Edmure

"Hells man, what were you thinking?"

Edmure was at a loss for words before his friend, Patrek.

"Gods, Edmure!" He mumbled, "Not so loud..."

They had just arrived at Riverrun. Edmure decided to rest in an inn for the night, just to taste liberty one more time before returning to his duties. As usual, nothing goes smoothly for the young Tully.

Edmure had gone for some minutes to relieve himself. He didn't even finish unbuttoning his breeches as a loud thud came from the hall.

He hurried back, only to find the tavern in a state of anarchy.

The Joyous Grumpkin was frequented by many lords of the Riverlands. Because of the council, many noble families preferred to reside there instead of in the castle.

"It was a Blackwood," Marq answered, "The bugger pissed inside a mug of a Bracken. No wonder he wanted to gut him."

His other friend was equally bruised. Edmure honestly expected it, Marq was too headstrong for his own good.

"Good Gods," Edmure said, "It's a miracle it didn't end in bloodshed."

The Blackwood was unconscious, his arm twisted in an unnatural position. "By the Father, that must've hurt."

"It's still not enough. The bastard deserved worse."

A new voice joined them. It was Hendry Bracken, the son of Jonos Bracken's brother. Edmure met him during a tourney in Maidenpool. A proud lad, not one who gets offended without a fight.

"I would've done the same," Marq answered, "The bastard deserved it, good work."

"Thank you, Ser... Piper." He glanced at Edmure, "My Lord Tully, I apologise for the mess. I couldn't let that insult go unanswered."

Edmure waved his hand dismissively, "Worry not, my Lord, it was reasonable. Now, if you excuse us..."

The trio left the tavern, poor Patrek being aided by Marq. The roads were deserted at this hour. All honest men were at home, sleeping with their wives.

By law, it is mandatory to carry a torch in the later hours, one could do questionable actions in the darkness. If the guards caught someone not abiding, it's a ten coppers fine, and the dungeons if the culprit repeats the offence multiple times.

But just that wouldn't eradicate thievery...

...That night was proof.

Three suspicious men presented themselves before the group.

The apparent leader bore a mutton chop and carried a wooden club, "Three lordlings... We are lucky tonight, boys!"

Edmure's hand went on the cloth-covered trident, "You believe robbing the son of the Lord of Riverrun is clever?"

The bandit narrowed his eyes, "Aye, got a problem with it?"

Edmure chuckled, "Everyone has the right to do stupid things, but you are surely abusing that privilege."

"You're a funny man," the leader grumbled, "'Tis a shame it won't matter when I bash that thick head of yours!"

The three thieves charged them. Marq and poor Patrek took the sidekicks, while Edmure duelled the chief.

"Fine trident you got there," the bandit commented, "You like fishing?"

Edmure ignored the quip, thrusting forward with his trident. His foe dodged sideways, trying to break his overextended arm. Thankfully, Edmure managed to recollect his stance quickly, parrying the blow with the staff.

He saw Marq swiftly dispatch his opponent and move in to help poor Patrek finish off his'. Edmure would've chuckled seeing the heir of Seagard fight so drunkenly, flailing his sword in overextended yet menacing strikes. A skilled warrior would've exploited those openings, but the thief he was against was all but that. With Marq's help, they cut off his head with ease.

Seeing the battle as lost, the chief slipped away from his control and made a run for it. Yet, Edmure could not leave a brigand to escape justice: he would be the future lord of the Riverlands, and no ruffian shall escape justice under his Paramountship.

He twisted his grip and threw the trident towards the escaping bandit. He cursed under his breath as the trajectory was too broad. But, in a twist of fate, it adjusted itself. Edmure did not know how, but the trident found his mark, impaling itself in the ruffian's head.

"Holy piss, Edmure, what was that?!" Marq asked him in disbelief.

"Hells if I know..." was Edmure's answer.

But their shock only renewed, as the trident extracted itself from the corpse to return to Edmure's grasp.

Patrek attempted to say something, but he just vomited on Edmure's boots. Fuck, those were brand new...

"This is the oddest night of my whole life," Marq said, "I... propose we leave. Let's pretend nothing happened..."

"Fair enough."

Petyr

Littlefinger stared out of the carriage, contemplating the vast ocean. The waves were larger than usual, the Narrow Sea never was rough in the region of the Claw. There was a first time for everything, Petyr supposed.

As it was the first time his plans went awry too.

He dreamt every night of his duel with Brandon Stark, the event that killed little Petyr, only for Littlefinger to arise. It was agonising. He was cut from navel to collarbone with that cruel sword, nearly dying from the wounds. Sweet Catelyn pleaded for mercy, and the Wild Wolf obliged.

At the time, he felt dead. The love of his life, stripped from his hands... the world was cruel to minor lords.

That's why Petyr accepted his offer...

That fateful day he met Vicarro Vestrolis, a Braavosi merchant. He was an important shareholder of the Iron Bank, a peculiar man. He groomed Petyr to become the best accountant ever to grace this earth. Day and night, he would study under the ambitious gaze of Vicarro: from mathematical problems to accounting methods, Petyr memorised everything.

Father would've been proud of him.

Once his worth was evaluated, Vicarro told his true objective. A project of titanic proportions, capable of reshaping the world.

The Manifestation of Braavosi Destiny.

It was a theory created by the long-dead Gavino Trespolo, the 189th Sealord of Braavos. He believed that the Commune was sacred, and that every other authority that differs must be eliminated and replaced by sister republics, so that every man could be free from the shackles of servitude.

They were the Eagles. A secret faction of the Iron Bank that wished to realise Gavino's dream.

They destabilised foreign regimes, rouse rebellions... the Eagles operated from the shadows. Many historical events were architected by the group, all aimed at destroying feudalism. It was a noble cause for the common man.

Petyr accepted his offer without a doubt. With their destiny manifested, all the high nobles would be booted from their position of power, and replaced by new men. A true meritocracy, where those who work hard are rewarded, no matter their origins. They could forge a land of liberty dominated by the best of the best.

Slavery would be eradicated. It was a corrupt system that fuelled ignorance and desperation. No human deserved that fate, no man or woman should be treated as cattle. Petyr saw terrible sights in his travels through the Free Cities, but nothing could compare to the horrors of Volantis. The noblemen of the Old Blood counted only one fifth of the population... the rest were nearly all slaves or undesirables.

All of this to preserve the blood of Old Valyria, but at what cost?

Petyr wowed to demolish this system. He and his comrades worked for the hood of humanity, step by step.

They managed to attain a majority inside the Iron Bank, which was necessary to influence its agenda. They used it to undermine all feudal regimes, from King Robert's realm to the Volantene Triarchy. Outrageous interests, assassinations... they used every tool to break the wheel.

But it all fell apart.

A scandal shook the Iron Bank. A spy leaked all the secret ledgers, a traitor in their midst. At first, only a tiny minority was involved, only to later engulf the entirety of the bank.

Sealord Ferrego is known to be a shrewd man and a bastion of neutrality. He confiscated the private assets of the Iron Bank, and is preparing to incorporate it into the commune, rendering it his plaything. It was a catastrophe for the Eagles. Most of the members were arrested for the charge of treason.

Petyr was one of the lucky ones. Being in charge of the Westerosi theatre, no one managed to connect the clues against him. He was just a petty Vale nobleman, a vassal of Lord Arryn and the Iron Throne.

Now Petyr was lost. Isolated from his mates in hiding, he did not know how to proceed. It appeared they would have to build from the ashes, hoping future generations wouldn't commit the same error. Petyr wept, as the common people won't be free before he dies.

He looked at the moon. Since the Fall, Petyr felt a strange attachment to the celestial body. It inspired many poems and songs, all praising her beauty. Her light graced the earth even on the darkest nights.

The Moonsingers worshipped her. Their religion was the most diffuse in the diverse Braavos, introduced by the Jogos Nhai slaves who escaped the Valyrians shortly before the city's foundation. Their temple was by far the largest and located near the entry port. A circular building with no roof, most of its walls were adorned with silver linings that shone in the night. Petyr had been there before, when he was a young man.

Vicarro was a regular attendee of the ritual celebrations. Every full moon, the followers of the Moonsingers reunited in the temple and sang sacred tunes until dawn broke.

Petyr had been present once. He didn't believe in the Gods, but had to admit that the songs were beautiful, especially in that crepuscular ambience.

He sighed. Good times...

Now, they were in an age of legends. Petyr's spies have informed him of strange storms near the Whispers and bizarre events in the North. The Cyvasse board didn't just reset, the Gods flipped the entire table.

And so, Petyr remains now without purpose. Lost amidst the waves, Littlefinger had no moves left.

Robert

"Your Grace, Antlers is yours."

Robert had arrived at the seat of House Buckler quickly enough. Without Cersei's damned wheelhouse, the entourage travelled way quicker. He had burned the whole thing down before the departure, it was a personal revenge for him.

Robert wouldn't bother resting at Antlers on an average trip. It's a small keep, barely bigger than Deepwood Motte, and that was being generous. The bloody thing is cramped. In a lapse of fifteen minutes, Robert hit his head against multiple doorways. This castle was built by dwarves, I'm sure of it. What made Robert stay was the arrival of the Targaryen girl, alongside Svemir.

Lord Cleos Buckwell was a fat man, but respectable. His giddiness amused the King, he would make a fine drinking companion. But alas, Robert had become abstemious overnight, even the smell of wine was unbearable. Probably Stannis would've laughed at his desperation, a rare showing for his sour brother. At least I would have proof that he's human.

"Thank you, Lord Cleos," Robert politely thanked, "May I have... a word with your other guests?"

Lord Buckwell appeared prepared for the eventuality, "Certainly, your Grace. I shall provide you with a meeting room, away from prying ears."

And a soundproof room it was. It was on the lower floors of the castle, also known as the old keep. The walls were made of unevenly cut stone, undoubtedly the work of the First Men, Robert thought. The chamber was somewhat barren, only furnished with the bare minimum. The Buckler banner hung on one of the walls, their words were written below: Pride and Purpose.

Robert sat on one of the couches while Ser Arys stood at his side. Robert remembered that a Kingsguard spot remained empty after the unceremonious dismissal of the Kingslayer, one he intended to fill personally. Without the whore, the King's scope of decision widened significantly, thankfully enough. I will never have to hear her whispers in my ear.

You sold your heart to a dead girl.

Robert shook his head. Nay, I will hear her even beyond the grave.

Robert brooded until someone knocked on the door. A servant entered, with three people behind him, "Announcing Lady Daenerys of house Targaryen, alongside Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard and Svemir, the Stormsinger."

Robert expected Daenerys Targaryen to be a proud woman with a bold face, unyielding as the beast in her family sigil. She was rather wrathful in their last encounter. Instead, he found a young girl, no more than four and ten. She was brave, but Robert could see through the strong façade.

Robert had to admit she was beautiful. With long silvery hair braided in the eastern style and a white dress, she represented one of the last bloodlines of Old Valyria.

Yet, in her beauty, Robert could recognise Rhaegar's features, from the high cheekbones and the sharp chin. He unknowingly shot her a stern look, and Daenerys shivered a little.

Robert was happy to see that Barristan returned in one piece. How the knight manages to infiltrate highly guarded fortresses with such ease, Robert did not know. He bowed before the King with a hopeful glint in his eyes.

Svemir was hale as ever. Robert grinned, clasping the man's hand, "Svemir, 'tis good to see you again," Robert turned to the other two, "Seat. It is time to discuss."

Daenerys and Svemir heeded his command, but Barristan remained standing. "Gods, Barristan. Your duty will be your end, old man. Take a seat."

"And I will be happy to serve 'till then." Selmy answered with a smile.

"Very well, worse for you," Robert cleared his throat, "First of all..."

He looked towards Daenerys, "Girl, let me be clear. I don't like your family, and I'm unsure what to think about you. Yet, I am a generous man, and will house and protect you as a member of my court. But if I hear any talk of treason..."

"Your brother has been plain with me," She answered, "There's no need to repeat words that have already been said."

"Understandable," Robert said, "Speaking of my brother, why isn't he with us?"

"Your Grace," Barristan raised his voice, "Lord Stannis had seen fit to ride before us. He wishes to reach Riverrun as soon as possible."

Robert's brows furrowed. Stubborn fool, drown with the damned trouts. He rubbed his face, Stannis was a pain in the arse sometimes.

"No matter. Svemir, have you been able to commune with the Storm God?"

The Stormsinger nodded, "Aye, but not face to face. He was absent due to the arrival of Lady Daenerys. He foresaw a plot to abduct her and acted accordingly."

Robert's eyes went wide as saucers, "The Storm God descended from the heavens?!"

"I saw him," the girl said, "During the storm, a great cloudy hand descended from the skies. It created an enormous wave, thankfully in the opposite direction from us."

Robert slumped on the couch. This could mean only one thing: magic is getting denser. Urragon had said it was inevitable, but Robert didn't expect it to be soon.

"But who would abduct her?" Robert growled, "Who is the schemer that challenges my will?"

The Stormsinger shrugged, "I know not... the Storm God will surely tell you in time. He moves boldly, your Grace. Something has changed, and vile forces are attempting to disrupt the natural order... these are times of uncertainty. I presume not even the Gods know what pieces are being shifted."

The King groaned. More scheming... when is that going to end? He thought. He wished to create a realm of honour and justice, a kingdom built to outlast the ages. But where to begin? How could Robert purify this endless swamp that teemed with snakes?

Ned would know what to do. Sometimes, an obvious answer is found in plain sight, but it may not be the just one. Gregor Clegane was the living example, Robert should've had his head on a spike for what happened to Elia's children.

But Jon urged him to pardon the monster. 'The answer is obvious', Jon had said, 'Even if it pains me, we cannot alienate your future good father.

Horseshit.

That was what Robert thinks now. He was too stubborn to see it then, too wrathful. Ned nearly beheaded Lord Tywin when the bodies were shown, and drawing weapons in the throne room was treason against the King's peace. 'His cruelty plagues your kingdom, your Grace', Ned said, 'Give me the command to end his miserable life. Not even the Wall can mend his past sins.'

Oh, Ned. You always are right...

But Robert did nothing. He bolted out of the room without sparing his brother by choice a glance. He was craven, unable to face a dilemma he couldn't shatter by swinging his hammer.

He always fled from those, hiding behind whores and drinking.

He had to try, at least. Daenerys Targaryen shall be my redemption.

"Very well," Robert cleared his throat and looked at the girl, "May I see the dragons?" He slurred at the last word, "They will be useful in future battles."

"Certainly," Daenerys said, smiling, "They are in my room. Let me guide you."

Her quarters were respectable, located in the highest tower of Antlers. It was barren, as they would only stay for a short time in the castle.

Daenerys entered the room, hands on her hips, "Viserion, Rhaegal, Meraxes! Come out!"

Three shapes slithered from under the bed. Robert could not believe what he was seeing. One was black, another green and...

Golden.

The same dragon of his dreams.

Robert approached it slowly and fell to his knees.

Blue eyes stared at Rhaegal.

Two golden pools stared back.