these walls!" Stannis was the one who spoke, his features twisted into a glare directed at Saber. However, his sight then transitioned to land upon the mature woman. "Both of you."

His father made a coughing sound to gain Saber and Jon's attention. When Jon turned to face him, he noticed the entire high table had their eyes fixated upon him, Saber and Ruler, causing the boy to sink further into his seat. "Saber, your master is clearly unwell. He is flushed and not eating. Escort him back to his chambers rather than getting defensive and making a scene."

The irate Saber growled at the Hand's command but complied in the end. Grabbing Jon by the collar, yanking him out of his chair, and dragging him out of the hall. All the while, hundreds of scrutinising eyes fell upon him. Shame washed over him as he realised what had happened. His eyes were downcast, trying to avoid the stares.

He wanted to scream at them for daring to judge him as a criminal when he'd done nothing but been born.

He wanted to scream at them for doing nothing about the Crown Prince who massacred his subjects without care or consequence.

He wanted to scream.

But he couldn't.

For he was a bastard. Someone worth only to hate, not to listen to.

For his existence and actions shamed his family.

And thus, they did not acknowledge him.


Catelyn dismounted her Garron as she arrived at the outskirts of the sea of tents that surrounded the great walls of Harrenhal. Her jubilation at being in her homeland was once again tempered by the grim nature of her task. The sun had set, and the dark of night blanketed the land. Clouds covered the stars and moon making the night darker than most, as she and her small retinue made their way towards the flickering lights of fire ahead.

After wandering the eerily muted encampment for a while, she eventually came across her intended destination. A tent with the familiar banner of house Tully waving silently in the night. As she went to enter the tent, she was greeted with the pleasant sight of three familiar faces and one new one.

"Cat!" Her brother, Edmure, was the first to acknowledge her arrival as he strode forth to envelop her in a massive hug that oozed with fraternal affection. It was the first time they'd seen each other in years, after all.

"It's great to see you too, Ed." Her brother broke their hug, allowing her uncle, the Blackfish, to give her one of his own.

"It's been too long, niece."

"Indeed it has, uncle." She then turned to the final familiar face in the tent. "Petyr, it's good to see you again as well, old friend. How goes your position as Master of Coin?"

Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish gave a strained smile in response to her query. "Counting coppers, as his grace calls it."

The Lady of Winterfell then turned to the only unfamiliar face attending this conspiracy of theirs. A young girl who could be no more than sixteen with unnatural golden irises. "I presume that you are the Tully servant?"

"I am Rider. Servant of Brynden Tully in this Holy Grail War. I presume you are Catelyn Stark nee Tully?" The girl responded with a small smile and nod of her red-haired head.

"That I am." Catelyn gave the girl a smile in turn. However, her demeanour swiftly darkened. "We'll have to go over pleasantries later, I'm afraid. We have a dire matter to discuss."

"The bastard." Edmure sneered. "You said in your letter that we couldn't trust him."

"Indeed. I assume you've heard what happened to Bran."

"We have. And we all pray that young Bran makes a swift recovery from his fall. But I assume that your bringing it up now has an unfortunate implication behind it." The rest of the tent darkened at Littlefinger's words. Their hidden meaning not being lost on its occupants.

"So you believe that Ned's bastard was the one to push Bran." Her uncle all but growled through clenched teeth.

"I do. When we discovered Bran's body, we noticed something on his right hand."

Rider's eyes widened. Her golden irises seemed to glow in the firelight. "Command seals."

Catelyn nodded at her words. "Yes, there was no mistaking them. However, no servant was summoned."

"So that fucking bastard tried to kill off the competition before they could summon their servant! That fucking cunt is both dishonourable and a kinslayer. We have to warn the others!" Edmure nearly roared, and a baleful fire lit in his eyes.

"Quiet. Someone might hear you." Chastising words aimed at the youngest Tully by his elder.

Catelyn turned back to her brother and shook her head. "We can't. At least not yet. Ned won't listen, no matter how many times I warn him about the boy."

"And Robert heeds Ned's word more than anyone else. Well... anyone else alive." Littlefinger added.

Blackfish gave a dour nod at the Valeman's words. "Petyr's right. His grace trusts Ned's judgement more than his lawful wife and children. And if what Cat is saying is true. Then Ned's judgement is compromised."

"Then what are we supposed to do?" Meek words laced with fatalistic defeatism spoken by the Tully heir.

"Perhaps we start at the bottom? A lot of the lesser nobility didn't appreciate the boy's presence." Rider offered.

Edmure's brows furrowed in confusion at the servant's suggestion. "Without servants? What can they do?"

"Not much. But against a master, they can do a lot."

"I'll use my connections in the royal court to gather information and allies," Petyr said with a determined nod. "And you Tully's get your loyal bannermen on side."

"I'll talk to Patrek and get a list going."

"You do that, Edmure. Rider and I will try the other masters and servants."

Catelyn clapped her hands together. "Then it's all settled. Let's take down my son's would-be killer."

"Oh, great founder, the first Hassan-I-Sabbah, grant me purpose."


Hassan of the Cursed Arm stood atop one of the five crumbling black towers of the formidable castle beneath his feet. His black cloak billowed against the wind. The dark fabric makes him blend in against the night, obscuring him from the views of man and servant.

He was to keep vigil upon the enemy masters and servants below but stay his hands unless absolutely necessary. And do anything and everything to maintain that secrecy. For those were his master's orders. And thus, he would adhere to them without question or hesitation.

For that was loyalty. And that alone was reason enough to heed. While the assassin did understand the logic behind the King-Beyond-the-Walls order. It was not necessary. Those who were genuinely loyal did not need to comprehend their task but merely fulfilled it, regardless of personal sacrifice.

"Oh, Azrael, Angel of Death, grant me strength."

And Cursed Arm, throughout his life, had proven himself to be beyond loyal. He had sacrificed his name and identity and taken upon himself the title of the Old Man of the Mountain, his true self doomed to be forgotten in the minds of men. He had sacrificed his body and taken upon the burden of the arm of a Shaytan to fulfil his duty. He had sacrificed his future with Salia, the woman he loved to bare the leadership of the Hashasin. And finally, he'd crippled a child. All in the name of loyalty.

The child's name was Brandon Stark. He would not allow himself to forget it. Although he would not regret his actions. After all, what was a mere child in the face of his oath to save of lives of tens of thousands of Free Folk stuck beyond the wall. That didn't mean he couldn't mourn the necessity of his cruelty.

He will never forget the boy's name, face and the feeling of his hand pushing the boy from the tower to the grim fate that waited below.

He would bare the guilt with him all the way on his journey to fulfil his duty. Penance for the sins of necessity.

"Oh, God, the All-Compassionate, grant me salvation."


Questions:

Amelia831: Oh, it will be, don't worry! I would be an idiot not to base Euron off his book counterpart. It is remarkable what lengths the show seemed to go to to be unfaithful to his book counterpart. While technically A spoiler, I think it's pretty apparent at this point that Dany's servant will be Avenger. As for the servant's identity, I left a clue in the previous chapter.

Guest: Spoilers. You'll have to figure it out for yourself.

Jon Snow: Yes. Also yes. And yes, again.

Guest: Spoilers. Camelot is a bit overrepresented, but the characters fit the story I want to tell. There is a clue as to Avenger's identity.

Perseus12: Thank you! It's always nice to see people enjoying my shitty fanfiction. And here you go!

njgronlund: If the two of them did become best friends, it probably wouldn't end well, considering what happened to Cu's previous best friend. I initially DID have Oberyn summon Cu but changed it because I wanted to go in a different direction with Cu's character. Hence, why I paired him with Margaery instead. There are two clues as to my intentions with Cu and Margaery. The first one is in his response to first meeting her, and the second is in Bran's dream sequence. And it is NOT a ship.

Thank you for all the reviews! Please leave more so I can improve my writing skills.