The Final Stretch

A Song of Ice and Fire, and all associated media, are the property of George R. R. Martin.

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Aside from the chains on Randy's wrists, it was easy for Lyanna to forget they were being marched to King's Landing under false pretenses. Bran was never quite able to break the ice with the gold cloaks, but had taken to conversing with Thoros over religion. The depth of his knowledge and faith was surprising, if she was being honest. She knew her brother did truly believe in the Old Gods, but Ned had always been the most pious of them all.

Lyanna herself spent time with either Bran and Thoros—offering her own minimal input on their religious discussions—or with Randy. He didn't do anything impossible like he had when they traveled alone, but he was his same jovial self, despite his chains.

"You know something?" he said when they stopped for lunch on their fourth day in a clearing off the paved road. "This will be the first time I've ever been to King's Landing." They sat away from everyone else—her brother wanted very little to do with Randy, and she wanted next-to-nothing to do with the gold cloaks, kind as they all were.

"Truly?" Lyanna asked.

Randy nodded. "I've spent most of my time in either the Reach, Stormlands. And a bit of the Riverlands and Westerlands, I suppose. The borders, at least."

"Nowhere else?" A part of Lyanna wished he'd been to the North. Perhaps they might have met each other.

"Nah." Randy shook his head. "Never had much reason to go anywhere else, and never stayed in one place for long." He leaned closer to her. "And I'd spend most of my time practicing my abilities. Not a good idea to that around people." He spoke with a smirk, but his voice held a sad, almost wistful tone.

Lyanna blinked, and it was as if she was seeing Randy in a new light. "…You don't have anyone or anyplace to call home, do you?" In hindsight, it was rather obvious. But the very idea was so utterly alien to her. Even if—once the truth of her fleeing Riverrun got out—her family wanted nothing to do with her, she would still have Winterfell to stay and grow old in. Or, if she was still sent away to Robert, she knew her brothers would take her in should her worst fears come to pass.

But if she didn't have that security…She didn't know what she would do with herself.

Randy frowned at her words. "Well, when you put it like that you make me sound pathetic."

Lyanna sent him an apologetic smile. "It was not my intention."

He sighed dramatically, chains clanking as he pressed his hands against his heart. "And yet you wound me all the same!" She giggled, and shoved him by the arm. He made a dramatic show of waving his arms in the air, before falling over with a soft thud.

Daemon Massey snorted from the campfire. "Were you some sort of mummer in a past life?"

"I was a rookery keeper, thank you very much!" Randy replied imperiously. "Well, apprentice keeper."

Lyanna hummed, and, once Randy righted himself, leaned forward and asked. "Were you, truly?"

He shrugged. "It's the closest equivalent as far as Westeros is concerned." His eyes misted over as he stared out into the distance. She'd seen that look before. On old men and women who'd lost their homes and families during particularly brutal winters. Men and women who didn't have anything to go back to.

"I was wrong," Lyanna said softly. "You do have a home."

Randy sniffed, and wiped at his eyes. "Memories of one, certainly."

"…What wa—"

"No," Randy said forcefully. "I'm sorry, Lyanna, but no." He looked down at his hands, cupped against his chest. "Let my past—the history of that world—stay there." The flesh of his palms bubbled, and changed to steel, cotton, gold, and some sort of scaly hide, before reverting back to human flesh. "I have my memories and abilities, that's enough."

She hummed. "You know, it might help to talk about it. Release the weight on your heart."

Randy chuckled. "Please don't parrot Thoros's religion to me."

"It's a good idea," she defended. "Though I can understand why you wouldn't care for gods."

Randy chuckled once more. "Sure, let's go with that."

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"For what it's worth," Daemon Massey said the following night after supper. "I am sorry that we had to come across one another."

Lyanna sighed, and sent him a soft frown. "It is unfortunate, yes. But if your orders are as widespread as you say, then it would only be a matter of time before this happened."

Bran spoke up beside her. "To say nothing of the fact that this coming…confrontation needs to occur sooner rather than later."

"Aye," Daemon replied with a wince. "…What are you planning to do with your friend?" He gestured vaguely to Randy, who was lying on the grass and staring up into the darkening sky, holding polite conversation with Thoros and two other gold cloaks. "I mean…the claims of abduction are…exaggerated." Lyanna frowned at the word, but didn't hold Daemon's reluctance against him. Much. "But the other crimes laid at his feet—the murder of the High Septon alone."

"Alleged murder of an alleged High Septon," Randy called out.

"That's not helping your case," Daemon called back. Randy just scoffed and waved dismissively. Daemon turned back to Lyanna and Bran with a frown. "I'd think him mad, but no madman has those kinds of eyes."

"What kind?" Lyanna asked. She'd only ever seen warmth. And a sort of childish glee, she supposed.

"Intelligence," Daemon replied. "And a fair bit of cunning." Lyanna frowned, and tried to recall if she'd ever seen such a look in Randy's eyes. She quickly abandoned that pursuit, however, when she just found herself losing herself in the memories of his warmth. She needed to control herself. She was to be wed to Robert Baratheon. Theirs was a doomed marriage, but she wouldn't be the one to damn them.

"I'd say madmen can bear some cunning," Bran said. "Look at the man that gave you your orders."

A smirk ghosted across Daemon's face. "Do be careful, Lord Stark. That's bordering on treason."

"Oh, I know, but a man can only hold himself back so much." Daemon chuckled, and Bran's mood lightened. Lyanna held back from laughing at her brother—he'd been trying to breakthrough with Daemon and the other gold cloaks for days. She'd let him have his victory.

"Hey, hey, shoo!" someone shouted from their left. They all turned to see one of Daemon's men swatting at a bird—a crow—as it tugged at a piece of jerky in his hands. The man lost the battle, and the crow flew away with a victorious 'squawk', and landed atop Randy.

"There you are!" Randy said as the crow—Bloodraven, Lyanna knew—ate the jerky. "Was wondering when you'd show back up."

The attacked guard glared at Bloodraven. "That thing's yours?"

"Yup!" Randy cheerfully replied. "He's neat. He can even do tricks. Speak!"

Bloodraven squawked. "Fuck off, fuck off!" Randy, Daemon and the gold cloaks, laughed. Lyanna, Thoros, and Bran just started at Bloodraven. Not for the first time, she wondered just who exactly he was. Well, whoever he was, he must bear some of Randy's insanity, for there was no other reason to play along with his jape. Still, him being there—and acting like a bird—meant that his part delivering letters to her family went off without a hitch. A small comfort, at the very least.

Bloodraven hopped off Randy's chest, and settled next to his head. He must have whispered something—in his actual voice, not whatever that bird-speech was—because Lyanna saw Randy tense, if only for a moment. But then his eyes narrowed, and she saw that cunning Daemon mentioned.

Moments later, they were all set into motion as one of the gold cloaks stationed away from the camp came jogging back and said, "Riders approaching from the south."

Thoros and Bran quickly set themselves in front of Lyanna, faces carved into stone. The gold cloaks were not as serious, but no less alert as they entered a formation and put out the fire. Only Randy remained where he was, lazily tracing shapes in the sky—well, Bloodraven had also moved onto his chest.

It was the sight of them that let Lyanna relax. Whatever was coming, they would be okay.

Indeed, the men that came galloping their way were not more gold cloaks, or even Crownland knights. They were two Maesters—rather, an old Maester and a young acolyte—and a handful of Reach knights. "Ho there!" the elder Maester said. "Might we share camp? We saw the…well, what was once a fire." He gestured to the smoldering flame.

Daemon stepped forward; eyes guarded. "I'm not opposed to it, but…are you Maesters not inspecting the new roads?"

"Even us scholars need sleep, good Ser," the acolyte said jovially.

Daemon hummed, but nodded. "Aye, we can share our fire. But be warned that we are carrying a prisoner with us."

The Reach knights and acolyte tensed. But the maester just scanned the camp, until his eyes fell upon Randy. Randy lifted his head to wave at the man and Bloodraven warbled as he preened himself.

The Maester arched a brow at Daemon. "That's him?

"Aye."

"Well, he's clearly not dangerous. What could he have…" the maester trailed off, finally catching sight of Lyanna, Bran and Thoros. He focused hard on Bran's direwolf emblazoned doublet. His eyes widened as he swung his gaze between them and Randy. He settled on Daemon once more. "Is that…" he trailed off as he gestured to Lyanna.

Daemon grimaced. "Aye."

"But he's…" he gestured to Randy.

"Aye."

The Maester sucked in a breath. "Then that means…"

Daemon shut his eyes and took a deep breath. "…Aye."

"Maester Walton—" the Acolyte leaned forward on his horse—"what are you talking about?"

"Yes, Walt," one of the Reach knights—the leader—said. "Are we making camp or not?"

Maester Walton sighed and dismounted his horse. "Yes, yes. We'll camp with these men. But we must leave at first light. Don't need to get caught up in the mess they're in." The acolyte was still confused, but by then the knights had pieced together the same clues Maester Walton had, and grew very, very nervous. And when one of them took pity on the acolyte and explained the situation to him, he paled and averted his gaze.

When they camped, they made a point to stay as far away from Lyanna and her group as possible.

At least until Randy crawled his way over to them. As in, actually crawled along the ground, backwards, like some sort of deformed lizard, Bloodraven still settled on his stomach.

"Hi there!" Randy smiled at Maester Walton even as two knights placed their hands on the pommels of their blades. "Name's Randy."

"Please don't talk to us," Maester Walton replied wearily. "As I said, me and mine do not need to get caught up in…your situation." He turned to Lyanna, pity in his gaze. She sneered back, and the man had to grace to look apologetic.

"Aw, but I've got questions!" Randy whined. "And aren't you Maesters supposed to be bastions of knowledge willing and able to dole it out to the ignorant and willing?"

"…He's not wrong," the acolyte said. The lead knight cuffed him on the head, but he continued. "I mean, isn't that why you forged three tin links? To teach?"

Maester Walton glared at the acolyte. "Remind me put you in the copy room when we return to the Citadel, Lorrey." While Lorrey paled, Maester Walton begrudgingly turned to Randy. "But he is right. What is it you wish to know, Randy?"

Randy hummed. "…There's been a lot of new things coming from the Citadel lately, haven't there? The roads, farming techniques, even some new cooking methods, I've heard."

Maester Walton smiled. "Yes, that is true. We live in a time of geniuses."

"Geniuses?" Randy repeated. "Plural? All these ideas aren't springing forth from a single mind?"

Maester Walton chuckled. "A single mind? Gods, no!" He sighed wistfully. "But wouldn't that be something? One man capable of so many things."

"Or one woman," Randy muttered, more to himself than not.

Still, they all heard him. And Walton and the others laughed. "A woman? Now that's a thought!"

"And what the fuck is wrong with women?" Lyanna asked heatedly. Bran tried to calm her down, but she swatted him away and glared at the men. They stopped laughing, and found that the ground, apparently, was very interesting.

"Absolutely nothing, Lyanna!" Randy called out. She smiled at him—he'd always have her back, she knew. Randy turned back to Maester Walton. "Setting aside the 'radical idea' of gender equality, these geniuses, are they young or old?"

Maester Walton frowned. "Come again?"

Randy shrugged. "Well, some people are born with great skill, and others need to build up to it—like with swordplay. I'm just curious if intelligence works the same."

"Ah, I understand." Maester Walton nodded. "Indeed, there is a healthy mix of young and old minds that have developed the new practices and inventions within the Citadel."

"Fascinating." Randy's lips spread into a grin. "Surely, these men spend their days huddled over sheets of paper, devising new ways to capitalize on their genius."

Maester Walton huffed amusedly. "A few of them, perhaps. But they're still just men, bouts of genius aside."

Bran snorted from Lyanna's side. "We could use some of that genius ourselves up in the North. Might finally get those roads we've been promised."

Acolyte Lorrey huffed amusedly. "Can't speak for the roads—the actual construction of them is in the Crown's hands, we're just making sure it's being done right. But, you're gonna want better than those lazy louts." Maester Walton cuffed him on the head. "Well, they are lazy!" the acolyte whined.

"They've done more for Westeros than most Maesters can even dare to dream!" Maester Walton shouted at the boy. "Each of their advancements have opened a great many doors for our order! They've more than earned the right to rest on their laurels!"

"Some of those men have been resting on their laurels since I was suckling on my mother's teats," Acolyte Lorrey muttered, and didn't even flinch when both Maester Walton and the lead knight cuffed him by the head.

"…So, all these men are responsible for just the one claim to fame each?" Randy asked.

"I wouldn't frame it exactly as such," Maester Walton said. "But…yes. They've one calling, and they've stuck to it."

Randy hummed, eyes narrowing at Maester Walton. At length, he thanked the man, and then did his strange crawl over to Lyanna. She arched a brow as he flopped down. "What was that about?"

He shrugged. "Just trying to get more information on my contemporary. I've long known they're connected to the Citadel, but these are the first members of the order I've been able to actually talk to."

She and Thoros hummed—that would be a priority for Randy, she supposed. Bran furrowed his brow, but when he caught on, he paled. His voice dropped to a frightened whisper. "Y-You mean there's more of you out there?

"At least one more, yeah." Randy flashed them a wide, toothy grin, his teeth wriggling like snakes for a split-second. Just for the joy of seeing Bran squirm, Lyanna surmised. "But we've never met, and I don't know what they want."

"Whatever it is," Thoros said. "It must be benevolent, no? Westeros's Citadel devotes itself to the betterment of men, do they not?"

"In theory," Randy replied. He started stroking Bloodraven's head, who cooed at the attention. "At the very least, they're being even-handed with their farming techniques and crops."

"Thank the gods for that," Bran said, gathering he courage to look at Randy once more. "The Mormonts can finally rely on something other than fishing and sparse lumber for food and income."

"Didn't the Mountain Clans also get some new crops?"

"They did," Bran replied. "They've been growing greater yields in their few fertile lands. They've even got enough surplus, not already preserved and stored for Winter, to feed to their herds. More than enough, from the reports father's received."

Lyanna frowned. "Wouldn't that be better spent trading with their neighbors? A bit odd to give it all to their animals."

Her brother huffed. "They're the Mountain Clans, Lyanna. They're all a bit loony."

"You realize you're insulting our grandmother?"

At that, Bran chuckled. "Grandmother was a bit of a loon. You were too young to know her, but she used to do the strangest things that me and Ned were forced to go along with."

Lyanna leaned closer to her brother. "Like what?" Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Randy, Thoros and Bloodraven move away from them. She sent them all a small, appreciative smile.

Bran ran a hand through his hair. He pulled one of his locks in front of his face. "She used to comb Weirwood sap through our hair."

"What?" Lyanna giggled. "She did not!"

"She did! Said it would protect us from the cold. Ned absolutely hated it, and would spend hours scrubbing his hair clean. It's why he's so meticulous about his hair, now."

"Never met a man more in love with his own hair," Lyanna mused. Then, a memory burst to life in her mind, and she gasped. "Wait, is that why he looked like he wanted to murder me and Ben when we dumped that syrup on his head when he was ten?"

"Yes!" Bran roared with laughter. "I forgot about that! Oh, I swear, Lya, if not for Father he would have chased you around Winterfell with Ice."

"Ben didn't stop hiding behind my skirts until Ned left for the Vale again."

"I don't blame him—Ned's a right scary bastard when he wants to be."

Lyanna and her brother spoke well into the night, basking in the memories of their youth. If she tried hard enough, she could pretend nothing was wrong.

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"Well, this is it," Daemon said as King's Landing finally came into view. They did not come across anyone else after departing from Maester Walton and his group during their final days of travel. And what somber days they were; the reality of the situation rearing its ugly, incest-riddled, draconic head forward with each step they took.

Even Randy kept a stern frown on his face. Bloodraven, perched upon Randy's shoulder, cawed, before flapping his wings and taking to the air, flying to the Red Keep. To warg into an animal and act as a spy within, she knew. Something about that tickled her memory—some old song about a sorcerer in the Red Keep. But she'd had enough of songs to last a lifetime. Now, she had to march towards the singer that led them down this damned path.

"Randy," Daemon said as some gold cloaks checked over his chains. "…Good luck."

Randy blinked, his lips spreading into a wide smirk. "Oh, I'm not the one that needs luck in there."

Daemon chuckled ruefully. "Would that I could have even half of your confidence." He turned to Lyanna, Bran, and Thoros. They all exchanged hard nods, before Daemon mounted his horse and led them forward, Randy dragged along a length of chain.

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A/N: And now it's all coming to a head.