Half a year later
'The gods can be so fucking cruel at times.'
This was the one thought that crossed Robert Baratheon's mind as he gazed upon the body of his former Hand. Upon a stone bier, decked in finery as befitting his station in life, Jon Arryn lay in the silent sleep that only death could provide. Here laid a man who had helped raise Robert Baratheon from childhood, back when he was a ward in the Vale of Arryn. This was the man who had backed Robert when he declared war against the Targaryens in retribution for Renly's death. Hand of the king, Warden of the East, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and the king's closest friend. Such a man did not deserve to just be struck down by a simple fucking sickness.
After taking a moment to put his hand on the shoulder of his dead friend and mentor, Robert Baratheon preceded to study the one object that had, quite frankly, made his life a living hell for the past 17 years; the Iron Throne. The misshapen, beastly chair, forged from the countless swords of the enemies of Aegon the Conqueror with dragon fire, seemed to cast a shadow upon the room, and loomed over everything before it, even the man who sat upon it. Robert hated the chair, to be honest. He hated the way it looked, how uncomfortable it was, but most of all, he hated what it represented, and what it had done to him.
He sighed. He could guess what many whispered about him behind his back. That they called him "usurper", that he was not a good king. Hells, Robert knew that he was not a good king. That was what a king's Hand was for, to help run the kingdom if the king himself was not entirely suited for ruling. Now, with his Hand of 19 years dead, he would need a new one. But who? That was the question.
As Robert mused and drank from his ever present goblet of wine, he was startled by a small cough emanating from behind him. He turned, almost spilling his wine in the process, and beheld his Master of Whispers, Varys the Spider. Physically, Varys seemed….unthreatening. The eunuch was a rather plump...person, with a round, powdered face, and he always spoke in soft, simpering, deferential tones. Yet, he was quite dangerous in his own right, for the Spider always seemed to know everything. Robert looked at him for a moment, and then spoke. "Yes, what is it, Lord Varys?"
With a respectful bow, the eunuch spoke. "Pardon me, your grace, but I simply wished to pay my respects, and to give my condolences to you, however you may value them. I understand that the two of you were quite close."
Robert sighed. "Aye, indeed we were. I loved him like a second father, Varys, which now means I have lost two fathers in one life. I needed him, hells I still need him. At least, I now need a new Hand. But who can I trust? Tywin Lannister?"
Varys appeared to ponder the question, raising a dainty hand up to his chin, as if in thought. After a long awkward silence, Varys spoke again. "If I may be so bold, my king, perhaps there is one who you can trust, though he not of this kingdom. Eddard Stark, I believe his name was?"
That name brought back memories. Oh yes, Eddard Stark. Robert remembered the grim shadar-kai well. He and his strange, shadowy warriors had been valuable allies during the Rebellion. While physically disconcerting at first, what with the man's grey skin, black eyes, multiple piercings and cold demeanor, Robert had somehow managed to make fast friends with the Ikemmian. They'd had each other's back throughout the war, and Eddard himself helped strike a huge blow to the loyalist morale when he had decapitated Jon Connington with a swing of his greatsword. He was intelligent, capable, and utterly ruthless when he needed to be. But, more importantly, he was Robert's friend. "Now there is an idea." However, a thought came to mind. "Just a moment, Lord Varys, will their king allow this?"
Varys smoothly replied, "Oh I do not believe there will be much fuss, your grace. From what reports my few little birds in Ikemmu give, King Razvahn XI is rather reasonable for a shadar-kai, as I am sure ambassador Torin will attest to, despite that nasty business regarding the Iron Islands. Besides, making an Ikemmian, more specifically a member of their royal family, your Hand, may go a long way to greatly improving diplomatic relations between the six kingdoms and the Shadowy Lands."
As the only kingdom to have not been conquered by Aegon I, many Westerosi looked upon the shadowy kingdom with both disdain, suspicion, and perhaps a small dose of jealousy. Following the…incident on the Iron Islands, a healthy amount of abject terror was thrown into the mix.
With a happy nod, and a swift emptying of his wine goblet via one long swallow, then tossing it to his nervous page Lancel Lannister who caught it with an awkward fumble, Robert swiftly departed, stopping for a moment to clap Varys upon his silk-encased shoulder.
"Aye, it shall be done! Send a raven to their capital of Winterfell, we must prepare for the journey!"
As Varys watched calmly, he then sighed. 'All for the realm' he thought to himself, the padded quietly out of the throne room, leaving the Iron Throne and its shadow as the room's only occupants.
xxxxxx
3 weeks later
Albrek was feeling bored.
That in itself was not surprising, since his current post was considered one of the dullest in Ikemmu. However, what made it worse for him was that when he got bored, he got angry, and when he got angry, more oft than not bones would end up broken.
As a scion of the Umber family, the source of his tempermant, Albrek always needed to fight something, for Tempus' song ran hot in his veins, as his family was fond of saying. After an incident involving a messy every-man-for-himself tavern brawl, his squad's captain had Albrek assigned to his current post in an effort to both discipline him for his behavior, and to cool his boiling blood. It was where soldiers who had small bouts of petty misbehavior were sent, as only actual criminals, both Ikemmian and Westerosi, or crazy volunteers, were sent to the Wall, or the Road.
He sighed. In an effort to stave off the boredom, he had got to talking with the other soldiers of the garrison stationed at the keep, and was currently listening to the keep's cook, a rather portly shadowborn named Kharas, regale a few listeners with saucy stories on how he had attained some of his more exotic recipes.
"…now, she told that the trick is to apply the pepper and other seasonings to the meat while it is roasting, thus enhancing the flavor while it mixes with the juices, which is why most do not do this over a campfire."
A few nodded, than one asked, "Was this before or after you fucked her?"
Amidst the laughter, Kharas answered. "After, while we rested! But I will say that, like the peppers she was so fond of using in her meals, this dornish lady was delicious with a very fierce flavor. It actually hurt to sit down for a few days!"
More laughter. Even Albrek joined in. Kharas then continued. "Now, let me tell you what I had to do to obtain the flatcakes recipe you all are so fond of. I promise you, sleep will be hard to come by tonight!"
Suddenly, one of the lookouts gave a shout. "Large group coming up the road!"
Everyone turned to Albrek. As part of his punishment, he had been made the spokesperson of the Raven's gate. Basically, it meant that he had to go up to the party and ask for identification papers, sometimes "requiring" a small fee. Groaning, he gathered his halberd, straightened his chainmail shirt, and marched out to meet the traveling party.
He went out and saw that it was indeed a large group. As they drew closer, he saw their banner; a black stag with a crown round its neck against a field of gold, next to a Gold lion against a field of red.
A rider rode up to him. Then, the exchange began.
"Who wishes to travel into Ikemmu this day?" Albrek asked.
"The King of Westeros, Robert Baratheon." The herald announced in a strong voice. "He wishes to visit your kingdom's capital of Winterfell on official business of state."
Albrek looked over the entire party once, than sighed. "Very well. Papers?"
The herald gave the necessary documents, which Albrek barely skimmed and then returned. He then nodded. "All seems to be in order. You may pass."
As the Raven's Gate was cranked open, and the party began to slowly ride through, Albrek took the time to observe those who stood out. Firstly was the Westerosi king, who rode at the front with a group of Baratheon knights. The man himself may have once been an impressive specimen of the male sex, but now he seemed sadly diminished. He had a large gut that bulged grotesquely over the pommel and sides of his saddle, heavy jowls, and a great, thick beard, obviously to hide his multiple chins. He waved to Albrek and his comrades as he rode by.
Behind him rode an odd pair; a young, handsome boy with golden hair and green eyes, dressed in an expensive scarlet doublet and a gold cape, and was surveying everything with a sneering look of disdain. Something about him seemed wrong. Behind the boy rode a large man, both in muscle and in height, nearly equal to Albrek's seven feet, garbed in dull, grey plate and chainmail, with his most distinctive feature being a helmet in the shape of a snarling hound's head.
Lastly, a large wheelhouse, painted in colors of gold, black, and scarlet, and decorated with carvings of stags and lions rolled past. Albrek thought that it was rather unsightly.
After the last of the procession had passed through the Raven's Gate, the resulting clang that could be heard as it closed seemed to sound like a bell of doom. Albrek felt unsettled, like the whole thing was an omen of dark things to come.