Reviews make me write faster! - I use the quatermaester interactive game of thrones map when writing.

For those asking about the Fourth Council Race – I've not abandoned it. But my muse is on a more fantasy than sci-fi trip at the moment. Plus, as modern style politics plays a huge part in that story, I'm too exhausted to write it given the state of UK politics. Thankfully my Liberal Democrats managed to wrench council control from the Conservatives in my borough for the first time in 24 years and that boost stopped me being too exhausted to write at all!

Satin Flowers

Satin still half believed that the previous three weeks had been a dream. That he'd been beheaded instead of thrown in the Gulltown dungeons, and this was one of the seven heavens.

His life here was so different to before. He'd been born in an Oldtown brothel and taken for the first time before he'd even grown any hair on his body. He had been taken by countless men since, few of whom had been gentle. He'd been told to lie to many of them too, claiming they were his first, at least when he was still young enough for them to believe it.

The gentle ones had been the ones he minded least. Some of them had even held him afterwards, fulling a desperate dream that maybe…just maybe…one of the men who bought him would like him so much that they'd take him away. Keeping him as a personal whore even as they made him feel like something else.

That dream died as soon as Satin was old enough to realise it would just be a different type of brothel, one where instead of fearing the stench or cruelty of his next visitor, he'd instead be constantly fearing being thrown out onto the streets as soon as he became too boring…or to old.

Most men hadn't been gentle at all. Forcing him to his knees roughly, entering him with little, sometimes no, preparation, sometimes striking or choking him, and often humiliating him with words. Taking pleasure in having power over someone who made them feel manly by comparison while they indulged their 'perverse' desires.

The worst of them hadn't been able to get as violent as they wanted, unless they paid a lot of coin to cover the brothel for how long he'd be unable to work. But that didn't stop the fear when a client showed cruelty. After all, the guards might not reach him in time, the madam wouldn't care as long as she was compensated for his death or disfigurement, and not all tortures were aimed against the body.

When he'd been brought before the king's brother, Satin had had to bite his lip. This was exactly what he'd dreamed of when he was young. That a man would buy him for good rather than for a night and would keep him as a personal whore, a live-in pet. He was almost laughing because the day he had dreamed of as a boy was actually here, and he didn't want it anymore.

It was funny that getting thrown in a dungeon was what finally broke him. Judged as a man instead of a whore for the first time – for how could a whore commit rape? – Satin was hit by a revelation. That in the dank and pitch-black cells of the Gulltown dungeon, he belonged to himself, no one else. And that even the gallows were less frightening than losing that.

So, in that darkness, approaching his seven-and-ten nameday, Satin had vowed to himself that he would belong to himself from now on. That no one would take what he didn't want to give, even if it cost him his life.

His resolve had wavered when he was facing down the young lord and knight in the Red Keep itself. But in the end, Satin's will had remained firm, and he had told them both he had no intention of whoring anymore.

When Lord Renly and his lover Ser Loras – and didn't that want to make him squeal with delight whenever he thought of it – responded that they only wanted lay with whores that chose their profession willingly, Satin wasn't sure if he believed them.

But then Lord Renly had made his offer to take him on as his scribe.

Satin had barely remained upright, struggling to focus as he stammered a response and only coming back to himself when he was ordered to fetch one of the books and read.

To his shame he had failed almost immediately.

But rather than throw him out, Lord Renly had instead ordered him to his side and helped him to work through the parts that had defeated him.

Satin had been terrified, the situation reminding him far too much of one of the first men who bought him regularly. The one that had liked to play maester and student with him after he had discovered the girl who did the brothel books had taught the sweet young Satin some of his letters and numbers.

But although Lord Renly desired him greatly – being an experienced master of seduction Satin was absolutely certain of that – the young lord hadn't made any untoward moves or suggestions.

Not then, and not in the three weeks since.

Satin still hadn't dare believe it until he had gone to Chataya's one night, to check that the whores there were as willing as he had been told. The whores confirmed their choice to him, as Satin made enquiries as if he was considering joining them. He left before committing to it, catching a glimpse of Ser Loras' squire, Jon Snow, holding of one of them tenderly as he left. As Edric Dayne was too young, Satin felt…calmer…now he had confirmed that none of the of-age men he had to spend time with took things that others did not want to give them. At least in the bedchamber.

Relaxing a little more as each day went past Satin had marvelled at his luck, wondering if his prayers to the Maiden had finally been answered. The rest of the household looked down their noses at him of course. But whenever it looked like it would become more than looks and words Jon Snow would stop brooding and stomp over, glowering at whoever was harassing him, and Satin would be left in peace. Sometimes Jon would help him with his writing as well, as Lord Renly's other scribes avoided him as much as possible. As if being a whore was catching.

Jon particularly protecting him gave Satin a warm glow that he had never felt before.

When Jon slammed into the empty solar Satin was in, making Lord Renly's trinkets rattle, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

He folded in on himself, trying to be as unnoticeable as possible, remembering how often anger swiftly became the desire to inflict pain. It was only when he saw Jon was clearly having to make a large effort not to weep instead of indulging in his usual brooding that Satin gathered his courage and spoke up.

"Jon? What's happened?"

Jon whirled around. "Satin. I didn't mean to disturb you." He choked out.

"The letters are not going anywhere," Satin shrugged. Indicating the invitations to Lord Renly's upcoming masquerade ball that he was painstakingly writing out.

"It's nothing." Jon denied, making to leave and go somewhere else.

"I may well be a whore, but please credit me with at least some wits." Satin replied, hurt.

"You are not a whore! Not anymore! Don't speak like that." Jon spoke up fiercely.

"Then don't treat me as if I had the wits of a newborn babe." Satin snapped back, even if Jon's words made the warmth fill his belly again.

Jon glared sullenly at him, but Satin held his gaze. Finally, Jon relented and answered. "My father was injured today and has yet to awaken, and the captain of his guard was killed. I've known him since I was a child."

Satin felt he was missing something important. "The captain of his guard? Who is your father Jon?"

Jon just stared at him, confused. Unsure if Satin was mocking him. "You know I'm the Bastard of Winterfell."

Satin was indeed aware that Jon was a bastard. It was why he had been able to bring himself to believe that Jon was genuinely looking out for him. Rather than creating a debt that he would later demand that Satin repay with his body.

"I'm from Oldtown Jon. And my education was mainly sucking cock, spreading my legs, and learning the art of seduction and how to read people. Not learning lordly seats and sigils. As your father isn't one of the Reach lords who bought me you might as well have called yourself the Bastard of Valyria for all it means to me."

Such disrespect would have seen him beaten badly by any man who'd bought him, unless he could beg forgiveness with his body and words effectively enough. But Jon seemed to be able to make him forget that harsh lesson. Besides, Jon's face was flaming so red Satin almost laughed and named him a convert of R'hllor. That was worth the risk to see.

"That's…I didn't…how….why…" Jon took a deep breath to steady himself before continuing. "Never mind. Winterfell is the capital of the North and the seat of House Stark. My father is Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."

Satin nearly collapsed, shrinking back to his seat in shock. For all his bastard status, Jon was still the son of one of the highest lords in the Seven Kingdoms. And had been raised by him. It was a good thing Satin hadn't realised, or he would never have trusted that Jon had honest intentions when defending him from the other household servants.

Mouth dry from shock and nerves, Satin searched for something to say. Something to make Jon speak and give him time to get his feelings under control.

"Would you tell me about them?" Satin asked quietly.

Jon just looked at him, confused.

"Would you tell me about growing up at Winterfell? About your father? about his guard? Tell me what a normal life is like." Satin entreated, seeking to distract Jon from his fear and grief as well as save himself from speaking.

Jon gave a weak smile before nodding. "Well, the first thing is that as well as me, my father has five trueborn children….."

Jon talked for hours, long after the sun had set. Satin let him, entranced as much by the stories of a loving father, brothers, and sisters as he was by the tales of feasts, hunting, and swordplay.

Eventually they had to retire, and Satin went to the chamber he shared with the other personal servants. The other scribes, pages, cupbearers, and dressers were already asleep beneath the blankets of the two large beds.

Satin slipped beneath the blankets of his own bed, something he'd only ever had if a man had bought him. It had taken a while for Satin to be able to sleep without fear that Lord Renly would attempt to join him in it one night. For why else would he have purchased him his own bed when only lords were rich enough to sleep alone?

Jon had put his fears to rest, explaining that the other servants had refused to share a bed with a whore. Apparently, Lord Renly had been incensed at them daring to question who he decided to take into his household, and Jon had had to talk the young lord down from disciplining all the servants Satin shared a room with. Instead, Lord Renly had provided Satin with his own bed to show that the young lord would accept whoever he wanted into his household and would not tolerate others questioning that. Jon had been sure to inform the rest of the servants that he would not intervene on their behalf again if they continued to harass Satin.

As soon as he was beneath the blankets, he was asleep in moments.

He awoke sharply to a hand over his mouth.

Some would have lashed out in fear, but instead Satin froze, trying to find out who was restraining him. He felt his heart break as the flickering light from a single candle lit up the tumbling brown curls of Loras as the knight loomed over him.

As his world came crashing down Satin reflected that he never believed it was possible to feel as betrayed as he did in that moment. It seemed Loras at least was just like the other highborn, he was going to take by force what Satin had refused to give.

"Get up Satin. I have a long journey ahead of me and I'll be requiring your company at night on the way." Loras whispered, though not quietly enough. The snorts of contempt and amusement from the main beds told Satin that he would receive no help from there.

Satin made to fight Loras' grip, but found he suddenly did not have the energy to do so. He was so tired of fighting what everyone knew to be true. He had been born a whore, and it seemed the world would not let him be anything else. The colour seemed to drain from the world along with his desire to resist as he realised he couldn't fight the truth any longer. He had fought it as hard as he could, but Loras had proven it was all in vain. Loras himself seemed to be flicking his eyes at the supposedly sleeping servants, but Satin could not bring himself to care. About anything. Even the feelings of betrayal had faded and now he just felt completely numb.

Once dressed, Loras led him down the empty corridors of the Red Keep. "You are safe from my attentions," he whispered, "I apologise for my words and will explain when we are away."

Satin didn't believe him. His trust was broken into shards and he was too tired to lie to himself anymore. He didn't even have the energy to feel anymore, let alone lie. The world wouldn't let him be anything but a whore, but least Loras, Renly, and Jon were kind to him, like he used to wish for when he was young. Maybe it would be enough, maybe he could live with sucking their cocks and being pushed face first into the ground, as long as it was by them.

If it wasn't enough then at least he had a knife for his wrists now, and the knowledge that he was born a whore and would never escape it to strengthen his resolve.

Loras led him across a dark sunken courtyard and towards a score of household guards in Tyrell colours. Satin barely noticed as they fell in behind Loras, their torchlight falling on armour as they descended staircase after staircase and walked swiftly through dusty corridors until they came to a heavy wooden door banded with iron.

Loras opened it and they all filed through to find themselves on a ledge high above the blackwater rush. Satin vaguely noted Loras answering questions by saying that Lord Stark had shared the secret route with Renly after learning of it from Lord Baelish.

More than one of the guards murmured that they were afraid of hights, to which Loras had simply snorted contemptuously and told them to be men and not to look down. He scrambled down the niches cut into the wall like a monkey and Satin followed, puppet like. By the time he thought to consider just letting go and falling it was too late and he was already at the bottom, standing on the muddy track that ran next to the river where it flowed along the base of Aegon's High Hill and out to sea.

Their group crept upstream along the riverbank until they reached the edge of the docks clustered along the flat land by the mud gate, boarding a ferry barge that had been waiting for them and finally dousing their torches. They crossed the blackwater rush by moonlight alone.

They disembarked on the other side and began to follow the Kingsroad towards the Kingswood. Walking for some time before coming to a camp that had clearly been present for a while, where a group of horses were being attended to by grooms that the guards were clearly familiar with even if they wore no house colours. Loras pulled him to one side as the others mounted up.

"My apologies Satin, for making the others believe that I brought you to dishonour you like that. I would never do such a thing, but the Spider and the Mockingbird must believe that that is why I brought you with me."

"Yes my lord." Satin replied dully, immune to the lies. All it meant was that Loras would require him to play the role of enthusiastic whore and beg for it, no matter his true feelings, to soothe the other man's conscience.

Loras led him to one of the horses, before pressing a scroll sealed with gold wax into his hand. "You are to hand this to Ser Courtnay Penrose himself. Not a guard, not a scribe, not a maester. Ser Courtnay alone."

"My Lord?" Satin felt confused. This act surely couldn't be for the benefit of the guards, the most he could hope from them was that they wouldn't demand their own turns with him.

"I have my own task, one to draw the spider's and mockingbird's attention. When I return with all my retinue but you, both whisperers will believe you fled rather than be my camp follower. They will not search for you. You are the one who Renly is truly relying on tonight as your task is the most vital." Loras handed Satin a silver medallion with the royal crest pressed into both sides.

"This marks you as a king's messenger, entitled to change horses at all the messenger stations along the Kingsroad. The stations are all marked by the same sign. Stay on the Kingsroad and you will reach Storm's End. Remember when you get there to inform the guards that you have a message for Ser Courtnay Penrose from Renly Baratheon and that you will give it to no one but him."

Satin's head was spinning as Ser Loras helped him into the saddle. "I'm truly not to be your camp follower?" It took the last shards of his trust to even ask the question. If Ser Loras was lying to him, if this was some great jape, Satin would open his wrists before dawn.

The angry look that overcame the other man's face made Satin flinch so badly he nearly fell from the horse.

Ser Loras' expression softened somewhat. "I am not in the habit of allowing smallfolk to question my honour, but I will forgive you this time. I had forgotten that you have not experienced the truth of honourable men."

Satin felt he was far better acquainted with the truth of honourable men than Ser Loras was. But his survival instinct thankfully kept him from speaking that thought aloud. It seemed that despite everything, despite his words when taking Satin from his bed, Ser Loras was one of those very rare men who meant it when he gave his word. Rarer still he meant it just as much when gave it to smallfolk as when he gave it to a highborn.

The icy fist that had closed around Satin's heart began to loosen and colour began to seep back into the world. That wasn't entirely to his benefit, as the first feeling to immediately break through the receding numbness was fear.

"Why…Why is Lord Renly trusting me with this task? I have little experience with riding and…." Satin trailed off, not wanting to say that he was just a whore, given it was only moments ago that he had been afraid that that would be the truth of his life again.

Ser Loras evidently heard the words anyway and had no answer for them as his frown deepened. "I don't know, I offered several others for it that could be hidden amongst my guards and replaced here at camp. But Renly was insistent that you be the one to complete this task. He said you had more honour and loyalty in you that almost any man and that he would trust no one else with it except Jon or Edric. But both of them would be missed."

Satin dropped the reins in shock. He didn't believe it. Lord Renly had only known him three weeks.

It was true that in those weeks he had helped Satin with his letters, endured the scorn of his own household for inviting Satin to join it, and ignored the sniggers of the court as his own servants spread whispers of the young lord's desire to play maester and student with the boy-whore warming his bed. But Satin had been sure that it had been the young lord's obvious desire for him that made him suffer that. He was well acquainted with men being led away from all sense by their cocks after all. But Ser Loras was saying that Lord Renly valued him as a man, not a whore. More, that he valued him more than any man in his household save for Ser Loras, Jon, and Edric.

Satin's heart was beating so hard that he was surprised it hadn't escaped his chest. As difficult as it was for him to believe Ser Loras' words, the proof was in the message he carried, and the horse he was astride. Lord Renly truly did value and trust him as a man, and Satin nearly wept as the dream he never dared voice came true.

"I swear I will not let you down my lord! I swear it before all the gods." Satin vowed, almost choking on his words.

"See that you don't." Loras muttered closely so that no one else could hear. "Do not let anyone take the letter from you. It will see all our heads on spikes if the wrong people acquire it. Trust no one, change horses at every station, ride as hard as you can, and sleep beneath the stars. You must get to Storm's End as soon as possible."

Satin simply nodded not trusting himself to speak. The talk of spikes and headsmen and people trying to kill him on the road should have been the source of the fear now filling his belly. But instead the all-encompassing fear had only once source. Failure. Fear of letting down the person who had truly put their faith in him, who trusted him and thought him honourable. He retook the reins and vowed to himself that he would reach Storm's End no matter what anyone did to try and waylay him, even if it meant he died in the attempt. Death means little for someone who knows they cannot live with themselves if they fail.

Ser Loras slapped the horses' rear before mounting up and leading his guards down a different path. Satin galloped off alone into the night.

Renly Baratheon

The news that Catelyn Stark had taken the Imp spread through Kings Landing like wildfire as soon as it arrived, made even more scandalous because no one yet knew where she had taken him.

Soon after came the news came that the Kingslayer had attacked the Hand of the King in the street, that several Lannister and Stark guardsmen were dead, and that Eddard Stark's leg had been shattered beneath his horse in the fight.

Jamie Lannister had fled the city as soon as the fight concluded, fleeing back to his father along the gold road.

Six days and seven nights. That's how long Ned would be unconscious for, something I knew with relative certainty. Which meant now it was finally time to stop channelling Doran 'the grass' Martell, and put my plans into action. Remaining passive for so long had allowed me to subtly start the ball rolling on several plans without being the focus of attention, and it had also been essential to several of my medium-term plans that relied on future knowledge. But the time for that had finally passed. It was time to take action.

Ned had been brought back to the Tower of the Hand, where he was promptly placed under the care of Grand Maester Pycelle in a bedchamber converted from an audience chamber on the ground floor. I'd suggested it to the Grand Maester as soon as I'd heard, the better to save his knees and Lord Stark's leg when he awoke.

I had also been sure to act horrified and squeamish as soon as I saw Ned's crushed leg, deliberately stoking Robert's fear. It undid a lot of the work I had been doing to improve Renly's reputation, but thankfully everyone who actually witnessed it was already my enemy or would be dead in short order. I was gambling that any potential allies who heard of my 'reaction' would dismiss it as slander from Cersei. Regardless, the act accomplished my goals. Cersei thought me less of a threat, and Robert leapt on my suggestion of assigning Ser Arys Oakheart to watch over Ned at all times. Something I hoped would discourage Cersei or Pycelle from acting if my butterflies had made them more eager for the Lord of Winterfell's death. I had high hopes such an assignment would pay off in other ways as well, depending on how the next few weeks played out.

Ser Arys was certainly handsome, as well as being the most sociable of the Kingsguard. With him guarding Ned maybe Sansa would finally like one of the changes I had made.

As time went on Robert had banished me from the room, bellowed at Pycelle, lashed out at Cersei, and pleaded with Ned to awaken. The fear at losing his best – his only – friend overcoming his anger at the only two houses in the realm he couldn't afford to choose between coming to blows.

He couldn't strike at House Stark. Robert would die before he actually fought against Eddard Stark. But he couldn't strike at the Lannisters either. Not only because of his children's ties to House Lannister, but also because Littlefinger had ruined the realm's credit to the point that only Tywin and the Faith would lend him money at this point. Even if he wanted to call the Crownlands banners, and those of a few other select lords like myself, he had no money to maintain an army in the field for any length of time. And none of the lords he could reliably call on could outspend Tywin Lannister. Food, fodder, weaponry, and sellswords would all pour into the Lannister army rather than the Royal one. Unless Robert called the banners from all of the other six kingdoms. Which given the dubious loyalty of Dorne, the Reach, and now the Vale, was something he wanted to avoid.

When night had fallen, Robert's fear had turned to anger as Ned steadfastly refused to awaken. Given that he had six more nights of this, I hoped the wine cellars were fully stocked as the king had already drunk himself into a stupor.

I on the other hand, had made good use of my dismissal. As the court slept, I was fully dressed and setting to work. Striding down cobweb filled tunnels, torch in hand. It had taken many visits to the black cells in my capacity as the Master of Laws to find the entrance to the secret tunnel network there. But I had found it eventually, and tonight I was putting it to use.

I had already given Loras his assignment, and my beautiful knight was in the process of carrying it out. No doubt it looked completely amateurish to Littlefinger and Varys. They were probably laughing themselves silly as Loras tried to sneak out of the city unnoticed by their agents in the middle of the night, using the same part of the secret tunnel network that Littlefinger had showed Ned. He would have had a much better chance of slipping away unnoticed in the bustle of the mid-day market rather than now, when the light of his party's torches and the empty docks virtually guaranteed he would be seen.

Childish, amateurish, pathetic. The actions of those who were too lazy to take the Game of Thrones seriously, or those who were stupid enough to believe the stories and songs were real.

Exactly what they both expected to see, and so exactly what I gave them.

Both of them – and Cersei – were juggling a lot of balls over these next few days as various plans of theirs simultaneously came to fruition. I was betting that they wouldn't look below the surface of my 'amateurish' plotting if it confirmed their expectations.

I came to the wrought iron gate that blocked access to the chamber of the dragon mosaic from this part of the secret tunnel network. Though clearly not original features, the bars of the surrounding grate were mortared into the stone well enough to make it impassable unless you had the key.

Or unless you'd been training with a castle steel warhammer for the best part of a year.

I swung my warhammer with all my strength and hit the lock dead on. The resounding crash echoed along all the tunnels as the iron snapped beneath a blow that could cave in plate armour.

The gate swung open.

It had been a calculated risk doing that. But with so many different things vying for Varys' and Littlefinger's attention tonight, and with Loras helpfully providing a very visible distraction in a different part of the tunnel network, I was confident I would be long gone before any agent that could stop me could arrive.

An agent observing me was a different matter entirely. But I was sufficiently made-up than no little bird that caught sight of me would provide a description that looked anything like my normal appearance. As long as Varys and Littlefinger didn't suspect me for this in the first place, and I'd been sure to appear passive or merely reactive to this point to ensure they didn't, I should be in the clear.

I placed my warhammer under a non-descript black cloak. Trying to make it blend in to the black of the Targaryen mosaic on the floor, before putting the torch in one of the sconces and dousing it. Plunging the chamber into darkness.

I felt my way to the staples and began the long climb up to the Tower of the Hand.

There were no guards present when I emerged into the fireplace of the Hand's bedchamber. Why would there be? Ned was on the ground floor and any attacker would have to come from there as well.

The moonlight filtering through the windows gave me enough light to see that the room was a mess. Clearly, his household had been obeying Ned's orders to pack, as he had been intending to take a galley to White Harbour with his children on this evening's tide.

Unfortunately, once again, he had listened to Littlefinger rather than me. Going to the brothel with the schemer to see the next of Robert Baratheon's bastards. Coincidentally running right into the Kingslayer, far away from the Red Keep and the support of his household guard. Enflaming the Lannister-Stark tensions still further.

I dismissed my bitterness towards the mockingbird's success and headed out into the Hand's solar. There, untouched on the desk, was Aegon's dagger. The one King Viserys had loved so much. A key piece of House Targaryen's history reduced to simple blade in the hand of one of Littlefinger's catspaws. The injustice burned in my historian belly, but there was nothing I could do. I had no way to plausibly prove its provenance, so its origin and its one ring style engraved prophecy was something I'd just have leave in the past.

I quickly grabbed it and attached it to my belt before setting my sights on the true prize. Resting against the wall exactly where I remembered it, closed and locked but unmistakable, was the iron bound crate containing Ice.

As quietly as I dared, I lifted one end of the crate and pulled it back towards the bedchamber. Ice was a ceremonial great sword, far too large to be of any actual use in battle unless you were the size of Gregor Clegane. The Starks had lost the true Ice long ago and had purchased this ceremonial sword from the Valyrian Freehold centuries later as a replacement. I'd heard one theory that the original Ice had been taken from them by the Corbrays in one of the North-Vale wars, becoming known as Lady Forlorn before being lost by them in turn. Like the Stark's, they had purchased a Valyrian steel sword from the Freehold centuries later and simply given it the same name. Though the Corbrays had had the sense to commission an actually useful longsword rather than something like this ceremonial monstrosity.

I shook my head to clear the mental cobwebs. Ice, Lady Forlorn, whatever that ancient dragonsteel blade's true name had been, it was as lost to me as Blackfyre and Dark Sister. I had no time to be chasing whispers of lost swords all over the Seven Kingdoms as they went up in flames. Though I had some good guesses for their locations, that was all they were, guesses, and time was my most precious resource of all. I couldn't afford to waste it chasing smoke.

Besides, there was a large amount of perfectly usable Valaryian steel right here, doing no one any good. Unless you counted making the Starks look impressive when they executed someone as 'good'.

With absolutely no guilt, but a great deal of frustrated shoving, manoeuvring, and quiet cursing, I eventually managed to push the locked crate through the secret entrance in the fireplace and let it go.

The crash of the impact came moments later, after it had fallen the entire height of the Tower of the Hand. Fortunately, it was a faint sound. The rock of Aegon's High Hill that the Red Keep was built on had muffled it, and if the Stark household guard had heard anything it would have come from below them. Not up here at the tower's summit.

I swung through onto the staples and swiftly closed the entrance behind me, descending the Tower of the Hand as fast as I dared.

When I reached the bottom, I relit the torch, and went to examine the results of my handywork.

The Targaryen seal mosaic had lost one of its dragon heads from the impact. Which pleased me on a certain level even as my inner historian was wailing in distress. But more importantly, the wooden crate had burst open on impact despite being banded with iron. The locks were still intact, but as the crate was not, they were useless.

I carefully extracted Ice from the wreckage before searching my surroundings. No one was visible, though that didn't mean no one was there. But as no one challenged me, I decided to push my luck and took my warhammer to the locks of the other gates as well.

With the locks broken beyond repair and the gates warped, Varys and Littlefinger would be unable to deny the rest of us the use of this network until they could replace the gates. Something that might save my life in the days to come if my plans went badly awry. My position was perilously weak, as Robert approached his date with a boar while my own plans were only just beginning to be put into action. If my plans failed, I would need every option of escape that I could possibly acquire to have any hope of survival.

Pleased with my handywork, I quickly grabbed the torch, Ice, and my warhammer, before setting off into the darkness.

IMPORTANT NOTE!: For all those reviewers constantly saying that Ice isn't ceremonial but is rather just a battle ready greatsword – A GRRM annotation on the Game of Thrones text describing it states: '"Ice" is large even by the standards of normal greatswords, because it is a ceremonial sword rather than one intended for use in battle.' Ceremonial NOT battle worthy Ice is Cannon, not Fanon, so please stop messaging trying to say otherwise.

Fanfic Recommendation: A Rose by Any Other Name – by Deductive Logic

A Margery Tyrell SI that begins when Margery is a little girl. The SI actions are sweet, believable, and sometimes hilarious (The conversation with Loras about sleeping with Renly was so funny and fluffy). Her attempts to stack the game of thrones in her favour might well be upturned by the fact that the author is taking a much harsher line on the power of the Others than even the books give them. Can the SI survive? I look forward to finding out!