Major spoilers for first book and season of Game of Thrones follows:
Bruce: Chapter 30
It had been many months since Bruce last stepped foot inside King's Landing, and he worried with each passing step that this could be his last. This city had dangers even more fearsome than Gotham's lurking in its shadows. With Ned imprisoned and the King dead, the city was in upheaval. Everywhere in the streets people rushed past, either scared or angered or busy. The city appeared like any other, but Bruce read between the lines. The city was paused, between one major change and the next. Joffrey had assumed the throne, and the Northerners grew ever nearer to the city.
Bruce had rode for nearly two weeks, leaving Ned to suffer in a cell for just as long. Bruce needed to act quickly to save his friend. He figured Clark must be somewhere in the city, but with so many voices and so little time, he did not have time to search. Clark, Diana, Alfred, Dick, Lucius, not even Gordon would be able to help him. Bruce had to fend for himself in a city where whispers could kill.
He had left Gotham easily enough, the same way as he had entered the capitol. He donned a fake beard, thick coarse black hair that covered his neck and jaw. He wore a plain frayed tunic and trousers with a patch over one knee. A faded traveler's cloak on top of that.
As he moved about the street he was just another plain face, forgettable. From some whores outside a brothel he heard that Sansa was being kept in the castle as a prisoner, and from some sellswords at a tavern he heard Ned had been sent to the black cells beneath the Red Keep, but there was never any word of Arya. I'm so sorry Dick, but I may have come too late...
If Arya was dead, then Dick's rage would grow beyond measure, and another child would have suffered at the hands of corruption and murder. Bruce vowed not again. He would find the girl should she remain within these walls, and stop the Lannisters in their tracks.
He stole his armor into the city in a false bed beneath the hay in his wagon. The wagon's weight added to the length of his journey from Gotham, but it was a necessary setback. He could not break Ned free in plain clothes. He needed his armor, and his arsenal.
After his first day spent scouring the city in search of insight, he felt prepared to sneak into the castle. Bruce returned to the inn he had rented a room at for the night in order to prepare. The wagon was in the stables, tucked safely away in the back corner out of wandering eyes' paths. As he stepped up the stairs and opened his room, he was met with an unwelcomed surprise.
"Oh, pardon me, I fear there has been a mistake," his unexpected visitor tittered.
Bruce entered and closed the door, fearing he had already been discovered. Using the gruff tone of a sailor with the accent of a Dornishman he replied, "Not a problem, might I ask what you're doing in my room?"
The bald eunuch chuckled, "Oh come now my lord, there is no need for such games. Lay down your disguise and false voice, as flawless as it may be."
"Apologies, I'm afraid I don't understand?" Bruce tried again, further feigning obliviousness.
The visitor shook his head, appearing disappointed. "Lord Wayne, you may stop at any time. While I find the persona you have created amusing, it is not a Dornish hay farmer I wish to speak with, but the Batman."
Bruce froze, his eyes glaring at the man sitting before him. "What do you want Varys?"
"Ah, and the truth shall set you free. I desire nothing, my lord, I merely wished to break words with you," the eunuch stated, not making any attempt to hide the pleasure on his face.
"How did you know who I was?"
"Oh your disguise would fool anyone here, my lord. Lord Baelish's men would never have seen through your act, and the queen's spies stood even less of a chance. Your disguise was perfect to the minutest detail. You truly are a master of your craft, well, should I say, all of them. How many skills have you mastered Lord Wayne? Stealth, disguise, both in appearance and voice, metalworking, acrobatics, chemistry, economics, warcraft and strategies, history, how the mind of a man works and thinks. You would have a chain thrice as long as the greatest Archmaester, certainly longer than Grandmaester Pycelle's. So tell me, you have all of this knowledge locked away in that superior, sharp little mind of yours, and what do you do with it? You run around in the night like a child playing knight. Surely there are better ways to achieve your goal other than playing dress up," the plump man chattered. His lavender perfumes flooded Bruce's nostrils as his fists tightened.
"If I would have slipped past Littlefinger and the Queen's men with such ease, why not you? And how did you know Batman and Bruce Wayne were one in the same, not even Tywin Lannister has deduced that," Bruce growled.
"Oh yes, I heard of the unfortunate siege to your city. It seems the Northerners' rebellion is a blessing in disguise for the poor city of Gotham. The North's heart will only be fueled all the more with the knowledge of Lord Stark's imprisonment. His fate is to be decided a week from today, at the Sept of Baelor. Oh apologies, you asked me a question. How did I know? Well, I too am very keen of the minds of men. It is not hard to connect the broken shards into the full portrait, my lord. Batman could only have been you. How no one else in this kingdom has figured it out paints the idiotic minds, that brilliant souls such as ourselves, are surrounded by with such a muddied brush that our golden light could be drowned in it."
Bruce moved to his bed, where three of his bat shaped throwing knives lay in wait beneath his pillow. The eunuch called out, "Oh, you are looking for these?"
He pulled out the three knives from his long, sagged sleeve, and threw them at Bruce with unexpected speed and precision. Bruce ducked to avoid the first one, the second flew just over his shoulder, but the third grazed against his cheek, leaving a shallow cut.
"Oh well done, my lord, both agile and powerful, a hard combination to come by in these times. Now, if you would sit so we may speak as gentlemen?" The eunuch waves a hand at the chair opposite him.
Bruce ground his teeth and moved to sit down. "What is it you want from me? If you knew who I was why not reveal my identity and have me in chains next to Ned?"
"There is that name. Ned. Lord Stark knows of your identity does he not? And the boy's? Do either of the daughters know?"
Bruce remained silent. "Always ever stoic. I know you care a great deal for Lord Stark. I also know he was a friend of your father's. But I'm afraid you cannot help him."
"Why not?" Bruce growled.
Lord Varys gave a small smile. "Come now, my lord, the reason is obvious. If I may speak plainly, you are a fool. Do you know why they call me the Spider? Because I am a creature overseeing enumerous webs. Webs with such far reaching grasp even I find it hard to believe at times. Now, you are no fool in the way that Lord Eddard Stark stands. He is dutiful, honorable, but ultimately such qualities will like to get a man killed, as they may just do for him. Nor are you as foolish as the Queen, a woman trying so desperately hard to prove to the world and herself that she in fact has something between her legs. You are cunning my lord, skilled with both your body and mind, but you have done something that us, Lord Baelish, Lord Tywin, myself, have not since done…brought attention to ourselves. You have painted a bright red target on that pointed helmet of yours. While Littlefinger and myself operate from the shadows, you act so openly without disregard to subtlety. Now I am aware that you too go about your work in the shadows, but not truly. You have made yourself and the Grayson boy targets. While myself and Littlefinger have smallfolk and peasants to answer for any crimes should they be caught. Allow me to explain it in this manner my lord. People are but flies. They move to where there is food, titter about aimlessly, and are as insignificant to this world as the corpses they feed upon. Now, a fly fluttering through the woods is naïve, unsuspecting. My net lies in wait for them, invisible, beyond the scope of their comprehension. When they fall into my web, it is already too late. They are trapped, but suddenly have the ability to see my web, yet lack the power to see it in its entirety. They can see the small section that their squirming causes to ripple in the sunlight, showing maybe the next two or three connecting joints in either direction, but that is not its total expanse. They can writhe and struggle to their heart's content, but when their energy wanes, their strength dissolves, and the dust settles, the web will still be intact, and the one observing them from the safe cover of the shadows at the web's side will still be alive to observe another day. How I have gone about my work, my lord, has been a tiresome and expansive effort, but it leaves me blameless. My spies do not know who they serve. They have but the name of a man, who has the name of another man, who has the name of a man that does not even exist. My efforts, tiresome as they may be, allow me to duck under the arrows, and have the targets lay elsewhere. Yourself however, why, you are a walking target, and should you not be cautious, a man that will not only have King Joffrey and Westoros after you, but perhaps other lands as well. When the bells toll my lord, they will toll for you and you alone. You have done well to safeguard your servant and that Summer Island fellow from the peoples' wrath, but only for a while. Once Batman falls, the world will know your true face, and then all of your planning, the cane, the limp, the isolation and paid off whores, will be for naught. Your withered web will be torn apart my lord, and your life and those around you with it," the eunuch finished, with a solemn expression on his usually calm, collected face.
Bruce gritted his teeth and growled, "So should I be more like you? Have others risk their lives for my benefit so my hands can remain clean? Pay off men to do my duty for me? No, that is the way of a craven who is too afraid to take on the burden himself. I will not put others in harm's way to defend myself."
"Tsk tsk," the eunuch tittered. "A noble gesture my lord, but futile. I never said your hands were clean. We both know that to be an imaginative lie, for your hands are overflowing with that distinct crimson of blood. That is what happens when you take the life of another, or lives should I correct."
Bruce froze. His mind slowly began to blur, as his eyes widened with shock. "What are you speaking of eunuch," he seethed.
"Oh, my lord, there is no need to feign ignorance in my company. We both know of what cruel sins you have committed, the lives you have taken, the master you have betrayed. For the League of Shadows does not forget."
Bruce's strength was fleeting, his mind tossing about like sloshing sea waves against the rocks. His eyes blurred, and his words caught in his throat. As he tried to stand, his legs fell limp and he crashed to the floor. As he reached out for the eunuch's leg, the man stood, and used his foot to roll Bruce over onto his back. He looked into Bruce's eyes and shook his head. "Apologies, my lord, but the shadows have come. The bell tolls for you now."
The Weary Traveler:
It had been so long a journey. Clark left Gotham weeks ago, but the journey to King's Landing proved to be a time consuming one. He had planned to follow the Sea Road to Highgarden and then follow the Rose Road up to King's Landing. Two days out, he had run upon an old farmer whose horse had died, leaving him stranded days from any town with a wagon full of hay in tow. Clark agreed to lend the man his horse, and even went as far as to give aid to the man with delivering the hay. They rode down the Sea Road to Highgarden. Then they turned south on the Rose Road and rode for the city of Starling Point, at the base of the Mander river where it pours out into the sea. The city had a similar tragedy to Gotham, where the ruling family had suffered greatly.
Lord Robert Queen had ruled over Starling Point for two decades before being lost at sea. His wife now ruled in his stead, married to Lord Walter Steele, but giving him no heirs. The Queen's daughter Thea lived with them, but her son Oliver had been lost at sea with his father. The city had a growing problem with crime, also similar to Gotham, but lacked any figure like Batman to combat it. Clark knew he must come back to the city to help it, but first he must meet with Lord Stark.
When they reached the city they heard word of Lord Tywin's arrival to Gotham. Clark knew he must ride to help them, but felt conflicted. He was uncertain of himself, and if he would cause more harm than good by riding to aid them. If he arrived and single handedly stopped Tywin's advances, how would the kingdom react? Would the King himself have sent every army from the Seven Kingdoms calling for Clark's head, would Gotham have a bigger target painted on it? Batman was already more change than Westoros could handle, and he was but a mortal man. If Clark stepped into the light, how would people react?
On their first night, Clark wrestled in his sleep. He knew that even if he were to ride for Gotham, by the time he arrived it may be already too late. In order for evil to win, all good men must do, is nothing. The words his father told him so many years ago echoed in his head.
But father, you told me to wait, to do nothing until I was sure of what I could do and that the kingdom would be ready? How can I follow what you told me then, if I must also follow your wisdom of how evil can win?
Clark slowly fell into sleep, a light, troubled sleep, but sleep nonetheless. He had dreams, as he rarely did, but this night the dreams were different. Most dreams were remembrances of his parents, the white hound they kept, the lessons he learned, the chores he did, the memories he cherished. This night however, his dreams were fevered and frightening. He was being placed in a crystal tomb. The hands that held him were soft, and strong. As he looked up he saw a man, raven black hair with silver streaks coated his head, and a matching beard across his jaw. His eyes were dark brown, but they were caring and warm. Clark turned his head and saw a woman, with eyes similar to his own, bright blue sapphires. She was beautiful, with chestnut brown hair and tears at the corners of her eyes. She had been crying, and reached out a hand to caress Clark's head. As the man pulled the woman back, he began to speak. Clark could not hear the words, but knew the man had chosen the words carefully as he spoke slowly. Then the man turned, to address someone outside of Clark's view. The raven haired man reached out and closed a crystal cover of Clark's tomb. It was lifted into the air, and placed into the arms of another. The crystal cover was able to be seen through, but what could be seen was blurry. Clark could see the man now holding him had a strong jaw and bright purple eyes. Short silver-gold hair reached around his scalp. He stared determinedly at the couple that had just handed Clark over, muttered something, and left with Clark in hand.
They passed into darkness. Clark was unable to see outside his casket, before a bright light illuminated all. Clark could see smoke and fire sprouting up into the sky. He heard the muffled sound of screaming, as he was carried through a seeming hell. The crystal case was at last set down, as a massive, dark shadow clouded out all light. The gold-silver haired man rose a hand up to meet the shadow, as Clark realized it wasn't a monstrous shadow, but a monstrous creature.
Its wings unfolded, red skin stretched wide with black veins threading throughout. Its scales were black as night without moon or stars, and its head rose up so very high. It was massive, larger than anything Clark had ever seen before. Its eyes glared red, and the massive dark horns at the back of its skull spiraled up into the sky like twisted mountain peaks.
The man returned and picked up the case Clark lay within before turning back to the massive dragon and walking into its shadow.
Clark shuttered as his eyes opened wide. Cold sweat coated his brow and chest. He was breathing deeply, his hand grasped at his breast. He turned, and saw the old farmer had been watching him.
"There something troubling you son?" The old man asked.
"No, well, I fear I may be going against what my father wished for me. He told me I would do great things, but that I must wait until I was ready. What if it's too late then? What if evil has already won by the time I am ready to wield the light?"
The old man rubbed his fingers through his powder white beard. "Hmm, well if you were my son, and I died years ago, I'd tell you to not listen to a damn thing I said."
Clark blinked, not expecting such an answer. "Pardon?"
"You heard me lad, if your father died years ago, you shouldn't listen to him now."
"But, his wisdom was true. If good men do nothing evil will prevail, and if I'm not ready to take hold of my purpose, how will I succeed?"
The old man chuckled, "You do it your own way. Your father's dead, son, he can't help you now. You need to choose your own path. You can't live your life livin' it how an old man whose gone now said to. Sometimes when fate wants you to do somethin', you don't have time to get ready for it. You just jump in."
Clark had thought long and hard about what he said that night. The next morning word reached that Tywin had failed in his assault, and had left Gotham as it stood. They left to fight the Northerners, but Clark knew they would be back. The corrupt always return when the weak remain defenseless. The people need me, I can do something, I just...don't know what...
Bidding the old man farewell, Clark departed a few days later. The old man reminded him of his father, and what he said that night was very much in line with something his father would have said should he have survived.
He left his horse with the man, and refused any coin be spent on another. "I can walk just fine," he told the kind old stranger.
He walked up to Highgarden, where he was able to work a few days and procure a horse. Then he rode the rest of the way to King's Landing. The capitol had a certain grace to it, but at the same time held a dangerous ferocity and hunger for darkness and corruption. Clark could see the slow decay of the city in its slums. Flea Bottom, where the poorest of the city's denizens dwelled, was particularly melancholy. The kingdom was on the brink of war with itself, and soon wolf and lion would be slaughtering each other in the thousands. Clark was terribly confused at what he must do. He could easily march onto the battlefield and order each side to surrender, defeating any who would not listen, but what form of peace would that truly be. It would be hollow and out of fear. No, there must be a different form of action.
As he lay in bed on his third night there, rubbing the golden crest on his necklace, he wondered what Lord Stark would say to him. He figured that it would be difficult to gain an audience with him privately, so his best chance was to go before him as any other commoner would seeking words.
The next day he stood in line with the other countrymen seeking counsel or grievances cured before the throne. But the line of smallfolk was so long that it stretched nine corridors from where the throne chamber was. After an entire day of waiting, Clark stood five corridors down. The next day the line grew to eleven corridors in length. The next day, fourteen. So many unfortunate and wronged people. Some had lost their families in raids, others had daughters raped and murdered, some had sons butchered for fun by the Mountain and his men. Lord Stark had sent Lord Beric Dondarrion out to bring the rebel to justice, but it could be many months before the Mountain was captured.
Clark had even let a few people skip in front of him because their grievances were so much more pressing and severe than his own. He had not had loved ones ripped from him, or his home and lands put to torch, he was only here seeking guidance. Clark thought Lord Stark would still be there when he finally reached the front someday soon, but the next day proved him false.
The King had returned with a grievous wound to his stomach. While hunting, a boar had managed to tear him with one of its tusks. The smallfolk were uncertain whether their king would die or not, but Clark had a dark suspicion he would. The next day news flooded down from the Red Keep that the king was dead, and that his son Joffrey had taken the throne. More alarming news came that Lord Stark had tried to usurp the boy from the throne, and was arrested as a treasonous criminal.
Clark knew at once that this was a lie. Although never meeting the man himself, Bruce had spoken of the man with such renown and respect. Any man that Bruce respected would surely not try to usurp without just means or out of selfish intentions.
That night proved difficult to sleep once more. He knew that if he truly wanted to, he could walk into the Red Keep and rescue Lord Stark with ease. But is that the right thing to do? I would be saving the innocent, but I would be committing a crime myself. No, committing acts of good out of immoral acts is not the right way to go about it. I am no better than the law. I must have faith that Lord Stark will go free because he is innocent. I must have faith that good men will act to defend him.
And yet, here he stood. At the Sept of Baelor, the day Lord Stark's fate was to be decided. No good men had tried to save him. Lord Stark was left to suffer at the hands of the Queen and Prince Joffrey in the black cells. As Clark stared out from the crowd at the high rock on which Lord Stark sat on his knees, a dark sensation ripped through him. Lord Varys, Grandmaester Pycelle, the Queen, all of those responsible for betraying Eddard were there. Beside the Queen stood the only innocent soul, poor Sansa Stark, trying her best to appear strong, but Clark could see the sorrow on her face.
The crowd was booing, throwing cabbage and stones at Lord Stark. Behind the kneeling lord stood Ilyn Payne, the crown's executioner. The man was a horrid sight, and even more horrid to meet. He had no tongue since it had been ripped out. His eyes appeared iced over and cold.
Lord Stark had been led out last, as all of the others stood idly by and watched. Ned rose from his knees, and looked out to the crowd. He called out, with pain in his voice, "I am Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King." He paused, looking over to his daughter, as she gave a slow nod with a small smile. "I come before you, to confess my treason. In the sights of gods and men, I betrayed the faith of my king, and the trust of my friend Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood run cold, I plotted to murder his son, and seize the throne for myself." The crowd erupted in angered shouts as stones flew at the lord. One glanced off his shoulder, another hit him in the thigh. He stepped back, but the Hound stepped forward and pushed him back into his place. "Let the High Septon, and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I say. Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne. By the grace of all the gods, lord of the seven kingdoms, and protector of the realm."
As Lord Stark's head bowed in shame, Grandmaester Pycelle struggled down to where the prisoner stood. He called out defending Ned, saying that any who beg for forgiveness for their sins should be shown mercy. "The gods are just, but beloved Baelor taught us they can also be merciful. What is to be done with this traitor, your Grace?" The old man asked in a wavering, echoed voice.
Joffrey smirked and looked out to the crowd, raising a hand to silence their angered roars. "My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night's Watch. Stripped of all titles and power, he would serve the realm in permanent exile. And my Lady Sansa, has begged mercy for her father. But they the soft hearts of women, so long as I'm your king, treason shall never go unpunished!" The boy called out.
Ned's eyes widened as he stared at the stone beneath him. The Queen, Varys, Pycelle's, all of their eyes shot open and turned to their new king. "Sir Ilyn, bring me his head!"
The Queen immediately grasped her son's sleeve and whispered rapidly for a call to spare Lord Stark. Sansa cried out in pain, Varys stared in amazement, and Lord Stark's shoulders sunk, accepting defeat. As the lord's eyes looked out the crowd, at all of the people roaring for his head, Clark could only stare back in despair. No, this shouldn't be happening, no someone must stop this. I must stop this...
As Clark took his first step forward, so did Ilyn Payne. Ilyn Payne was at Lord Stark's side within moments, bringing his sword to rest upon the neck of his prey. The lord had been shoved to his knees once more, and continued to stare out at the crowd, his eyes darting about looking for something, or someone. Sansa was thrashing about in the arms of the two Kingsguard restraining her as she cried and shouted, but no one heard her.
Ilyn raised his blade, and brought it down.
As the crowd roared, the head fell to the earth. It bounced off the hard stone once, then twice, before rolling to a stop. The long hair had bloodied ends now, and the expressionless face of Lord Stark stared out at the crowd.
That night, Clark was enraged. He rode out of the city into the forest. Yelling and shouting in pain and anger.
"I should have done something!" He shouted as he brought his fist into the wood of an old oak tree. The wood cracked beneath his knuckles, leaving a large dent in its skin. Clark brought another fist, then another, and another, before so many knuckle prints had been punched into the tree that it groaned as it wavered, loosened.
Clark looked at his knuckles, now coated in his blood, before staring up at the moon. Right, night.
He gave the tree one last, furious punch before it flew clear off its trunk and fell to the earth with a massive, thunderous roar. Angry tears dotted the corner of his eyes as he brought his fists down onto the fallen tree again and again.
"Why didn't I do something! Why was I a coward!? I could have saved him! I could have saved all of them if I only did a damned thing!" He brought his fists into the bark so many times that he lost count. When he finally fell to his knees, clutching the earth in his hands, the tree lay a splintered, shattered corpse.
He looked up to the sky. "What do I do father? Please, tell me what I must do!? I pray you, HELP ME!"
He was answered with silence. Only the chirping of the crickets and the rustling of branches in the wind. There would be no help now.
As he turned to return to the city, his chest began to burn. Clark reached for it in pain, but realized it wasn't his chest that was burning. The emblem of his necklace burned bright red, as if still in the heart of a flame. He tried to rip it off, but found it was bound to his chest. What form of trickery is this?
Then his eyes burned. They burned white hot, blinding him. He fell to his knees once more, clutching his face in pain. Screaming, as his body began to burn, like he was in an oven.
Then, in an instant, it was all gone. The emblem no longer burned, his sight returned, and he felt his aching subside. His skin was cold now however, and his eyes looked to his surroundings, seeing nothing but darkness. Clark stood, looking around until a single light spawned. A fire atop a stone pedestal with a single hole. As Clark neared, he could see the hole was the same five pointed shape of the crest on his necklace. He took the symbol from his neck, and slid it into the pedestal. At first, nothing happened, but then, the entire room was alight, as fires raced along the wall, illuminating the entire chamber. The walls were all clear, made of the same crystal as the casket Clark was in in his dream.
There, on the wall, Clark saw it. The massive crest from his necklace chiseled into the wall. The giant S. Where am I?
"You are home," a voice called out. Clark turned, to see the man from his dream. The raven haired one that had first set him into the crystal tomb in his dream.
"How are you in my mind? And where am I? Who are you, I've seen you before...but that was a dream. How did I get here?"
"So many questions, after so many years. I am answering your prayer, Kal-El," the man stated as he stepped closer.
Clark used his special vision on the man. Whenever he used it on people, he could see their bones, their flesh, their innermost parts, but when he stared into this man, he saw nothing. "What are you?"
"That is not important at the moment Kal-El. What is, is what you are."
"My name isn't Kal-El, it's Clark. And how did you get me here? What form of trickery is this?" Clark growled back at the stranger. This couldn't be possible, he should be able to see bones and flesh on the man but he saw nothing.
The stranger smiled, "This is not trickery, Kal, it is magic. And you are here because I am answering your prayer. You prayed for your father to give you aid, and so here I stand, ready to assist in any way possible."
Hope everyone enjoyed these chapters! I knew for a while I wanted Ned's death to be from Clark's perspective so that was fun to write. Equally fun was Bruce and Varys' scene! And I hope my fellow Arrow lovers enjoyed the references at the beginning of Clark's chapter. I hope Clark's chapter gets you asking lots of questions because I packed it with a lot of references and foreshadowing! Next week, fate takes a twist and a Stranger shows his face. Reviews are always welcome! I've gotten questions about where Gotham is in Westoros and such so if anyone has any questions they can always PM