Thank you to everyone who has read, favourited and alerted this story. Thank you especially to my reviewers.
BTW, apologies for the confusing penname change. Hopefully everyone realises I'm still me. Anyway, on with the show….
Chapter Forty-Two: Azor Ahai
"You were with Stannis Baratheon." Catelyn wasn't asking, she was stating a fact. She glanced over her shoulder, to where the red woman was sat by the fire, still swathed in her red robes. The flames were reflected in her disconcertingly red eyes. "They all called you the 'red woman' but I didn't realise until now how literal they were being."
Lady Melisandre's expression did not change. "I believed Stannis was Azor Ahai reborn. I was mistaken."
Catelyn had heard about the burning of the seven, of how Stannis had pulled a sword from the heart of the Mother as she was consumed by the flames. She remembered the shadow demon with the face of Stannis Baratheon as it slew the poor fool, Renly. Despite the warmth of the fire in Ned's old solar, a chill came over her and hairs at the back of her neck bristled. To calm her nerves, she poured herself a glass of the red wine she had brought home from the Reach. The Lady politely declined the offer of a glass for herself, just as she politely declined the offer of food. It was passing strange, given how far she had travelled and the conditions in which she had done so.
"Easy mistake to make, I suppose," she replied, not intending to sound as facetious as she did. Hastily, she added: "I don't know about rebirths, my lady. But whatever – whoever – it is you seek, I cannot imagine that you'd find them north of the wall."
She had heard of the Others and Azor Ahai, but only in passing and via Old Nan. The Long Night and the Age of Heroes were among the old woman's rich repertoire, too. However, Lady Melisandre was the first adult human being Cat had met that was taking these stories seriously. That alone piqued her interest, almost as much as the woman herself made her skin crawl. So she kept her suspicions about Renly to herself and stuck with the subject of the Others, apparently amassing in the wastelands of the north.
Meanwhile, Melisandre had turned her face toward the fire and peered into the flames intently. For all her odd mannerisms, she was a beautiful woman with coppery red hair, a heart shaped face and skin as pale as milk glass. Occasionally, she raised one hand to the ruby at her throat and touched the gemstone, as though checking it was still there even though the choker was so tight Cat wondered how she managed to breathe.
Finally, the lady spoke again. "Beyond the wall I see a boy with a wolf's head, with a man whose face is wood. They see with a thousand eyes and one. I think they are the enemy."
A boy with a wolf's head … Cat thought of Bran and shivered again. To disguise her nerves, she took a good drink of her wine and steadied herself. "If he's only a boy then there's probably no harm in him. If the man is made of wood, then there's definitely no harm in him. It's certainly not worth getting yourself killed for."
"Only the Lord of Light decides my fate, Lady Stark." Her expression never changed, not even to register a flicker of doubt about her suicidal mission. "The Long Night is coming again and your son needs to be here. You must send for him."
"Bran?" she asked, still thinking of the boy with the wolf's head.
"The King in the North," she replied. "He is Azor Ahai."
This again, she thought. Drawing a deep breath, Catelyn replied: "I mean no disrespect, my lady, but what makes you think Robb is Azor Ahai?"
She turned from the flames once more, her red eyes locking into Catelyn's blue: "R'llhor has spared him and him alone. The false kings Joffrey, Balon Greyjoy, Stannis and Renly are all dead. But King Robb lives. The Lord of Light refused to take him."
Cat shook her head, her brow knitting in incomprehension. "But, King Jon…"
"I did not know about him when the ritual was performed," she answered.
Catelyn hesitated, not at all sure whether she wanted the answer to the question on her lips. All the same, she knew she had to ask. "What ritual?"
"There is power in king's blood, Lady Stark. I used the boy, the bastard son of King Robert, Edric Storm. I fattened the leeches on his blood and fed them to the flames. One for each false king, including your son. The Lord of Light struck down the false kings, now only your son lives."
"You used a leech fattened on king's blood to try and kill my son?" she asked, askance.
"The false kings," the red woman corrected her mildly. "A leech for each king. But it was Stannis who fell, in place of your son. R'llhor spared him, for he is Azor Ahai reborn."
Catelyn was less than reassured. When she remembered the shadow demon once more, her stomach positively roiled. At the time she had feared for Robb, but she had never dared consider how close he had come. "I would thank for not trying to kill any more of my children. Robb has the blood of the First Men in his veins and the Starks were the Kings in the North before the dragons came. He is no false King."
"I see that now," she replied. Just for a moment, there was a flicker of regret in her eyes. "I saw him in the flames again. Riding North, here to Winterfell. With him comes fire made flesh, ready to defeat the Others."
Catelyn shook her head in disbelief. The only uncertainty she had was why she hadn't thrown this would-be assassin out of her halls, the rest she doubted not. It was all hokum. Only the guest rights stayed her hand and kept her from dismissing the woman.
"You are welcome to remain this night, but come morn I would rather you left us in peace," she stated, getting to her feet. "We lost many men in the recent southern wars and we need time to grieve as a House. If you take my advice, you will board a ship bound for King's Landing and speak with King Jon. He knows the North as well as anybody and he's your best chance at being taken seriously." As an afterthought, she added: "Ships leave from White Harbour every day."
With that she left, summoning Luwin to keep the red woman company instead. "Make sure she's gone by dawn; preferably in the direction of White Harbour," she instructed her guard as she passed. She was taking no more chances. Her and her blood magick could go elsewhere.
Tyrion heaved a sigh as he glanced over the piles of books in his chambers. Old books, new books, books with battered covers and others will no covers at all. They were all equal in beauty to him and picking just a few to take to Dorne was like a mother trying to pick a favourite child. Impossible. In order to lubricate his mind and make the decision a little easier, he opened a fresh bottle of wine and poured a healthy measure in the nearest clean glass.
"Still on the sauce then?"
The man's voice startled Tyrion, causing him to gasp and almost drop his newly filled glass. But, when he whipped around toward the door, where he found Bronn leaning casually against the frame, he threw it at the sell sword's head. As always, he saw it coming and gracefully dodged the missile. Not even a droplet of wine stained his tunic.
"Where in seven hells have you been, you lanky shit?" Tyrion hissed at him, angrily. "Gods, man, I thought you were dead."
Bronn looked scandalised. "Me, dead? I don't think so. You're mistaking me for those other meatheads who were big enough lack-wits to actually stick around and try to defend this place. So then, where are we going?"
Tyrion's mismatched eyes widened in disbelief. "We aren't going anywhere. I am going to Dorne, to carry out a top secret, highly sensitive diplomatic mission to Prince Doran. Tell me, dear friend, what have you planned for this evening? Washing your hair?"
"Don't be silly, my lord. I can't have you traipsing off all on your own now, can I?" he replied, conveniently forgetting that he'd let the Imp do that once already. "Here, I'll give you a hand packing shall I?"
"Actually, Ser Barristan Selmy will be coming with me," Tyrion pointed out. "He's a tad more reliable than your average sellsword."
As always, Bronn was still smiling as the joshing between the two washed over him. Emphasising that he was back to stay, he shoved off from the doorframe he had been leaning against and collapsed onto Tyrion's bed, casually grabbing a book as he went. Before he could open it, Tyrion snatched it back.
"Is this what you call helping?" he mock-chastised, already he was resigned to the fact that he would have some unexpected company for the journey. But after a second, he turned serious again. "Have you seen Pod? I've searched everywhere for him."
Bronn just shook his head. "If he's around, he'll turn up eventually. Have no fear."
In the end, Tyrion closed his eyes and selected his books blindly. They had an hour to get to the dockside by the time they were done and Bronn had bid a fond farewell to his favourite among Baelish's whores on their way there. As they left the brothel, however, Sandor Clegane entered and made a pitiful effort to hide his burned face as he passed. Tyrion frowned up at the Hound, making sure he knew he had been seen.
"What's up with him?" Bronn asked, once they were out in the street.
Tyrion shrugged. "My guess is he's still embarrassed over how he ran from the Blackwater. Gods know, I'd have done the same if I were him."
With that, he turned down the cobbled street and caught his first glimpse of the vessel taking him south. A huge thing, with a great orange silk sail. He hadn't realised the Martells were sending one of their own ships – a positive sign that lifted his spirits.
Jon had already emptied every drawer and cupboard of papers and dispatches. It seemed Robert had not had time to destroy anything before the boar took him at unawares. Something he supposed he had to Cersei to thank for. Now, he sat on the floor of what was now his private study with the papers spread out, ready for sorting into chronological order. It was a tiresome task, consisting mainly of going through Robert's unpaid bills, unprocessed orders for bolts of fabric and items of furniture and general household accounts. But despatches from Jorah Mormont popped up frequently enough. Those he set aside, alongside any other item of interest. Also among the papers, a formal advice letter from Varys to Joffrey, recommending Ser Barristan Selmy's dismissal from the Kingsguard.
"So, that was you," Jon whispered to himself.
Just then, his work was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Is that you, Sam? Come on in."
It wasn't Sam. A man in a groom's livery appeared timidly around the door. Although his hair was grey, his eyebrows were red and his face clean shaven. He regarded Jon through pale blue eyes, lined by crow's feet. By Jon's estimation, he was about forty, but no name came to him.
"Forgive me, ser, but I don't know you yet, do I?"
The man bowed. "No, Your Grace. The false king, Joffrey, dismissed me from his service shortly before the battle. Fearing he would have me killed, I fled to Dorne and sought sanctuary there. I returned only this morning, hoping your grace would allow me to take up my old position. My name is Gwynne. Forgive me, your grace, I would never normally be so bold but my wife and children- "
"Yes, of course," Jon cut in, without hesitation. "You would be welcome back into service and I apologise for my predecessor's rudeness."
The man dropped to one knee, his head bent in submission. It was so sudden that Jon blushed, not yet accustomed to the deference of others. "Please, ser, there is no need for that. Rise. Are your children and wife safe? I can ask my Kingsguard to have them brought to court until you are settled again."
When the man stood straight again, Jon could see he was tall and lean for his age. Groom or no, he was no stranger to the training yard either. That was something else about him that would come in useful. However, all the while, the man regarded him in such a way that he felt like he was being stripped and assessed. A feeling that was soon explained.
"Again, pardon my boldness your grace, but already I see much of your father in you," he commented, out of nowhere. "Not in looks, no. But already I see you have his grace and manners. If you don't mind my say-so, his air of melancholy."
Unexpectedly meeting someone who knew Rhaegar brought out a sense of longing in Jon. "You knew him? Did you also serve him?"
Gwynne smiled a sad smile. "I did, your grace. I knew him well. I failed him all the same."
"I'm sure that's not true," Jon began, but the sound of approaching footsteps caught them both off-guard.
"Your grace is busy and I have taken too much of your time already," Gwynne stated, making for the door.
Wishing to hear more about his father, Jon tried to call him back. But Gwynne vanished through one door while Sam entered through another. Still, the man was a Groom of the Privy Chamber, it's not like he wouldn't see the man again. Greeting Sam with a friendly slap on the back before guiding him to a window seat.
"You've been busy," said Sam, carefully treading around the papers.
Jon looked from the papers to Sam again, handing him the one proving Jorah Mormont a traitor. Tilting it towards the light, Sam squinted as he read it. When he reached the end, he made a choking noise, then appeared to be rereading it as though he had made some sort of mistake. Only after a second read through did he hand it back to Jon.
"You've said nothing of this to Daenerys, have you?" his expression had lost its softness.
Shaking his head, Jon felt foolish as he admitted why. "I don't know what to say to her. She seems to like the man, especially since he saved her from a wine merchant selling poisoned stock. She hasn't the faintest inkling it was him who helped set it up in the first place." He got up to retrieve another letter and handed it to Sam. "In this one he tells Varys to tell Robert where he can stick his royal pardon. So that's something, I guess."
"And he seems more than loyal to her now, Jon. In fact, I think he's more than a little bit in love with her," Sam added, before reading the second letter. This one he read only once and set aside. "Although I think Daenerys needs to know, it's Varys who's the real problem. He's got this Aegon character locked away and it looks to me like he's all too happy to remove any potential threats to his claim."
"It was Varys who suggested to Joffrey that Barristan ought to be dismissed from the Kingsguard," said Jon. "Do you think he did that hoping he'd go into Aegon's service?"
"It was Ilyrio Mopatis who sent Barristan onto Dany, though," Sam pointed out. "In disguise as an old squire, but he still sent him on to her. I doubt he said anything about Aegon."
Feeling like he had just been pushed back onto square one, Jon sighed heavily. Beyond the windows, night was already drawing in. Winter, it seemed, was closing in fast. Soon, Robb and Sansa would have to head north again, or risk being snowed in. As reluctant as he was to part ways with the Northern army, there was nothing that could be done for it.
That evening, he returned to the Queen's private chambers. As always, Megga giggled gratingly as she announced him to Margaery. Inside, he found her sitting with her grandmother and father. Acting as his temporary Hand, Mace Tyrell puffed out his chest, making the gold linked-hands chain glimmer in the firelight. Before any more work could be thrown at him, he stooped to kiss Margaery and seated himself at her right hand side, greeting Olenna as he did so.
"Your grace, Sandor Clegane was seeking an audience," said Mace. "Shall I send for him, or recall him on the morrow?"
Jon nodded. "Send for him, please. It's probably about Sansa."
Waiting for Sandor afforded him just enough time to take supper with his wife. A light meal of roast ham and a glass of red wine. They even managed a brief discussion on plans for the baby before he Jon was called away again. Sandor Clegane was waiting in the outer-gallery.
"Do you want me to come with you?" asked Margaery.
Jon smiled wryly. "You best had, else we'll never get to see each other before the babe is born."
It only took a few minutes to reach the outer-gallery, but Sandor was not alone. He was waiting with a brown-eyed girl that Jon faintly recognised. Wrapped in a large sheet, her pale skin was badly bruised. Tips of livid red welts were visible on her shoulders, as if she had been whipped and her whole frail body shook. As Jon and Margaery passed by, the girl looked at him in mute appeal.
To try and put her at her ease, Jon tried to think of something funny to say. "It's all right. If I were alone in a room with the Hound, I'd be crying too."
Sandor rolled his eyes, but the girl choked on her own sobs. Alas, he had never been one for joking. Even Margaery jabbed him in the ribs and gave him a stern look.
"I'm sorry. Er, come with us into the private audience chamber."
It was only through the back door, so he led the way. As soon as they were seated up on the dais, Sandor took the girl's hand and guided her forwards. For the first time, Jon noticed she was barefoot with dirt caked between her toes.
"Pardon the interruption, your grace," Sandor began.
Before he could continue, Jon spoke up. "I think I know this girl. Come closer, so I might see you better."
It was only a small room, intimate. But now it was dark outside, the light inside was similarly poor. Despite that, he could see how the girl trembled as she stepped forwards, her lower lip quivering as she tried to stop herself from bursting into tears again. For all her woeful state, she managed a form of curtsey, causing bedraggled brown hair to slide in tangles over her bare shoulders. She was young; so very young.
"Please, your grace, I beg you," she began, finally succumbing to her tears. "You know me well. I saw you every day, in the yard with your brothers. You were always the best at swords…"
Next to him on the dais, Margaery was already getting back on her feet so she could comfort the girl. But Jon was still trying to work out who she was. The name was on the tip of his tongue, hanging there for a long moment, before he remembered. The girl had never exactly been part of his social circle, but he remembered her well enough when the penny finally dropped.
"You're Vayon Poole's daughter," he said. "It's Jeyne, isn't it?"
Her anguish turned to relief and her knees buckled. She would have fallen, had Sandor not been there to catch her.
"I never meant to be mean to you," she sobbed, shame and anguish in her eyes as she continued fixing him in her gaze. "I was a stupid little girl, your grace."
Before she finished both Jon and Margaery had dashed back over to her. Guessing she was naked beneath that sheet, Margaery clutched the front of it so it would not fall and add further to her shame. Meanwhile, Jon guided her up on to the dais so she could sit down.
"None of that matters anymore," he assured her. "It's in the past. Tell us what happened to you after our fathers were murdered? Those responsible will be punished, I promise you."
However, her grief put her beyond speech. After several minutes, Jon took off his cloak and put it around her shoulders and Margaery led her away to somewhere more private.
Sandor remained behind with Jon.
"I would never have guessed that you had such a way with damsels in distress, Sandor," he jested.
The other man's face twisted into a half smile. "I have many hidden talents."
Decided that they both deserved a drink, Jon procured a bottle of Arbor gold that Olenna had gifted him from the room next door. By the time he returned, Sandor was sat on the bottom step of the dais. Joining him there, Jon poured them both a glass.
"Do you know what happened to her?"
"Petyr Baelish is what happened," he replied, his voice more of a growl than usual. "I was there when Lord Stark was arrested in the throne room, that day. Baelish had told your father that the Gold Cloaks were his. Turns out he'd said the same to Renly. But really, he'd bought the gold cloaks for himself. So in Lord Stark goes, thinking he had the protection of the City Watch and suddenly Baelish himself has a knife at his throat and is apprehending him himself, much to the Queen's delight. And, of course, the gold cloaks are backing him up."
Jon's stomach folded in on itself. As light as his supper had been, it now felt heavy inside him. "I'll have him recalled from the Eyrie, but he mustn't know you've told me any of this."
Sandor downed his wine in one, before continuing. "That's not all. As soon as your father was arrested, Baelish decides he's going to do the noble thing by releasing Joffrey from his marriage contract to a traitor's daughter. By marrying her himself."
Bile hit the back of Jon's throat. "Baelish wanted to marry Sansa?"
The Hound nodded. "The offer was shot down by Varys. But they did agree to let Baelish make arrangements for young Jeyne there. She was only a steward's daughter, so nobody cared what happened to her. No questions asked, he carted her off to one of his brothels and put her to work in there."
Jon closed his eyes for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. "Was it Baelish or Varys who put it into Joffrey's head that Lord Stark should be executed, despite his intention to join the Night's Watch?"
Sandor heaved a dry laugh. "Ah, no. That was all Joffrey."
Despite all the treachery, Jon managed to raise a pained smile. "Thank you, Sandor."
"I forgot about the other girl until Little Bird asking about her the other day," he admitted. "It was only then I remembered everything that happened on the day of Stark's arrest. I thought it best you know."
"You did the right thing," Jon assured him.
That night, he stumbled through the door of his bedchamber exhausted and sickened by the great game. Just as he thought he was getting a handle on the people involved, it seemed they still managed to pull the rug from under his feet. He had never even met Varys, barely knew Petyr Baelish at all, and still managed to feel as if they were still secretly running the world of the royal courts. Still somehow managing to pull the strings. As he stepped through the door, he pulled off his jacket and flopped backwards onto his bed. The feather mattress bounced him two or three times, something he used to love as a boy. However, after everything that had happened during the last few days, he did not want to spend the night alone. He sat up again, finding himself face to face with Gwynne. His chin was dark red with stubble, mottled grey, by now.
"Your grace, let me help you," he said.
"Actually, Gwynne, I think I'll spend tonight in the Queen's chambers," he explained.
Unless he was mistaken, his groom seemed to disapprove. "Given her grace's condition, it might be more appropriate for you to stay in your own chambers this evening."
Taken aback, Jon rolled off his bed and back on to his aching feet. "Given my condition it might be inappropriate for her grace to try anything with me." An expansive yawn demonstrated his point. "We're only sleeping, anyway. We're both too tired for any of that other business."
Gwynne laid out a robe at the foot of the bed, before helping to unbutton Jon's shirt. "Of course, once her grace is great with child, it may be necessary to find your grace a discreet lady from- "
"It most certainly will not be necessary," Jon cut him off, abruptly. "I would thank you to never make such an insulting suggestion again."
The older man flinched back. "Forgive me, your grace. Most kings- "
"I don't intend to be most kings," Jon snapped over him. "I am tired and need my bed. And my wife. That's all that need concern you now."
He didn't mean to be abrasive. But from scheming courtiers, old friends returned from the dead and grooms offering to procure prostitutes for him, he had had a gutful of politics and kingship. He had barely the strength to strip to his small clothes and let himself be swathed in the robe Gwynne had procured for him. Only then did he turn and stagger towards the door that connected Margaery's privy chambers to his own. As he passed Gwynne, however, he couldn't help but notice the satisfaction in his pale blue eyes.
A week after setting sail, Tyrion arrived in Dorne. He, Bronn and Ser Barristan disembarked together, soaking up the Dornish sun before the winter hit them too. Better still, the Martells' had organised a welcoming committee to greet them as they left the boat and Prince Oberyn himself was among them. Mounted on a huge destrier, he held back and watched them closely as they became readjusted to dry land again.
A standard bearer, carrying a vast sigil of speared sun, advanced toward Tyrion with the Prince following close behind.
"Welcome to Dorne, Lord Tyrion." Oberyn looked down from his horse, calm as a milk sea. "I hate to sound so vulgar, but I believe your new King sent you down with a gift for us."
For the first time, Tyrion noticed what looked like an army of women all lined up behind the Dornish Prince. Some looked curious, others looked satisfied and some were barely able to conceal their joy.
"Oh, we have a special gift for you all right. Ser Bronn, bring me the special package."
Several minutes later, Bronn appeared from the ship's hold bearing a wooden crate. While he opened it with a hammer and chisel, Oberyn dismounted. Even on his feet he was tall, slender and definitely handsome. His yellow sandsilk accentuated his frame and, despite his age, was still in good shape.
"I thank you for ensuring our gift reaches us in near perfect condition, my lord."
Tyrion managed a wry smile. "You're very welcome."
He really did hope that it had survived the journey. It was packed in vinegar first, then ice and then salted to keep it "fresh". Only now, Tyrion had his doubts. However, when Bronn lifted the container and placed at the Prince's feet. It was opened to reveal a startlingly fresh severed head. Without even a trace of disgust, Oberyn grinned from ear to ear as he held up Ser Gregor's head, inches from his own face.
"Thank you, my lord," he said, grinning until he could grin no more. Then he laughed, turning to face his women and holding the head up for all to see. "Look. It is done. The Mountain is dead! Elia and her babes are avenged!"
A cheer went up among the assembled girls. Then farther, to the people passing by and the Dockers unloading the ships. But it was just one word that caught Tyrion's ear. Elia had been avenged, and so had her babes. Plural.
Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.
Sadly, no room for Dany and Robb this time. I wanted to get Jeyne reunited with the Starks just to get that one loose end finally tied. But they'll be back next time, along with plenty more of the Martells. Thank you again for reading!